I Am the Chosen King (16 page)

“I do not hate you, Swegn Godwinesson, but nor do I love you. I will not come with you.”

The drink on top of an empty belly was beginning to take hold of Swegn’s senses. Wales had made the fool of him, so had the King…not this woman also. “So, that is your final word? You do not want me as husband.”

Eadgifu shook her head. “I want you to go, to leave me in peace.”

Swegn turned from her, stood head bowed, shoulders slumped. Finally he spread his hands in submission. “So be it.” He laughed, crossed to the door, opened it and bellowed down the stairwell for someone to fetch his horse up to the gateway. To Eadgifu said, with a shrug and a smile. “You understand, I had to try.”

Releasing her breath—she had not realised how tight she had held it—the Abbess gave him a single nod. She would not go with him, but aye, she understood.

“I have but one request before I go back out into the night,” he said. “Pull a gown on over that night shift and a pair of shoes on to your feet. Come with me to the gate, bid me farewell for the last time.”

Eadgifu hesitated, but what harm would come of it? She was in a nunnery, there were people all around…

His horse was a showy beast with an unpredictable temper, one to suit Swegn’s nature. He mounted, curbing the animal as he danced forward, bent to cup Eadgifu’s chin in his hand. She was shivering despite the thickness of her cloak wrapped tight around her body.

“It is a pity, madam, that you have decided against me, for I would have you as my own.” With one hand tight around the reins, Swegn leant down, grasped Eadgifu’s waist with the other and placed his mouth firm over hers. The kiss was lingering and intense, drawing gasps of horror and muttered rebuke from those several shocked nuns who watched, impatient for this brash intruder to leave. The protests turned to screams as Swegn lifted the Abbess off her feet and swung her in front of his saddle, across his stallion’s neck.

Godwinesson’s exultant guffaw of laughter drowned Eadgifu’s own high, unending scream as he drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks, sending the great stallion leaping forward into a gallop and out into the darkness beyond the gate.

Sandwich

Edith had walked for about two miles along the beach, deep in her own thoughts, when she heard the galloping of hooves coming from the direction of the village. She recognised the horse before the rider; her brother Tostig’s chestnut was a distinctive animal.

She compressed her lips, irritated by the unwanted intrusion. For the past three days the rain-sodden gales blowing in off the sea had kept her and her family entombed within the King’s residence here at Sandwich, the only apparent topic of conversation being Swegn’s latest deplorable offence. Now that the wind was dropping, the fleet could set sail at last and her father and brothers would be gone. She would not be rid of Edward, though, for he would not be sailing with them to blockade the Kent coast. Edward disliked the sea, it made his stomach queasy and his head dizzy. He preferred to keep his feet firmly on dry land, and send only his good wishes and his heart out with those men defending his country and his crown against invasion by Magnus of Norway.

One disillusionment had followed another these months since Edith’s wedding. She was a queen, with the finest jewels and gowns and servants, wealth and land of her own. Everyone in England, save for the King, deferred to her command or whim. Even Robert Champart was obliged to offer her the respect due to a king’s wife, the Lady of England. Except Robert Champart knew that Edward was incapable of being a husband to her.

Emma had bought his silence, but Edith knew the thoughts were always there, manifested in that supercilious sneer. What exactly the Dowager Queen had negotiated with her son, Edith was uncertain—all Emma had told her was that Edward agreed to honour her as wife but had chosen to serve God by abstaining from carnal intimacy, a private decision, to be kept for their own knowledge. If the earls and nobles wondered or passed discreet conjecture between themselves of the peculiar relationship there was little they could do about it publicly—her father among them. Not even he could enquire of the king’s personal capabilities.

Tostig was reining in his horse, sand and pebbles scattering as the beast skidded to a halt. He dismounted, his face grim with rage. She closed her eyes, sighed. What now? What new upset had occurred?

“That damned husband of yours, do you know what he has done? How he has further slighted me—us!”

“My husband,” Edith responded tartly, “is the King. He may do as he pleases. I must remind you that although I am your sister, I am also the Queen. I expect to be greeted as such.” She realised the words sounded haughty, but there were already too many disappointments in this sham of a marriage without losing her right to respect as well. She saw the flicker of annoyance in Tostig’s eye, but he bowed—briefly. It would suffice.

“Edward has outlawed Swegn, has rescinded his earldom.”

Edith swallowed the scream of annoyed frustration that lurched into her throat. Swegn! Swegn! Swegn! That was all she had heard from Edward, Tostig, her father—at court, in Council…Swegn. Damned, bloody Swegn! She rotated on her heel and stalked off. Another disappointment, another disillusion. She had always looked to Swegn as her hero and champion. The elder brother who throughout her childhood had comforted her tears; bandaged her grazed knees; taken her riding; told her stories. Swegn never chastised her, always found a way to smuggle her some hot pasty or sweet little apple if ever their mother had sent her to bed without supper. Swegn had always brought her the best presents, had taken interest in her poetry and music; had laughed and danced with her, coddled her. Tostig was also a favourite brother, but she had mothered him, whereas Swegn had cherished Edith.

