The Wind From Hastings

by Morgan Llywelyn

  In that year the feast of Easter fell on the sixteenth of April, and with it the Easter Witenagemot was to be held in the West Minster. The great spring meeting of the Witan was formerly held in Winchester, the seat of the West Saxon kings since the time of Alfred. But it was Harold’s intention to center the administration of his kingdom in London, which was so located that it could receive and dispense communications better than any other part of the country.

  So, with all the wedding ceremonials behind us and the King feeling relatively sure that the strength of Northumbria stood behind him, we moved south to London and the West Palace on Thorney Island.

  Our elaborate procession consisted, as usual, of the vast number of housecarles which were a permanent part of Harold’s retinue, serving both as men-at-arms and as squires of the body if needed. They must be fed and equipped, so that meant many cart and pack animals. There was the king’s steward and two butlers, his chamberlain and priest, as well as pages, heralds, equerries, cooks, wardrobe masters, herbalists, the physician, minstrels, mounted couriers, and any number of other dogsbodies whose functions seemed obscure. Yet Harold was considered to be a man of simple and restrained tastes—for a king.

  We went back along Ermine Street, across the Humber and the Trent, to Watling Street and London. And everywhere we went Harold paid court to his people, even as he had on our wedding tour through Northumbria.

  When we passed a cottage with its wind doors unshuttered in that cool season, Harold straightway dispatched housecarles to cut down a giant oak and build shutters for the astonished ceorl who lived there.

  At the village of Ouestraefeld the King saw that the townsfolk who lined the road to watch us pass were thinly clothed, and he left with them two carts of woolens and a bale of furs. And these things happened everywhere we went.

  And, always, good Bishop Wulfstan was at his elbow. I believe Harold had courted the goodwill of Eldred by asking his blessing for our marriage, but he courted the goodwill of God through his friendship with Wulfstan. The Bishop was saintly, for truth, and his kindly goodness cast a spell. He even found the time to teach Llywelyn to read some simple Latin and instructed both boys in counting and geography.

  I feared Harold might object to such favors being given, but he did not seem to pay mind to it.

  It was sweet, that spring, riding down out of the north country. The light in the long valleys was bluish, the air clear and fine. Great forests of beech and oak marched like armies along the watercourses, bent on forcing out their rivals, the noble spruce. Game was everywhere: red deer, boar, all manner of wild fowl in the scrub on the hills and big fat salmon in the cold streams. The people were hardy and hardworking, more reserved and suspicious than those in the South. Interested though I was in seeing London, I almost regretted leaving Northumbria.

  On our way I had made every opportunity to avoid Gytha, and she had done the same for me, but the afternoon before we were to reach London it chanced that we were riding together, with no one else close of our own rank. Feeling an obligation to make some sort of social remark, I commented on my eagerness to see London.

  “London’s single virtue is that it is an end to all this journeying for a while,” Gytha sighed. “I am so tired of horse sweat and having my bones jounced! But I suppose”—she cast an eye toward me, suddenly spying a chance to play the cat—“a person such as yourself is used to living a rough life?”

  It was too good an opportunity to overlook, even if it meant further alienating the woman. “Madam,” I told her coolly, “the truly highborn always have greater stamina than the baseborn, and are able to bear a few discomforts without difficulty. The King’s greyhounds have trotted gaily at his horse’s heels since York, but I notice that Egbert’s mongrel pack deserted us at the Ouse River. Mayhap, my lady, you have been misinformed as to the flawlessness of your pedigree?”

  Enjoying the spectacle of Gytha speechless for once, I rode at a pleasant pace for some time, much puffed with myself. But the snake was merely waiting to strike back; I should have known it. As the shadows grew longer and we hastened to reach the monastery of Saint Paul, where we would spend the night, Gytha reined her horse close to mine again and hissed in a falsely friendly voice, “I am surprised that you are so eager to see London, Your Grace, considering.”

  “Considering? What are you talking about, madam?”

