I Am the Chosen King (17 page)

Waltham Abbey

Looking down at the parchment spread wide between the hands of the master mason, Harold felt an immense surge of pride. The building of his collegiate abbey would soon commence—the first shipments of stone from Caen in Normandy were already being sorted down by the especially erected wharf. He liked the design that the French architect had finally decided upon. It would not be as grand as the King’s construction at Westminster, but for a rural abbey it would be more than sufficient.

“We begin by building around the old church, then—adding a north to south transept across the present square apse at the eastern end?”

The architect nodded, his face alight with enthusiasm. “The present chapel will remain in use for some while. When we have completed the transept and its tower, we will remove these old timber walls and rebuild in stone,
non
?” His light French accent and quick speech were like a bubbling mountain stream, in contrast to the deep tones of the Wessex-born master of masons, whose accent was more like a somnolent stretch of a wide, ageing river.

The mason let the parchment roll up on itself. “’Tis not the way we usually do it, but I suppose it might work.”

“It will work, believe me,
monsieur
! This will be a fine and glorious
abbaye
.” The Frenchman almost skipped a few paces in his excitement, his arms spreading wide. “
Ici
shall be the transept that we talk about. Imagine the beauty of it! Its length and its height! The windows shall be narrow, double-splayed, rounded
en tête
, rounded heads. There shall be a chancel arch and the arcades shall also bear round-headed arches. The piers along the aisle shall reach up to the vaulting of the roof—a leaded roof bearing the tower and above that, a golden cross! It shall be
tout à fait magnifique, n’est-ce pas
?”

Harold smiled warmly at his delight, although he had very little idea of exactly how his abbey would eventually look. The mason was looking thoughtful. “We will need sound-based trusses, then, if you’re planning on using lead.” He shook his head doubtfully. That’s a lot of weight-bearing you know.”

“
Absolument
, I agree, but if we…”

Harold left them to it; their technical phrases meant nothing to him. It was like listening to men prattling in an unknown language.

He stood, hands on hips, trying again to picture how, several years ahead, all this would look. Over there, the cloister court and the chapter house, the dorter, frater and kitchens. The outer wall would remain the same, but perhaps the gatehouse could be enlarged? Fish ponds created down near the river and a herb garden somewhere. He sensed rather than heard the rustle of movement behind him, lifted one arm so that Edyth could slip hers through, entwining them together.

“Our friend from France is so happy with his work, is he not? This will be a beautiful place, Harold. I am so glad that you are building it.” She smiled up at him, the shining light of her love dazzling in her eyes. For over four months had he been away, taking command of half the King’s fleet. The days had passed quickly for her, for their manor house was now finished and furnished, but the long summer nights alone without him had dragged so slowly.

He placed a light kiss on the veil that covered the crown of her head. “As I am also. Edward is building Westminster with the prime intention of making it his mausoleum. He plans a grand and ostentatious tomb near the high altar. I was wondering whether I ought to incorporate plans for my resting place.”

Edyth put her hand up to his mouth, her fingers pressing against his lips. “Please, do not talk of your death! I cannot bear to think of not having you with me!”

Harold laughed. “I’m not intending to make use of a tomb just yet, my lass! Although it occurred to me yesterday, as Edward insisted on taking us on a tour of his building work, that he had better pray for a long life. He is one and forty years old already and it could take anything up to thirty years to complete his abbey.”

The construction of the abbey at Westminster was barely further advanced than this smaller one at Waltham, for prolonged and incessant rain had put it behind schedule. The Westminster foundations were thick with mud and flooding had always been a problem along that marshy stretch of the Thames. The periodic rise and fall of the river helped somewhat, though, for the gravel and alluvial soil brought down with the current were steadily silting up the tiny tributaries that separated the scatter of small islands. The spread-finger estuary of the Tyburn river was no longer as wide and Thorney Island itself had more than doubled its length of river bank since the time when Cnut had first enlarged the crude little chapel of Saint Peter into a monastery for twelve monks.