“Heroes belong in the tale-teller’s world, they do not exist in reality. They are made of naught but sand and moon-dust.” She kicked her toe into the wet sand beneath her boot. Who had once said that to her? Ah, it had been Harold. She could not recall when, but the words remained with her because she had not believed him. She remembered shouting at him for saying it, screamed that he was mean-hearted to spoil her dreams.

All these years later, it came hard to realise that her dreams, along with the hero that she had thought her eldest brother to be, were nothing but shadow-flickered illusions.

“Well! Have you nothing to say, sister? Swegn has lost Hereford—and your husband is not going to give it to me in his stead.”

Edith sucked the inside of her cheeks, continued walking, her hands clasped together against the barrenness of her womb.

“So you are not angered that Swegn has lost his lands, but that Edward has decided against favouring you.”

“No, Swegn deserves every punishment the King can toss at him. He is being the biggest bloody idiot since the first fool was born into this world. I am the next brother, I deserve recognition. It is my right, it is my due. I asked Edward for the earldom—and he refused me. To my face, he refused me!”

Watching a seagull beating its way into the wind, its wings battling against the last rage of the gales that had blown in such fury these past few days, Edith was hardly aware of Tostig’s final indignant words. The fleet should have set to sea long before now, for word had reached England that Magnus was about to make sail. Perhaps the raging winds had been too much for his ships also, for he had not yet come. The forty-five ships of the fleet were to make way as soon as the tide turned—in another two hours, to stand off the coast against any foreign ship that dared attempt to make landfall.

Emma had said yesterday that she doubted Magnus would come, that he was too aware of Svein Estrithson of Denmark treading on his heels. “Both of them want to re-create Cnut’s empire. There is room for only one of them to succeed. To fight against England as well as each other would be a fool’s mistake.” She had spoken in confidence to Edith, as she often did, now that Edith was crowned and anointed. They had become allied friends, the older woman taking unexpected pleasure from the younger’s keen mind, her enthusiasm and ability. In return, Edith was eager to learn from Emma’s accumulated wisdom and experience.

“You will make a good queen,” Emma had also said. “You have spirit and determination. And your pride is such that you will never submit to humiliation.”

Emma, Edith had realised, welcomed the chance to take a step back from the incessant grumbling and whining of court. It was Emma’s right to enjoy a peaceful retirement. Rights! Where were her rights though?

She bent, snatched up a stone and hurled it at the seagull. It missed by many yards, fell with a splash into the breakers. She had known of Edward’s intention towards Swegn and the earldom—remarkably, he had told her last night as they shared supper in the privacy of the King’s chamber.

Why, she was uncertain. To hurt her? To rub salt into the open wound? That had been her assumption, but she had soon set him right on her present feelings towards her brother.

She was only a head shorter than Tostig, now that she had matured into adulthood. She swung round to stand face to face with him and drew herself into a stance of royal dignity. She would repeat to him the exact words that she had used to Edward.

“Our brother has committed the foulest of crimes by abducting a holy abbess from her nunnery. For this abhorrence there can be no forgiveness. He was given the opportunity to return her, unharmed, within the fortnight of her abduction, but he has not complied. Instead, he has disappeared. For this loathsome act he is justifiably outlawed. The King has men searching for him. When found he will be punished with the sentence of exile.”

Tostig stood impatient throughout the lecture. He interrupted as soon as he could. “I know all that. I agree. It is the earldom I want, not forgiveness for our brother.”

Perhaps it was because her monthly time of bleeding was due, or because the wind and rain had kept them all close-cloistered that her temper was so frayed. “My husband is heart-felt sick of my brothers—as am I,” she snapped. “You do nothing between you but bicker and squabble like unlearned children. Herefordshire will go to someone of calmer judgement and greater influence, who will, in addition, bring a useful alliance to the Crown.”

Tostig frowned. “Then Edward has already decided?”

“He has. The earldom is to go to Beorn Estrithson, our mother’s nephew. In this way England shows support to Magnus of Norway’s declared enemy, Beorn’s elder brother, Svein of Denmark.”

“To Beorn?” Incredulous, Tostig bunched his fists, planted his feet wide. “Beorn? Who is all those years younger than I? Who is not of English birth? And you agree to this insult against me?” He swung away, stamped three or four paces, marched back to her. “By God, I wager Harold has had his oar in the water over this! Beorn always has been his close companion. It is a wonder they do not share that Nazeing whore, so dear is their friendship. Hah, perhaps they do, Beorn? God’s teeth, I cannot believe you would so deny me my right in this, Edith!”

