Goscelin flushed. The problem of the King’s dislike of his mother had been almost impossible to overcome. At Edith’s suggestion, he had eventually decided to begin at the inception of Edward’s reign, glossing over his childhood and involvement with his mother, except where unavoidable, and then only reporting the more pleasing anecdotes.
‘Your mother, my Lord King, had the wisdom to produce her account of her courtly life – it is not my pleasure to retell that which is already written.’
Edward nodded. Just so.
‘Shall I have a part in the story?’ the boy Edgar asked, tipping his face up to squint at the tall monk. ‘I am the ætheling, after all, I ought to be mentioned.’
Goscelin coughed, discreetly hiding a rise of embarrassment. Of course the prince would have a place in the book, but not until Edward was dead! Thankfully, the Queen answered for him. ‘Of course you shall be spoken of, my child, and your father, mother – God rest their souls – and your sisters. But not until the appropriate place.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps, when one day you are king, you shall have your own life written down.’
‘Oh, when I am king,’ Edgar scoffed, ‘I shall be too busy to bother with musty old books.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Why do they always smell of mould so?’
No one answered him, for there came a discreet knock at the chamber door and a novice nun entered, followed close at heel by a tall, heavily cloaked man. Snow was spattered on his shoulders and hood and stuck to his boots. He tossed back the hood and was greeted by a gasp of surprise.
‘Earl Harold!’
‘Brother?’
Edgar’s and Edith’s exclamations sounded together, only one was with delight, the other mild annoyance. Edward smiled, the blurred figure identified, and he rose, holding his hands out in welcome.
Harold looking tired and saddle-sore, crossed the room, knelt before his king and kissed the royal ring, acknowledged Edith in the same manner, but not with as much enthusiasm. ‘Aye, ’tis me! Despite all the foul weather that the Narrow Sea and this damned country of ours could toss at me these past weeks, I am here. Although I wasted some time travelling first to Gloucester!’
Noting the ice coldness of his earl’s skin, Edward invited Harold to sit before the fire, calling for mulled wine and hot broth. ‘You must be warmed both inside and out, else you take a chill and fall ill. I myself have not been well for most the Christmas – we only left Gloucester at Epiphany, three days past.’
Harold nodded. So he had discovered.
His heart would have sent him straight home to Waltham Abbey, but protocol dictated that first he must see his king. Add to that, these disquietening rumours that he had heard in Gloucester . . . What in all hell had been happening in England while he had been away?
Goscelin the monk carried a stool to the fire for the newcomer, then discreetly withdrew from the room, realising that there would be no more praise for his work this night.
‘So, what of Normandy?’ Edward asked with interest as he seated himself. ‘Has my cousin the Duke sent me any gifts? A new couple of hounds would not come amiss – those we used at Christmas were useless, you know. I ordered their throats cut. Lost the scent of a fox
– a stinking fox, mind you – in a farmyard. Useless.’
Harold muffled an exasperated sigh. Edward and his petty interests! God help us if William did ever decide to come! He said nothing, though, for he had already heard in detail the sorry tale of Tostig’s accident and Gospatric’s execution. Except they were calling it murder in Gloucester. Gospatric’s men, disgusted, had deliberately lingered to spread their version of events; no doubt the telling would be double-tarred with inaccuracies by the time the tale-tellers reached the wilderness settlements of the north. If Harold were Tostig, he would have returned home to his earldom immediately to quiet rumour and any unrest that might – most assuredly would – arise from that ill-handled business. Oh, Lord, what had he come home to?
‘Duke William has sent you four couple of the most finely bred hounds, my Lord King – and further substantial gifts besides. Though I fear he is expecting more by way of recompense in the future.’
Edward frowned. ‘Meaning, my Lord Earl?’
‘Meaning that Duke William has his heart set on obtaining for himself a crown. Your crown.’
Edward barked amused laughter. He ruffled young Edgar’s blond mop of unruly hair. ‘Edgar here is the ætheling, it shall be he who follows me when the far-off time comes. Eh, lad?’