  She tried to look mealy-mouthed. “Why, I know that I should not like to ride through Londontown and over the bridge at the river gate if my former husband’s head were stuck up on a pole on that bridge!”

  For the second time in my life I heard the sound of the sea roaring in my ears, and the world swirled away from me in a reddish blackness.

  “She’s awake, Your Grace,” a dim voice said somewhere above me. I struggled to open my eyes, but when I did so the world swooped so dizzily that I closed them again. I realized I was lying in a little wooded glade off the road and people were leaning over me. The coolness of the glade made me shiver and brought back my senses a bit.

  Bishop Wulfstan knelt beside me; I knew his soft, kind voice. “Please, my dear, open your eyes again!”

  I did so. The King was there, too, standing with a flushed face and a bare head. “Aldith!” he spoke sharply.

  I turned my face away. “Take him away from me, Wulfstan!” I pleaded. There was much whispering and tramping about, then the good Bishop knelt by me again and took my hand.

  “The King is gone, my lady. But he was sore hurt that you sent him away.”

  “I would send him to the … I would send him away forever if I could!”

  “Your Grace!” The noble Bishop was shocked. “The King cares for you very much! He was most upset when he heard you had fainted and fallen from your horse. And in your condition, a fall can be so dangerous!”

  “My condition?” I came fully out of my swoon then. “You are mistaken, my Lord Bishop! If you suppose me to be with child you are muchly mistaken!”

  His seamed and stubbly face sank in disappointment. “But if Your Grace is not … then … ?”

  “I was told by the King’s mother that Prince Griffith’s head is on a pole in London!” I cried out to him, letting some of the pain escape my soul through my lips. “She wanted to hurt me and she did!”

  Wulfstan looked as wounded as I felt. “God forgive the woman! That was a cruel thing to do, my lady, whatever reason she may have had! Of course it was a frightful shock to you! You should have been prepared in a gentler way; I myself could have told you, at the right time, without putting it so bald!”

  I felt sick. Not with the morning sickness of a life to come, but with the rotten sickness of grief still carried. “It’s true then, Wulfstan? What she said?”

  His eyes answered me.

  They brought my children to me. Llywelyn smoothed my hair and kissed my cheek, bringing the tears to my eyes at last. Rhodri trotted up to me on his chubby little legs, thick as oil beakers. He showered me with wet kisses, then clasped his fingers in the ruby collar I wore and asked if he might have it. I heard one of the housecarles mutter to another, “The young Welsh puppy takes after his sire; I see he grabs what he wants free-handed!” In my tormented mind I entered a mark against that man.

  The loveliest of my children, my little Nesta, was laid in my arms. In that crowd of sand-colored Saxons she glowed like a mountain rose. Eyes like velvet, with dark lashes spiked like the points of a star. Pink cheeks, skin translucent as goat’s milk, red lips always pouted for a kiss. Wherever my children are is home, and no price was too high to pay for their ransom! I wrapped her silken curls around my fingers and felt strength come back into my body. I would give Gytha no more satisfaction that day.

  “Osbert, give me your arm. We must not delay the King.”

  A great crowd of merchants, reeves, bishops, nobles and doxies met us outside the New Gate, together with the Lord Mayor. Some exceedingly dull things were said by all the important men present, which took up most of the morning, and then at
last we entered the city.

  I had last seen York as a town whose festival had ended, when even the drunkest villein had sobered up and staggered off to his cottage and his angry wife. Garlands of dried leaves and early flowers hung dispiritedly here and there, and pennons with the device of Godwine were still nailed above door lintels. But the city of London was very different indeed. It bore the bustle and gaiety of a place where the festival never quite ended, where there was always more ale to be drunk and more girls to be pinched.

