‘You’re so clever, cariad,’ he’d said, kissing her and on Christmas night he’d taken one of the vines to bed with them to wrap it around her naked form.
‘What if it sucks the spirit from me?’ Edyth had objected but Griffin had just laughed.
‘Nothing could suck the spirit from you, my beautiful girl.’
That had certainly felt true then and she tried to believe it now, though at times this Christ’s mass she had felt sadder than she had dared show. Even tonight, with Becca looking radiant, her little princes running around, wide-eyed with excitement, and a sickness churning in her belly that suggested another babe might be on the way, she felt choked.
It had been several weeks now since she had eagerly opened a letter from her mother to find the terrible news of Brodie’s death, but still the thought of it froze her blood. She had barely seen her brother since he had ridden off to his first battle with Griffin and knew little of him as a man but his sudden absence had sucked a hole in her world. Her mother’s tidings had been taut with heart-wrenching sadness and she had turned gratefully to her second missive, stamped with a familiar laden-vine seal.
My dearest friend,
My heart goes out to you at this sorrowful time and I pray you can find some comfort in your grief. You should know that the whole court is in mourning and Harold has ordered prayers said in every church and abbey across England to commend your brother’s soul to God.
For myself, my thoughts are all for you. I am not, as you know, one for conventional worship but I have sought God in the trees and in the everyday miracles of continued life and I have asked him to watch over you. I know he will, for you, Edyth, are worth more watching than most.
I pray this letter reaches you across the harsh border that separates us and know that by the time – pray God – it does so, winter will have laid its hand across the land. I fear you will not be able to travel, but perhaps you could ask your husband for a trip to Coventry when the sun returns? Your father suffers sorely and you could be of great comfort to him.
Perhaps, too, you could advocate peace with Mercia at this sad time? Your father has been ever stout in King Griffin’s defence and perhaps now the king could honour his grief by honouring his boundaries? It would, my dear, dear friend, be timely. Very timely. In the wake of this sore loss we need, I am sure you will agree, a woman’s year of peace to cushion our hearts.
I will write again very soon. With much fond love,
Svana
Edyth had been touched by her friend’s concern but it had spiked her grief with fear. A woman’s year? A timely peace? It had been a warning, carefully worded to enter her heart unnoticed by prying eyes. She had done little with it during the feasting but maybe, with the New Year, it was time to make plans. She leaned over to Griffin who was indulgently watching some of the youngsters of the court dance to the minstrels.
‘I think the English plan to attack soon, Griffin,’ she said. ‘I think they have had enough of you niggling at their border.’
‘Niggling? Niggling, Edyth?’
‘You understand me well enough.’
‘Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘Yes, I do. You think we should beat them to it? Mount a proper attack. Take Hereford maybe?’
‘No!’ Edyth grabbed at his hand. ‘No, Griffin, I did not mean that. Why not just be content with the kingdom we have?’
‘Edyth . . .’
‘Wales is a fine country, Griffin, and you have achieved so much here. Do you not want peace?’
‘Of course I do but can’t you see – that is what I am giving us. Whilst we fight the English we do not fight amongst ourselves.’
‘And when the English attack?’
‘We will be ready for them. Tonight is the end of the Yuletide feasting; tomorrow we can turn our thoughts to more austere matters. Niggling indeed! Come, cariad, grief is addling your brain. Drink, be merry.’
He poured her fresh wine and she obediently took a deep drink. It was rich and spicy and warmed her stomach if not her heart. Griffin drew her in against him. One of Lewys’ fellow soldiers was singing a wedding ditty, ripe and lusty, and her husband’s hand slid down to her thigh.
‘I hope your maid is as eager into her marriage bed as you were, cariad,’ he murmured in her ear.
‘I was so young, Griffin.’
He squinted at her.
‘You are hardly ancient, Edyth.’
‘I have felt it of late.’
He sighed and withdrew his hand, caressing her face instead.
‘I know and I am sorry for it.’
