The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  Edyth knew that in the city and in the villages all around, other women would be doing the same. She worried she should rise, speak stirring words, but the fools who listened to those were an hour’s march away and their ears would be too full of blood to hear. She did not feel like a queen anyway, or like a wife, or even like a mother, just like a scared child. So she stayed, crumpled in amongst them, and prayed.

  ‘Dear God, save my brothers.’

  It seemed selfish but she could not pray for all the men out there; it was too great a task. The best they could hope for was that Hardrada lost more men than they did, but they would be lost men still. All over Norway women would be waiting too; they would mourn in a different language but it would sound the same. And still they fought.

  The sun was dropping when the noise ceased. Light slashed red across the sky, like a mirror of the ground below, and the women and children raised their heads in desperate hope. A trumpet sounded a victory, shrill and arrogant but utterly without infection to tell them the nationality of the trumpeter. Edyth clutched her children close and, beneath her overgown, ran her hands over her stomach again and again until she had to stop herself for fear she might wear Harold’s babe right away, yet still the note rang round. She rose.

  ‘To the watchtower.’

  There was a tower above the main city gates, built into the Roman foundations some hundred years ago. It was not high enough to give a view all the way to Fulford but it would offer them early sight of whoever came up the road from the south. Leaving the children in the bower with their nursemaids, they spiralled up the steps and stood on the top in the dusk and looked to the horizon.

  It was Hardrada.

  He came riding high on a huge black horse, a lord striding before him waving his great banner. Edyth stared at the dark wings of the predatory raven and tasted defeat, sharp and bitter. In Wales she had known it too but in Wales the victor had been Harold, her Harold. The Harald who now rode towards them had no reason to favour her and they were in grave danger. Vikings were not known for their mercy. Edyth’s hand flew to her belly. She had lost Harold the north and now she might also lose him his child – his heir.

  ‘They will rape us all!’

  It was so exactly an echo of young Alwen’s cry way back in Rhuddlan that Edyth momentarily lost her place in time. For a heartbeat she was queen of a different country, a different race, but the thud of a thousand enemy feet on the great York road brought her to her senses. She was Queen of England now and she had to behave fittingly.

  ‘Compose yourselves,’ she told the women sternly. ‘We are not peasant girls. Dry your eyes and stand tall – and quickly.’

  She pushed her own shoulders back and stepped as far forward as the narrow top of the tower would allow. Hardrada drew up his horse below her and fixed her in his stormy eyes.

  ‘You are defeated, my lady.’

  ‘So it seems – for this day at least.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Your noble brothers are fled.’

  Edyth’s heart leaped; they were alive. The knowledge gave her courage.

  ‘What do you want of us?’

  ‘We seek entry into York which we claim as our own.’

  Edyth bowed her head.

  ‘I cannot oppose you, Sire, but I can ask that you honour me and all of my people.’

  Hardrada glanced back at his men. Their heads were high but they looked weary and many were nursing wounds. He fixed on Edyth again.

  ‘We come not to pillage, my queen, but to conquer. Today is but a step on our path.’

  ‘A victory on the way to defeat.’

  His eyes flashed.

  ‘If it suits you to see it that way. It makes no odds to me. I seek food, I seek wine, and I seek terms – hostages.’

  Behind Edyth the women whimpered. It would be their noble sons who would have to be turned over to the ruthless Viking king and Edyth’s own heart squeezed in on itself at the thought of her own dear Ewan and Morgan going to Hardrada, but what else could they do? The men were fled, hiding so they could live to fight again, and the women were alone. There was only one thought in all of this that gave Edyth the strength to order the gates open and the Vikings inside – Harold would come. She had sent word and he would come but it was a long way with foot soldiers, perhaps too long. She had to stall Hardrada, and she had to pray, and above all she had to hope she was not simply luring more men to their deaths in the futile name of peace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  York, 23 September 1066