  The King’s party formed itself into a parade within the shadow of the old Roman wall encircling the city. For the occasion I wore a crown, not the one Harold had set upon my head at York Minster, but a bulky gold thing with a sharp edge not sufficiently padded. I could feel it biting into my forehead. The trumpeters and heralds led off; the King, simply dressed but richly bejeweled, rode alone. Behind him paced the Mayor and Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury. Then I followed at a slight distance on my palfrey, accompanied by the young wives of four of the crown stewards. One of the housecarles—not Osbert—held my horse’s bridle, though the animal was quiet from the long journey and I could have handled him even if he was not.

  Gytha was somewhere behind us. I hope she ate dust.

  Harold’s triumphal parade through London was to travel east across the Wall Brook and then double back along the Thames to the West Palace on Thorney Island. All of the city seemed to be an open marketplace, and merchants constantly besieged our caravan, begging the King’s patronage. Harold was in a good humor and a generous mood; several times he ordered a halt while he selected laces and trinkets for me. But he did not proffer them himself; they were carried back to me by pages. Harold as a doting husband was something I did not expect or believe, but it pleased the spectators and delighted the merchants.

  We had dinner at a tented pavilion on Cheapside Street. We were escorted to our seats by Stigand, who was both dignified and controversial. The table itself was raised on a high dais so that all might see us, and unusually high chairs were furnished as well, even fitted with the nicety of soft cushions. The King flung his aside with a snort of contempt, whereupon I immediately dispatched a page to retrieve it and add it to my own.

  A great feast was served us even as cartloads of food were distributed to the rest of our party. I nibbled on some fowl boiled in sweet almond milk. Stigand urged me to try a concoction of onions, eggs and saffron which he was enjoying heartily. I tasted it, assured him it was delicious, and left it cooling on my plate, but at least we had engaged in some conversation.

  Stigand was well known to me as the subject of much gossip, so that I was interested to observe him firsthand. I pretend to dislike such tittle-tattle, but I am secretly fascinated by people who have an aura of scandal about them. Stigand had been an ally of Harold’s father while serving as Bishop of Winchester. At that time a man named Robert the Norman was Archbishop of Canterbury. King Edward was known to be considering William the Bastard as his possible heir, and of course Archbishop Robert was sympathetic to the idea of having his countryman assume the English throne. In 1052, at the urging of the Godwines, a popular uprising resulted in Robert’s being driven from the country, and Stigand became Archbishop of Canterbury in his place.

  My sympathies are with the outcast, so I was not prepared to view Stigand with friendly eyes. And, truly, nothing in his countenance encouraged me. The man had an almost reptilian head, with scaly skin and flat, cold eyes. There was none of Wulfstan’s sweet saintliness about him; I understood why he was reluctant to let himself be seen in Rome when Pope Leo IX summoned him in reply to the deposed Robert’s desperate appeal. Stigand chose instead to stay in England, where he had powerful friends, and was therefore condemned in absentia and excommunicated. Which made him an outcast too, I suppose, but that did not improve my feelings toward him.

  Such was the influence of the Godwines that he continued to hold the archbishopric in defiance of the Pope, even after the death of old Earl Godwine the next year. Several more popes tried in vain to dislodge him, but the man was as fixed as a tick on a hound’s hide, clinging to power and enlarging his sphere as the Godwines enlarged theirs.

  In all that time no English bishop came to him for consecration. Even when Harold was crowned King he chose Eldred of York for the duty of coronation which customarily should have been Canterbury’s. Yet Stigand remained a powerful presence; his lifelong loyalty to the Godwines gave him an influence that was hated but could not be denied. Looking at him, I was reminded of all the comely and loving faces that had surrounded my Griffith at Rhuddlan—and yet Griffith had been betrayed. What sort of man was Harold that he commanded the absolute fealty of the Fallen Angel of Canterbury? Was it possible that Stigand genuinely believed, as so many others did, that England’s future rested safest in Harold’s hands?

  Looking at Stigand I was frightened, for I felt that my life and my fate were totally given over to strangers. Wulfstan seemed to represent the forces of goodness; Stigand represented ambition and implacable will. England must not be conquered by foreigners—I was in agreement with that—but when both good and evil were on our side, which would win?

