The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  As the falconer came to claim the boys for their next lesson, Morcar joined her, still ruefully rubbing his thigh.

  ‘Your sons are tough fighters.’

  ‘As was their father, God bless him.’

  ‘You miss him still?’

  ‘I miss him. I miss my life as queen. Above all else, I miss knowing who my enemies are.’

  ‘You seem melancholy, sister.’ He looked at the vellum in her lap. ‘Who has poisoned your spirits?’

  Edyth sighed.

  ‘’Tis Svana. She frets for Harold as the king sickens and for us too.’ She grabbed Morcar’s arm. ‘She says there is trouble in Northumbria, Marc, and that we should look to our borders. I should talk to Edwin.’

  She made to rise but he stopped her.

  ‘Edwin knows.’

  Something in his bearing, a sudden uncharacteristic solemnity, caught at Edyth’s breath.

  ‘What do you mean, Marc? Has something happened?’

  Morcar shifted and beckoned Edwin over.

  ‘There is trouble in Northumbria,’ he admitted. ‘Earl Torr demanded a huge tax this harvest time and many voices are being raised against him, especially in York. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Hardrada?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Edwin agreed, joining them, ‘but I think the troubles are more local at the moment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Edyth looked from one brother to the other. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘You need not be troubled, Edyth,’ Edwin said. ‘You have your children.’

  ‘And that stops me understanding the wider world, does it? Stops me having an interest in the England they will grow up in?’ The two men looked awkwardly at each other and Edyth stamped in frustration. ‘I’ve been a queen, Edwin. I’ve run a country. I’ve stood up and spoken to hostile crowds. I don’t need to be sheltered.’

  ‘I think she deserves to know,’ Morcar said. ‘It will be inescapable soon.’

  ‘What will?’ Edyth roared but both brothers had turned away, fixing on the watchtower where the guards were having a furious conversation with someone beyond.

  ‘Perhaps, indeed,’ Edwin said quietly, ‘it is inescapable already.’

  He strode across the compound and took the watchtower steps two at a time, appearing in the window opening above them.

  ‘Let them in,’ he commanded the guards, then to the men beyond: ‘Welcome in peace.’

  ‘Marc,’ Edyth said sharply, as they hurried across, ‘what’s going on?’

  The gates were opening and three men – lords, judging by their fine cloaks – were riding in, flanked by guards. As they saw Morcar they dismounted and dropped to their knees before him.

  ‘Lord Morcar, we come with news. Rebels have taken York and driven the errant earl’s men away. They have taken the treasury and declared Earl Torr outlaw for crimes against his people. We come to beseech you to stand as Earl of Northumbria in his place and to offer our arms in support of your claim.’

  Edyth could hardly believe it. The people of the north had cast out their own ruler and wanted Morcar in his place? She looked to her brother, standing tall and handsome before the men as if such supplication was nothing more than his due, and realised this was no surprise to him. Svana had been right to warn her but her letter had come too late for Edyth to do anything about it.

  ‘Morcar, it’s dangerous,’ she choked out. ‘To stand against an earl is to stand against the king.’

  ‘Not the king,’ Morcar said calmly. ‘I am loyal to King Edward. We are all loyal to King Edward. We simply want our voice heard.’

  We? Our? Morcar spoke with assurance and certainty and it was clear that he had been their leader, albeit from afar, for a long time before this moment. The men were not beseeching his support but confirming it.

  ‘I accept,’ Morcar said now and raised the three lords. ‘Come, you need refreshment and I need news. There is not a moment to waste.’

  Edyth dared not sit with the men at table though she hovered with her mother and grandmother, overseeing their service and listening intently to all they had to say. The rebels were many and their numbers growing all the time. Messengers had ridden not just through Northumbria but Mercia too, and all over the north villagers were mustering against Earl Torr.

  ‘Torr will be furious,’ Edyth whispered to Godiva.

  ‘He should have thought of that sooner,’ was her tart reply.

  ‘Quite right,’ Meghan agreed. ‘An earl owes a duty of care to his people. Alfgar always said so, God bless him. That wretched Godwinson has neglected his duty and now he pays the price. Morcar will make a wonderful earl.’

