The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Beautiful,’ Meghan proclaimed. ‘Now – shoes.’

  She sniffed as she fetched them and Edyth hid a smile. With such an elegant dress she should be in light calfskin slippers but on that she had truly put her foot down. She was to process through the city on one of the coldest days of the year and she would wear boots. Meghan had grumbled but capitulated, rushing out to find Coventry’s most superior tanner to create something worthy of her elevated daughter and as Edyth stepped out of her bower on Edwin’s arm she was glad of the firm feel of the beautiful footwear. Even so, her legs shook as the gates were flung open and the first roar of the huge crowds rolled over her, and she had to lean heavily on her brother for support.

  ‘Smile, sister,’ he urged, squeezing her hand. ‘Many have slept out all night to gain a position by the road to see you.’

  Looking around her Edyth could see that was true. The men, women and children closest to her procession were bundled up in so many blankets that they looked more like bales of wool than people but they waved and cheered and reached out supplicating hands towards her and she felt warmed by their simple joy. Lifting her head, she let herself be led down through Coventry’s winding streets to the door of the cathedral, smiling and waving and touching the hands of all she could as she passed. Ewan and Morgan walked proudly behind their mother holding her train and little Nesta followed, dressed in a cream gown that Edyth doubted would last the day, holding Morcar’s hand and waving like a perfect miniature bride.

  The crowds loved them all and by the time Edyth turned into the market square and approached the cathedral she had almost forgotten why she was here. The sight of Harold, however, stood tall and handsome in a rich scarlet tunic at the top of the steps, brought her right back to the union at the heart of all this celebration and she staggered.

  ‘Steady, sister. I have you fast.’

  Edwin’s arm tightened, holding her firm, and she glanced up at him. He had grown into a strong young man, still as quiet and serious as he had been as a boy but with a calm authority that she knew must have been hard won.

  ‘We have come a long way, Edwin,’ she said.

  ‘We have. I told you, I think, that it would be our turn next and here we are.’

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘You will make a fine first lady, Edyth – the finest. I am so proud.’

  Edyth’s throat contracted.

  ‘Nay, Edwin, you will make me cry.’

  ‘At least, as bride, you are allowed. I, however, run the risk of looking a fool.’

  He ran a surreptitious finger beneath his eye and Edyth reached up to give him a swift kiss before together they mounted the steps to meet Harold, Earl of Wessex and sub-regulus of England. Edyth had no idea where to look but just then the great Coventry bells tolled out a joyous peal above them and she heard Svana’s words: know that when your wedding bells ring out my heart rings with them. For a moment she cast her eyes east, as if she might see her dear friend standing there, but there were only leering courtiers so, lifting her chin, she looked straight into Harold’s eyes as he took her hand and turned her to face him.

  They were wed there by the Bishop of Coventry – another of Edwin’s quiet commands – whilst the two great archbishops of York and Canterbury were left to jostle over singing the psalms at the blessing that followed. The service was kept short due to both the cold of the day and the squash in a Mercian cathedral that had never been built to take such a mass of nobles and royalty. Edyth almost laughed to see them all packed against each other like peasants and a glance at Harold told her he, too, was amused by the sight. She longed to speak to him about it but the demands of the ceremony left them with no chance to exchange anything more than a chaste kiss before they were back out on the streets as man and wife, the crowds screaming even more wildly than before.

  ‘It seems we are better entertainment than any fair, you and I,’ Harold whispered to her.

  It was an apt summary. For the rest of the day Edyth felt as if she were indeed being whirled around like a maypole ribbon, wrapped up and displayed for all to see. At some point, though, she would have to be unwrapped and the thought of it sent shudders through her, making her maypole feast seem darker – both more thrilling and more fearful. Night came fast in midwinter and soon she and Harold would be ejected from the revels and left to the real business of marriage.

  ‘Must we be publicly bedded?’ she had demanded of her mother a few days back. ‘I am a widow after all and he . . .’

  ‘ . . . is a great man with a great future, and a tricky past. The court must see this done properly.’