  Was there enough of Wulfstan in the King to win God’s support, I wondered. But then I had another, depressing thought; in a lifetime I have begun to learn that even the best man does not always win. There seemed no doubt that Harold would eventually have to fight for his country, and the outcome would not be determined by the simple forces of my childhood faith.

  I lost my taste for food entirely and sat picking at my nails until the meal was over.

  Mounted once more, we rode south toward the river. I turned in my saddle and managed to catch Osbert’s eye; he spurred his horse to my side.

  “Osbert, by what way do we go?”

  “The London Bridge, my lady.”

  I tightened my grip on the reins until my horse tossed his head in protest, but I had to steady my nerves for the question: “Is that where they put … the heads … of England’s enemies?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” His expression was impassive.

  “Then please send word to my lord the King and ask him to go by a different route, for my sake.”

  In a few minutes Harold had turned his horse and ridden back to me, scowling at this disruption of his plans. About us people swirled, a-buzz.

  “Is the First Lady ill?”

  “Nay, it is the heat of the sun; she wants a shady route!”

  Coarse laughter. “It is the heat of the King’s loins, I’ll wager! I daresay the Lady carries an Atheling in her womb!”

  Harold swung in beside me and the chatter ceased. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded, fierce and golden as a lion in the sun.

  “My Lord, I rarely ask favors, but I beg you this once. Take some other way; do not go by the bridge!”

  For a moment I saw annoyance and anger in his eyes at my presumption. Then he realized what I meant. His expression softened by an eyelash, only enough that I saw it, no one else. “Madam, you would understand that all folk must see me as King. This city supported my father; from it came his strength at court. London must be my conquest as well; we ride through all the town, as planned.”

  “And most particularly”—his eyes narrowed, and I felt the force of his will as he pressed it upon me—“most particularly must we both ride to the foot of the bridge! All the cityfolk, and all of the court, must see that the past has no claim upon my lady.”

  “Please …” I began, horrified.

  His voice was cold as he leaned toward me and hissed his command for my ears alone. “You will do as I say, Aldith. You will ride with courage to the foot of London Bridge, and you will look upon whatever is there. You will give no sign of emotion, do you understand? No sign!”

  The taste of Stigand’s eggs and onions flooded my mouth. I could not speak for fear my dinner would pour forth and disgrace me. My head drooped over the saddlebow and I nodded, beaten by his will. Harold continued to gaze at me fixedly for
a few moments to assure himself that I would obey, then he turned abruptly from me and spurred his horse. Miserable, I fell in behind him, and we rode down the Bishop’s Gate Road to the bridge.

  The smell of the Thames under an afternoon sun was equal parts of mud and weed and water. A number of people were gathered at the end of the bridge to greet him, including a band of German merchants come to pay their annual trading tribute of cloth, pepper and vinegar. To distract myself from the bridge I tried to smile at them, to take part in the exchange of courtesies. But it was no use. When Harold’s attention was fixed on the crowd my head turned of its own accord, and I was gazing at the London Bridge.

  A goodly wooden structure, spanning the broad and sluggish river. Wide enough for two wagons abreast to cross it, it had led into the walled city for hundreds of years. It marked the only route across the Thames to the south country, so almost everyone had cause to use it at some time. An ideal place for displaying the trophies of war.

  They were there, pole after pole, the length of the bridge: an endless row of pikes topped by blackened objects like charred loaves of bread. The sun and salt air had discolored the heads of England’s enemies; time and crows had rendered them unrecognizable. If one was my Griffith, I would never have known him.

  The feelings I had dreaded did not come to me. There was no horror, no freshet of grief and rage. Nothing of Griffith ap Llywelyn awaited me on London Bridge; there was much more of him alive within me. All I felt was a sense of anticlimax, of aching letdown. Perhaps the worst nightmares are often so, faced in daylight. I had thought to meet my love here, in whatever agonizing form; instead I was without him in the dying afternoon, and in a few moments my life would go on with Harold Godwine.