The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  Despite herself, her eyes looked round for the arrogant lord and found him sat at Earl Harold’s side, looking ominously smug. Or perhaps he was always like that? Edyth hadn’t paid him much attention before but now he seemed hard to avoid. He sat rigidly straight in a tunic so stiff with gold it looked almost solid and he glimmered in the low sun like a peacock next to his more sombre falcon of a brother. His cloak was embroidered with his emblem – a sharpened spear – and he stroked it lightly, a small smile playing on his full lips. Was he remembering his serving girl, she wondered, and then felt a spike of disgust at her own thoughts and whipped her eyes away from Torr and back to the king.

  ‘Councillors,’ he was saying, ‘honoured guests, lords, ladies and all my people – welcome.’

  His hands swept wide and everyone craned forward. With the spring rains in full flood, the River Tyburn was gurgling and frothing against its banks, making it hard to hear. The king raised his voice.

  ‘We are here today,’ he intoned, ‘to mourn the passing of a great man. Earl Ward held the earldom of Northumbria for thirty-two years with great wisdom and strength.’

  A ripple of affection ran around the crowd. Earl Ward had been a bear of a man, eloquent on the battlefield if rather less so in court society. A straight talker who had come to power when the Vikings continually threatened weak King Ethelred’s shores, he’d had a clear and simple view of life and had lived to keep his people safe. He’d been a stalwart of the council and his huge shoes would be hard to fill.

  Edyth found herself seeking out her father – the man who so hoped to do so. He was sitting to the king’s left next to his own father, Earl Leofric of Mercia, and Edyth could see his knees twitching and his thick fingers clacking nervously through the rosary on his belt. Already his new tunic looked askew and one of the bindings on his trews had come loose and was flapping free in the breeze. Edyth glanced nervously at Meghan but her mother’s face was set dead ahead and she had no choice but to listen once more to the king.

  ‘Archbishop Eldred will lead a memorial service after this council,’ she caught and felt Morcar tugging at her sleeve.

  ‘Do we have to go to that too, Edie?’

  She placed a quick hand over his mouth to muffle his piping voice.

  ‘Yes, Marc.’

  He rolled his tawny eyes.

  ‘But it’ll be so boring.’

  ‘It’s respectful.’

  ‘Boring.’

  It was like an echo of Torr’s words last night and Edyth shifted again but this was no time to think of such things. On her other side Edwin was fixed on the king and Brodie was twitching nearly as much as their father. Between them she could see Meghan’s nails digging into her palms as if she might carve her husband’s advancement from her own flesh.

  ‘But first we have a solemn legal duty to fulfil,’ King Edward said.

  Edyth tensed. Lord Torr was quietly adjusting his cloak back from his feet as if, she could swear, he were preparing to rise. To their right Lady Judith, Torr’s skinny wife, stiffened her back even more than usual and Edyth heard Lady Godiva, ever astute, sigh quietly. Suddenly she longed for the king to go back to extolling the previous earl’s virtues. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Northumbria is a vast and challenging earldom. Its ruler protects this realm and all its people from our enemies – the wild Scots in the north and Hardrada’s ferocious Vikings to the east. It is a grave duty and I have dwelled long and hard on my choice.’

  Edyth felt her own nails digging into her palms and was grateful when Morcar’s little hand sank into hers, forcing her to stop. She opened her eyes and the moot-point swam for a moment before settling. Every man, woman and child in the arena and beyond was silent, focused. Only the rivers tumbled carelessly past and she fixed on a small log bobbing its way down the Tyburn towards the open Thames.

  ‘I need a fearless, authoritative and determined man for the role and I believe I have found him. From henceforth the earldom of Northumbria will be held in trust to the crown by . . .’

  The log hit the surge of the tide and was momentarily sucked beneath the surface.

  ‘Lord Tostig Godwinson.’

  Around Edyth the crowd erupted but she was fixed on the log. Where was it? Had it been dragged down by the vicious Thames undercurrents? Everything seemed suspended as she stared into the churning water but suddenly there it was, popping exuberantly up from a white-laced eddy and heading merrily downstream. Edyth almost raised a hand in farewell but as she moved to do so she felt Morcar’s clammy grasp and sense rushed in.