Edward had in mind nearer sixty monks and a building superior to anything yet known. His abbey was to be the finest, tallest, grandest complex of buildings in all England. Looking at the ooze squelching around their feet yesterday afternoon, Harold and his father had harboured strong doubts of the practicality of the dream.

Those three days spent in London had been frustrating for Harold. He had wanted nothing more than to return to Waltham, but Edward had insisted that those earls who had deployed with the fleet accompany him to London from Kent: Godwine and Harold, Beorn and Leofric of Mercia. Siward had not come south for the summer muster, for Scotland was pressing too close against the northern borders—over-much of Cumbria had already been appropriated by Scottish hands.

The King saw the summer’s blockade as a great success, but then he had been safely ensconced in a dry and wind-proofed royal residence three miles west of Sandwich harbour. The rest of them had been alternately tossed, soaked or battered by the vagaries of the North Sea and its unpredictable weather. It had been a pointless exercise, the fleet sitting there at full strength supposedly safeguarding the coast against Magnus of Norway—who had, for certain knowledge, turned his attention away from England and was harassing Denmark instead.

Edward claimed that Magnus had changed his mind about England because of the fleet—what nonsense! All summer they had been pleading with him—Harold, his father, Beorn, even Leofric—to release their ships from the blockade and let them sail to aid the Danish King. Edward would have none of it, was determined to let Denmark look to her own protection—this despite an alliance made earlier in the year.

To join forces and be rid of Magnus made sense, but Edward maintained that to sting Norway in the tail might only serve to goad. In early July he had remarked, almost childishly, that Svein Estrithson was Godwine’s nephew-in-law and England could not afford to favour the family any further. As a slight it had been a calculated and intentional one. Godwine had tactfully swallowed it down; Harold and Beorn—bitter that he could not take his men to help his elder brother—had returned to the fleet. Tostig had flounced away from court in a burst of resentment. Already his pride had been bruised by being overshadowed by Beorn and the Queen was making no effort to promote him. He saw himself as neglected and undervalued, was bored with the fruitless patrolling at sea and wanted some way to prove his worth—to his father and his king. Taking his portion of the family fortune, Tostig had bought passage on a merchant ship and sailed to Flanders in search of more obliging patronage and a potential bride from one of Count Baldwin’s numerous sisters or daughters. This, despite the fact that Baldwin’s coast was harbouring many of the pirates who were attempting to plunder English shipping; that Baldwin was possibly supporting Magnus; and that it was rumoured that their brother, Swegn, had fled to Bruges with his abbess.

Edward had railed about Tostig’s departure for days. The sea conditions had been atrocious, the remaining Godwines had elected to remain with the fleet. Bad weather was infinitely preferable to the King’s sour moods.

To add further insult, Tostig had almost immediately succeeded in his aim, for word had reached England last week that he had wed Judith, the Count’s second-youngest daughter. Of Swegn, Tostig had sent no word. It was still not known where he had secreted himself and Eadgifu. For himself, Harold did not particularly care. The further away Swegn was, the better.

“My sister has granted yet more land to the estate of Westminster,” Harold said, walking Edyth over to watch the Frenchman supervising the pegging out of lengths of thin rope, marking on the ground the dimensions of the transept. “I doubt my poor little Waltham will be able to compete—I shall have to find some relics or something to give the place more of an equal footing.”

“What land has she donated?” Edyth asked out of courtesy; Queen or no, she had no interest in her sister-in-law.

“An estate in Hertfordshire. Father had given it to Swegn, but he reclaimed it when it became obvious that my dear brother had no intention of showing contrition. He passed it to Edith who has joined the ranks of those fawning upon Edward by giving enormous grants to Westminster.” Harold laughed suddenly and tweaked the elegant folds of Edyth’s gown.

