New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Harold wished he could comfort her by saying that William would not harm a woman. Would he hurt a queen? Would he dare? But if he got to Alditha, it would be because he, Harold, was dead – and who then would be able to protect her? And the child. What would he do to a boy child? No, he could not pledge that she or the babe would be safe in William’s bloodstained hands.

  Cradling her to him, arms around her, he rocked her as if she too were a child. ‘I shall not give up my kingdom easily. I intend to win, dear heart. He may well take victory at a first battle if we are drawn into a fight too early, but the winning of one battle does not always mean the end of a war. Look at our Great King, at Alfred – at the numerous battles he fought against the Danish invaders.’

  Aye, Alditha thought in answer, and look at other kings who have failed, who have been slaughtered in the fighting.

  Harold did sleep, for an hour or so, before dawn crept in with the bright promise of another sun-filled day. The chattering birds beyond the window woke him. As he stirred, Alditha groaned, snuggling closer to his warmth, reluctant to wake.

  He would send her north, he had decided, where she would be safe from William. Her brothers could be trusted to see to her security – for the child, if not for herself. And if the worst happened and William succeeded, from York she could ride with ease to Chester and from there reach the safety of the Welsh, her mother’s people.

  He closed his eyes, drifted into another doze. And that would solve another problem also. What to do with his three sons. Goddwin, Edmund and Magnus had remained in York, unable to ride although they had begged to accompany him. It would not surprise him if they limped and crawled their way down the North Road – but if he sent word that they were, between them, to protect the Queen and the unborn child . . .

  Goddwin did not like Alditha, but neither would he like what William might do to the boy or girl that was destined to be his halfbrother or -sister. Especially not if Harold ensured his eldest son knew all that had been happening in Sussex.

  Word had reached London of what had been found at Crowhurst. Farms, buildings, the chapel, all burnt to the ground. The land-folk of the settlements and farmsteadings – including those of his manor, his hawksman and servants – all of them, young and old, fearing Duke William and his men, had sought the sanctuary of the church.

  And William had ordered its firing, heedless of these Christian folk sheltered within.

  18

  Waltham Abbey Algytha had ordered the trestle tables brought outside for a good scrubbing while the weather held so fine. She paused, puffing with exertion; why did men make such a mess with their ale and meat? Could they not keep at least some of it within the tankard and in the bowl? A horse’s neigh attracted her attention and she glanced across the courtyard, expecting to see one of the farm folk, or someone from the village. It was too soon for it to be one of the boys home and her father would not have the opportunity to leave London. Not with this latest news of William.

  Edyth heard it also. Her cheeks red from the effort of beating dust from a tapestry, she rested her fist on her hip and, breathing hard, watched the gateway for the visitor to arrive. She too doubted it would be Harold . . . even if he were not so busy with the Norman landing, why would he come here? Westminster, Winchester, wherever his court resided was now his home, not the manor. She wished someone would come from the palace, though, for she was anxious to hear how her two eldest sons fared – they had been wounded but would live, that she knew. Anxious, too, to hear what was happening in Sussex; how Harold was and what he intended to do.

  Her smile of pleasure was exaggerated by the surprise of her wish being granted, for she recognised that distinctive bay – it was ridden by one of Harold’s most trusted captains. Laying down the beating broom, Edyth made to walk forward to greet the newcomer, but stopped short, her expression crumbling into horrified dismay. Harold was come – but he was not alone. He rode beside an opensided litter; inside lay a heavily pregnant woman. The Queen Alditha.

  Edyth had seen her briefly at court, during those months when she had first been brought out of Wales, but had never spoken to her. Seeing her again, she was reminded of how pretty she was.

  Harold dismounted, hugged Algytha who had run to greet him, then handed the woman from the litter and led her towards Edyth, who stood, conscious of her musty, old and very patched working gown and the kerchief covering her hair. Why, of all days, had he chose this one to bring her here? On the very day Edyth, for want of something to occupy her mind, had decided to clean out the Hall thoroughly before winter? Everywhere was chaos and confusion. Oh, why today?

