The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Dancing, Harold. Here, with . . .’

  She looked around again. Faces swam in the misty moonlight but she could not find the one she sought.

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘No. No, you definitely should not.’ She pulled him closer. ‘I have been with Svana.’

  ‘What?’ He leaped as if stung by an arrow-tip. ‘That’s not possible, Edyth. You have drunk too deeply of the wine.’ Even as he spoke, though, his eyes flitted across the turning crowd.

  ‘Truly, Harold, I have been with her.’ Her own heart was doubting itself now and when she glanced to the oak, she was relieved to see the intertwined green ribbons swirling gently. ‘She was here,’ she insisted.

  He frowned, blinked, put a hand to Edyth’s forehead, but then there she was again – Svana, moon-pale but resolute just a few steps away. Harold’s eyes widened like petals at dawn. He reached out but she moved back with a slight shake of her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should not have come.’

  Harold could only stare and it was Edyth who replied.

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘I will be gone by dawn.’

  ‘You must not feel—’

  ‘I will be gone by dawn, before the bells ring in the summer. I pray it brings us peace.’

  ‘Pray rather,’ Harold growled, finding his voice at last, ‘for it to bring us victory, for that is the only way we shall have peace.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘So you always said.’

  ‘Svana . . . !’

  The name seemed to chime around the dark meadow and she put up a hand once more.

  ‘And I am sure you are right. Truly. I came here out of love – for you both – and perhaps out of weakness of my own, but I came also with news. I’m sorry, Harry, but I must tell you. I have men on the eastern shores, fishermen. They have seen ships, far out yet but moving south. One . . . flew the sharpened spear.’

  ‘Torr!’

  ‘It seems so.’

  Harold moved towards her again, but again she stepped back as if his touch might crumble her to dust. He flinched, then squared his shoulders.

  ‘Then he is not with William at least,’ he said. ‘How many ships?’

  ‘A handful, no more.’

  ‘My brother has not found himself many supporters in any land then. I do not think a handful of ships need worry us too greatly.’

  ‘That is true but, Harold, my men say they are Scandinavian in design.’

  ‘Hardrada!’ Edyth breathed and Harold turned to her.

  ‘We must find your brothers, Edyth. If the Vikings are sailing with Torr they will need to look to their defences.’

  They both scanned the meadow but the weak moon did not light up the young earls.

  ‘How will we find them tonight, Harold?’ Edyth asked. ‘I am not hunting Marc down now. I followed a man into the woods once before if you remember and it gave me such a shock I fell from my tree.’

  Harold smiled and glanced at Svana and for a flicker of time it was as if they were back in Westminster, back at the beginning. Then someone called ‘Sire!’ and Harold looked around and the past was lost.

  ‘I must send messengers at least,’ he said.

  ‘You will call out the fyrd?’ Edyth asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. I shall send men to gauge the threat. We cannot afford to muster too soon, not with Duke William lurking over the narrow sea. What do your men say of . . . ?’ He looked back to Svana but she had turned her face to the moon. He sighed. ‘Warmongering,’ he muttered.

  ‘Harold?’ Edyth asked but it was Svana to whom he replied.

  ‘You have always hated my warmongering.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yet can you not see that ’tis nights like this we fight for?’

  Svana’s eyes were upon him now but still she said nothing.

  ‘That is true, Harold,’ Edyth said quietly, ‘but what is also true is that having fought for them we must enjoy them. Come now. The fyrd can wait until morning, surely?’

  His fingers found hers. They were cold and she squeezed them tight, seeking to pump life into them from her own, even as she drew it from Svana’s on her other side. The evil spirits had crept close but they had kept them back. The musicians played on and together, in the darkness, the three of them danced together.