“Edward traipsed us all around his building site yester-afternoon, Edith included. You ought to have been there, Willow-bud, the Queen in all her royal regalia stepping with such care among the puddles and sludge, her gowns lifted almost as high as her knees, displaying more than a modest amount of hose and garter!”

He guffawed again. “Edward was furious with her, he told her in no uncertain terms that if she spoiled her gown she would have to replace it from her own coffers. Edith snapped back at him that it already was her own gown and if it were not for her own wealth she would be touring the site clad only in her naked skin.”

“If that were so”—Edyth chuckled—“then no workman would have eyes for laying one single stone atop another!” She had held the hem of her own gown away from the mud-rutted foundations, but as Harold steered her back on to the path, dropped the material from her hand, the gathered lacings at the waist allowing the soft wool of the dress to fall naturally into its sleek folds. She lifted her arms slightly to inspect the edging of the cuffs at the end of the long, drooping sleeves. Nothing had splashed on to the expensive material, only her shoes were dirtied, but as they were sturdy outdoor footwear, she ignored the slight damage.

She somewhat sympathised with Edith, for it must be difficult to maintain the dignity required of a queen. As a farm-born girl, she readily accepted that finery was for holy days and feasting, that shorter gowns with practical-length sleeves, plain-spun woollen hose and stout leather boots were more suited to muddy farmyards, cow byres and pigsties.

“What have you done with our little imp, by the way?” Harold asked, looking around for his son. Goddwin was almost two years old, a scamp of a boy always into mischief.

“He was here a moment ago.” Edyth said anxiously, breaking free of Harold’s hold, her head turning, searching for him.

“Over there!” Harold pointed, his laughter rumbling yet again. “And talking of mud, just look at the boy!”

The lad was busily stamping his feet in a deep puddle near the arched gateway that led out into the village high street.

“That boy is an urchin!” Edyth grumbled with a smile of maternal amusement as she ran to the child to rescue him and his boots before they were completely ruined.

Goddwin was a fair-haired, blue-eyed rascal. A son that any father would burst his heart with pride for. Harold had so missed them both. Edyth could have gone with him into Kent, but she had declined, preferring to oversee the completion of their manor, built up there on the hill overlooking the village of Waltham and the wide panorama of the river valley. It was a special place, steeped in memories for both of them. A place well suited as a home to their children.

Smiling, Harold followed her across the grass, took the protesting boy from her arms and tossed him high, making him squeal with delightful laughter.

“Nay, lad, your mother does not want you all wet and muddied. Come, let me take you across to the river—look there is another ship coming upstream. I expect she has come all the way from Normandy, carrying more stone to build Papa’s church.”

Settling Goddwin within one arm, Harold took hold of Edyth’s hand with the other and breathed in the fresh, invigorating smell of the September afternoon.

All was peaceful in his earldom and he was home, back with his family, where he would remain, save for the brief visit to Edward’s Christmas Court, until next spring should recall him to his duties as a soldier. But that was a long way ahead yet.

Bosham—March 1047

Save for Edith and the first- and third-born sons, Swegn and Tostig, Earl Godwine’s family were gathered in their entirety at Bosham, his Sussex manor, prior to attending the Witan—the Council of Elders—at the King’s Easter Court. There was much to discuss, much to plan. That Edward’s grievances were mounting against Godwine was plainly evident, how to do something about it was not.

Gyrth, aged seventeen and the next brother after Tostig, skimmed a stone across the placid surface of the sea, pleased that he successfully made it bounce at least four times. “I do not want to attend court anyway, I would rather stay here at Bosham.” He used the local traditional dialect to pronounce the village’s name, Bozzum. “A lot of old men full of wind and their own importance, voicing opinionated bigotry. Who gives a damn?”

Both his father and brother Harold stared at him, for opposing reasons: Harold was amused, Godwine annoyed.

“Attending the King is a serious business, my boy,” Godwine said gruffly. “As you will one day discover when you become earl. There are matters of state to discuss, laws to be made, charters to sign—” He broke off with a growl as Gyrth laughed.

