The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Why you had to travel to Hungary?’

  ‘Yes, godforsaken place. Six months I was gone from England and for what? To drag some far-flung prince all the way to England just to have him die on me.’

  ‘Was he . . . murdered?’

  ‘No. No foul play, Edyth, just a weak stomach – a weak heart if you ask me and his son looks to be little better.’

  He looked across the hall to the fire flickering in the centre of the last group of men. One of them had thrown on fresh wood and it was sending flames dancing up into the air. Harold watched, mesmerised, until Edyth’s voice said softly:

  ‘Those sparks remind me of your wedding day. Remember how we danced around the fire? It threw up sparks too and I chased them as if they were fairies.’

  ‘You did?’ He glanced at her. Her eyes were glowing with the memory and he let himself drop into them. ‘It was rather magical.’

  ‘I thought Svana the faerie queen herself.’

  ‘Some still do.’

  ‘You are lucky to have her – and she you.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about the latter.’ Harold looked back at the fire, trying to grasp the man he’d been all those years back, though it was as hard as catching the sparks before they died. ‘She hates my “politicking” and yet, somehow, I do it more and more.’

  ‘You are fearful, Harold?’ Edyth’s voice crept around him so he was barely sure it was even her speaking. ‘You are fearful they want you as king?’

  Harold sucked in his breath. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t let the words connect.

  ‘I am not royal, Edyth.’

  ‘But you are strong. Griffin has birthright over only a quarter of Wales but he rules it all.’

  ‘That’s his choice.’

  ‘You choose not to rule England?’

  ‘Yes!’ It came out as a bellow and the men at the fire jumped. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, lower, ‘I choose not. My father would despise me for it but I am not my father and I have no desire to rule.’

  ‘Then, Harold, you must withdraw from court a little. Spend more time at Nazeing or on your own lands in the south, for if you do not they will rely on you more and more.’

  ‘They?’ Harold whispered.

  ‘Your sister the queen, King Edward, the council – England. I’ve been away so can consider the situation with the clarity of a stranger’s eye and I’m telling you, Harold, that they all look to you to lead. The king is caught up with plans for his new abbey at Westminster, the queen with her nursery of borrowed babes. My father is . . . unreliable and Earl Torr is busy in the north.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘And about his own pleasure. You are the only one truly serving England and England will notice.’

  Harold shook his head, trying to clear it. Edyth’s fingers hovered at her chains once more, sending a strange shiver through him as if it were his own skin they caressed. What did she know? he asked himself crossly. She was but a woman, and yet no one else had dared to challenge him so closely on this matter, not even Svana, and now the subject had been released into the air he longed to grab at it.

  ‘How do I say no?’

  ‘That I can’t help you with, Harold,’ she said ruefully. ‘I fear I am no good at it myself.’

  ‘Edyth Alfgarsdottir, you have come a long way since you fell out of a tree into my arms.’

  She flushed.

  ‘Not so very far. I still fall way too often for . . .’

  ‘A queen?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Though that does not define you?’

  She looked at him curiously and he felt, briefly, as exposed as if he were stood before a ruling council. So what if he was curious about the nature of kingship? It was an important philosophical subject.

  ‘Friends define you,’ Edyth said softly. ‘Friends and loved ones; people, not titles.’

  With that she rose and kissed his cheek before sweeping from the hall. The men at the fire looked up as she passed. Harold saw admiration in their eyes and knew it to be mirrored in his own. Fleetingly the thought of big, lusty Griffin claiming this wild beauty tore at his flesh but he shook such foolishness away and rose to seek his own bed and his dear wife.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rhuddlan, March 1058

  ‘Lord Alfgar is come!‘’

  Edyth stared at her maid. ‘Lord Alfgar? My father? You must be mistaken, Becca.’

  ‘No, truly, my lady. Lewys has just told me. Look.’

  She ran to the window and, reluctantly, Edyth pulled her babe from the teat and crossed to join her. Her second son, Morgan, had been born three weeks ago and, though greeted as exuberantly as his older brother by a proud Griffin, he was proving a far more demanding little prince for his mother. Now his indignant wailing rang out around the whole compound and the new arrivals at Rhuddlan’s gate looked upwards.