“Your right?” she screamed back at him. “You talk to me of your right? It is all I have heard these past days, your rights, your claims. The disgrace inflicted on you by our brother’s crime. What of my rights? What of my disgrace—or do I count for naught?”

Stunned at the outburst, Tostig spread his hands wide, palms uppermost. “You? What have you to worry on? You are the Queen, You have everything.”

He had no idea why his sister gave him such a look of loathing, nor why she snatched the reins of his horse from him, mounted and kicked the animal into a gallop onward up the beach.

Annoyed, Tostig considered running after her, but the tide would be turning soon and he had been given command of three ships. He trudged back along the beach, thumbs thrust through the baldric slung slantwise across his chest, Beorn? By God he would have words with Harold over this blatant presumption of favouritism!

Although he did not understand his sister’s ill temper, he held no grudge against her. She always had been flighty and inconsistent. No doubt she had women’s worries on her mind—probably did not fully appreciate the insult Edward had offered by overstepping the next brother in line for an earldom in favour of a mere cousin. He shrugged. Women simply did not understand the intricate politics of government.

Valognes—September 1046

The urgent knocking on his bed-chamber door roused William from a deep sleep. He groaned, rolled from the bed and, pulling a tunic over his nakedness, staggered, half asleep, across the bare timbered floor. He unbolted the door. Beyond stood Will fitz Osbern, son of that loyal friend so cruelly murdered before William’s own eyes. He looked troubled, his hand hovering, William noticed, near his dagger. Beside him stood an elderly man whom the Duke did not know. A merchant of wealthy means, judging by his appearance.

“Sir,” fitz Osbern said, “this man comes with information. I think there is trouble brewing.”

William regarded the merchant a few long moments, taking in every feature, every line and wrinkle of his aged face. Clean-shaven, with whitened, short-cut hair, he was of about sixty years. “I do know you,” William said thoughtfully. “You are—were—my father’s wine merchant. I saw you once at Falaise, though I recall not your name.”

“I am Henri de Brene, my Lord Duke, and
oui
, until my son took over the business I supplied your father with the best wine available in all Normandy.”

“Rebellion, my Lord,” fitz Osbern interrupted with an uneasy look over his shoulder as if the shadows behind him hid sinister murderers. “It seems your enemies may have settled the feuding that has divided them these past years. Have united in a common cause.”

William grimaced. “Myself and Normandy being that common factor, I assume?” He invited the men to enter the chamber. A relative peace had reigned throughout Normandy since those early turbulent years of William’s childhood. With Henry of France set on asserting the rights of his sworn vassal, the boy’s rivals had been more inclined to fight among themselves for power, wealth and land, rather than combine against him. Yet it had been inevitable that the time would come when one man could build the strength to organise a revolt, the ultimate prize being Normandy itself. Every day, almost, William expected to hear that the new-emerging aristocracy of the duchy had stopped fighting among themselves to unite against the resident duke. That day seemed to have come.

He poured wine for himself and the two men. “So what has happened that required waking me less than two hours after I have retired to my bed?” he asked de Brene, cocking his head to one side.

De Brene glanced at fitz Osbern, to whom he had already briefly told his tale. He had no wish to be an alarmist, yet this young duke’s father had been a good man and de Brene owed him a personal debt of gratitude that, until now, he had been unable to discharge. He did not know if the boy William was a man of courage and honour as Duke Robert had been; the lad was untried, yet if what he had surmised was true, then this young duke would have no chance to prove whether he was indeed worthy of his father’s title. De Brene considered it his duty, in memory of the father, at least to give the lad fair opportunity.

“My Lord Duke, I once had occasion to thank your father for saving my life. He was a lad, then, no older than your own age of seventeen years. We were ambushed by brigands on the road to Rome. Several of our party were killed, guards and pilgrims alike. Your father ran through a murderer who was about to slit my throat. I vowed that one day I might find a way of thanking him in more than mere words. Alas, I was not able to do so.”

William leant forward, did not trouble to hide his scepticism. “They must have been a particularly optimistic group of robbers if they were so bold as to attack my father’s guards?” Pilgrims were often attacked, too many of the fools openly professed they carried wealth and possessions. It was becoming a materially rewarding business, pilgrim robbing. His father would not have ridden without adequate protection, however.

De Brene was nervous; his hands shook and beads of sweat pricked along his upper lip. “My Lord, if it is learnt that I have come here to warn you, then my life may well be forfeit. Those who attacked your father and our pilgrimage party were no ordinary ruffians. It is my belief they were professional men, paid to make an end of the Duke.” He attempted a wan smile. “As I have reason to believe other men are also anxious to be rid of you.”