  Harold’s men went forth next morning. The Trimilchi celebrations were cut short and the court dared not complain. The king was back on the throne they had elected him to, his diadem firm upon his head as his rowan wreath lay fading in the bushes. Svana had slipped away with the dawn mist, melting between the rumpled couples creeping from the trees as the abbey bell tolled out the arrival of summer, and leaving only a wisp of footsteps in the dew to show she was ever there at all. Harold was too busy with his council to mourn but Edyth crept to her bed and allowed herself to weep for them both. She knew that Harold felt that he had been elected for this duty – to fight England’s fear, not to celebrate her riches – but she hoped he would at least hold last night in his heart as he did so.

  The messengers were swift to return and it seemed that, although Svana’s men had spoken true, the exiled earl had moved fast.

  ‘Earl Torr has been sighted off the Isle of Wight,’ they reported. ‘Six ships are heading for the south-east coast. Earl Lane is monitoring them from Kent and he believes they mean to attack.’

  ‘With six ships?’

  Harold was scornful of his younger brother’s intelligence but less so when the next men arrived to report that Torr’s old deputy was sailing down the east coast with seventeen more, all, as Svana’s men had reported, Scandinavian in design.

  ‘The King of Norway is not aboard,’ they assured them, ‘nor his sons, but it seems the expedition has come from the Orkneys which he holds as his own.’

  ‘An advance party?’

  ‘Perhaps. And Sire, Earl Lane says to tell you Duke William has been holding a great service at his new abbey at Caen to bless his fleet. He has a banner from the Pope and is proclaiming a holy war.’

  ‘Holy! There is nothing holy about the bastard duke, except perhaps that he is wholly determined to take my throne.’

  Harold was defiant but when he turned to Edyth she saw his bright eyes clouding.

  ‘It is starting, Edyth,’ he said quietly. ‘It is all starting.’

  Edyth swallowed. She’d known this day would come, they had both known it, but until this moment there had been hope that they were wrong. Now there was no such hope, only faith – in God, in England, and in their own strength and right. Harold rose. He touched his hands, briefly, to his crown and to Edyth he seemed almost to swell with the demanding energy it gave him.

  ‘I must call up the fyrd now,’ he said. ‘We must protect our southern borders.’

  Edyth rose at his side, determined to prove herself worthy.

  ‘I shall set the maids packing.’

  She moved to leave but Harold reached out and clasped her arm, pulling her back to him.

  ‘Do, please,’ he said formally, ‘but you know, my queen, that we must go our separate ways now.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘You are sending me away?’

  ‘No! Lord, Edyth, of course not, but you know as well as I that we are under threat on all sides. I must protect the south and you . . .’

  ‘Must go north. Of course.’ Realisation fell onto Edyth’s heart like a lump of lead. For six delirious months she had fooled herself into enjoying her marriage as a woman, but now, like the harsh dawn over the blissful whirl of their Trimilchi night, she saw the reality of her position. ‘You married me for this,’ she said dully.

  ‘Not just for this, Edyth, truly, but, yes, our union has united the country, as it was intended to do, and we must exploit that now to keep it safe.’

  ‘Is it because she . . . ?’

  He kissed her, hard and fast, stoppering her words
.

  ‘It is not because of anything, my queen. It just is.’

  His eyes were already darting sideways to his gathering commanders. She had become a part of the defence he had been elected to the throne to muster and she could not be petty enough to protest.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said meekly and fled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  York, September 1066

  It was a long summer, bright with sunshine and hot with nervous tempers. Even Ewan, Morgan and Nesta, who had at first treated the journey north as a great adventure, picked up on the mood and took to playing with the farm children as far from their mother’s tense court as possible. Torr’s ships full of mercenaries proved an uneasy fleet and scattered in rough winds that tore their sails and ripped up their resolve. They crept back up the east coast where Edwin and Morcar, positioned to catch any sign of Vikings, waited to pick them off. Harold mustered his fyrd at Chichester but contrary winds held Duke William in port and the camps grew as stale as the stiffing air.