  Edyth knew she was right but still, as the pyramids of honey-sparkled pastries were devoured and a golden goblet was passed around filled with rich, spiced wine to toast the marriage bed, she found her smiles draining away, taking her renewed confidence with them. By the time Meghan escorted her to the wedding chamber she was as shaky as an old ship.

  She could hear the raucous noise of the men bearing Harold to her and she sat unsteadily down on the edge of the bed, heart skittering like an unbroken foal. Her mother clucked at her.

  ‘Your shift, sweetheart.’

  ‘Of course,’ Edyth agreed but her fingers were trembling and Meghan had to lift it from her and tuck her, naked, under the sheets.

  ‘We are ready,’ she called and ran to open the door.

  Edyth clutched at the heavy woollen blanket as Harold strode in with his men but before they could even strike up a song, he had gained the bed. He removed his rich robe and in a flash of flesh slid in beside her. Placing an arm around her shoulders, he nodded curtly to the crowd.

  ‘You may go now.’

  The men stood, stunned into silence, like young boys who’d had their pastries snatched away. They looked awkwardly at each other and Edyth felt Harold bristle at her side but then, thank the Lord, his brother Garth took charge.

  ‘Let us not delay the groom, lads,’ he said easily and, with a friendly wink at Harold, he hustled the men towards the door.

  They bumbled and grumbled but moved away. Edyth saw her own brothers hesitate and offered them a tight smile so that they too departed, taking Meghan with them. Suddenly all the pomp and ceremony of Mercia’s great day was gone, but it left little peace in its wake for now the room was empty save for her naked groom and the thudding of her heart.

  ‘You are fearful, Edyth?’

  Was she? She dared not look at him but she could feel his body against hers and her own pulsing wantonly towards it.

  ‘I am fearful, Harold.’ She lifted her eyes and there he was, looking down at her with such concern. She had fallen into his arms again, but this time far, far deeper in. ‘I am fearful,’ she whispered, ‘because I want you so madly.’

  He caught his breath and she felt him stir and dared to run her fingers across his thigh. It was hard with muscle and soft with downy hair. His grip tightened and then he was up and over her.

  ‘I want you too, Edyth.’

  She could feel him straining against her and her legs parted beneath him. He kissed her, softly at first and then harder and she clutched at his back, arching towards him. Memories galloped across her mind: Harold catching her out of the tree in his strong arms; Harold gifting her Billingsley, his eyes dark as she stood on Griffin’s arm; Harold accepting her surrender at Rhuddlan and keeping her safe from Torr’s lascivious attentions when all the time, even before she realised it, it had been he who had tempted her; Harold twining his fingers in hers at Bosham and kissing her as if it was the only sanity in a mad world. Was it? Or was this, in fact, the madness?

  ‘You said once that bedding me would be like bedding a sister,’ she choked out, holding him off.

  ‘I lied.’ He spoke against her lips, grazing them. ‘Perhaps to myself as much as to you. This is a strange marriage, Edyth, but it is a marriage all the same. Our marriage. We owe much to many, but this we owe only to ourselves.’

  And then his mouth was devouring her and his body was pres
sing against her and Edyth cried out as he entered her, filling her up as if she had been empty all this time until tonight. There was no room for guilt; no room for duty, for families or countries or past or future, but room only for now and Edyth surrendered herself gladly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Westminster, January 1066

  The court stood silent. The great door to the royal chamber was tight shut and beyond that King Edward fought for his life. With him were the archbishops Eldred and Stigand, Queen Aldyth and her brother, Earl Harold. Everyone else waited in the chamber next door, separated from the mortal battle by thick wooden walls and falling snow. It was a bitter night and, despite the well-stoked fire, they were all wrapped in heavy furs so, to Edyth’s weary eyes, they resembled scared little animals in the woodland.