  ‘No,’ Meghan was moaning. ‘No, no, no.’

  Brodie was clutching her tight, but his arm looked so slender around her shaking shoulders and was surely not enough to keep his sensitive mother safe from the gossip already buzzing all around them.

  ‘Why is Mama crying?’ Morcar asked Edyth.

  ‘Because we aren’t going to Northumberland.’

  ‘The “vast and challenging” place?’ Edwin queried, ‘with all the enemies?’

  Edyth nodded.

  ‘You listened well, Edwin.’

  ‘But why would we want to go there anyway?’ Morcar again. ‘It sounds horrid.’

  Edwin tutted.

  ‘It’s an honour, Marc.’

  ‘It still sounds horrid.’

  ‘It is horrid,’ Godiva said briskly, ‘but your father wanted it anyway and he has never been one to take a slight lightly. He needs to stay calm now.’

  Her sharp eyes were trained on her son, like a hawkmaster on his bird, and Edyth turned nervously to look at Earl Alfgar. He had half-risen from his bench and was raking his hands through his thick hair in a way that she recognised all too well.

  Sit down, Father, she willed him, please sit down. But Alfgar was not in a temper to pick up even the most ardently sent thoughts. As Lord Torr flicked his cloak back to let his golden tunic shine, Alfgar rose too.

  ‘Mama,’ Edyth warned urgently, reaching over Edwin to shake Meghan’s knee.

  Meghan paled.

  ‘Alfgar,’ she murmured, ‘Alfgar, no.’ But her husband did not even look their way.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded loudly.

  The crowd silenced in an instant. Someone tittered. Everyone strained forward.

  ‘Why?’ the king asked coldly. ‘Do you question my judgement, my lord?’

  ‘Is that not a councillor’s role, Sire?’

  The crowd sucked in its breath but Edward simply dipped his head.

  ‘In the privacy of the chamber, yes.’

  ‘But this matter was not debated in the privacy of the chamber.’

  ‘Because, Earl Alfgar, the decision was between myself and God.’

  ‘And God chose this . . . this trumped-up youngster to rule all Northumbria?’

  ‘Leo,’ Godiva muttered urgently under her breath and, as if hearing his wife across the arena, Earl Leofric rose to try and tug his son back. Alfgar, however, had stepped closer to his king and was not within his father’s reach. Edward looked down at him.

  ‘Do you believe, my lord, that you better understand God’s wishes for my kingdom than I, his anointed representative?’

  Alfgar faltered.

  ‘No, Sire, of course not, but I just wonder if you’ve considered this fully. An earl owes a duty of care to his people and it takes time and wisdom to understand that. Lord Torr is young and untried whereas I have served you for many years and have proved myself a fine leader in East Anglia.’

  ‘As I hope you will continue to do.’

  Edward’s voice was tight with warning. The crowd licked its lips.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Take your seat, Earl Alfgar. You are disrupting council business. Your birthright is in Mercia and you will serve the crown – and, as an only son, your family – best in central England. Lord Torr was fostered to Earl Ward for several years and knows the lands well. I am confident he will rule them wisely.’

  He lifted a hand to where Torr was stood, feet pla
nted wide and handsome head held high. Alfgar looked across. Behind him Earl Leofric reached out but, as if stung by his father’s touch, Alfgar sprang away with a strangled roar.

  ‘Time and again I am slighted.’ He paced the dais, glaring at his fellow councillors. ‘Time and again I am set aside for that family.’

  He spat into the dust at Torr’s feet and the crowd below him ooh-ed encouragement. Edyth felt Lady Godiva quiver beside her and a chill crept up through her feet. She clutched at the warmth of Morcar’s hand and sneaked an arm around Edwin’s back. They’d all seen their father like this. His temper was roused by the slightest matter and the best thing to do was to hunker down and wait for it to blow itself out. The king, however, did not know that and neither, Edyth was certain, would he care.