  ‘But Torr will not take it lying down. He will fight.’

  ‘With what army? His men stand against him.’

  ‘The king will call out the fyrd.’

  ‘And set Englishman against Englishman? Now, with him so weak and his precious abbey due for consecration and his mortal soul wavering in the balance? Do you truly think so, Edyth?’

  Edyth looked down. The fyrd – troops of men provided by the petty lords and villages as their dues to the king – could be summoned at any time but Meghan was right that only a madman would call them to civil conflict. So what now? Svana had said Harold was with Torr in Wiltshire. He would have to face the news at his brother’s side. What would he do? What could he do? And what could she do to ease the way for them all?

  She thought of Griffin and his life of fighting rebellions. Factions had torn Wales apart making it so, so easy for her husband’s hard-won country to be taken by a foreign enemy. That could not be allowed to happen to England and she had an idea how to ensure it did not. Slipping away from the men she headed for the stables. It was time Môrgwynt had a decent ride out; it would not hurt her either. Svana might crave safety but Edyth, Lord help her, tired of it far too easily for her own good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Wiltshire, October 1065

  Harold was up at dawn, striding across the compound of Torr’s luxurious new hunting lodge at Britford. The minstrels had played late last night in the elegant great hall – later than either King Edward or Harold had been able to stand – and he feared his brother would be slow out of bed. He strode restlessly into the hawkhouse. The weather was perfect for hawking, crisp and fresh with a light breeze to tempt the birds to wing, and if he had to be stuck here with Torr then he planned to make the most of it.

  Harold moved to his own hawk, Artemis, chucking softly under his tongue to rouse her. A few more days here and he would ask leave of the king to ride to Nazeing. Edward was enjoying his hunting and was in far better health now so there was time before the Yuletide court for him to return to Svana. He needed to arrange Godwin’s education. Joseph had seen him well trained but the boy would turn eighteen soon and should join a full military household. Perhaps he should see Edmund placed too? He had been far too soft with them and it would do them no good when they came out into the world beyond their mother’s rich pastures. He grimaced and reached for Artemis’s hood but a clatter of hooves in the yard beyond made him pause.

  ‘Who can this be?’ he asked the bird but, still hooded, she did not even turn her head. ‘Just a moment more,’ Harold promised her and went to the door of the hawkhouse.

  Two messengers were dismounting and talking urgently to the guards.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  They turned and scuttled over, dropping into low, nervous bows before him.

  ‘We bring news, my lord – grave news.’

  Harold’s mind raced. King Edward was here so it could not be him.

  ‘Invaders?’

  ‘Oh no, my lord.’ The messengers looked briefly relieved, then drew themselves together. ‘Rebellion.’

  ‘Rebellion?! Here, in England?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, in the north. The rebels have taken York and claim the earldom of Northumbria for their own man.’

  Harold glanced to the window of Torr’s bower but the shutters we
re firmly bolted and he was doubtless not alone within.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he said uneasily.

  ‘They are a strong force, my lord, and well organised. They have ejected Earl Torr’s guard and seized the treasury. They are marching south, collecting men everywhere they go – Lincoln, Nottingham, Leicester. They are heading, even now, for Oxford.’

  ‘So close?’

  ‘They have declared Earl Torr outlaw and have taken, in his place, Lord Morcar of Mercia.’

  ‘Marc? Good God, he’s but a lad.’

  ‘A very popular lad, my lord, beg your pardon.’

  The messenger dipped his head, horrified at his own daring, but Harold patted his shoulder. He needed frank opinions right now.

  ‘How many follow him?’

  ‘It looks like about five thousand and they say there are Welshmen marching too – top soldiers, my lord, not just peasants with pitchforks.’

  ‘Welshmen?’

  Harold closed his eyes; there was only one person who could raise Welshmen. How dared she? He’d thought she was his friend, thought she was on his side, thought she cared. ‘We will bring Mercia,’ she had promised him back in Bosham when he had been fool enough to ask her to marry him. Well, she had brought Mercia indeed but in anger and in opposition. Was she laughing at his gullibility now as she marched her dead husband’s troops on his family? Sickened, Harold looked again to his brother’s bower. What had his loose living brought upon them? Their conversation from the previous evening echoed through his mind.