  Across the compound voices rose in the sweet tones of matins, welcoming in a day that would surely mark the end of Edward’s twenty-four-year reign of England. It had been the longest and most peaceful reign since King Athelstan’s over a hundred years before and it had done much to shape the prosperous, stable and highly envied country that he was now about to leave to the mercies of others. The monks’ voices rang eerily around the great vaults of Edward’s new abbey church, consecrated just yesterday, though Edward, after all his eager years of planning, had been too stricken to attend.

  He had made it to Christ’s mass only on a litter, weakened by the first convulsions that had struck him the night before. He had lain before the altar, gaunt, almost spectral, with a beatific smile on his face, but the effort had drained him and he had not risen since. Now it was the feast of the epiphany but the matins psalms were muted, cautious – respectful. Listening to them, Edyth could not help but remember another Twelfth Night, years back, when Harold had brought fire to Rhuddlan and she had fled from him across frozen seas. She had not, in the end, got far.

  The courtiers shifted tired legs, drawing her back into today’s struggle. Edward had sunk into delirium yesterday evening and all had rushed to his deathbed but still he lingered.

  ‘Can he speak, do you think?’ Edyth whispered to Earl Garth.

  ‘Can he name his heir, you mean? I do not know. He must, surely?’

  ‘What if he names . . .’ Edyth glanced nervously around but no one was paying attention, ‘ . . . Duke William?’

  ‘Don’t, Edyth! Why would he?’

  ‘They say, do they not, that men regress as death approaches and the king spent his youth in Normandy.’

  ‘Not until he was ten. He’s English, Edyth, and he will name an Englishman. He must name an Englishman.’

  ‘I hope he sees that as clearly as you.’

  Edyth glanced to Edwin and Morcar, huddled together near the fire. Between them they ruled the north. Harold held the south and the link, the lynchpin, was Edyth herself. Her marriage held England together but if Edward did not name Harold as king it had been for naught. She rubbed at her temples, trying to ease the ache between them. She and Harold had been married a month. They had spent the days at court, flattering the lords and ladies who collected around them in a building frenzy as the king’s health visibly faded, and the nights wrapped around each other in desperate, mindless passion. Edyth felt as if she were existing in a state of disbelief that tonight’s prolonged vigil had done nothing to ease.

  Her children seemed content at least. Harold was kind to them, sparring with the boys and taking little Nesta on his shoulders or letting her scale him like a mountain so that she gazed up at him with open admiration much, Edyth feared, as her mother did. She wondered if the thought of his own children tore at his heart, as it did at hers, but did not dare ask. So much between them had to go unspoken.

  Svana had not written again, nor had she come to the Yuletide court, but she had sent Godwin and Edmund with gifts – a new sword-belt for Harold and a pair of tiny, exquisitely crafted silver bells for Edyth. The significance had not been lost on her and she kept them with her wherever she went so that their teasing tinkles might drown out her fears. They rarely did and now, somewhere beyond the walls, another bell rang, low and sweet.

  The courtiers raised their heads. Their shoulders rolled back beneath their furs. Their eyes blinked. The bell rang again, a soft call to the Holy Ghost to claim a soul – a royal soul.

  ‘God have mercy.’

  Garth crossed himself. Others took up the prayer but all eyes were fastened on the door. Eventually it opened, bringing Archbishop Stigand in on a flurry of snow.

  ‘The king is dead,’ he announced. ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’

  ‘May He have mercy,’ came the obedient response but everyone was waiting.

  ‘King Edward named his successor in his dying breaths. His choice is sanctified by God who has now taken him to himself.’

  Edyth felt Garth tense at her side and saw her brothers sidling towards her, creases in their young brows. The court held its breath.

  ‘Even as we mourn the passing of a great king, we hail the rising of a new one.’

  Morcar rolled his eyes and Edyth thought again of Svana and her hatred of Roman pomposity; she would see this cleric for the attention-seeking fool he was. She felt a treacherous desire to laugh and, struggle against it as she might, it burst forth in a tiny sob. The archbishop frowned but gathered himself at last.

  ‘May God bless King Harold II.’