  ‘I was only made Earl of East Anglia when that upstart . . .’ Alfgar swung round to point wildly at Harold, ‘was exiled and as soon as he came back – came back, note you, at sword point!’ He drew his sword from its scabbard and the crowd gasped. ‘I was ordered to give it back.’

  ‘Perhaps rightly so, my lord, if you know not how to respect responsibility.’

  It was Torr, his voice rigidly calm as he indicated the flailing sword. Only councillors were allowed to enter the moot-point armed and that was expressly for the purpose of defending the king’s person. Placing himself deliberately before Edward, Torr reached out for Alfgar’s weapon but Alfgar, incensed to new heights, sprang away, pointing it straight at his rival. To Edyth’s left her mother was moaning again, a low, keening sound that tore at Edyth’s heart. She wanted to leap up and call out to her father to stop but she knew it would do no good. He would not hear her through the roar of his own rage; he would not hear anyone.

  ‘Earl Alfgar!’ Edward’s voice rang round the hushed crowd. ‘Lay down your weapon immediately.’

  He doesn’t know, Edyth thought. The king did not know that her father was deaf to reason. How could he? And now he was moving forward and Alfgar was turning his sword tip instinctively away from Torr and towards . . .

  Instantly the councillors were on their feet. Swords flashed from scabbards and in a heartbeat Alfgar was surrounded. He looked about, fury turning to bewilderment, and Edyth felt her heart bleed as surely as if her father had slashed it through himself. Someone – Earl Harold, Edyth thought – took her father’s sword gently from his now limp hand and he stood, defenceless and hunched, before his king.

  ‘Earl Alfgar, turning a sword on the king is treason.’

  ‘Sire, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Treason. There can be no mercy. You must consider yourself nithing.’

  ‘Nithing. Nithing!’ The crowd of common folk took up the word with vicious glee, delighted to have been party to such a dramatic spectacle. ‘Nithing.’ Nothing; below notice in law.

  The king raised his hands and spoke above their hissed chorus:

  ‘You and your family must leave this land until such time as you are deemed fit to hold office once more.’

  ‘Sire?’

  Alfgar looked as confused as an old man rattled from sleep and the king placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You must think, my lord. You must dwell on what it is to rule, to hold men’s lives in your hands.’

  ‘I will. I will, Sire.’ Alfgar was gabbling now. ‘I can do that, truly. I will retreat to my lands in East Anglia and . . .’

  ‘Alfgar, you have no lands. You are nithing.’

  Again the echo and now even the lords and ladies were on their feet and pressing forward to hear the final judgement.

  ‘No!’ Edyth clutched her brothers tighter as her father fell to his knees. ‘No, please.’

  ‘This gives me no pleasure, Alfgar, but I cannot let such behaviour pass. You are exiled.’

  The word fell like a hammer blow on Edyth’s head and she rocked beneath it. Exiled? What had Torr said last night? It’s desperate in exile, far away from all you know and love. Had he known what would happen here? Had he looked for it?

  Her eyes found him, stood slightly aside and to her horror she saw that he was looking straight at her. She felt his hand on her waist as surely as if he had stretched out across the crowd to draw her in and let everyone know she had been party to this humiliation.

  ‘We must go.’ She tore herself away and reached for her older brother. ‘We must go, Brodie – now!’

  ‘Quite right, my dear,’ Lady Godiva said calmly, then she leaned close and added, ‘Stay safe, Edyth – and stay strong. I know you, at least, can do that.’

  Edyth looked at her grandmother in surprise but nodded gratefully and then turned as Brodie also drew himself up tall. Clutching their mother to him, he began to fight his way out of the arena but the large woman Meghan had earlier denied seating space stood in his way.

  ‘Decided to let someone else have your place?’ she taunted. ‘How kind.’ Around them people cackled and, encouraged, the woman added: ‘Some people need to learn how to comport themselves.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Keep going, Brodie,’ Edyth urged but it was as if everyone was pressing in on them, prodding them, testing them like apple-pickers seeking rot. All her innards crawled beneath their touch but she pushed her head up and fought on.

  ‘I would not be so quick to judge,’ she challenged. ‘Fortune turns fast.’