  ‘God, Harold, you’ve become such a bore,’ Torr had accused him when he’d risen to retire not long after the king. ‘You should make the most of the riches around you.’

  ‘Perhaps, but such excess is wrong, Torr. An earl should rule wisely, not greedily.’

  ‘Like you, brother? You are not greedy? At least I’m only after women – you’re the one wanting a crown.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Harold had replied, stung. ‘The king orders me to serve.’

  ‘Only because you are forever there to order. Besides, it’s easy for you, isn’t it? Edward likes it in Wessex; you don’t catch him riding to hunt in Northumbria.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Harold had shot back, ‘if you built a palace like this one he would. Garth or Lane are seldom out of their earldoms and they are far less experienced than you. You neglect your people, Torr, and it’s wrong.’

  ‘Wrong? You’re obsessed with wrong. Live a little, Harold.’ He’d clicked his fingers for wine. ‘Come, brother, let’s not argue. The king has gone to bed and we can have some fun at last.’

  ‘Torr!’

  ‘What? Oh come on, Harold, don’t say you were enjoying the old dote’s company?’

  ‘Ssh,’ Harold had hissed. ‘Show some respect – he’s the king.’

  ‘He is and an old dote too. We barely caught anything today with him riding so slowly.’

  ‘He’s been unwell.’

  ‘So let him snooze on his throne and we’ll all be better off.’

  ‘Torr, please – this is treason.’

  ‘Hardly! Come on, Harry, I’ve done my duty. I’ve ridden at the king’s pace all day and talked abbeys all evening. Now I think I deserve some fun.’

  ‘You always think that.’

  ‘And I am always right. You deserve it too, Harold, you just don’t know how to find it.’

  Harold groaned at the memory now. Torr, it seemed, had finally lived too much and for once Harold hoped he’d enjoyed his night of lechery for it seemed that this crisp dawn had brought an end to all his careless fun.

  The rebels gathered on the hillside just beyond Torr’s hunting compound later that morning, orderly and controlled – not a rabble but a sharp and worryingly intelligent force. King Edward wandered out of his chamber and regarded them curiously over the fencing, much as he might look into the royal nursery. Harold rushed to escort him to his throne, which had been lifted onto the centre of a hastily erected dais to receive the rebel delegation.

  ‘Waste of a beautiful morning,’ Edward muttered as Harold handed him up.

  ‘This is serious, Sire,’ Harold warned but Edward just grunted and ran a careless finger along the sparkling length of his sceptre, a beautiful, jewel-encrusted rod symbolising his right to pass judgement on his subjects.

  ‘We cannot afford civil war,’ Harold pressed. ‘You are hailed all over Europe for your peaceful rule and with your abbey due for consecration we must surely keep that peace.’

  ‘With me being so unwell, you mean. Everyone is waiting for me to die, Harold.’

  ‘Everyone is wishing you health, Sire. The longer you reign, the stronger England will be.’

  ‘You speak well.’

  ‘I speak true.’

  ‘They are right though, Harold.’ The king gripped his arm suddenly. ‘I am not long for this world and in truth, I am ready to depart it. ’Tis only my fears for what I leave behind – or do not leave behind – that keep my feet tethered to this rough earth. You will take care of England, Harold, when I am gone?’

  Harold looked nervously around. Servants were setting benches below them and showing the jury – twelve thegns rushed in from the local area – to their seats as the rebels moved closer to the gates. This was hardly the time for such a weighty conversation.

  ‘Sire,’ he pleaded, ‘I have sworn too much on that already.’

  ‘Duke William?’ Edward waved this away like a dust mote and drew Harold further back on the dais. ‘I absolve you of that false vow. You know as well as I that a king’s final words are absolute. The heir I name in my passing is the heir God honours and where God leads, the people must follow.’

  Harold glanced over at the great mass of rebels and his heart quailed.

  ‘Sire, you are kind, truly, but I do not know how to rule.’