‘I am told my father is greatly grieved at my brother’s death.’
‘I am sure that is so. Imagine if it was Ewan, or little Morgan; I’d tear the heavens apart!’
‘Why does it always have to be about fighting, Griffin?’
‘Why does it not, cariad? I’m sure Earl Alfgar wants to cut down everything in sight right now. We must do all we can to help him. Maybe, come the spring, we can persuade him to bring your family to visit us?’
Edyth’s heart leaped.
‘Truly? I would like that very much, Griffin.’
‘And so, I hope, might they. Their memories of Wales are not, I trust, unhappy ones. You know, cariad, I bless Earl Alfgar every day for bringing you to me. Young Lewys will be lucky indeed if he has as much joy of his wife as I have of mine.’
Touched, she kissed him and he pulled her so tight against him that the whole hall whooped encouragement. Smiling more broadly now, she fought to free herself.
‘Unhand me, husband – I wish to propose a toast.’
She rose, rattling her eating knife against her silver drinking cup, and everyone turned her way. The myriad faces were blurred by the smoke from the fire and the steam from the mead and the swirling light from the brave little rush lamps shining from the greenery on the walls but Edyth knew them all anyway. Her people.
‘Let us drink,’ she said, the Welsh tripping off her tongue like a native. Everyone cheered but she held up a hand to silence them. ‘Let us drink to the memory of my brother, Lord Brodie.’
The assembled crowd roared approval and Edyth felt their approbation like a balm to her grief.
‘And let us drink also to my husband,’ she went on. ‘Griffin, King of all Wales. May he rule us in honour for many years to come!’
Now the cheer rang around the hall once, twice, three times. Edyth turned proudly to kiss Griffin but he was pale and his blue eyes were staring unseeing between the ranks of lusty men.
‘Griffin?’
‘Hush.’ He leaped up. ‘Hush!’
The lords and ladies silenced instantly. Even the children, at the far end with their maids, stilled, and between them all crept a cry, muffled by the howling wind and snow, but clear as the finest bell: ‘Attack! Attack!’
People leaped to their feet, scattering goblets and platters and clattering into each other in their panic. Lewys clutched his bride to him in the centre of the room as all around men snatched shields from the walls and women ran for their children. Chaos ruled.
‘Stand still!’ Griffin bellowed from his throne. His men froze, though women still skittered to the nursery table. ‘Stand still! Do you want to get yourselves killed?’ A woman whimpered. Eyes flickered fearfully around the hall. ‘Women and children to the back – behind the tables. Men, to arms – three-line formation before the doors. Now.’
Griffin turned to Edyth as everyone swept into action.
‘You will manage the women?’
‘Yes. Who can it be, Griffin?’
‘Prince Huw perhaps? Gwyneth will have been spitting away at him and this is just his sort of sneaky tactic.’
‘But it’s Yuletide.’
‘Not any more, cariad. Don’t worry: Rhuddlan is strong and her men even more so. We will see them off. Now – the women!’
It seemed an impossible task, like two tides surging against one another as the groups sought opposite ends of the hall, but at last it was accompl
ished. Edyth pulled a shaking Becca behind a table as Griffin, flanked by his finest guard, threw open the great doors and the revellers looked out across the compound. There was a stunned silence. Beyond Rhuddlan’s huge gates flames seemed to be running down the dark hill. Hundreds of beacons of death were spilling out of the darkness towards them and they seemed to be roaring, a relentless, guttural cry: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’
‘The English!’
Recognition rippled around the hall as men stood, swords bared uselessly against the encroaching flames. Already the first torches were being thrown, whirling through the night sky like flying stars and flaring up in the watchtowers. One caught the thatch topping the left guard tower and it burst into light as men leaped from the window. The court would not be safe for long. If the vast palisade fencing caught, the fire would consume them and with no warning of the attack it was already too late for Griffin’s army to march out and cut it off.
Griffin looked down the hall at Edyth, his eyes narrow.
‘You knew about this?’ he bellowed over the cowering people.