  Edyth covered her face with her hands, all laughter gone. It was done. Relief crested through her but fear rode high on its back. It was not done; it was but begun.

  ‘And God bless Queen Edyth.’

  All eyes turned her way and, like skittles, the lords and ladies of England dropped to their knees before her. Even her stately grandmother bowed low and Edyth unpeeled her fingers and forced herself to stand tall and make her proud, though her knees were shaking and her breath seemed locked in her throat. She had been hailed as Queen of Wales with cheers and laughter and sloshing wine; it had done nothing to prepare her for the studied reverence of this awesome moment. Should she speak? What was there to say?

  Panic began to rise inside her but now the door opened again and all eyes swivelled like frogs in a marsh as Harold stepped inside. Shoulders dipped instantly, as if trying to bow even deeper, as Harold crossed to Edyth’s side. Their eyes met and his fingers laced tightly around hers, as once they had done in Bosham when this day still seemed a nightmare away. He faced the crowd.

  ‘We thank you all for your loyalty. We will need it in the time ahead – England will need it. Rise, councillors, friends, we are joined in sorrow today.’

  He sounded so noble; God surely had chosen him for a reason and perhaps even chosen her too. It seemed hard to countenance but everything pointed that way, everything except her own conscience. That, though, was now a luxury she could ill afford. Stigand stepped forward again.

  ‘King Edward will be buried on the morrow in God’s holy sight before the altar raised to His glory by that blessed king. King Harold will be crowned the same day, his queen with him.’

  Edyth turned to Harold.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘There is not a moment to lose, Edyth. The throne is far from stable and the sooner we make it so the better.’

  ‘We should tour.’

  He looked at her curiously and she spun round to grab his other hand in hers. ‘We should tour the whole country – the north first. Let people see you, talk to you. It is what you do well, Harold, and people will trust a king they have seen with their own eyes.’ He nodded thoughtfully and she pushed on. ‘Griffin skulked at Rhuddlan. He thought he was safe, but it was an illusion – as you proved all too well.’ Harold grimaced but now was the time for lessons, not recriminations. ‘We only rode south when it was already too late – that is not a mistake you can afford to make.’

  ‘You are right. You are so right, Edyth. See, I told you I needed you as queen.’

  ‘Well, you have me,’ she said shortly. ‘And now there is work to be done.’

  Edy
th was crowned in Westminster in her wedding gown and again two months later in the astonishing minster at York. The great church could not match Edward’s new abbey in artistic detail but with its soaring architraves and thirty separate altars, Edyth found it every bit as impressive. The ceremony was led by the down-to-earth Archbishop Eldred and for Edyth it was far more moving and meaningful than the service at Westminster.

  Perhaps it was that she felt she belonged more completely in the north, especially with her brothers standing as her proud companions everywhere they went, or perhaps it was simply that she’d had time to accustom herself to her new title. Day upon day of being cheered through the streets had imprinted the goodwill of England firmly onto her strange queenship and, more than anything, she had enjoyed serving the country that was apparently now hers to rule. Sometimes she remembered Griffin’s words way back when he had first asked her to marry him: ‘You will be a great queen,’ he’d told her. ‘You deserve to be a great queen – greater, perhaps, than a rough king like myself can offer.’

  Had he known? Had he somehow seen? That was ridiculous, she knew, but then so much about life felt ridiculous and she hoped that, in some strange way, her ferociously ambitious first husband would have been proud to see her here today.

  York was a beautiful city. Some of the ancient Roman walls had been maintained for defence but they covered a huge area and much of the land within them was given over for grazing. The main town nestled in the rich area north of the confluence of the vast River Ouse and its smaller tributary, the Fosse. It had less of the excited bustle of progress that surrounded the ever-growing Westminster but in its stead it had the solid calm of a city sure of its place in the world. And sure too, it seemed, of its king and queen.

  ‘You were right to make me come, Edyth,’ Harold said the night of their northern coronation as they lay in bed together at the heart of the ancient royal palace. ‘If this kingship does not last, if—’