  Edyth dipped a curtsey to the Queen and bade her welcome to the manor, then flashed Harold a glare of anger. ‘My apologies that we are in disarray, my Lady. You are welcome to the privacy of my own chamber, which is not so disordered.’ Harold, she noted, wore the marks of tiredness. Was it any wonder?

  Looking about her with interest, Alditha followed Edyth within doors and up a short flight of timber steps to the spacious room above the southern end of the Hall. The room was light and airy, with south- and west-facing window shutters thrown wide to allow in the sunlight. Tapestries of hunting scenes decorated the limewashed walls, a bright patch-worked cover lay over the wooden box bed in one corner, its red-dyed curtaining swathed back with embroidered ties. There were comfortable chairs; several carved chests for clothing, linen and such; glass goblets; silver platters. A vase of autumn flowers stood in the centre of a table, at which a boy sat, legs dangling from a high-legged stool, a book lying open before him. He looked up as they entered, yelled with delight as he saw his father and ran to him, arms outstretched.

  ‘My youngest son,’ Harold explained to Alditha as the lad jumped into his father’s embrace, legs and arms clinging around his waist and neck. ‘This is Ulf, who at twelve years of age is becoming too big for leaping on me as if I were a pony!’ With fond love, Harold ruffled the lad’s hair, then pointed to the book. ‘What are you reading, boy?’

  ‘ ’Tis one of your falconry books, Papa. Thorkeld says I may help him in your mews, if I am prepared to learn all I can.’

  ‘Learn from Thorkeld also, there is little he does not know of hawking. You may tell him, when he thinks you have learned enough to take care of her, that you may have Freya. She is one of my best goshawks. Fly her well, lad.’

  Ulf whooped his pleasure.

  ‘Do you not already have a hawk of your own?’ Alditha asked politely of the lad. He was a good-looking boy, with the features and mannerisms of his father.

  ‘Aye, Lady, I have a merlin, I call her Beauty. Papa gave her to me on my tenth birthing day – but a merlin cannot be compared to a goshawk.’

  ‘It most certainly cannot! I had a merlin when I lived in Wales. She was so fast when she flew that it was difficult to keep your eye on her, and when the sun dazzled on her feathers I thought her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Your choice of name is a good one.’

  Pleased that his wife was attempting to make friends with the lad

  – it was no easy thing for her to come here – Harold was reluctant to intervene, but there was so little time and so many things that required attention.

  ‘Ulf, put the book away where it belongs and get you gone to tell Thorkeld your news. I would speak with your mother.’ As the boy ran from the room, his tread loud on the stairs – with the unmistakable thud as he jumped the last four – Harold thought bitterly that his son’s love of hawking might, for a while, be disrupted.

  Offering wine and a seat, Edyth discreetly brushed at her unbecoming gown, patted her loose-braided, wisping hair. Alditha, despite her pregnancy, was elegant and well-groomed. Edyth smiled, played the dutiful hostess, but was inwardly seething with a rage directed at Harold. Pointedly, she was ignoring him. How dare he bring this woman here without giving her adequate warning! How dare he humiliate her so!

  Algytha entered, bearing a dish of sweetmeats and pastries; her mother noticed that she had
found a moment to remove her apron and kerchief, and to slip on a clean over-tunic.

  ‘I would have word with you, Edyth,’ Harold said, motioning for Algytha to sit. ‘Will you be kind enough to entertain the Queen a moment, my daughter?’ Taking Edyth’s elbow, Harold steered her from the room, not waiting for a reply from either of the women.

  Once down the stairs, Edyth exploded. ‘How could you do this to me, Harold? To bring her here with no word? Look at the place – look at me! What must she be thinking?’

  Withstanding the tirade, for he recognised it was justified, Harold let her have her say. Then when she paused, apologised. ‘I appreciate the inconvenience, but blame it on Duke William, lass, not me. I do not have time for niceties. Edyth, I can but stay the hour, I must be back at Westminster by the afternoon. The call to arms has gone out. The fyrd is to muster on the thirteenth day of October at that old apple tree on Caldbec Hill.’

