I Am the Chosen King (12 page)

Gytha stood, twirling a loom weight between her fingers. Edith would be wed to Edward at some time in the future for he could not, no matter how much he wanted it, renege on this betrothal.

She sighed. Godwine had visited Denmark on behalf of Cnut; she had been in her first flush of womanhood, he a handsome, strong-minded, strong-bodied Englishman. The passion that had stirred between them had ignited into a fervent love that remained as potent now as it had been then. When Godwine had left Denmark he had taken Gytha with him as his wife.

She had been so fortunate with Godwine; few women were able to wed the man they loved. Betrothals, for women of noble birth, were for the political and financial uniting of two families. Love rarely came into it. A man could take a concubine as a love-wife, the woman could only pray to God for a kind husband and an easy time in childbirth. It was a fortunate girl whose father found for her a good husband. Those who chose their own men, as had Gytha—and Edyth Swannhæls—were rare breeds. As parents Gytha and Earl Godwine could not guarantee Edith a satisfactory marriage, although the chance to become Queen of England would make many a girl content to ignore the occasional beating, the straying to another bed—or the frustrating indecisions of an over-pious, captious, mid-aged man who would perhaps have been more suited to wearing a tonsure than a crown. And the faults would not be all on Edward’s side. It was a hard thing for a mother to admit of her own and only daughter, but the child was disdainful and pretentious. “God in his Heaven help her keep hold on her sense,” she said beneath her breath, “when Edith becomes queen and realises the full extent of her power.”

Southwark

Emma—a lady who had perfected the art of exact timing—reached Earl Godwine’s Southwark house as dusk was reluctantly giving way to the night. Her modest entourage drew to a weary halt in the courtyard, the riders as wind-blown as the horses, for the last few miles had been covered at a stout, bone-jarring trot.

A chill mist seeped up from the Thames. London Bridge was wraithed in the shape-shifting whiteness, the top of the two portal towers standing like disembodied heads above the shrouded supporting pillars. The sounds of the city settling for the night emanated from across the river, echoing with a hollow, muffled eeriness. A bell tolled from somewhere, its single, tinny clang monotonously dour in the fading light; a dog barked, voices called. Emma’s hand-maiden shuddered as the horses turned in through the gateway, thankful that they were not to cross the river. She was tired, stiff and cold, wished she could be as strong in body and mind as her mistress. Very little flustered the Queen, she cared nothing for hidden shapes and evils that might lurk in the evening fog. Did not feel fear or cold, nothing disturbed her calm exterior—except perhaps having her possessions and land forcibly removed by her own son. Even then she had waited with patience through the long winter and the first few weeks of spring before beginning to rectify the matter.

Godwine’s servants scrambled from various quarters, some wiping ale from their mouths, others hastily swallowing their supper; a man ran to take Emma’s horse by the bridle, another slithered to a halt to stand, astounded, before hurtling back inside his master’s Hall. A moment later Godwine himself appeared, fingers hastily tidying gravy residue from his moustache; he strode down the steps, professionally masking his own surprise; this visit had been unexpected, unannounced. Through his smile the Earl was rapidly deciding how to react—of course Emma was welcome, but what in Thor’s name would Edward say of it? Silently, Godwine swore. The last thing he needed was to antagonise the King further by offering a welcome to his deposed mother, but what could he do—turn her away into the night? If nothing else, the laws of hospitality forbade it.

Emma had already dismounted. She smiled at Godwine with her eyes and mouth, a greeting that sprang from the heart. “My dear friend!” she exclaimed, coming forward with small, rapid strides to take his hands tight in her own. She kissed both his cheeks, her face suddenly looking tired and worried. “Forgive this intrusion—I had hoped to reach Westminster, but we have travelled slower than intended, and as you see it grows dark…” She vaguely waved her hand at the twilight. Godwine did not believe a word of the excuse, as she well knew. He only need look at the dark sweat on the horses’ necks and flanks to see they had been urged far from slowly, but who was an earl to question the word of a queen?

Ah, will there ever again be such a fine and handsome woman?
Godwine thought as he raised her hands to his lips.

“It is time to end my son’s nonsense,” she announced blithely, as if her quarrel with Edward had been some mild family scrap. “I have lived long enough as a displaced, penniless widow. The condition bores me.”

Unfortunately it did not, yet, bore Edward.

Godwine was not sure how to answer her tactfully. He returned the genial smile, spread his hands and said candidly, “I am not entirely in favour with the King myself at this moment, my Lady. Perhaps I am not the best person to champion a cause?” He snorted amusement. “Indeed, if I knew how to do that I would not be in such a predicament myself!”