“I was jesting, Father! I fully realise the importance. All the same, I am right about those who attend!”

“Only some of them,” Harold retorted indignantly. “I’m not bigoted, nor is Father.”

“Ah, but you don’t enjoy attending court either, do you!” That was Beorn, standing a few yards further down, skimming his own stones. “And some of us, Uncle Godwine, although already made earl, have no land of significance to be an effective earl over. I agree with Gyrth, I would rather stay here and enjoy the fishing and hunting.

Selecting a handful of pebbles, Gyrth offered one to Harold’s son, Goddwin, It was the boy’s first visit to Bosham and the sea. He was fascinated by the scurry of waves and the reflected patterns on the restless sway of water. Liked, too, the smooth feel of the stones and how his uncle could make them so magically skip and bounce. He tried throwing one for himself but it fell down with a disappointing plop into the little breakers washing at his boots. Beorn came to retrieve it for him, squatted next to the boy and showed him how to hold the missile between his fingers.

“He hasn’t mastered the flick to his wrist yet,” Gyrth decided, watching another unsuccessful attempt. He ruffled the boy’s fair hair.

“Give him another year,” Harold said with pride in his voice, “and he will beat both of you.”

The natural harbour that created the inlet at Bosham had always been a favourite retreat for Harold, and he was delighted that his son seemed to have inherited his love of the place. When the tide washed out, the mud flats were criss-crossed by creeks and rivulets, the small boats left like landed fish, but with the tide in, especially on a sky-bright day such as this, the inlet appeared at its best.

Over on the far shore cattle grazed in the lush, fertile meadows, the surrounding woods creating shelter from northerly winds and a plentiful supply of timber. Several of the village fishing boats had up-anchored and set sail on the previous ebb tide; they would return come the next flood with, they hoped, a good catch. Harold’s two youngest brothers, Leofwine and Wulfnoth, were busy with their own little boat inside the safety of Bosham Creek. Harold shifted the weight of his sleeping daughter to his other shoulder and waved at the two boys. Ah, to be like Leofwine, twelve again, with nothing more to worry about than the fitting of a new sail! The little girl snuffled but did not wake. Alfrytha had been born one year, almost to the day, after Goddwin, Unlike his robust and rosy health, she was a sickly child, prone to wheezing and coughs. Edyth thought the sea air might be of benefit to her, an acceptable excuse to come south into Sussex, though Edyth was close to her time of delivery of their third child.

“I am for keeping our heads down and noses clean,” Godwine suggested, returning to the subject of attending court. “Edward will, sooner or later, be needing our support for something or other that those two farting bigots, Siward and Leofric, will oppose.” He half grinned at Gyrth. “Neither of them can handle a ship as well as myself or you, Harold, and now that Magnus has taken half of Denmark from your brother, Beorn, perhaps the King will realise the importance of sending help.”

Engaged in wiping dribble from his daughter’s mouth, Harold was able to avoid making eye contact with Beorn and answering his father. Both he and his cousin fundamentally disagreed with Godwine. Edward would never change his mind and allow English ships to sail in aid of Denmark against Norway. It was too costly and too provocative. Edward jealously guarded his treasury and avoided any action that could provoke acts of hostility. Especially those that might endanger himself personally. No one, save perhaps his mother, would outright call the King a coward, but that was what his earls and nobles secretly thought. Edward preferred the safety and comfort of his palaces to the hazardous conditions of war.

Added to that, anyone related to the Earl of Wessex could be left to drown as far as Edward was concerned. Godwine was hoping that this current tide of unprovoked hostility would be turned at the Easter Court and agreeable relationships resumed. Harold considered his father to be unrealistically optimistic.

