The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Welcome, welcome.’ Griffin spoke in rough, forceful English as he rose to shake his guest’s hand.

  Edyth stood at his side and tried not to stare but it was hard. King Harald of Norway, long known as Hardrada, or Ruthless, was even taller than Griffin and his white-blond hair was a startling contrast to her husband’s coppery locks. He did, indeed, have a scar on his cheek, though faint and not as long as legend would have it, but it was his eyes that held you. Eyes like a storm, Becca had whispered, and they did seem to swirl in flinty flecks of grey and yellow towards gaping pupils that pulled you towards him if you looked too long. He moved fluidly for one so large, like a wolf in a night-time forest, and his hands, though calloused from years of sword-grip, were surprisingly slender.

  ‘My wife, Sire – Queen Edyth of Wales.’

  Edyth stepped forward and held out her hand. Her knees trembled to curtsey to this great man but she kept her back rigid and her head high so that her crown glowed in the hastily sparked rush lights around the walls. Hardrada kissed her hand gently.

  ‘It is an honour to meet you, my lady. I thank you for your gracious hospitality.’

  His voice was cultured, his accent soft and teasing – not just a warrior then, but a courtier.

  ‘It is our pleasure. You have travelled far?’

  ‘Indeed. I have been overseeing some business around the Irish seas and heard great tales of your Red Devil. As we needed a safe harbour on our return to Norway, I thought I would come to see him for myself.’

  A smile slid across his face, pulled disarmingly crooked by the scar. He was playing with her – testing her. She knew the game well.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed, Sire. Wales is a jewel.’

  ‘Her queen certainly is, though not, I think, Welsh?’

  ‘Welsh now.’

  ‘But not by birth. How goes it in England?’

  ‘You should ask my father,’ she said, indicating Alfgar, bobbing eagerly in the background.

  ‘Oh, I will,’ King Harald agreed, barely glancing at him, ‘but for now I ask you.’

  Edyth swallowed.

  ‘I have scarcely been there these last four years, Sire. I am content to dwell at Rhuddlan.’

  ‘And you have exchanged no news?’

  Despite herself Edyth flushed. Svana’s latest letter had arrived but a few days back.

  ‘I have correspondence, Sire, yes, but it is mere women’s trifles – tales of gowns and children.’

  She smiled sweetly at him and he laughed.

  ‘You do not seem to me, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, to be a woman much preoccupied by such things.’

  ‘You do not like my gown?’

  He let his rich eyes run slowly over her, lingering at the curve of her milk-ripe breasts.

  ‘I like your gown very much. Griffin is a lucky man.’

  ‘I am.’ Griffin seized a chance to break in. ‘My wife has but recently given birth to our second little prince.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Hardrada clapped Griffin on the back. ‘My first-born son is with me, learning how to be a warrior. Magnus!’

  He clicked his fingers and, to Edyth’s surprise, a slight, almost fragile-looking boy moved up to his father’s side.

  ‘You Norwegians learn early,’ Griffin said with a half-laugh.

  Hardrada frowned.

  ‘Magnus is older than he looks. He was born early.’ He peered down at his son as if he were a foal at market. ‘He will catch up and he is brave enough.’

  ‘I have killed a man,’ Magnus informed them proudly and even Griffin had no ready answer for such an assertion.

  He glanced awkwardly at Edyth who forced herself to step forward.

  ‘You must be very proud, Sire,’ she said smoothly, ‘and you have other children too, do you not?’

  Hardrada’s eyes caught on Edyth’s and he smiled lazily.

  ‘I do. I have two sons and two daughters and, indeed, two wives.’

  ‘Two wives?’

  ‘Yes – why not? Elizaveta, my beautiful Slav princess, is my Roman wife, and Tora Thorbergsdatter is my handfast woman – though I count them equal.’

  ‘And do they?’ Edyth asked.

  ‘If they know what’s good for them, yes.’

  Edyth felt herself shiver at the rapid shift in his voice and even Griffin looked taken aback.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ she said crisply to her husband.

  ‘Just like her mother,’ Alfgar put in, rolling his eyes and Hardrada, thank the Lord, laughed.