  ‘Too fast, indeed, for mortals,’ a deep voice agreed. ‘Let them through please, let them through. Show mercy in God’s eyes.’

  The crowds parted as if Moses himself had spoken and Edyth saw Harold Godwinson step forward as she shepherded her family through the welcome gap.

  ‘God bless you, my lord,’ she said when they reached him.

  ‘And you, Lady Edyth. We will escort you.’

  He turned a little and the Lady Svana stepped up at his side. She was dressed in a soft grey gown that swirled like mist as she walked but she was as solid as rock at Edyth’s side as they made for the compound gates.

  ‘Where will we go?’ Edyth asked her.

  ‘I know not, but your father will keep you safe.’

  ‘As he has done this morning?’ Edyth caught herself. ‘He will. I know it. I’m just . . .’ She dropped her voice. ‘Fearful.’

  ‘Of course you are. I was so fearful when Harold was exiled that I was sick for weeks.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly, but it was well in the end.’

  They reached the bridge leading off the island and Harold stopped.

  ‘You must see your brother invested,’ Edyth said carefully to him.

  He bowed.

  ‘It brings me little pleasure.’

  Edyth started but already Harold was stepping back, his eyes wary, and she grabbed at Svana’s arm.

  ‘How long?’ she asked urgently. ‘How long did it take for him to return?’

  Svana swallowed.

  ‘A year.’

  ‘A year? A whole year? What will I do for that long?’

  Svana leaned forward and whispered a kiss across her forehead.

  ‘Write to me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want . . .’

  ‘Write to me, Edyth, really. Now, look there.’

  Edyth turned to where she pointed and saw her father between two guards, his knees dipped and his head low.

  ‘Papa!’

  All else forgotten, she ran to him, bundling the sheepish guards aside. ‘You will need to support your father,’ Lord Torr – Earl Torr now – had said to her last night and the words swirled tauntingly in her head. How dare he? How dare he ever assume, for even a moment, that she would not?

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Alfgar said, pulling them all into his shaking arms. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘No matter,’ Edyth told him. ‘We will make things well, Father. We will make things well together. Now come.’

  Lady Godiva had said she could be strong and she would prove it. Setting her chin, she took Alfgar’s arm and led her family away from Westminster, away from the crowds, and away fro
m the court.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  North Wales, May 1055

  ‘Here we will rebuild our power, Edyth.’ Alfgar let go of his reins to throw his hands wide. ‘Here we will be safe.’

  ‘Safe,’ Edyth echoed obediently, though in truth it was not the word that sprang to mind.

  They had been riding for days and she was tired and saddle-sore. Morcar had complained most of the way, tugging on his hazel curls and blinking up at the maids, becoming increasingly cross when, for once, his sparkling eyes did not get him his own way. Edwin in contrast had become more and more silent, retreating behind his blond hair and barely even eating enough to sustain his skinny frame. This morning he had not spoken a single word, but then none of them had found much to talk about until now.

  ‘Safe,’ she said again, testing the validity of the word; it still didn’t ring true.

  She scanned the vast landscape before them. They were on the ridge of a considerable hill and could look out across rolling grasslands, dotted with endless sheep, and on down to the distant sea. And what a sea! Brought up in her grandfather’s central province of Mercia, Edyth was used to tumbling streams and stretching lakes but not this vast expanse of ocean. Even after her father had been made Earl of East Anglia they had kept to the inland areas around Thetford and Nazeing and avoided the exposed eastern coast. She knew the tidal Thames of course, and she’d sometimes ridden out to Southampton from court gatherings at Winchester, but the sea there was narrow and tame compared to this rugged Welsh water.

  It was spring. That much was clear in the green of the grass and the buttery yellow of the daffodils trumpeting joy from every verge. Yet the young rays of the sun did not seem able to penetrate the determined chill of the sea breeze or to draw any colour into the choppy waves. To Edyth, shivering in her saddle, this sea looked like a hunk of raw iron enclosing the helpless land like a vice. A flotilla of long, dark boats was at anchor just offshore but other than that the water was a relentless stretch of nothing. Her father was staring eagerly at her, as if he had provided some sort of banquet, but it was hard to respond.