Edyth leaped to her feet.
‘No! No, Griffin, I knew nothing.’
‘You said they were going to attack.’
‘Only because Svana said there were mutterings at court. No more, truly. I have never known men attack in mid-winter.’
‘Well, you know it now. We all know it now.’
He squared his great body and as she gazed at it silhouetted against the advancing flames, Edyth thought she had never seen him look more kingly and ached with sorrow that he might think her anything to do with this horror. She remembered what he had told her once – it’s amazing how alive you feel in proximity to your own death – and realised that he was ever ready for a day like this.
‘The bastards have sprung us,’ he spat. ‘They have broken the Christ child’s holy feast and defiled the sanctity of the marriage ceremony. They have brought the devil to our doors. We have only one choice now – to the boats! And in silence or we will all be cut down.’
‘You heard your king,’ Edyth said loudly. Every fibre of her being longed to beat her way between the crowd and clutch her children to her but she was queen – she had to lead. ‘We must move quickly and quietly and we will be safe.’
‘What if they wait on the beach?’
‘They will not,’ Griffin promised. ‘It is too dark to see and they do not know the land. We must thank God for the lack of snow to lighten their way. They can only attack the palace because it is lit up like . . . like Christ’s mass. Besides, what choice do we have? Go!’
The women huddled together and scuttled towards the doors where Griffin’s men waited to close ranks around them, their shields and swords a tough skin to protect the soft centre of their loved ones. Edyth stepped out into the compound and watched as they were hustled along the shadows of the great hall towards the tiny back exit. She thought of how many times she had slipped out of that secret pleasure-gate on Môrgwynt; now it could save their lives.
Prince Bleddyn had pulled the gate softly open and stood at one side with his brother, Prince Rhys, at the other. Their broad figures imposed quiet and order on the terrified group as they crept out into the dark. So far there was no noise from beyond the wall to indicate that the invading English had spotted the exit of some hundred of North Wales’ greatest nobles. Edyth could see torches moving along the hillside, though, and knew it was only a matter of time before they were surrounded and the long, rough track to the snarling sea became a route not to escape, but to death.
She looked to Griffin. He had moved into the centre of the courtyard, facing away from his departing people and towards the flaming entrance of his royal palace. Swallowing back her fear, she moved to his side.
‘What are you doing, my lord?’
‘My people need time to retreat. Whilst the English think we are cowering inside they will have it. You go.’
‘No. I am queen. I stay with you.’
He said nothing but his hand reached out and grasped hers, then he squared his shoulders.
‘Who are you that would violate the Yuletide feast?’ he called, his voice strong on the crackling night air.
‘Men on God’s work,’ came an all-too-familiar voice over the gates. Edyth caught her breath. ‘Surrender, Griffin. Surrender now and you will not be harmed.’
‘I am King of all Wales,’ Griffin growled. ‘I will not surrender to you, Harold Godwinson.’
‘You must or we will burn your palace to the ground.’
‘You will never burn my spirit!’
‘We do not seek to. Simply to tame it.’
‘You cannot tame a dragon.’
‘You will be consumed by your own flames.’
‘Never!’
‘Then send me your queen.’
Griffin froze. His eyes locked onto Edyth’s – a question – but she did not even hesitate before flinging her response out to the night.
‘I stay with my lord.’
‘Edyth!’ For a second Harold’s voice flickered – the man, not the soldier – but then he drew it back. ‘I have news. Sad news. Your father is dead. Do you hear that, Griffin? Earl Alfgar, your ally, is dead. There is no one to protect you now.’
Edyth felt pain wrench at her knees and she buckled. Griffin pulled her tight against him.
‘He lies,’ he hissed.
‘Why would he?’
‘It is a tactic as underhand as attacking at night, on one of Christ’s own feast days.’
‘It is and yet it is true. I know it.’
‘All the more reason, then, to keep you safe. Come, cariad, our little princes await us in the boats. Let the English bastard have today.’