  Edyth bit her lip, ashamed of her churlishness. She knew the tree, had seen it on numerous occasions whenever they stayed at his Sussex manor. An ancient, grey-bearded old man of a tree, of a curious twisting shape, it thrust from the ground like a hand with misshapen fingers, two of them making the distinctive pagan horned sign to ward off evil. An appropriate augury.

  ‘It would be prudent to wait him out, hope for a poor winter to starve him into submission – but how can I abandon those people, my people, who are suffering? Do I abandon them to his mercy until the spring?’ Harold could not, of course, which was William’s whole strategy. They, the two men, had studied each other well, knew each other’s limitations. William had no conscience; Harold cared. It was a defect which William considered to be a liability.

  As with most of an incredulous southern England, Edyth was struggling to accept the reality that William had landed, to understand the implications. The politics of it did not interest her, all she knew was that Harold eventually would have to fight this Norman duke. And that fighting could lead to pitiable wounds. Or death.

  ‘And your queen?’ she asked. She could not bring herself to use the woman’s given name, that would be too much like accepting her, liking her.

  ‘I am sending Alditha north. She is only here because I am setting her on the road, and . . .’ Harold paused. He did not know how to go on.

  They were standing apart. He wanted to hold her, touch her. Dare not, but . . . he lurched forward, put his hands on her upper arms, gripped them tight, with urgency. ‘And I want you to go with her. At least follow in a day or two.’

  As she started to shake her head, Harold shook her again, lighter but no less determined. ‘I have sent word ahead that Goddwin is to await her at York. Edmund will not be leaving until his broken leg has healed. Magnus is looking to his needs. I have asked Goddwin to stay with Alditha.’

  ‘He will not like it,’ Edyth observed.

  Harold released her, and said quietly and with despondent honesty, ‘Nay, he will not. But it seemed the most convenient way, without offending his pride, of keeping him from straying over-close to William’s clutches, should things not go well in Sussex.’ Reaching for her hand, he added, ‘I want you and our children safe also. I had no choice but to lose you as wife, but I can do my utmost to protect your life. If I am not here to —’

  ‘No!’ Edyth almost screamed the word, then covered her mouth with her hands. Dear Lord God, do not tempt providence! ‘Do you think I could go north, suffer the agony of waiting all those days to hear what is happening to England, to you? I have had to endure torment these last weeks. I cannot, shall not, suffer the not knowing again!’ She pulled her hand free of his hold, folded her arms, stood straight and defiant. How often had he seen that same determination once she had set her mind to something. ‘You may send your queen north, Harold, but you will not send me! The housecarl’s, women will be on the heels of the army, to cook the food and tend the wounded. I shall be with them.’

  ‘As would I, Lady Edyth, were I not so heavy with child.’

  Both Edyth and Harold spun round, startled.

  Alditha was coming down the stairs, her skirts held high to forestall any risk of falling. She stepped down the last and released her garments. ‘Your lady, my husband, has the advantage twice over. Duke William will pay her scant attention. To him, she is merely a discarded mistress. Should Normandy see victory, you would do well to play on it, my Lady Edyth, for your own and your daughters’ safety. You are also not heavy with child. Sons, whether legitimate born or no, William will not permit to enjoy their freedom.’ She put her hand to the bulge of her stomach. ‘I cannot risk remaining in the South to bear a son born of an anointed king. Not until we know that king is secure upon his throne.’

  Alditha was frightened but hid it well. So recently to have found contentment and happiness, to have stumbled on the edge of what could become a deep and trusting love . . . and to have it all, perhaps, snatched away by an obdurate Norman madman . . . ‘Until this child is born, and is safe from William, I would have Edyth with you, my Lord. You are tired, you will become more so yet, before this thing can be finished. You need one of us with you to ensure you do not fall ill. That one must be Edyth.’

  Easy, it was, to suggest something if you only looked at it from the practical side.

  19

  The Hoar-Apple Tree, Sussex Evening descended with one of those soft ripples that is barely noticed. The sky had darkened gradually, so that it was only when night actually fell that it was realised the day had ended. Evening ushered in the autumnal chill, the grass dew wet, the air nipping at fingers and face. Before many nights passed, frost would be sprinkling the bronzed leaves and dying bracken.