  ‘I think, my friend,’ he said to his host, as the gong sounded to call them to table, ‘that you have two wives in one here. I’m sure she is enough for any man.’

  His eyes bored into her and Edyth felt herself pinned down beneath his appraisal. She glanced uneasily to her father. He had told her a little of Hardrada’s history as commander of the much-feared Varangian guard when she was a child and, like Becca’s whispered tales, it had taken on a quality of legend so it felt unreal to be stood before the great man. She forced herself to stay calm as she took her throne and he slid his long frame into the specially placed chair between herself and Griffin.

  The servers came forward with their first course – fresh fish with a rich garlic sauce and hunks of soft white bread. They could not usually afford to discard the coarser grains but Edyth had ordered this to be baked specially for the fearsome guests and she was glad of it as Hardrada took a bite and nodded approvingly.

  ‘You say you are returning to Norway, Sire?’ she asked politely.

  ‘That was my intention,’ he agreed. ‘If nothing more interesting presents itself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there is little of interest here for a man such as yourself,’ she said quickly. ‘Unless you are skilled at birthing lambs?’

  His lip curled.

  ‘I think that may be a skill I lack, my lady. My talents are not so much in the bringing of life.’

  Edyth drank deeply of the costly Rhenish wine Griffin had brought back from his raids last summer, casting for some way out of this uneasy conversation, but now her father was leaning forward from her other side.

  ‘Your reputation as a warrior precedes you, Sire.’

  ‘I thank you, Earl Alfgar.’

  Alfgar coughed.

  ‘Sadly, Sire, I am not an earl at the present time. The fools in the English council are playing with me for their own gain.’

  ‘Really?’ Interest sparked in the swirling eyes and for the first time since he’d strode onto their shores Hardrada truly looked at the English exile. ‘You seek, then, to make them see sense?’

  ‘I do, Sire. And I seek partners in that mission.’

  Hardrada laughed, low and rasping.

  ‘I am no man’s partner, Lord Alfgar.’

  ‘Of course not, Sire,’ Alfgar stuttered, pushing away the calming hand Edyth tried to place on his thick thigh. ‘Of course not. What I meant to say was that I seek a leader.’

  ‘A leader. Interesting. Is that not interesting, King Griffin?’ He swivelled suddenly to his host. ‘Lord Alfgar seeks a leader to mount an attack on the English.’

  Griffin instinctively touched his crown. He looked to Edyth and she knew that he was wondering how to tell the great Norwegian that when it came to attacking the English he was the leader. He did not find the words in time.

  ‘I was planning on heading home,’ Hardrada said, ‘but with such a tantalising alternative it would seem a shame to take to the seas too soon.’ He glanced around his men who were drinking deep of Griffin’s ale. ‘A war with the English,’ he went on, as if it was somewhere you might ride out to for the day, ‘why not?!’

  There was nothing Edyth could do to stop them. The three men sailed just a few days later, the Welsh ships riding the waves proudly between the slightly larger Viking craft as they headed for the Mersey river – ‘the back gate to England’ as Hardrada gleefully called it. They were all in high spirits on their departure but Griffin’s men returned alone three months
later, muddied and bloodied and crawling with lice and bounty.

  ‘Good Lord, husband,’ Edyth greeted him, hustling the boys behind her, ‘you look as if you have travelled to hell and back.’

  ‘Mayhap we have,’ was all she got in return and, scared by his dark mood, she turned her attentions to bathing, combing and feeding him and his troops.

  It was a long job and one carried out for men who had none of the usual exuberance of a returning warband. More stared into their ale than drank it and when the spoils, as was customary, were cast out across the tables, only the poorest soldiers moved to take their share. Edyth stared at the bounty in horror, sickened at the sight of so many domestic tools and trinkets. These were not treasures taken from dead enemies on a battlefield but from innocent people with the misfortune to live in the path of a rampaging army.

  ‘Hardrada is well named,’ was all Griffin would say when she quizzed him in the privacy of their bedchamber later. ‘He is ruthless indeed.’

  Seeing her devil of a husband so cowed scared Edyth more than anything.