Edgar smiled up at the King from his stool, although he was not all that certain he actually wanted to be king. It seemed a dull occupation, all this arguing in Council. And others before him had met worse fates. His grandfather had died fighting for his crown, as had many another king. He did not much relish the thought of fighting. It was the smell and sight of blood – it did so easily turn his stomach queasy.
Harold shrugged, in no mood to go into detail. He was tired; the ride had been long and weary, made all the more difficult by the swirl of snow that was settling deeper. As much as he wanted it, he might not be able to make his way to his manor for several days yet. Tomorrow would be a better occasion to tell Edward of all that had happened in Normandy, of the mess of dung that he had managed to step into. Aye, tomorrow, for the King’s hearing, not Edith’s and Tostig’s. ‘Suffice to say’, he said, ‘that Duke William has overreached himself with dreams.’
‘And the reason for your going? Our brother and nephew?’ Edith asked. Edward squirmed to one side, peering at the door, expecting to see two more blurred outlines arrive. ‘Have you brought them with you?’
Harold held his hands to the hearth fire. He was thawing slowly, the sharp prickling needle stabs of pain tingling in his near-frozen toes and fingertips. ‘I took ship to Bosham. Hakon, our nephew, left with our mother. I did not have the heart in me to take him so soon from her company.’
‘And Wulfnoth?’ Tostig said, a sneer in his voice to match the scowl on his face. ‘Did you leave him also at Bosham?’
Like his father before him, Harold, as with Edith, could read others well. Edith’s greeting had been no more cordial, but then, their mutual regard had for some years grown further apart. Tostig blew hot and cold as it suited him. This day was distinctly chill. Harold had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that his return home to England was unwelcome. Why, he would have to discover, but not yet; it could wait. He had to report to the King and catch up on affairs of state, but beyond that, his priority was to ride home. Nigh on seven months had he been away from Edyth and the children, seven months too long.
‘Wulfnoth was not permitted to leave Normandy,’ he said succinctly. ‘The Duke continues to hold him as hostage.’ The words came out more bitterly than he had intended.
Tostig snorted his derision. He had known this fool idea of Harold’s was but an empty gesture. In truth he was piqued that Harold had gone on this family mission. His mother, Edith, no one in the family had said it, but he knew they all silently reproached him for not making more effective attempts at securing the boys’ freedom when he had, in the past, been a guest of Normandy. Judith had mentioned the two lads to her sister on more than one occasion, had been promised that the matter would be looked into. It never had, but that was hardly Tostig’s fault.
He was becoming tetchy, sour-tempered. His leg was aching abominably. The ride to Wilton had not helped and soon, after the consecration of Edith’s abbey, they would be returning to Winchester: more long days in the saddle.
Gospatric’s vehement outburst had shocked Tostig – frightened him. That there was dissent in Northumbria he well knew, but he thought it nothing more than a storm in a village duck pond. Ignore it and it would bluster itself out. But knowing that a man could so cruelly and deliberately leave another to die was playing on his mind; nightmares visited him: he was lying trapped, smothered, and a man stood over him, laughing . . . he had not realised his enemies were so embittered. Scornfully, he took his insecurity out on Harold, who had always been
so well liked by everyone; so successful in all he did. ‘So you have failed. While you were so concerned with a brother neither of us knows or remembers, and with the bastard-born brat of Swegn’s whore, I have had to deal with great difficulties here in England. How like you not to be here when I needed you! There is dissent and grumbling against me in Northumbria. I could have done with your support, but no, you were off, pursuing your own interests.’
Harold laconically folded his arms. ‘Would these grumbles have anything to do with the murder of two men who were invited into your own chamber in your palace in York? Or with the disposal of Gospatric?’
Edward’s head was turning from one brother to the other, attempting to follow the bewildering conversation. How had he missed the cause of this sudden rise in temper? All he had asked was if Harold had brought the lads with him. Not that he cared, he had no recollection of either of them.
Tostig made to snarl an answer, but his sister interrupted. ‘They were, all three, traitors to the crown. The two in York were plotting outright to murder Tostig – would you have let them harm our brother? And Gospatric openly admitted his guilt. His execution was lawful and by my command.’