“Go on.” William said, his voice low and encouraging. He guessed already what de Brene was about to say.

The merchant spoke quickly, as if to say his piece faster would make it less dangerous. His fear of reprisal was genuine. “Sir, I have been a widower for many years. In recent months I have formed a liaison with the wife of a former client—forgive me but I cannot mention names. Last night I lay with her—in a house I rent, some miles south of here.” He looked from fitz Osbern to the Duke. What if he had this wrong, what if he was being naught but a foolish old man? “Sir, there are men gathering to the east of the road that I followed home. Two hundred or so. Among them, I think I saw your enemy, Guy de Bourgogne—Guy of Burgundy.”

The Duke audibly caught his breath. Bourgogne. No wonder de Brene was afraid. Guy had a reputation as vivid as the Duke’s own for taking revenge on those who enraged him. “You are not certain?” William queried. “You may have been mistaken?”

The merchant chewed his lip. “I cannot swear that it was him, it was a glimpse only—but, even if it is not he, why are men with armour and weapons gathering secretively so near to where you presently reside?”

William stood. “Why indeed.”

He moved to the slit window on the southern side of the chamber, peered out into the blackness of the night beyond. Banks of cloud driven by a vigorous wind galloped over a half-full moon, the courtyard below and the outer defence wall shadow-lit by its patterned light. Guy de Bourgogne wanted to make himself duke. Was, to William’s certain knowledge, rallying men to his support. Men like Nigel de la Cotentin and Rannulf, vicomte de la Bessin, two of the most powerful magnates in the entire duchy. If they were to initiate rebellion, how many more lords from west and lower Normandy would be joining them? Ralph Tesson and Grimoald de Plessis? Since they had last attempted their bloody games of murder they had taken time to build up their strength.

Those men who would support Bourgogne in his claim were more experienced than William and, for all his determination, his personal authority over Normandy remained fragile. As Duke he was dependent upon the loyalty of those Norman lords who had favoured his father, but if outright rebellion reared its ugly head, for how long could a youth, untried in battle, keep their backing? If de Brene were right and Bourgogne was making a move against him, then he had no choice but to seek outside help from his overlord, the King of France.

William turned to face his friend and companion, fitz Osbern. “Did we not hear yesterday that there is rumour of an army collecting to the west near Lessay? Do we have confirmation?”

“No, my Lord, but if these things are true, then it seems your enemies are hoping to blockade you here in Valognes. If they should lay siege…” He had no need to continue; William knew the danger to his life were that to happen.

William slid a ring from his finger, held it out to de Brene. “I thank you for your information, it is comforting to know that there are some who are loyal to me.”

De Brene did not take the ring. “
Monseigneur
, I seek no reward. It is enough to know I have been of some small help to Duke Robert’s son.”

And a ring from the present duke would draw attention, initiate questions. William replaced it on his finger, held out his hand instead. Then, if it will suffice, I offer you my gratitude alone.” To fitz Osbern he said briskly, “We must assume that we have been timely warned of an attempt to overthrow me. See if you can ascertain any further information and send my uncle to me. Have horses saddled. Of a sudden, I feel no inclination to remain here.”

The ride from Valognes was a waking nightmare. It galled William that he had to flee like a thief in the night, to have to ride for aid, not stand and fight. The time would come, though, one day soon, when the men at arms of Normandy would serve him without murmur. When a single command would strike fear into any who dared oppose him. For now, however, without alliance of a French army to put down insurrection, there would be no future for the Duke, for William the Bastard.

He had no alternative but to leave Valognes immediately and ride hard for France. Taking only a few loyal men—among them Will fitz Osbern and his maternal uncle, Walter—he galloped for the estuary of the Vire, risking crossing before the tide was at its safest low level.

Halfway across, his horse lost its footing, ducking them both under the ebb current. The escort of men shouted in alarm, but William kicked himself free of the stirrups and, clinging to his stallion’s mane, swam across the channel to the far bank, and immediately shrugged off the concerned enquiries of his followers. “If Guy de Bourgogne cannot make so easy an end to me, do you think I fear a mere soaking in an estuary?”

Mid-morning saw them at Ryes. The horses were spent, their coats lathered, mouths and flanks bloodied. Refreshed, re-clothed and revived, the Duke and his men demanded remounts and galloped onwards, heading for the safety of William’s birthplace of Falaise and from there to King Henry, who held court at Poissy.

All would whisper and mask smirks of derision when William eventually arrived, dishevelled and travel-grimed, but the Duke cared nothing for the arrogance of the French aristocracy. He had one concern only. To mobilise an army against those who dared oppose him.