  ‘It is my father! Edwin too. Lord help us, what’s he done now?’

  ‘Perhaps he comes to see his new grandchild,’ Becca said, taking the still-protesting baby from her mistress.

  ‘I only wish that were so, Becca,’ Edyth said grimly, ‘but I suspect this visit is not of my father’s choosing, whatever words he may gloss it with. I must go down.’

  She hastily fastened her dress, wincing as the fabric grazed her still-full breasts. Morgan was a big baby and fed as fiercely as he had bruised his way out of her. Becca was urging her to take a wet nurse and, although she’d chosen to feed Ewan herself, Edyth was considering it for this hungry boy. There was too much for a queen to manage to be stuck in a feeding chair all day and, besides, she needed to return to Griffin’s side. For her husband had not lain in an empty bed whilst she had ridden to England and on her return to Wales she had faced lashing rain, a sniggering court and an exuberantly loving husband.

  ‘I missed you, wife,’ he’d said, clutching her to him the moment they’d been alone. ‘No one else is quite the same.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she’d questioned, looking back out of the bower door to where the sultry Lady Alwen had stood alone, her soaked dress clinging to her obvious curves. ‘Why does Alwen stare at you so?’

  He’d tossed his great mane of hair.

  ‘Why not? Am I not worth staring at? Come, cariad, she is nothing. Just a body. You, you are—’

  ‘You have been bedding her?’

  ‘You weren’t here. I am a man, Edyth. I have needs.’

  ‘As do I. You know what I am like when I am with child but I haven’t leaped into bed with the nearest wanton.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Griffin had gripped suddenly at her shift. ‘You took your time returning to me. Maybe you were getting your share of Englishmen whilst you were home. Some ripe young southerner perhaps, or some Marcher lord looking to get one up on me.’

  ‘Griffin, no.’

  Edyth had reached out for him, dismayed, but he had grabbed at her wrist, pulling her fiercely towards him.

  ‘It’s not that Harold, is it? The messengers said he’d accompanied you to Hereford. Why was that, Edyth? Couldn’t have enough of you, could he . . . ?’

  ‘Griffin, stop!’ she’d cried desperately. ‘This is madness. Earl Harold was going to Hereford anyway, the Lady Svana with him. It was she who kept me company. I am your wife, Griffin. I am carrying your child. I would never lie with another man – not now and not ever.’

  He’d yanked her against him, kissing her fiercely.

  ‘Good. You are mine and mine alone.’

  ‘Not, it seems, alone.’ It had been out before she could stop it and Griffin’s eyes had turned a stormy grey. ‘I’m sorry,’ she’d stuttered, ‘I’m sorry, Griffin. I’m just . . . just jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’ Griffin had stared at her, perplexed. His voice had softened. ‘Why are you jealous, cariad?’

  ‘You might prefer her.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, Edyth, why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘Look at me, all . . .’ She’d gestured to her belly.

  ‘Al
l ripe and gorgeous with my bairn? You are my wife, cariad, my queen. Nothing is more important than that. You are my bread of heaven and you mustn’t mind if I have a nibble at the occasional rough cracker for variety.’

  ‘Rough cracker?’ Edyth had spluttered, dismay turning to incredulous amusement. ‘Only you could call a girl like Alwen a rough cracker.’

  ‘And only you could object to her paltry place in my life. Now, promise me – no more jealousy.’

  ‘No more jealousy,’ she’d agreed, chin high.

  It had been a lie but one she had held to. A tiny, guilty part of her had recalled her tense late-night exchange with Harold in Hereford and over the long, dark months of winter she had charged herself to love Griffin with renewed commitment, even ferocity. He had responded lustily and now, with a second son safely delivered and spring sunshine creeping back across even these westerly lands, he had eyes only for her. She just hoped her fiery father wasn’t going to ruin her new-found peace.

  Taking the still-wailing Morgan back, she made for the stairs, moving as fast as her aching body allowed, and out into the compound. Griffin was striding from his great hall and they exchanged glances as they came together to greet their guest.