“Big boat. Look, Papa, big boat!” Young Goddwin tugged at his father’s cloak to gain his attention, his chubby hand pointing excitedly seawards. There was indeed a sixty-oared sea-going keel making way in from the Chichester Channel, using the last of the incoming tide. She was a stranger, her sail was of pale blue, not the oxblood red of Godwine’s own vessels, but from her course her master was familiar with Bosham Creek. Until one quarter of a mile from the village the creek ran at over a fathom deep; from there in it shallowed. With Chidham Hard almost submerged at high tide on the west bank and another similar though not so deep sandbank on the Bosham side, navigation was a matter of local knowledge and great skill.

“Are we expecting more company?” Gyrth asked unemotionally. “Bad enough having that fusty bishop staying with us uninvited these last two days.” He was referring to Stigand who was desperately hustling support for his possible elevation to the bishopric of Winchester. He had arrived at Bosham unannounced and uninvited, irritating the younger members of the family whose natural exuberance was curtailed by his dour presence.

“We can be rid of Stigand,” Beorn remarked, shading his eyes against the glare of sunlight to see the ship better. “All we need to say is that we categorically oppose his elevation. With Edward presently disagreeing with everything we even think, Stigand will be offered the position at once.” They all joined in Beorn’s laughter.

“Now that he has declared himself wholehearted for the King and turned his back on the Dowager Queen, without doubt he will get Winchester anyway,” Godwine answered. He too narrowed his eyes to peer along the sea channel. His sight was not as sharp as it once had been. “There is no one else suitable; it is too rich a bishopric for Edward to risk putting in anyone who will not back him should Rome decide to poke her nose too far over our English Church boundary.” Referring to the ship: “Can any of you make out her standard? Edward has a poor stomach for the Pope’s interferences, as much as the rest of us.”

“Save for Champart,” Beorn interjected quietly.

“He does not count,” Gyrth said with certainty. “He’s a Norman.”

“He wants a bishopric for himself,” Beorn answered. “Winchester would suit him nicely.”

“Aye, but he does not suit the English. Even Leofric and Siward would object to his proposal.”

“Which is why Stigand will get Winchester,” Godwine concluded. “He must court the King’s earls, however, because he is too modest a man to assert himself for such a prestigious promotion.” They all chuckled. Stigand was even more opinionated and presumptuous than Robert Champart.

Harold, squinting, could make out a vague black shape across the square pendant fluttering from the head of the single mast. Was it a raven, or… “Bugger! It’s a black boar. Swegn has come home.”

Reaction was mixed. Gyrth grinned—the younger boys idolised Swegn’s breathtaking rebelliousness and appreciated his bursts of ostentatious generosity. Godwine was relieved. They could sort out the unfortunate business of this wretched abbess woman at last, begin restoring the good name of the family. Beorn exchanged a wry look with Harold. Neither of them wanted to meet Swegn: Harold because he knew his brother would upset Edyth, Beorn because Swegn would argue over the land that Edward had confiscated and given him instead—that the King had done so deliberately, to set cousin against cousin, would be lost on Swegn.

Harold held his hand out to his son. “Come on, boy, we had better get you back to your mother, she will be wanting to wash that dirt from your face and knees.” Edyth would not be pleased at Swegn’s arrival. Her temper was understandably short these last few days, without the added frustration of being civil to a bastard like Swegn. Once the child was born she would feel better in her mind, spirit and body.

Goddwin’s face puckered. “I want to see the big boat!” he screamed, throwing himself down on the ground, pummelling it with fists and feet.

“Not this boat, you don’t.” Beorn answered for his cousin, bending down to lift the boy bodily by the waist. “This is a pirate ship carrying a captain who eats little boys like you for his breakfast.”

***

By late afternoon, Godwine’s manor house was suffused with an atmosphere of sharp, barely held tempers. The bright sun of the morning had given way to rain clouds and a blustering wind, driving everyone within doors. Swegn and Beorn, as the younger man had mentally predicted, had quarrelled viciously within the first hour. Godwine’s patience had rapidly deteriorated once he realised his eldest son did not regret the embarrassment he had caused the family. Eadgifu herself was still attempting to stifle her tears at the hostility that now raged between Swegn and his father, and Gytha had sharply reprimanded her husband for upsetting the woman, which had enraged Godwine and embarrassed Eadgifu further. Matters were made worse by the baby that she carried in her arms.