Laughing at the absurdity of their mutual situation, Emma slid her arm through Godwine’s. “I will think of something that might aid the both of us,” she said. “Now, escort me to Hall. I would rather discuss my ungrateful whelp with good food inside my belly and a cup of wine in my hand.”

Seated at Godwine’s high table, her hands cleansed, her gown changed and a meal inside her, Emma was already recovering from the weariness she had masked so carefully, a weariness that had overtaken her, these last months, in both body and mind. Although she never let her feelings become visible, the winter had taken a savage toll on her reserves of strength. While not in her dotage, at five and fifty she was no longer a young woman. Left by Edward’s spite with no means of support or income, she had slimmed down her household to the barest essential servants—how many unfortunate souls had she been forced to dismiss! All the more for Edward’s conscience to bear. Good people set to the streets for a king’s whim, curse him! While she would have wintered at Winchester anyway, the thought of being nigh on a prisoner there haunted her. Oh, she was permitted to travel—but where would she have gone? Her wealth, her properties and estates had been withdrawn from her, all she had at her disposal was this modest entourage and virtually the clothes she stood in. No one who wished to retain the King’s favour would offer her shelter or assistance—who would willingly support a woman with neither influence, wealth, land, nor status? Even if that woman was still, by law and by God’s anointing, the legal Queen of England? Only Godwine, perhaps, would take that risk, yet he too was sailing up a shallow creek against the tide.

Being without income, property or power did not mean being without eyes and ears, however, and Emma, despite her need dramatically to reduce her daily expenditure, had maintained her informers. There were some things she counted as essential, a network of spies being one of them. She knew that Leofric of Mercia was currying Edward’s approval by being robust in his collection of the taxes—and that his wife had quarrelled bitterly with him about it. That Siward had been squabbling, to the point of battle, with Scotland over the ill-defined border with Northumbria. Knew of Godwine’s disfavour and that Harold had been close to death.

There were two new faces, unknown to her, at Godwine’s table: Harold’s hand-fast wife and a robust and cheerful young Danish man, Beorn, nephew of Godwine’s wife. He appeared a good-natured lad, who had led the talk of the morrow’s river tourney through most of the excellent meal, boasting that his craft would beat Edward’s chosen crew. He and Harold had exchanged ribald jests on the topic until Harold had declared: “You give your best effort to win, cousin. To my mind, Edward does not deserve my gift of such a fine-built Lea craft.”

Ah
, Emma thought,
so the rumour of disagreement between Harold and my son is also true.
God’s patience, was there anyone in this realm whom Edward had not recently insulted?

That the promise of marriage with Edith was faltering did not surprise Emma in the least. Had Edward wanted a wife he would have allied himself with some Norman family of worth years since. As far as Emma had discovered he was not interested in the intimate comforts offered by women. There had been a few doxies in his youth, when his body had first ripened into maturity, and he had shared a bed for three months with Alys, the daughter of a minor Norman count, until forced to leave the unsettled atmosphere of the new boy duke’s court. Emma had no ideas—nor interest—in what had happened to the girl; the only thing that mattered was that she had not borne a child, living or dead. Either she was at fault or Edward was not master of his own manhood. The truth of that would be seen at some suitable date after his wedding night. If Edward ever managed to agree a wedding night.

She surveyed her prospective daughter-in-law surreptitiously. Edith was plain, but acceptable. Fair-haired with a clean, unpocked complexion. A pity that such a disgruntled scowl seemed so tightly etched there…Large hips, flat belly, a firm breast. A girl ripe for breeding. God’s teeth, but Edward was a fool! If he reneged on this betrothal he would lose the respect of every nobleman in the kingdom.
Edward? King? Oh aye, king of oath-breakers!
And what was he intending to do about the small matter of acquiring an heir? Conjure a son from mid-air? Pray that a child would be conceived from a virgin’s womb? She had assuredly bred a simpleton!

Had he listened to her advice, he would have been married with a whole brood of fledglings crawling around his royal chilblained feet by now…oh, this was pointless. Never would her fool son listen to her. Emma allowed herself a brief, self-satisfied smile except for this once, when she would meet with him on the morrow. The information she held could save England a long and costly war, but there was a price that he would need to pay in order to hear it.

The harper was taking his seat beside the hearth fire, his nimble fingers tuning the instrument for an evening of story and song. Later, after the men had over-partaken of wine and ale, these subdued pleasures would give way to wrestling matches and raucous singing and boasting. She would have quitted the Hall by then, along with the rest of the women, leaving the men to their excesses.