  ‘King Griffin. Sire!’ Alfgar bowed low before them. ‘Well met, man, well met. Pleasure to see you looking so hale, my daughter too. And who is this bonny lad? Another heir for Wales, I see. She’s done well, has she not, my Edyth?’

  ‘Very well,’ Griffin said smoothly as Morgan, startled by his loud grandfather, grew silent at last. ‘I treasure her.’

  ‘As you should; she is an angel.’

  The English earl’s voice was strident, his cheer clearly forced, and as Griffin led him to the hall, Edyth turned gratefully to Edwin. Her brother looked gaunt and hunched, keeping a much lower profile than the blustering earl.

  ‘What’s Father done this time?’ she hissed.

  Edwin shrugged his slim shoulders.

  ‘I’m not sure. It was in a closed council and he won’t speak of it. It’s something to do with Lane Godwinson getting an earldom. Father could just about accept Lord Garth being granted East Anglia when he relinquished it to rule Mercia, but now Lord Lane has taken command of Kent and he’s convinced it’s some sort of conspiracy.’

  ‘And is it?’

  Edwin rubbed a hand across his thickening beard.

  ‘Partiality perhaps but to Father that is much the same. With Brodie about to turn twenty-one he wants a title for him and he’s prepared to fight for it as hard – and as rough – as he used to fight for his own.’

  They both winced at the memory of the horrific council of 1055.

  ‘Will he never learn?’ Edyth moaned.

  ‘I don’t know, sister, but I think they put him up to it.’

  ‘Who? Who put him up to it, Edwin?’

  ‘The Godwinsons. I overheard Earl Torr laughing to some girl about Father’s temper and I swear he riled him in council. It’s not hard.’

  ‘No, but why would they do that?’

  ‘Why d’you think? Mercia is the only earldom not controlled by their family. We are the only ones who can stop them taking over the whole of England.’

  ‘They won’t do that.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Harold.’ Edwin looked curiously at her and Edyth felt herself blush. ‘He told me himself on the ride to Hereford after Father’s investiture. He seemed very sincere, Edwin.’

  ‘He is good at that.’

  ‘No, he – ’ Edyth stopped herself. ‘They are stupid to rile Father. Now he will just take Griffin and attack.’

  ‘Perhaps they want that too.’

  Edyth stared at Edwin in horror as they moved into the hall.

  ‘Why would they?’

  ‘Justification.’

  Edyth did not ask more; she understood all too well. King Edward was looking for a reason to stamp on Griffin and if his armies took her irascible, forceful father at the same time then even Harold would not mourn the loss. Even Harold! She mocked her own partiality; ever she remained naive.

  ‘I love this country now,’ she said softly to Edwin.

  ‘I see that, sister, and I cannot blame you. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. I would like to ride on the beaches with you before we leave.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that very much, Edwin.’

  ‘And I’d like to see the mountains. Have you been into the mountains?’

  Edyth shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the men. Several times Griffin had tried to persuade her to take a trip out to see the great Eryri but she had resisted the pull of the dark peaks.

  ‘Not fearful are you, Edyth?’ Edwin probed.

  ‘Not of the mountains, no, but maybe of Father. What is he doing now?’

  Alfgar was pacing around the king, talking hard and gesticulating wildly.

  ‘Plotting,’ Edwin said wearily and, watching, Edyth knew her brother was right.

  She clutched her baby tight against her chest, fearing her peace was, indeed, at an end with her volatile father’s arrival in Rhuddlan. And then, barely a week later, it was shattered completely.

  ‘Llychlynwyr!’ The cry went up from the guard tower, shrill and urgent. ‘Llychlynwyr! Vikings!’

  In the compound, the men raised their heads from combat practice and up in the bower the women rushed to the window opening on the seaward side.

  ‘It is,’ Becca confirmed in a horrified whisper. ‘It is Vikings.’

  ‘God help us, they will rape us all!’ Alwen screamed, looking, Edyth thought cattily, as if she might welcome this. Griffin had ignored the Welsh woman since Morgan’s birth and sultry had turned to sulky as she fell from favour.

  ‘Why us?’ another wailed. ‘Why Wales?’