‘Aye,’ Harold remarked, belatedly realising that because of tiredness his temper was getting the better of him, ‘at your command, but most ill advised. The North will make much of it for its own purpose.’
Perhaps it was despondency over his failure in Normandy that made Harold feel drained; he suddenly did not give a broken pisspot about anything. Or perhaps it was because of this stark reminder, so early upon his return, of all that was different between him and his brother and sister. The pair of them were scheming and plotting for naught but their own gain, with no care for whom or what they dragged into the mire as they passed.
He thought, inexplicably, of the parable of the good Samaritan. His brother, unless there was some gain for himself, would not have paused to help a man lying injured on the road. His moralistic hauteur had always been for show, deliberately paraded to goad Swegn’s temper, or to set one brother against another. Tostig always reminded Harold of the pretty shells that his children collected from the beach: beautiful on the outside, but when opened, containing nothing except black mud. There was no genuine goodness inside Tostig, he was too full of jealousy, greed and selfimportance.
‘You have brought the dissatisfaction that is swelling in your earldom upon yourself, brother, by ruling too ruthlessly. The law is better served by a degree of leniency, and high taxation is only justifiable if it is necessary for the common good, not for private gain. You are attempting to enforce the structure of Wessex on to a people who have lived by different ways. Northumbria is a fiercely independent land. You do not quieten a nervous horse by beating it into submission, but by offering it kind words, care and comfort.’
‘You always were a soft-hearted fool,’ Tostig thrust at him. ‘Treat peasants and imbeciles with honeyed words? The North understands only the lash of the whip. They are unmannered, vulgar, primitive barbarians.’
‘And this is a land that nourished the Christian centres of Durham, Whitby and Lindisfarne? Venerable men like the saints Cuthbert and Bede?’ Harold retorted mockingly.
‘I retract what I said,’ Tostig sneered. He bowed briefly to Edward, then headed for the door. ‘You would be of no help to me – go back to Normandy, you and William are well matched, both pathetic dreamers!’
Provoked beyond endurance Harold moved with two long strides to catch his brother’s arm. He thrust his face close, said with vehemence, ‘If you assume Duke William to be inadequate, then you are the fool. He is a man to be reckoned with. If Edward should die before Edgar reaches a suitable age, England will be dragged into a war similar to – or worse – than that against the Danes. The Normans are descended from those same Vikings who produced Cnut – but I tell you this William is not, by any short measure, comparable to that noble man.’
Tostig brushed his brother’s grip from his arm, answered with contempt, ‘You may fear this illiterate, illegitimate foreign bastard, brother Harold, but I do not. He is husband to my wife’s sister, I know him well and do not fear his ambition. Nor do I fear the consequences of Edward dying within the next month or year. The King is to name our sister as protector of the child. She will guide the boy when England elects him king; there will be no possibility of William querying his crowning. We will be quite safe from both hobgoblins and aspiring Norman sea-wolves.’
Harold was sickened. His throat constricted. He looked at Edward, who was sitting fiddle-fiddling with embarrassment at the embroidered hem of his tunic. ‘So when was this decided?’ he asked incredulously of the King. ‘Was it made without the agreement of Council – as you made a similar decision all those years past to offer your crown to Duke William and so put this greedy notion into his ambitious head?’
Edward licked his lips and put out his hand to Edgar to help him rise. ‘It is time I sought my bed, I think. I often take a nap of the mid-afternoon. Come, lad, escort me to my chamber.’
Edgar leapt to his feet and took hold of the old man’s arm. Harold bit back further remonstrations. There was no point in arguing with Edward, he was too blind to the consequences of his fool promises.
Edgar glanced up at the Earl as he escorted the King past, saying, ‘No one has asked what I want. I do not much like the sound of this foreign duke, nor the wearing of the crown.’
Harold made no answer. Stood in stony silence as Edward left the room. In some weird way he almost wished he had stayed in Normandy. Then he looked towards Tostig, who had moved to stand behind Edith, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, said, ‘A woman cannot rule. Edward’s successor must be deemed kingworthy. Edgar may yet be of a suitable age when we need consider it, but has he the ability? Admittedly he is a boy still but he displays no interest in what ought become his. England will be in desperate need of a man of courage and strength to hold back this tyrant from Normandy, should he decide to come. I do not think Edgar will be that man.’
