The Wind From Hastings

by Morgan Llywelyn

  A price! Always a price on everything: myself, my body, my freedom, my children. Goods traded for value received. If we were simple rustics, ceorls living in a wattle and daub cottage with the chickens scratching on our floors, would we not be more free? I understood what Griffith had meant when he said he was the least free of his people.

  To give Edwin some credit, I was treated most kindly, and at least I did not have Gytha’s hostility to face. Edwin had recently taken himself a wife, a pleasant little body born to the lesser nobility among Leofric’s thegns. Joan, she was named, and she did her best to treat me as a loved sister.

  “What a lot you have seen, Edyth!” she would sigh enviously as we sat at our sewing together. “Imagine, having traveled to Ireland and Wales and been married to a King!”

  “A Prince,” I commented.

  “Edwin said your husband was King of Wales!” Her eyes flew wide. She was still in that new state of matrimony where her husband’s word was always believed.

  “It is a matter of words only,” I reassured her. “My Griffith was Ruler of All Wales, that is true.”

  “Do you miss him dreadfully?” Joan was so young she still asked questions like that.

  “I cannot talk about him.”

  “Oh, you did love him, didn’t you! Imagine that, a real love match!” She clasped her plump little hands beneath her chin and looked mightily pleased. “How wonderful for you! Even Earl Harold says he was a mighty warrior; he has always spoken of the Welsh Prince with respect.”

  For some reason that surprised me. “You have spoken often with the Earl of Wessex?”

  “Oh … not often. But he was our guest here before Christ Mass; and my lord husband tells me the Earl often seeks his counsel.”

  Harold Godwine seek the counsel of a youth whose beard was still soft! Edwin had not lost his love of exaggeration!

  I simmered like a slow pot on the hearth. I did my needlework—not so well as Joan—and tried to pass my time with the normal work of women in a manor house, but my children were always just behind my eyes. And how slowly the days dragged by!

  Leofric’s seat on the Avon River was at a crossroads frequented by travelers to Northumbria and Wessex, therefore we were goodly supplied with company and news. Then too, I think, a number of people found cause to visit the new Earl of Mercia just to gawp at his sister, the widow of the Welsh savage. Edwin seemed to take much pride in showing me off in that way, and there was little I could do about it. If I took refuge in my chamber with my maid and my loom the hours were too unbearably long, so I allowed him to exhibit me betimes in the Great Hall.

  Then, in the full spring of the year, Morkere came to us hotfoot from his latest effort at court to attain an earldom. Save only Edwin’s holding, all of England was in the grip of the Godwines, but Morkere seemed to think that the situation would change soon.

  “The Earl Tostig of Northumbria is mightily dissatisfied that Harold was sent on the King’s mission!” he told us excitedly. “Tostig feels that Harold is supplanting him as the King’s favorite in order to be named his successor, and he is doing much to stir up a grumble at court.”

  Morkere still had that aggrieved whine in his voice. As I watched him, I found it hard to imagine him an earl of anything. But if Morkere were as rabbithearted as he had been in childhood, perhaps he was still a little in awe of his older sister and could be bullied or petted into aiding me in some way.

  So I smiled brightly at him and listened with every appearance of interest to his recounting of the latest gossip from the West Palace on Thorney Island, where Edward of custom held his court.

  “Tostig proposes to levy a heavy tax against the shires of Northumbria, to enrich his own pockets for the struggle he foresees with Harold. And his sister, King Edward’s wife, has taken his side and is whispering in her husband’s ear. When Earl Harold returns and learns of their treachery against him, we shall see Tostig set down as Earl of the north country and a new man will take his place!”

  “What makes you think you might be that main, brother?” asked Edwin in a lazy drawl.

  “I have your support, do I not?”

  “For what it’s worth, yes. But I use most of my efforts in my own behalf, brother; an earl must look out for himself and his earldom above all else. I cannot vow to help you unless it would be to the best interests of Mercia to do so.”

  I was surprised to hear so candid a statement from my brother. He had not dealt with me so frankly!