  ‘At least he has gone,’ she offered, gesturing to the blank horizon over which the great Viking had sailed his dragon boats.

  ‘For now,’ was all Griffin would say, ‘but I do not think he is a man, Edyth, who is ever truly gone. My only consolation is that he liked the look of England more than Wales, though he left precious little of it behind to return for.’

  ‘And my father?’

  ‘Earl Alfgar is back in Mercia, your brother with him. He made terms within weeks. Your father talks a good fight, Edyth, but in truth he has little stomach for it these days, unlike the King of Norway. He only left when he feared his haul was growing great enough to sink his precious dragon boats.’

  He stared vacantly at the chamber wall as if seeing through to some sort of nightmare beyond and Edyth dared ask no more.

  ‘Come to bed?’ she suggested softly and, like a lamb seeking protection from a fierce wind, he came, but for once he was in no mood for sport.

  ‘I fear I have made an error, cariad,’ he whispered into the darkness. ‘I fear, for once, I have fought too far. I have driven the English too far. They believe it was I who led the Vikings onto them and they will want revenge. We must look to our defences.’

  Edyth kissed him softly.

  ‘We will, Griffin. We will make it a priority for the spring but the snows will soon be upon us and they bring a safety of their own. You must rest.’

  ‘Rest,’ Griffin echoed, half-asleep, but his voice was strained and even in his slumbers he cried out against the possibility.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nazeing, September 1062

  ‘You are not to write to her.’

  Svana looked up from the vellum as Harold strode into the kitchen at Nazeing, shaking wet leaves from his boots.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harold. I must. She will be grieving.’

  Harold looked down and Svana went to him, keen to press her point. News had come to the court that Edyth’s older brother, Brodie, had died at Rheims whilst returning from a pilgrimage to Rome and she was worried at how her friend would take the sad tidings.

  ‘She is all alone out there, Harry.’

  ‘Not all alone,’ Harold said gruffly. ‘She has Griffin.’

  ‘But he is not a woman.’

  ‘Indeed he is not, nor a man either. He is a beast, Svana. His raiding was worse than ever this summer and King Edward is furious. I swear he’s still smarting from the Viking incursions – they remind him of the raiding on King Ethelred when he was a boy – and with these further attacks he’s ordered all communication with Wales halted. How would it look, then, if it was I who defied him?’

  ‘It is not you,’ Svana pointed out, ‘but I, and I cannot see how a few words of comfort to a friend might endanger the country.’

  ‘It’s not a jest, Svana.’

  ‘Indeed it is not. I imagine Edyth is lonely enough without us abandoning her too.’

  Harold groaned.

  ‘We are not abandoning her, my sweet. Please try and see. I am truly sorry for the loss of her brother but the situation with Wales is serious. Edward is out for blood and Torr is encouraging him. It’s taken almost four years to re-establish the Northumbrian villages that were wiped out to satisfy Hardrada’s gold lust and the people aren’t happy. Torr has been taxing them at a crazy rate – far more than it costs to rebuild a few cottages – and Edyth’s damned husband makes a handy scapegoat. If anyone has deprived her of your comfort it is him.’

  Svana went to the fire, stirring away her anger in the oatmeal pot. Once again, it seemed, it was the men who acted and the women who suffered. She heard Harold sigh and felt his arms creep around her waist.

  ‘I’m sorry, Svana. I know it hurts you but Edward wants Griffin defeated. Everyone wants Griffin defeated.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Well, maybe not Alfgar, but he’s taken to his bed. Lady Meghan says he’s sick with grief.’

  ‘I have no doubt he is.’

  Harold inclined his head.

  ‘Perhaps, Svana, but I think he’s avoiding military involvement against Wales too. Stupid fool didn’t know what he’d taken on riding out with the Vikings but that’s Alfgar for you. It’s Griffin who’s the real problem here.’

  ‘And, as usual, it’s you who has to sort that out?’ Harold’s arms tightened around Svana’s waist and she bit down on her usual protests and turned in his arms to look up at him. ‘Torr isn’t usually one to put himself out for his people,’ she remarked mildly.