  Hardrada stayed in York just one night but it seemed to go on for ten. Edyth and her women were forced to serve their conquerors and whilst the Viking king kept a tight rein on his men, there were still plenty of presumptive hands and lewd threats. Far worse than such petty pestering, however, was the knowledge that within walking distance their own men might be lying mortally wounded and they could not go to them. Earl Torr, a gaunter, darker, even more predatory version of his previous self, prowled after Edyth and she was spared – if spared it was – only by Hardrada.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband,’ the Viking king opened as if this were no more than a social dinner. ‘That is, your first husband. Do you make a habit of marrying your husbands’ conquerors? I do hope so.’

  ‘You are married already, Sire,’ she replied stiffly.

  ‘As was King Harold.’ Edyth gasped and Hardrada looked at her curiously. ‘You knew her? She was a friend perhaps? Ah, you women – you are so fickle.’

  ‘At least we do not kill each other.’

  ‘You think?’

  His words were as sharp as his blade and he was a man who knew how to hunt down weakness. Edyth thrust her head up.

  ‘I am queen of this country and the people love me. You would do well to remember that if you wish to rule them.’

  ‘Oh, I will rule them and you, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, would do well to remember that. We will talk terms.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Do you have any better plans?’

  His eyebrow rose and Torr leaned lasciviously in from his other side.

  ‘No,’ Edyth snapped. ‘We will talk terms.’

  The next day Hardrada took his troops back to his ships, anchored at Riccal. It was evident, despite the bravado, that they had suffered heavy losses and when Edyth and her women crept onto the battlefield it was apparent why. The open stretch of land was mired in bodies. They lay piled on top of each other like gruesome stepping stones across the oozing marshland. The water, forced out by the mass of flesh, flooded around the edges as scarlet as a dyeman’s vat of madder and the stench of death was batted across the air by the black clouds of common crows feasting on Vikings and Englishmen alike.

  ‘We cannot bury them all,’ Edyth said.

  ‘The bog will take them for us.’

  ‘Dead or alive. We must hunt for any still breathing.’

  It was a sickening, loathsome task but worthwhile. Even now men cried for help and each one they pulled from the filth felt like a victory all of its own. All too often, though, the cries were Norwegian.

  ‘Do we leave them?’

  Edyth shook her head.

  ‘No. We save them. Hardrada can have them to swell the numbers of his precious hostages.’

  It was sound politics but it masked a far more basic truth – leaving a man, any man, to die was like condemning your own soul. Edyth was strong, yes, but not that strong. All day they laboured, helping men, some almost twice their own weight and size, to the empty tents of the English battle camp. Edyth longed for word of her brothers but none came. She longed for word of Harold but none came. She was adrift in a bloody sea and could only walk on one bandage at a time.

  She sent a message to Hardrada: ‘We are treating 213 of your soldiers and offer them in place of half the agreed hostages.’ She longed to ask for more. Hardrada had demanded one hundred men and boys so it was hardly a fair swap, but she knew he needed surety and his own men would not offer that. Sh
e wrote on: ‘Of the remaining fifty we have not yet a full quota and ask one more day to restore our own wounded to sufficient health to march into your keeping.’

  It was a miserable task to heal men only to send them into the jaws of the enemy but so far Hardrada had behaved honourably. If he wished to rule England as his ancestor King Cnut had done, he could not afford to lose respect and she could only pray that he would treat the hostages well. She sent the messenger and returned to the wounded. She could see those of her women who had retrieved husbands and sons looking daggers at her but she could do nothing.

  ‘My boys go too,’ she reminded them, her heart aching with the weight of her sons’ young lives.

  She longed to hide Ewan and Morgan away, protect them from this. They were Welsh princes, after all, not truly a part of this English battle. And yet, in marrying Harold she had made them a part of it and she could not hide from that, however much it hurt. She could only tell herself that it was not in Hardrada’s interests to rip apart the families he sought to rule but it was small consolation for it was not just Ewan and Morgan who were in danger.