  There was no doubting that Duke William was aware of the English muster. Normandy had scouts who knew their job – had been observed by King Harold’s own scouts. Word would have travelled before the marching army as it left London, two days and sixty-odd miles away, over the northern Weald beyond the densely thicketed forest of Andredsweald. They had marched on foot, most of them – the housecarls, the fyrd – for there were no adequate sound horses, but it did not matter. The walk was not so long from London into Sussex, and surprise and speed were not essential for this coming battle.

  By the late afternoon of the thirteenth day of October several thousand men were adding their rough-made encampments to those already gathered on the wind-riddled slope of Caldbec Hill. More were coming: in small groups, pairs, ones and twos. Esegar and Godric, both Shire Reeves, settled their men at campfires after dark; Leofric, Abbot of Peterborough, joined his freemen of the fyrd with those of Abbot Ælfurg of Winchester. The men of Thurkill of Kingston and Eadric the Deacon sank wearily into the huddle of their cloaks, hardly caring that the women were offering them food, such was their weariness. Through the night men came, expecting to have a wait of a day or two, perhaps more, before their weapons and skill would be wanted. Scattered over the hill, a hundred and a hundred campfires mirrored the sparkle of the stars wheeling across the heavens: Orion the Hunter, the Bull, the Bear.

  The King’s own tent was pitched within yards of the old tree, which had proved its worth as an easily recognised rallying point. Outside, his two banners fluttered, toyed with by the restless southern wind: the Dragon of Wessex beside the Fighting Man. Nearby stood the command tent of Earls Gyrth and Leofwine with their own banners. Within Harold’s tent, the lamps lit, they were arguing.

  ‘It is senseless for you to fight, brother. If you are killed, what will happen to England? Let me take your place.’ Leofwine was vehement, his obstinate stance backed by many of those leaders also present – captains, bishops, thegns . . .

  ‘And what will happen to England if I did that?’ Harold roared back at them, slamming his fist on the table top in front of him, making tankards and goblets, maps and the paraphernalia of war bounce. ‘I was elected king, as Harold the second of that name, elected as the man most worthy to lead our armies. Do I, then, abandon my responsibility at this first hint of danger?’

  ‘Bu
t you fought at Stamford Bridge – you have adequately proved your worth . . .’ That was a captain of his housecarls.

  ‘And I shall fight here at Hastings!’

  Leofwine swung away from the table, his hands raised. ‘Is there no reasoning with the man?’

  ‘Happen you could try it more successfully with Duke William?’ Gyrth said drily. ‘Our messenger got nowhere. You might be more persuasive.’

  Leofwine tossed a lewd, dismissive gesture at his brother. The offer of negotiation sent this afternoon had fallen on closed ears; William had refused even to consider the possibility of talking. A monk from Harold’s own abbey of Waltham had ridden those eight miles to the coast, carrying the green branch of peace high. ‘My Lord King Harold bids you peace,’ he had said, ‘and offers you the freedom of withdrawal, with no reprisal or savagery against the destruction that has been committed here in his kingdom. Our King was legally elected by the Council of the Witan and the people of England. He has been anointed and acclaimed by the same.’

  The terse reply had been as ever it had. Earl Harold, as the Normans persisted in calling him, had sworn oath to become vassal of Normandy, had broken his pledge. As duke and rightful king, William had the support of the Church of Rome and the hand of God within his own. He had then laid down his own terms: ‘Let Harold surrender to me now, before blood is shed and the killing commences. I shall grant him adequate land for himself and his kindred.’

  The Waltham Abbey monk had shaken his head. ‘ King Harold already has adequate land. He has England.’

  Countess Gytha, collecting empty broth bowls from the finished meal and handing them to a servant, added her own impassioned pleading to that of the men. ‘There is no one to lead if you should fall Harold. England can fight a second, third, or fourth time. William has but this one chance. He must win, for if he does not, how can he try again? He will not have the men. He must win or die