No one had been expecting a child. Worse, the boy had colic. His knees drawn up to his chest, his tiny fists bunched and mouth open, he screamed his discomfort throughout the heated family row. To add to the difficulties, Alfrytha was running a fever and Edyth’s baby had decided to initiate its entrance into the world.

Swegn sat, his boots stretched leisurely towards the hearth fire. He would have preferred the privacy of his father’s chamber, but his mother had commandeered it for the birth of this wretched child. Every so often sounds emanated from that direction, or a woman bustled in or out for linen or water. He could not understand why there must be such a fuss. Animals just got on with it.

Beorn sat opposite, whittling a new dagger handle; Godwine was hunched over a scrolled parchment, his nose bent close to the writing. Harold prowled the Hall, fiddling with the tapestries and shields covering the walls, trimming a smoking candle.

His restless pacing irritated Swegn. “For the good Christ’s sake, man, sit down!” he snapped as Harold passed within a few feet for the fourth time. “The woman’s only in childbirth.”

“Unlike you, Brother, I happen to think much of my lass. She has not carried this babe well, I fear for her safety during her confinement.”

“So you think I don’t care for Eadgifu?” Swegn retaliated, tossing his head towards the side of the Hall where she sat nursing the child. “You are not the only whoreson capable of loving a woman, you know.”

“Love? Lust would be nearer the mark.”

Beorn raised his eyebrow to the low ceiling. Another storm coming.

“Had you cared for Eadgifu,” Harold continued, coming to a halt before Swegn and knocking his feet from the bricks of the hearth surround with his own foot, “you would never have abducted her, have subjected her to such humiliation.”

Swegn rose lazily to stand before his brother. “She came willingly once she realised the warmth of my bed was preferable to the tight-arsed solemnity of that prison they call a nunnery. Before this damned babe came along Eadgifu was as full of lust as I.” He turned away, murmured, “She’s not ice frigid like your little bitch.”

Harold heard. Lurching forward, he grabbed hold of Swegn’s shoulder and hurled him backwards, his fist bunching ready to slam into his brother’s sneering face. Godwine and Beorn moved as quickly, the one to take hold of his eldest son, the other to clutch at his cousin’s arm. Others in the Hall looked up; several of Godwine’s and Harold’s housecarls getting to their feet, their hands going automatically to their dagger blades. Eadgifu, too, looked across at Swegn. Wondered, like so many times since last May, why she had agreed to stay with him.

“No fighting!” Beorn shouted. “Not at the birth of your child, Harold, it would bring bad luck.”

“Aye,” Harold breathed heavily. “Bad luck for my brother.”

A scream came from above. Harold forced his hands and shoulders to relax, dragged his eyes from the door through which he so desperately wanted to go, to be with Edyth, helping her through her time of pain—but what could he do? She was about women’s business, where there was no place for a man. He snatched up his cloak from where it lay across a bench, swung it about his shoulders. “I’ll be in the stables should anyone want me.”

The Hall settled again, the rapid flare of excitement over. Beorn collected up his whittling knife and the deer antler he was carving. “I have things I ought to do before the meal is served,” he said, not having much care to stay in Swegn’s ill-willed company if Harold was not there.

Setting his stool straight, Swegn sat, concentrating on the good taste of his wine. He had missed the pleasure of such fine stuff these past months. They had thought him to be in Flanders all this while, enjoying Count Baldwin’s court, but in fact he had been in Ireland. Cold, wet, rain-misted Ireland. The place was almost as inhospitable as Wales. He had regretted the impulse to take Eadgifu within a few weeks; it had seemed a good idea at the time, but once her belly had started swelling with the child and she could no longer be a bed-mate, he had tired of her.