  ‘Why not,’ Becca shot back, though she was shaking.

  ‘We must arm ourselves,’ Edyth said. ‘We must barricade the door and find what we can to defend ourselves. The king and his men will fight to keep them from the compound but we should be prepared.’

  She grabbed the poker from beside the brazier and brandished it in a show of bravery. The other women looked around but there was little more in the room save needles – sharp, yes, but hopelessly short. Edyth’s heart pounded. Morgan was squirming in her arms and Ewan had buried himself in her skirts. What would happen to her little princes if Vikings overcame the men? Edyth remembered Griffin’s words that magical day on the beach so long ago: ‘I could be king for another twenty years, Edyth, or for just a few more hours.’ Had those last hours come? And with her father and Edwin here too. Fleetingly Edyth thought of her mother and prayed Meghan would not lose them all.

  Her women were cowering either side of the big window opening, risking timid peeks out, like mice from a hole, but if the Vikings were truly coming there would be no hiding. Edyth had to see what was happening. She strode back to the window and stood dead centre, focusing on the sea, some half a mile from the palace but clear to the eye on this bright morning.

  The Vikings were sailing their sleek longboats between Griffin’s tethered fleet. There were three vessels, two of average size, maybe fifty men, but the third was a vast ship, boasting a great dragon’s head at its prow, mouth carved wide to spew scarlet flames towards the shore. All three sailed on towards the beach, out of view, and within all too short a time soldiers began to appear up the cliff path, bright shields flashing in the spring sun.

  Directly below the window their own Welshmen were hastily assembling before the small back gates, pulling on helmets and buckling swordbelts. They were a formidable group but the lines of Vikings on the cliff seemed, from this distance, to swell relentlessly. Then suddenly four trumpeters rang out a volley of triumphant notes and a huge figure rose almost magically over the line of the cliff. Edyth sucked in her breath. It couldn’t be – could it? Becca looked at her and she saw the same horrific possibility in her maid’s eyes.

  ‘Harald Hardrada,’ Edyth breathed.

  ‘I have only heard tales,’ Becc
a said, ‘but I fear it is him. Lewys says the men speak of him round campfires like a monster of the night. They say he is as tall as a mountain and as white as snow. They say he has legs like oaks and can wield a sword bigger than any other man’s. They say he has eyes like a storm and a scar down one side of his face from his eye to his lips as if God – or the devil – had drawn a line between them. They say—’

  ‘They say too much, Becca. Hush, you are frightening everyone.’

  ‘I am frightening them? ’Tis not I on the clifftop brandishing a blade.’

  Edyth waved her to be quiet and leaned out over the wooden sill to confirm what she thought she had seen. She smiled.

  ‘He’s not brandishing a blade, Becca,’ she said, turning, ‘but a flag. He is waving a white flag.’

  The women crushed into the window opening in a clamour of joy and relief and even, Edyth noted with amusement, with murmurs about changing into better gowns to receive the ‘honoured guests’. For the moment, though, they were all glued to their vantage point as the guardsmen rushed to crank open the slim back gates and the Viking horde pounded through. The white flag was being waved high and the Northmen had their swords sheathed and their huge shields strung across their backs, but still they were a sight to chill the blood.

  Swathed in large cloaks and strung with furs against the sea chill, they seemed even stockier than nature had created them. They wore their hair and beards longer than the boldest Saxons and many of them were so blond it was as if the sun had bleached the colour from their locks. On their heads they wore plain steel helmets with long nose-pieces that cast their eyes into unfathomable shadows and as they lined up in sharp battle order across the compound, Edyth longed to be able to find a sturdy chest and hide within it. She was queen, though, and she must go down and receive these . . . these soldiers. Swallowing back the bitter bile that had risen in her throat, she thrust Morgan at his nurse and sought out her own maid. ‘My purple gown, Becca – pray God it fits – and my crown. And fast.’

  The great party were shown into the hall where Griffin had hastily set up his and Edyth’s thrones to receive them. Welsh courtiers clustered along the walls, chattering and bowing and trying not to look nervous and Earl Alfgar fretted at Edyth’s shoulder.