Edyth looked around her. The left watchtower was a pillar of flame, the fire was licking along the top of the palisade and there were more torches on the hillside, moving close to the seaward side of the palace. The others were gone, down through the long, frosted grass to the safety of the boats less than a mile to the north but her own legs felt too weak to follow.
‘It will be a hollow victory,’ Griffin urged, ‘and we will live to fight again.’
‘I am weary of fighting, Griffin.’
‘Then you are not the queen I thought you were.’
His eyes, as they found hers, glinted as sharp as steel in the moonlight. Edyth looked deep into them and saw, again, the girl who this great man had crowned.
‘I am that queen,’ she said. ‘I am.’
A great crack resounded behind them as the huge front gate split apart from the flaming watchtower. Swords and axes appeared in the gap, hacking mercilessly at the charring wood. There was a sharp clang as the metal bolt fell to the ground and the gap widened.
‘Quick,’ Griffin gasped and yanked Edyth out of the back gate. He paused to pull it shut behind them and Edyth had time to look down the yawning darkness of the hillside.
‘Where is the path?’ she gasped. ‘I cannot see the path.’
‘Trust me,’ Griffin said, clasping her hand again. ‘I know it as well as the patterns on my sword handle. Come.’
To their left English torches were flaring dangerously close and behind them roars of fury told them the enemy had already discovered they were gone.
‘Trust me,’ Griffin said again, and then plunged into the night at speed.
Together they ran, their feet flying over the frozen ground, their royal cloaks streaming behind them like raven’s wings. The path twisted and turned but Griffin pulled Edyth securely down its centre, not pausing even when they heard the back gate flung wide and the English soldiers pounding after them. The fierce rustle and scrape of the long grass told them that their pursuers were not as adept at finding their way down the rough hillside as they and they hit the beach unhindered. Four of Griffin’s boats were already way out at sea. The fifth hovered uncertainly in the shallows, the oars straining to grasp at the waves and pull them out to the safety of the dark waters.
Griffin swept Edyth into hi
s arms and waded waist-deep into the freezing shallows. She felt the icy water snap at her toes where they dangled and did not know how her husband could bear it. His teeth were gritted and she could feel him shaking against her, but he did not falter until, at last, they were at the boat. Griffin lifted her onto the deck before he was hoisted onto the boat by Bleddyn and Rhys. Instantly the captain gave the order and the oars bit into the water and jerked the big boat away from the shore just as the first English soldiers poured onto the sand.
That night Rhuddlan burned to the ground. The refugees felt the heat of it even from far out at sea and sat, clutched together, watching their precious palace consume itself.
‘All that labouring,’ Edyth groaned. ‘My tapestries, my hangings – it’s such a reckless waste.’
Griffin pulled her fiercely to him. The nursery maids had restored the princes to them and now Morgan slept in the curve between their bodies and Ewan sat, fiercely upright, on his father’s broad knee, staring in horror at the beacon of fear his home had become. Edyth watched the flames fire in his solemn little eyes and thought suddenly of Edwin. If her father was truly dead he would be Earl of Mercia now and terrified by it. ‘We are next,’ he’d told her at their grandfather’s funeral and it seemed that next was now here, gripping at her skin as surely as the bitter sea winds.
‘It is but a palace,’ Griffin said roughly. ‘Mere planks and stitches. If that bastard Harold thinks he’s destroyed my kingship tonight he’s more of a fool than I thought. Here is my rule – here with these people and here in my crown and above all here . . .’ He thumped his breast. ‘In my heart.’
A ragged cheer went up from their boat and those in the others either side looked hopefully across but soon dipped their heads again. Their concern tonight was not for the future of Wales but for staying alive. There were sealskin sleeping sacks on board but not enough for all and already party gowns and tunics were soaked by spray from the grumbling sea. Edyth looked around for Becca and Lewys and saw them huddled in the prow of the second boat. This was hardly, she thought sadly, the sort of wedding night they would have imagined.
The Chosen Queen Page 16