  ‘That’s true enough but he’s fearful of unrest and when Torr’s fearful he lashes out. He’s hot for Griffin’s blood and, besides . . .’ he rolled his eyes, ‘ . . . some of the best hunting is in the Marches and he wants it for himself.’

  ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

  ‘Not much. He’s a taker. Always has been. He thinks he’s owed an easy life and I don’t like that, no. Why should I?’

  ‘No reason at all.’ Svana reached round and dug her fingers into the knotted muscles around Harold’s shoulders; they were tight with tension. ‘And I agree, if he had even half your sense of duty he would be a better man.’

  ‘And if I had half his sense of fun you would be a happier wife.’

  ‘No!’ She pressed her lips to his neck, nuzzling in against him. ‘I don’t like Torr’s sense of “fun”, Harry, and I love you just as you are. You’re ten times the husband he is.’

  ‘Even when I’m not here?’

  ‘Even then, though I would rather you did not ride to Wales.’

  ‘It will not be yet, my love, not unless things change. The days are drawing in and Yuletide will soon be upon us. That is no time to make war.’

  ‘For once,’ she said, kissing him, ‘we are in agreement.’

  He kissed her back, lightly at first and then harder.

  ‘Let me send my letter,’ she whispered, pressing against him. ‘Just this once.’

  He groaned.

  ‘Just this once, then,’ he agreed huskily, ‘and, Svana, I promise you – whatever has to happen to Griffin, I will see Edyth safe. No one will hurt her or her children – no one.’

  ‘Griffin might.’

  ‘No. He loves her, Svana, as I love you. Actually no, no one could love anyone as much as I love you, but somewhere close.’

  Svana shook her head, though her mood was softening now she had his approval for her letter.

  ‘You are sweet-talking me,’ she accused him with a smile.

  ‘Is that not allowed?’ he asked, dipping his lips to her neck. ‘You are, after all, very sweet.’

  ‘I’m too old to be sweet,’ she objected but now he was smiling too.

  ‘So what are you now that you are so “old” then – bitter?’ He squeezed her waist, making her squirm deliciously. ‘Twisted?’ His hand crept up and tickled beneath her arm until she was helpless. ‘Crooked?’

  ‘Harold, stop! Do not tickle me
, I beg you.’

  ‘You beg me? Very well then, but only if you let me tickle you somewhere nicer later?’ Svana flushed. ‘See – not so old now, wife.’

  ‘Not so old now,’ she agreed, looking up into his amber-ringed eyes. ‘I do love you, Harry.’

  ‘And I you. I cannot stop King Edward ordering war, my sweet, but I can, and I will, bring Edyth safely back if it is the last thing I do.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rhuddlan, Yuletide 1062

  Edyth looked out across the Yuletide court, trying to absorb the festive merriment. Rhuddlan sparkled with life and colour and her big, bold, resilient husband sparkled with it. He had long since cast off his Viking troubles and was revelling in all he had and Edyth admired him greatly for it. The southern lords had kept their usual distance but all the great and the good of northern Wales had been here for the last two weeks to pay homage to their king and queen and to drink their cellars dry.

  Now it was Twelfth Night and they were celebrating the end of the nativity period with a wedding. Becca had finally taken Lewys, newly Lord of Bethseda, as her husband and the court was making the most of the last chance to feast before austerity bit once more. The Yule decorations were still just about in place and the hall was rich with greenery. In Celtic Wales they did not bring in a tree like the English, for trees, Griffin had assured Edyth earnestly on her first year here, held ancient spirits and uprooting them would bring bad luck for the coming year. Ivy, however, apparently sucked the spirits from the trees, so prising it away from the bark earned favour and great swathes of it were always hung triumphantly around the hall.

  Edyth had found the creeper unnerving at first, especially when it put out its tiny feelers into the very walls, but Griffin had insisted it represented victory and as that was his favourite thing she’d tried to make the best of it. She had ordered the little leaves daubed with limewash to mimic snow and collected fine gold dust from the king’s jewellers to sprinkle into the paint so that it shimmered like magic in the rush lights. Griffin had been delighted the first time he’d seen it.