  “Of course it would be to your interest to support me in my claim for land!” Morkere exclaimed, pounding his fist on his knee for emphasis and then softening the blow at the last instant.

  “I am not convinced of it,” said Edwin. “This warfare between Harold and Tostig is dangerous. It would be better for us both, Morkere, if we kept ourselves well away from court until the thing is settled.”

  “It will not be settled until the King is dead and the Witan has proclaimed his successor!”

  “That cannot be too long; the old man is in shaky health. But even his death will not solve the thing. The Atheling is a mere child, too young to rule, and no man would trust another to act as his Regent. The Danish court has claims on the throne through the line of Hardecnut, and William of Normandy has shown himself interested in adding England to his holdings.”

  “So perhaps it would be best, brother, to sit back and bide our time, making no enemies and treading on no one’s toes.”

  “It’s well enough for you to say that!” Morkere was indignant. “You have the earldom of Mercia, a plump new wife and more riches than you can use! And what do I have?”

  “A quarrelsome disposition,” sighed Edwin. “I believe I know how Earl Harold must feel with Tostig yapping at his heels. Be patient, brother, and follow my advice; that is the best help I can give you now.”

  “Very well, then,” said Morkere sulkily. “I see I must win my own without your aid!”

  That night I had Gwladys fetch me a candle, and I made my way to Morkere’s apartment after the household had grown quiet. I was pleased to see my brother still awake, nursing his grievances.

  “And what do you want?” he greeted me, with his usual surly manner. I chose to ignore it.

  “To give you aid, brother. And ask for yours in return, of course.”

  Morkere rolled his eyes at me. “Are you going to try to talk me out of petitioning the King for a grant of land?”

  “Oh, no! I think you are just as entitled to a fine holding as Edwin is”—that was true—“and I would be happy to argue in your behalf if you think that would help.” Although God knows, I thought, what weight my words would have with anyone.

  “So you are on my side. Wonderful. That means there are two of us in all the world.”

  “Nonsense, Morkere! Many of our father’s thegns would support your claim, I know! And if I added my voice to yours, then mayhap the King would look with favor on your petition and create an earldom for you. Who knows, he might even carve a piece for you from our brother’s holdings!”

  That unlikely possibility cheered Morkere at last, and he gave me a reluctant smile. “What would you want in return for adding your influence to mine, sister? You would be chatelaine of my house, perhaps, until I marry?”

  I waved my hand carelessly. “Nothing as grand as that, I assure you! Just take me with you when you return to the court at Thorney, and I will speak to King Edward myself on your behalf.”

  Morkere watched me noncommittally. “And then …” he prompted.

  “And then supply me with just a few men to ride to Arundel and get my children …”

  “Good God, woman, you are mad! You would bring the wrath of Harold Godwine down on my head—is that your idea of helping me?” Morkere jumped to his feet and began pacing the chamber. I trotted after him and tugged at his sleeve.

  “Harold would not know; he is on the Continent on the King’s business!”

  “But he will come back! And I would not have that man angry at me f
or all the earldoms in the land!”

  “Then just help me leave here! Get me a horse, show me the road, give me two of your men-at-arms and I’ll ask for nothing more! Please, brother!”

  “You’ll ask for nothing more!” he parroted. “Woman, you have already asked for too much!”

  There was no help for me anywhere. Morkere went off to play politics, Joan began work on a gorgeous tapestry featuring her husband staghunting, and Edwin began to develop a little paunch.

  In Wessex, my children and Griffith’s were being raised by Harold’s mother, and I paced the halls of Mercia alone.

  The seasons waxed and waned; we had May Day and Whitsun and Lammas, when the first bread was blessed. On my birthday Joan gave me a mantle of blue silk with a golden collar—“The blue matches your eyes,” she said sweetly—and Edwin presented me with a massive brooch inlaid with garnets. I suspect if they had been rubies he would have kept it for himself.