  Edward just patted his arm, as if he had stated little more than apprehension at a new sword trick or the height of a horse’s jump.

  ‘You do know, Harold. Every part of you knows and always has. Now you just need to believe. That starts today. I wish you to lead this trial.’

  Harold stared at him in horror.

  ‘Sire, I cannot do that. The rebels seek your justice as God’s representative on this earth.’

  ‘And I will give it, Harold, through my representative on this earth – you.’ He moved back to the throne suddenly and lifted the royal sceptre into his hand. It was heavy and they both watched it wobble in his frail grip. ‘See, I am too weak to hold England.’

  ‘Nay, Sire . . .’

  ‘I am too weak, Harold. It is your turn now.’

  He thrust the sceptre towards him and it shook so much Harold feared it would drop to the ground and shatter, but still he could not bear to take it.

  ‘The rebels will not stand down, Sire,’ he protested desperately. ‘I fear we will lose my brother over this.’

  ‘I fear, Harold, that we lost him some time ago. Now, please, take the sceptre for me as your king and, maybe more so, as your friend.’ Gently he reached out his other hand and took Harold’s, pressing it firmly onto the sceptre. ‘I fought all my young life to rule England. It meant everything to me and I thank God every day that he granted me the honour of this great throne. It has not been the same for you, I know, but God calls us in different ways, Harold, and we must respond.’

  Harold drew in a breath. To his left he could see Torr coming out of his bower in his richest clothes and heading their way in sharp, angry strides. To his right the great rebel army was moving through the compound gates, their collective footfall shaking the ground with giant determination. Dead ahead of him his king was waiting. He had no choice.

  ‘As you wish, Sire.’

  ‘As England wishes, Harold.’

  ‘Look, our lords of Mercia approach.’ Edward let go of the sceptre to point but Harold, feeling the weight of it in his hands, could not tear his eyes from its all-too-dazzling promise. ‘Our lady too, if I am not much mistaken.’

  At t
hat Harold looked up and, following the king’s wavering finger, saw Edyth walking towards them, flanked by her brothers. She was pale but she stood tall, holding her beautiful crown of Wales beneath her arm, and her eyes, when they met his, were steady. Harold could see no treachery in them, just calm, quiet support. And yet was she not here with enemy troops to force her brother into an earldom? Confused, he made himself step down from the dais and hold his arms wide, willing the sceptre not to shake.

  ‘My lords, my lady – welcome.’

  They all bowed. Harold was aware of everyone’s eyes on the rod of justice but it took his own brother, stood to one side, to ask the question: ‘What the hell are you doing with that, Harold?’

  Harold turned to him.

  ‘The king, Earl Torr, has asked me to wield it for him in this trial as he is still weak.’

  Above them Edward bowed assent and sank onto his throne.

  ‘We welcome your judgement, Earl Harold,’ Morcar said, ‘and ask leave to present our evidence regarding the rule of Northumbria.’

  ‘Granted,’ Harold agreed and waved the myriad rebel leaders to the benches opposite the jury as their troops gathered in row after orderly row behind them. ‘Earl Torr . . .’

  He pointed to a chair set before the great crowd and saw his brother pale. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Torr looked frightened.

  ‘Harold, for the love of God . . .’ he started but it was too late for appeals, too late for anything personal between them. They were on England’s stage now and must obey England’s rules.

  Harold took his own seat and the rebels stepped up with a list of grievances, carefully read from an elegant vellum by a composed young lord, Osric of Northallerton. The evidence was overwhelming. List after list of unattended problems, unfair judgements, tax frauds, abuse of the royal mints, and blatant favouritism were poured out into the soft autumn morning as the rebels paced before Torr’s luxurious southern hunting lodge.

  Lord Osric spoke eloquently and intelligently, a strong and passionate appeal for justice from a ruling elite. The jury listened intently but Harold could see from the way they looked at Torr that they were disgusted by him. It made him nervous. He was disgusted too but Torr was his brother; they had scrapped since they were little boys. What they were facing here was much more dangerous, for on this judgement rested the future of the whole kingdom.