Tostig squeezed his sister’s shoulder and lifted his chin proudly. ‘Aye, brother, I agree we need someone suitable. You are looking at him.’
Harold’s jaw clenched, but Edith forestalled any scathing retort. ‘Neither of you need have any fear for England. Ædwardus Rex reliably informed me but two days past that he intends to solve the problem of his succession simply by living for ever.’
6
Waltham Abbey – 1 January 1065 Last night it had been intensely cold and snow had fallen again. Come morning, the air was as brittle as glass and an ice-clad wind ploughed across the valley and into the nostrils of Harold’s children. The bare branches of birch and willow waved forlorn against the frigid sky. The meadow below the manor was a carpet of white, touched only by the prints of birds and the track of a fox. Gunnhild, turned seven years as January dawned, and Ulf, rising eleven, being the two youngest and most excitable, had been the first outside for an energetic session of snowball-tossing. The temptation to join them in the snow had been too much for their brothers Magnus and Edmund, though they would see fourteen and fifteen their next birthing days, and when Goddwin strode up the hill known as Mott Street from his own farmsteading at Sigurdstun, the game became a wild snow fight in earnest. Even Algytha, eighteen next week, came to watch, leaning on the gate and laughing at the antics of Goddwin’s two brindled wolf hounds, Dane and Weyland, barking and leaping in excitement at the flying snow. The game became ever more unruly until Goddwin called a breathless halt. Their cheeks red-rosy, breath blowing from their mouths like steam from a boiling pot, they all leant against the rails of the meadow gate, the two dogs lying, panting, their tongues lolling.
‘I trust none of you has a mountain of snow worked inside your boots!’ Edyth called jovially, appearing at the door of the house place. Her hair was tied back in a tight braid, a kerchief was bound around her head and a sacking apron covered her gown. In her hand a birch broom. Today, snow or no, was cleaning day when the shield
s and weapons were taken from the walls and dusted, the cobwebs banged and thumped from the hanging tapestries and the timber floors cleared of old rushes, thoroughly swept and spread afresh with a new layer. ‘As you all have so much energy, you can come help within doors . . .’ At the unanimous groan of protest she added, ‘Or you can take food up to old Granny Gnarl-hand. She has none to fend for her now her son is dead; it is our duty to keep an eye on her, especially during these winter months.’
The younger children glowered, for neither chore appealed. Algytha brushed snow from the hem of her gown, offering to help her mother, Gunnhild too, for she enjoyed a closer look at the magnificent weapons that hung on the walls. The boys were reluctant to walk to the widow’s cottage that sheltered below the high ground where the oak, birch and alder gave way to stately beech, especially as the letter Mother had received yesterday had reported that their father would soon be home. What if he came today? ‘As soon as may be possible, with gifts for you all,’ his curved, polished writing had declared.
‘I will go with the boys, Mother,’ Goddwin offered and whistled the dogs to heel. ‘There is little to do at my own steading and my wife is also elbow-deep in cleaning.’ He grinned at his family. ‘Would you believe, I came up here to escape being dust-mired! Perhaps the dogs will put up something suitable for the supper pot.’
Magnus and Ulf whooped their pleasure at the prospect, Edmund shouting that he would catch up with them after he had fetched his new hunting spear.
Edyth smiled to herself as she watched the boys set off across the snow-thick field, Edmund soon racing after them, stopping to collect a handful of snow to toss at his eldest brother’s back. The two of them were almost of the same height; Edmund had shot up since last autumn – Magnus, too, promised to be a tall young man. They were all fair-haired as Harold and herself; Goddwin, perhaps, being the most like his father, sharing a similar shape of eyes, chin and mouth. Edyth sighed. Goddwin did not possess Harold’s easygoing temper, though. He had not forgiven his father for what he saw as an insult to her, his mother. It was all so senseless! They were two fool-brained march hares boxing at each other.
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