  Then, as the days grew shorter and the swine were being fattened on beech mast in the woods, exciting news came to us from court. In the person of Morkere, who dearly loved to carry tales of bad news and tragedy, we learned that the heir of the native earls of Bernicia, the influential Cospatric, had been murdered. And some said his killer was the King’s own wife!

  “I sweat blood to repeat such a thing, but many think it is true!” Morkere proclaimed wide-eyed. “It is said she had it done to eliminate his opposition to Tostig. Tostig himself was with the King near Salisbury at the time, and protested that he was totally ignorant of the thing. But Cospatric’s followers in Northumbria have led a great revolt against Tostig, and they intend to drive him from the land and declare a man of their own choice as earl!”

  “How fortuitous!” said Edwin piously. “I suppose you have arranged to have your own name mentioned in that connection?”

  “Better than that!” boasted Morkere. “I ride this day to York with the blessings of Harold Godwine himself, and I have every reason to expect that the New Year will see me as Morkere, Earl of Northumbria!”

  Out of all that mickle-muckle only one thing had any meaning for me: Harold was back in England. Perhaps, perhaps, he would send my children to me. Or let me go to them.

  One can always hope.

  “So Earl Harold is home at last!” I interrupted in my eagerness.

  Morkere shot me an annoyed look. “Yes, of course he is! And a long time he was about it, too! It seems he has been an unwilling guest of William the Bastard in Normandy these many months, and only just returned from the country!”

  Harold, a captive? That was a novel piece of news! Even Edwin pricked his ears and begged for details.

  “No one seems to know too much,” said Morkere. “You know the Earl of Wessex, he keeps his own counsel. But it seems that he was shipwrecked or somesuch off the Norman coast, and William forced him to remain.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “It seems that our Norman cousin was under the impression that he could force Harold Godwine to support his own claim to the English throne!” laughed Morkere. “He is not much a judge of men, is he?”

  “Not if he thinks to win the bone Harold has marked for himself!” agreed Edwin. “What consideration could William hope to offer in return for Harold’s support?”

  That query started my own thoughts racing. Again I interrupted my brothers’ conversation, and this time they both scowled at me. “Morkere, what consideration did you offer Harold Godwine in return for the earldom of Northumbria? It must have been a fine one if he would give you his brother’s place for it!”

  “Ah, well … I am not yet actually the Earl, you understand!” Morkere dodged. “I will have to have the approval of the King …”

  “That is a foregone conclusion now,” said Edwin, “with Tostig out of the way and Harold Godwine on the King’s right hand. But our sister asked a wise question, and I would like to hear the answer myself, little brother. What consideration did you offer Harold in return for Northumbria?”

  Morkere shuffled his feet and made a great to-do of hunting some misplaced morsel of food in his teeth. Edwin waited most patiently, arms crossed on his chest and eyes suspicious. “I trust,” he said coolly, “you have not been so foolish as to pledge something involving me.”

  “Of course not! I only, well, traded something that is really of no use to either of us. But it will better both our positions, yours and mine!”

  I felt the chill of unwanted knowledge settle over me. I knew only one piece of property that fitted that description. Morkere’s words were not necessary; I read my fate in the way his eyes evaded mine.

  “I agreed that we, as Edyth’s nearest blood kin, would give her in marriage to the Earl of Wessex.”

  My miserable brother Edwin laughed outright, and I gritted my teeth with hatred of him for that. “Well done, Morkere! I suspected that was what he was after when he sent her to me with orders to keep close watch over her. He admires you, Edyth; the desire of England’s next king is quite a plum for you!”

  “I do not want it! I want no part of that man! How could you give me to him after all the wrongs he has done me!”

  “Oh, come now,” said Edwin in a reasonable voice, “he has not injured you so dreadfully as all that. I grant you he had your precious Griffith killed, but that was war, sister; there was nothing personal in it.”

  “He has taken my children!”

  “And very wise of him, too!” interjected Morkere.

  “He felt that you might not be overeager for this match, but with your children in his custody you can scarce refuse him.”

  “Damn William!” I burst out. Both men stared at me, uncomprehending. “If he wants to make England a Norman province, why didn’t he just kill Harold Godwine while he had him under his thumb? Why did he let him go?”