  Alone and afraid, Edyth yearned to write to Svana. The magic of their snatched night of hazy-edged friendship warmed her heart but every time she tried to find words to express that they seemed to tangle the uneasy lines of their lives and, besides, it did not feel fair to burden her with the problems she had given Harold up for. Svana did not write either and Edyth’s only letters were from Harold, terse, edgy notes about ship movements or rather the lack of them.

  Edyth,

  Why do they not come? My spies all say William’s fleet is waiting in port and that he has nigh on eight thousand men camped up, yet still he waits. I am trapped here, useless. The troops are restless. Their fear is dulled and their sword skills with it. I run a fierce training programme but it isn’t the same as real Normans to sink their blades into. Women are beginning to sneak into the camp and the men are becoming bawdy and complacent and all at England’s expense.

  Yours,

  Harold Rex

  It was a curt, impersonal missive and she could not help a stab of disappointment but she tried to understand. Harold was frustrated; frustrated and afraid and bowed down by inactivity and in that he had her sympathy. In the north, at least, they’d had more to do and she tried to put aside her peevish longing for endearments and respond in kind.

  Harold,

  I am delighted to report a great victory over the outlaw’s fleet. My brothers tell me that they scattered like oats on the breeze and Torr has limped away to nurse his wounds in Scotland. The year marches on. Wild winds and driving rain have teased the leaves from the trees here at York and sent our enemies running for cover. Mayhap we will see out 1066 in peace yet? I pray that we can celebrate Christ’s mass together with our borders intact.

  With love,

  Edyth Regina

  Edyth,

  You are right, autumn is indeed upon us. We have also had storms in the narrow sea, so violent that several of my ships have been wrecked and the bastard must have no hope of sailing. My spies say he has also lost many vessels and is disbanding his troops. I have, reluctantly, done the same. The men were rotting in the camp and the crops in the fields so I have despatched them to their homes and sent the fleet into the safety of the Thames.

  I will ride to Westminster, Edyth, and pray for you and the children to join me there as soon as you are safely able. They tell me the harvest is a rich one, a blessing perhaps on our reign. Let us hope it sustains us through the winter so that we are fit to fight when our enemies come again in the new year.

  Garth tells me my letters to you have been somewhat cursory. He tells me you are not a military leader to be briefed and ordered and I fear he is right but I also told him, Edyth, that you are you and that you would understand. I hope I am right too and thank you for your vigilance in the north.

  I will see you soon at Westminster,

  Harold

  The letter was honest, if not eloquent, and Edyth held it close to her heart as she ran to order the packing of her household. Edwin was patrolling the Humber and Morcar the rough coastline around Scarborough and she sent messengers forth to ask them to return to York and disband the five thousand troops camped out around its walls. Two days later, one of Morcar’s messengers skidded into the city and she ran to meet him.

  ‘Is my brother on his way back?’

  ‘He is, my lady, and with all speed.’

  The man’s words were hopeful but his eyes were fixed firmly on the floor.

  ‘Why such haste?’

  He coughed roughly.

  ‘Scarborough has been under attack, my lady. It is the Vikings. Earl Morcar’s forces have repelled the first wave but they are moving down to the Humber. The beacons are flaring all along the coast and they say more are joining the flotilla from across the northern sea.’

  ‘How many more?’

  He swallowed and scratched his dirty toe into the packed earth of the hall floor.

  ‘They say there are nigh on three hundred ships, my lady, and they are heading this way. Earl Morcar says York has days at best.’

  Edyth’s foolish hopes collapsed around her. The enemy, it seemed, had not been driven away by the storms but had been hiding on the back of them and now they were descending like a tidal wave. Morcar had sent messengers to Harold who had kept his elite fighting force mobilised at Westminster but they all knew it would take days to reach them and even more for them to march north. For now they were on their own.