  ‘If Hardrada wins again,’ she added darkly, ‘my husband will never be granted the chance of being hostage.’

  It silenced the women but not her own fears. It was the first time she had ever dared to think of Harold as hers but it was bitter consolation. Besides, for all she knew he might be dead already. It felt as if the death of a king should echo instantly around the whole country but such a thing was not possible. The trumpet had not been crafted that could sound that far and her heart, whatever she might choose to wish, could not sense his – though Svana’s perhaps could. She lifted another bandage and forced herself on.

  Hardrada accepted her terms, praised her nursing and vowed honour to the Englishmen he would rule. Delivery of the hostages, along with more of York’s ancient treasure than the weakened men and boys could carry, was set for the next day, 25 September, at a pretty crossing of the Derwent known as Stamford Bridge. Messengers crept in to say that Edwin and Morcar were hiding out with Morcar’s fleet, stationed on the River Wharfe at Tadcaster. They were, the messengers assured them, seeking to raise resistance, but in truth they all knew there were not the men to be found to defeat the Vikings. Edyth sent more messengers south to find Harold but knew she had not won him enough time.

  On the eve of the hostage-taking she took Ewan and Morgan aside in the beautiful bower she had last shared with Harold on their triumphant procession through the north.

  ‘The time has come,’ she told them, ‘to stand as the princes I know you are.’

  Eight-year-old Morgan obligingly adjusted his stance in a manner that would normally have had her laughing out loud but there was no place for laughter now. She put a hand on his little shoulder.

  ‘You must go with the other men and boys of York for a little while.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To stay with the Vikings.’

  Both boys’ eyes opened wide.

  ‘On their ships?’ Morgan asked keenly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I be on the one with the dragon at the front?’

  ‘I don’t know, Morgan.’

  ‘And can you be on it with me?’

  Edyth looked away, sucking in tears.

  ‘It is men only, I’m afraid, my sweet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Morgan looked bemused but ten-year-old Ewan was sharper.

  ‘Will we be prisoners, Mama?’

  ‘Not prisoners, Ewan, not really – hostages.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘The difference is . . . is . . .’ She fought for composure. ‘The difference is that when the kings have stopped fighting you will be released.’

  ‘When will they stop fighting?’ Morgan asked.

  Edyth was losing her battle against tears and could not answer. Ewan, however, was there again: ‘When one of them is dead.’

  It was a stark, brutal truth and beneath it lurked an even starker one – only if Hardrada won would the boys gain their freedom. Once her precious Welsh princes were delivered to the Vikings it was them or Harold, and either way, Edyth would be torn in two.

  That night she invited the hostages and those of their families still cowering in the city to the archbishop’s palace to dine, presiding over the gathering with her sons either side of her. It was a sombre meal, salted with tears. They all fought to eat but too many platters returned to the kitchens untouched before Edyth caught sight of an arrival at the door – a man, armoured and travel-stained. A messenger! She rose and beckoned him in and he came forward until he was so close she could smell the sweat of his journey.

  ‘I come from the king,’ he said, his voice low.

  ‘Harold!’

  He put a finger to his grimy lips.

  ‘He is at Tadcaster with your brothers.’

  Edyth’s heart soared. Tadcaster was but a few hours’ march to the south-west of the city. Harold must have flown like Mercury to travel this far in so short a time and if he was with Edwin and Morcar they could surely form the resistance they had sought? The hostages might not have to be delivered; Edyth’s heart leaped with a hope that seemed to ripple through the whole hall.

  ‘King Harold is here. King Harold will save us.’

  It was hard not to believe but their situation was precarious; they needed to be very calm.

  ‘He has troops?’

  ‘Some five thousand, my lady.’

  ‘And Hardrada’s force is decimated; most of them lie in Fulford’s marshes.’ Edyth looked round at the people crowding in, unable to hide her excitement. ‘What does he plan?’