The Queen leant back in her chair and cupped her chin while she studied the young woman seated beside Harold Godwinesson. Godwine’s daughter might be acceptable, but this creature was a rare gem, a beauty.

The pride in Harold’s voice had been unmistakable when he had first introduced the girl to her, the shyness of the child as apparent. That there was a naïve infatuation shared between the two lovers was undeniable, but between the sister and this lass? Ah, storm clouds were brewing there!

“I hear the King would rather you took, with Christian blessing, a wife of higher status.” Emma said to Harold, seated at her left hand. “Does the prospect of a grand alliance, and perhaps further power, not lure you? I understand your sister and my son both disapprove of your declaration of love for a woman bred of common land-folk. Would it not have been wiser to take her as your bed-mate until a daughter more suitable was offered you?” It was an impertinent remark. She had intended it to be, to gauge Harold’s reaction.

He was a mild-tempered man who feared God, loved hunting, disliked over-indulgence and unnecessary fighting; enjoyed good wine, a warm fire, a companion in his bed. A man who fulfilled his responsibilities as best he was able. He loved Edyth. “My sister,” Harold answered, giving Emma a full, unwavering stare, “is vexed that her own marriage is delayed. Her ill will towards my woman stems from frustration.” He paused, took a sip of his wine. “The King,” he continued blithely, “can go to the devil. I choose the woman who is to be my companion, not he.” It was a bold—and potentially dangerous—reply. He had taken Edyth as hand-fast wife and hand-fast wife she was going to remain.

Rinsing her fingers in the bowl of rose water that a servant offered, Emma dried them fastidiously on the linen towel. Rarely did she say anything just for the sake of it. Harold’s reaction had pleased her. Here was a man who would stand firm for his own beliefs, regardless of influence from others. Harold Godwinesson would make a good warlord, A pity the eldest son was not more like his brother. “Indeed, I intended no offence, Earl Harold, I wish you every happiness, at least for the length that your joining together may last.”

As an apology it fell short of its target. Harold answered her politely, but with inflexible defiance: “This hand-fast marriage will last, my Lady Emma, for as long as I intend it to. And I intend it to last a very long time.”

Seeking to soothe his ruffled feathers, Emma placed her hand on the stained tablecloth, a small, subtle extension to her apology. “I have had personal experience of concubine wives.” She spread her fingers in a gesture of contrition, began absently toying with the rings that adorned them. Æthelred had avowed himself to a hand-fast wife prior to taking her in marriage, as had Cnut. Sons from both those bitches had caused Emma, as queen and mother of princes, no end of heartache. Had caused death and war for England.

She liked Harold, one of the few men she did like, possibly because he was the son most similar to her father. Few men—earls, thegns, freemen, hah! even kings—would put England before their personal greed, Harold, she thought, would prove to be one of the rare ones, one of the few.

For that, and for being honest, Emma would wish him and his shy, blushing maid no ill. She smiled at Harold, her face crinkling into lines of laughter that had rarely, through her entire life, been allowed a public airing. She lifted her goblet, clinked it against Harold’s. “Then let you and me damn Edward together and drink to our prospective hanging for the crime of treason!”

Unlike Swegn, his elder brother, Harold seldom took offence and accepted apologies when given in faith. “Edyth is a sweet girl, madam, who makes me content.” He grinned at Emma. “In bed and out of it!”

Edyth had overheard nigh on every word; her blush of embarrassment tinted from pink to crimson red as Harold leant across and smacked a kiss on her lips. Beneath the table his hand was rummaging under her gown. She flicked his exploring fingers aside, her eyes flashing a reprimand. He laughed and gave her a second kiss, firmer and more possessive. For all her self-consciousness at this public display of affection, her stomach gave a leap of anticipation. Not so long ago she had dreaded the first intimate touch from a man. How foolishly childish she had been—but then, she had not expected that man to be one such as Harold.

Emma, although she barely knew the girl, instinctively liked her. Cynically, though, she knew she liked her because Edward did not, would always go out of her way to oppose her son. What he liked, she detested. What he condemned, she endorsed. It was a habit she had acquired during those interminable years of marriage to Æthelred. All he had been interested in was the use of a young maid’s untouched body. Was it any wonder that she hated Edward? Conceived through what had almost amounted to rape, birthed through two full days of an agonising labour that had come close to taking her life? Not until Cnut had shown her the meaning of love had she discovered the delight of the giving and taking of passion.

Love? Hah! Where it existed there was always a counterbalance of hatred or sadness lurking somewhere. A pity that before too many years passed this young woman, whom Harold professed to love so much, would have her heart broken when he left her for a Christian marriage of alliance.