  Hardrada’s eyes haunted Edyth’s dreams in the few hours of rest she snatched as the invaders drew closer and she rose regularly to check on the children, sleeping obliviously after their days in the hay. ‘Ruthless’ they called him and she knew it to be true. He could charm like a courtier but that was just a careful veneer stitched on top of a hardened and determined core. He proclaimed himself a Christian but had little regard for the sanctity of life, including his own, and Edyth suspected Valhalla was still a place he held in whatever heart he had. He would not surrender; this would be a fight to the death. She remembered Griffin’s decimated troops crawling over the horizon after facing Earl Torr on the battlefield, women calling names desperately into the void, and her heart quailed.

  ‘Why must men ever make war?’ Svana’s voice asked, creeping like a ghost into her head. Edyth tried to block it out but she longed too much to hear her old friend. They had both looked for a woman’s year, but it had never come. Women, it seemed, were doomed to ever stand on the sidelines – of councils, of battlefields; even, perhaps, of their own marriages – and she’d had enough of it.

  ‘I want to come,’ she told Edwin when he announced they were marching to Fulford to meet the advancing Vikings.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am the queen.’

  ‘But you cannot fight and I cannot spare men to protect you. You have your children to care for and besides, sister, either you sicken more than most on war rations or you are carrying something very precious to England. Am I right?’

  Edyth flushed and her hand crept to her belly, still flat beneath her gown, though it would not stay so for long. She had not told Harold. There had seemed little place for such womanly news amongst the sharp lines of troop movements and enemy positions but now the longed-for royal child might be threatened before his father ever knew he existed.

  ‘You are right, brother,’ she admitted, ‘but please keep it to yourself. It is early days yet and I have not had the chance to tell Harold.’

  ‘He will be delighted. An heir for England! Everyone will be delighted. Let me tell the men – give them something extra to fight for.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Edyth—’

  ‘Queen Edyth.’

  She felt ashamed of herself for pulling her tenuous rank on her brother but it worked.

  ‘Later maybe,’ he said mildly, before leaning in to drop a kiss on her forehead and add, ‘but I am glad to know. Father would have been so pleased. A future king of our bloodline. King Harold III perhaps?’

  Edyth felt tears t
hreaten and turned to hide them.

  ‘Let us not get too far ahead of ourselves, brother,’ she choked out.

  ‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘there is much to do to secure all our futures, but we will do it. You must stay here, Edyth, and keep the city and prepare to accept Hardrada’s surrender. Torr’s too.’

  Edyth’s head snapped up.

  ‘Torr is with him?’

  ‘Of course. Treacherous bastard. It is good for us; the men are hot for his blood. He will not survive the day.’

  Edyth clutched at her brother’s arm.

  ‘But you will, Edwin? Morcar too?’

  ‘We will, Edyth.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I cannot afford not to be. A man can only pick up his feet to charge if he is certain of victory.’

  Edyth watched him move away and considered his words. That, then, was how men fought; they did not truly think about it. Maybe if they did, they’d all stay at home and enjoy their lives as Svana had long advocated instead of sacrificing them to the battlefield like fools. Now, though, was not the time for such crazy wisdom. Her men were riding out and she had to see them go with a smile and then she had to wait and wait to see which of them returned.

  They heard the clash of steel on steel even from York. Edyth sent the children to play with the others in the hall and huddled with the great women of the north, not so great now as they crouched, eyes shut against their luxurious bower so as better to hear the gruesome sounds of the battlefield floating in on a careless autumn breeze. Hours it endured. They were too far away to hear the suck and spurt of flesh being ripped apart but they cowered from even the imagining of it. As the day wore on, though, they became dulled to the sounds and sat fixed, mute, helpless.

  In the afternoon the children crept in, seeking their mothers as the fear became too pervasive for even small minds to resist. Edyth drew Nesta and Morgan onto her lap as ten-year-old Ewan sat pale as a spirit at her side. And still they waited. Every so often someone would sob, as if being stabbed by proxy, and the others would cross themselves and pray their intuition was misplaced.