  ‘To surprise them at Stamford Bridge on the morrow but to do that he must march through York. If he approaches from the south they will see him too soon. Harold says it is imperative the troops are kept hidden for as long as possible – they must pass silently through the city.’

  ‘We can do that.’ Edyth leaped up. ‘Seal the doors!’

  Guards pulled the great wooden doors shut and Edyth put an arm round both her sons and beckoned her people in closer yet.

  ‘We must go forth now, all of us. We must knock on doors and tell all householders to make no sound when the troops come through at dawn. Hardrada has a guard beyond the north gates. If they catch wind of anything they will despatch messengers to warn him.’

  ‘Not if we reach them first.’ It was Lord Osric of Northallerton. He had one arm in a sling but the other gripped his sword firmly. ‘There are enough of us fit. We can slip round behind the camp and block them off. When Harold emerges from the north gates we will cut them down. No word will reach that bastard Viking if we have anything to do with it.’

  ‘It will be risky.’

  ‘Better to die putting Vikings to the sword than go to them with a yoke around our necks.’

  There was a rumble of encouragement but Edyth hushed them.

  ‘Lord Osric, I leave you in charge of that operation and I thank you for it on behalf of King Harold. For the rest of us, we have a long night ahead. Come!’

  The dawn came all too quickly and they had to make haste to reach the last of the little houses at the bottom corner of the city but the citizens passed the word themselves and the sun rose on a startling sight. The winding main street of York was lined with old men, women and children; heads bared, hands clasped to their hearts, and mouths (even the smallest) closed tight. They turned their faces up to the king as he rode in and threw leaves and flowers in his path and he saluted their devotion.

  Edyth stood at the far side of the city, her children at her side, her crown on her head and the whole world catching in her throat. She saw her brothers. Edwin had a jagged gouge across his smooth young forehead and Morcar a rough bandage around his shoulder but they rode tall, eager to prove themselves after their defeat. They blew her shy kisses as they passed and she held up her own hands in blessing but there was no time to talk and now Harold was coming. His eyes locked onto hers as h
e rode the last safe street and made for the north gates, pausing as they cranked open and turning to the city.

  ‘I thank you, good people of York, for your help this morning and ask only now for your prayers. We will not surrender hostages to Hardrada; we will not surrender to him at all.’

  The people raised their arms to him but still did not speak. He saluted them one more time, then leaned down, placing a solemn hand on the boys’ upturned heads, before hooking an arm around Edyth’s waist to pull her up against his horse’s flank.

  ‘God bless you, my queen. You have honoured me today and I hope to honour you in return with victory over the false challenger.’

  ‘Ah, Harold,’ Edyth said, ‘’tis me. I do not need speechifying.’

  ‘Then take this in its place.’

  He kissed her lips softly, a swirling moment of gentleness amid the mess, and then he released her and was gone. The men streamed past as outside shrieks of agony and rage told of a job well done by Osric’s men. Harold, Edwin and Morcar were on their way to battle and Edyth – Edyth was waiting again.

  It was longer, even, than Fulford and this time too far away to hear. There was nothing but silence and the sickening shriek of their own imaginings. Edyth sent her children into the safety of the bower whilst she and her women tended to the wounded men from the last battle and tried not to picture the many more being carved up as they did so. Those that could survive it had been carefully moved up into York but many others, including the Norwegians, were still in tents at Fulford and the stench of the battlefield pervaded everything, an ever-present shadow of death.

  The sun arced over the sky and descended the other side with no news and it wasn’t until the stars were bright and the moon winking from behind milky clouds that they heard anything. But when they did – what a sound! It was singing, not soft like the Welsh, but bright and forceful and run through with a deep, resonant, wonderful base: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

  The women froze. They looked at each other in wonder.

  ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

  The meaning of it crept joyously under their skin and only then, at the drumbeat of English victory, did Edyth realise how little she had expected it.