  “Perhaps William was beguiled by Godwine’s personal charm,” suggested Edwin, “as so many others have been.” He smirked.

  “I have not noticed any ‘personal charm’!” I cried. “I tell you I hate and despise Harold Godwine, and rather than be married to him I will kill myself!”

  Joan, who had kept quiet through all this as an obedient wife should—if she had no spine—at last took my side. “My lord husband,” she said timidly to Edwin, “if Edyth has such strong feelings about this, perhaps it would not be fair to force her into the marriage?”

  Edwin shook off the gentle hand she laid on his sleeve, as if it were an annoying blackfly. “It is quite fair for all concerned, Joan! For my sister, too, if she but had the wit to see it. A husband like the Earl of Wessex is not usually a widow’s portion. For Morkere and myself, it will mean uniting our family and fortunes with the greatest power in the land. And for Harold …” Edwin looked me up and down, as if I were a cow at a fair. “I daresay Harold intends to enjoy his prize. And of course, with Edyth as his wife, he can count on the support of Mercia and Northumbria.” He nodded to Morkere, who grinned. “So you see, dear wife, a more satisfactory match cannot be imagined!”

  Poor Joan Dimwit, so easily seduced by Edwin’s slippery tongue! She came from him to me with that same soft smile on her lips, anxious to make everything cream and roses. “Edwin is right, Edyth! This is really a stroke of great good fortune; can’t you be happy about it?”

  “I cannot be anything but bought and sold and traded!” I snarled at her. “If you would speak to me of happiness, then speak to me of the grave!” I brushed past her and stalked in fury to my chamber.

  “Gwladys!” I startled the poor woman so that she dropped her needle and began crawling around on her knees, poking among the rushes on the floor and muttering to herself.

  “Gwladys,” I began again, more calmly, “you have some knowledge of medicines and potions?”

  “Aye, my lady.” She stopped mumbling and looked up at me.

  “So have I, but not enough for this. Tell me, in Wales do they have a brew that will bring sleep?”

  “Aye, my lady, as well you know.”


  “Not that; that is quite insufficient for my purposes. I need much more sleep than just one night. I need to sleep until all the pain is gone and all the walls are down and I am free to be with Griffith again.”

  Gwladys scrambled to her feet, horrified. “You are talking madness, my lady!”

  “All about me is madness, but I am quite sane, Gwladys. Sane enough to find life unbearable anymore and to want a way out of it, but too afraid of pain to drive a knife into my own bosom. You have served me well, Gwladys; serve me in this way too!”

  “I could never do that! My Lord Griffith gave me into your service and charged me with your safekeeping always. He would never forgive me!”

  So Griffith’s hand reached out to me, even here. I could not stop the tears in my eyes or the burning in my throat. But neither could I go in marriage to Harold Godwine, loving Griffith still! To be touched by another man, to share his body … impossible!

  Impossible, too, to involve Gwladys in the last escape left to me. Better to make the arrangements on my own, poring over my trinkets to find bribes sufficient to send a page or scullery maid into the woods after the ingredients I needed. And then, when the stuff was mixed and hidden in a jar behind my bed, waiting for nightfall to do its deadly work, how could I test it but on myself?

  Once more I waited until the household was quiet and my chamber echoed with the snores of Gwladys at the foot of the bed. Then—so stealthily!—I took my magic jar and crept from the room. I wanted to be under the stars, with the clean night wind blowing round.

  That night of all nights no one even took notice of my going. Men slumbered in the hall, before the hearth, and my brother’s steward lay full asleep on his bench just inside the door. I had only to gather my skirts in my hands and walk softly past him and I was outside.

  But where to go? Edwin, for all his faults, had come from the same womb as I; I could not take poison and stretch myself to die an ugly death on his doorsill. So I carried my medicine down the steps and across the court, past kitchen and stable and out the postern gate, half-hidden in brambles.

  Behind the manor the woods crowded close around the wall, then opened onto a gentle slope leading to a marshy stream.