I Am the Chosen King (2 page)

Waltham

To Harold, in his happiness, the sky was a bright blue and the sun shone with the full warmth of midsummer. No matter that in reality the spring day was dull, with a distinct damp chill, accompanied by a wind that tugged at his cloak with the persistence of a bored child trying to attract attention. He was the new-acclaimed Earl of East Anglia, and no grey clouds or sullen spatter of rain was going to spoil his delight. The prestigious title had been bestowed upon him with full honour during the two days of Council following Edward’s coronation at Winchester—Earl! The two eldest sons of Godwine of Wessex were now made earl—a fine reward indeed for a family so loyal to the royal line.

The smile beamed wide upon Harold’s face as he rode with his father, brothers Swegn and Tostig, and all their escort, beside the ambling river. In his one and twentieth year he was now set equal to Swegn, his elder by two years, and to those proud, dominating lords at court, most especially the Earls of Northumbria and Mercia, both sharp rivals and vociferous opponents of Harold’s father.

Of course, Leofric of Mercia had denounced Harold’s election. There was already an imbalance, he had protested; Godwine was Earl of Wessex and his first-born, Swegn, Earl of the Welsh Borders—and now the second son was to be granted East Anglia, Essex, Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire? Harold ran his hand along his stallion’s crested neck and grinned. Earl of East Anglia, Essex, Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire…ah, did that not have a splendid ring to his ears!

Disregarding the opposition, Edward had awarded the earldom where he and the rest of his council had seen fit. The alternative? Leofric’s son. Godwine, for all his obsession with protocol and duty, was preferable to the ill-humoured Lord of Mercia and his scowling son. Edward might spend over-much time on his knees before God’s altar, and prefer the thrill of hunting deer to the necessary duties of state, but he was no fool regarding Mercia. Leofric’s seed would never be as trusted as Godwine’s brood, for all their inter-family squabbling and petty rivalry.

There were some who privately whispered, and as many who openly scoffed, that the Godwines—father and six sons, the daughter counted for naught—sought only power and wealth, and would lie and murder and cheat without pause for their own gain. Hah! With the recent swinging changes of kingship and the chances available for anyone who could think straight, ride fast and use a sword to its best advantage—who would not?

Godwine and his sons shared another advantage, one that Leofric and all the others did not. Earl Godwine, or so his Saxon mother had claimed, held Wessex blood in his veins. Not as thick or potently royal as that of this recent-crowned king, but it was there, she had insisted. Watered down, blended and subdued by time it might be, but Godwine could claim, albeit distantly, to be kindred to the Great King Alfred and, through his lineage, could trace back to the dawn-time of the Saxon kings, to the first king of Wessex, Cerdic himself. There were some who still told the story around the hearth fires on a blustery winter’s night, that Cerdic was descended from a noble king of the British. From a time before the Saxons had come to England in their longships from across the sea, before they had built their new farmsteadings, raised new-planted crops and nurtured their new-born children. That British king, the tale-tellers said in their light, sing-song voices, had been called Arthur. Harold had no idea whether Arthur belonged to the realm of reality or myth. Whichever, his was a good story, passed from father to son, mother to daughter. It was cheering to know that your blood might carry a trace of such a heroic lord.

“Look at that little slut hiding beneath the trees! Does she think we are so blind that we cannot see her?”

Harold’s idling thoughts interrupted, the glow of pleasure dimmed as he glanced to where his brother Swegn pointed. Beneath the sweep of willows dressed in their new, spring-bright array, on the far bank of the Lea river, a girl, huddled small, with legs curled beneath her, fingers clamped around the muzzle of a rough-coated dog to keep it from barking, Harold had already seen her a few moments past; had watched her scurry beneath the shelter of the trees, dragging the dog with her, intent on not being seen by the group of men on horseback. Trust Swegn to notice her also.

“Some lazy servant girl I would wager, lurking here to meet a secret lover. Hah, I would have her whipped.” As ever, Swegn’s words were snarled; he said little that did not have an edge of sneering contempt to it. His expression was always puckered, as if there were some putrid smell constantly beneath his nose.

The younger of the three, Tostig, lobbed an insult back at him. “Only whip her, brother? What? Would you not force her first?”

Anger instantly aroused, Swegn raised his riding whip. Earl Godwine’s rumble of disapproval coming as immediate. “Calm your fire, boy, and you.” He turned with a glare to his third-born son. “Keep your moralistic tongue to yourself.”

The two brothers glowered at each other, but the petty argument was ended. None of the brood would dare oppose their father; all had tasted the sting of his belt across their backs merely for a wrong word, a wrong glance. Godwine was the son of Wulfnoth, a Saxon thegn turned pirate, who ruled his family with a sternness that would have put his father’s seafaring hard-headedness to shame.

They looked much alike, these three eldest sons, had the same slight-curled fair hair, wore the same style moustache, although Tostig’s had yet to mature to its full lustre and thickness. Blue eyes, firm chins, muscular but lean bodies. Like their father, they were tall men, although perhaps Harold stood an inch or so the tallest. Only their characters made it difficult to believe that the three had been born from the same womb, set there by the same seed. Harold, despite his love of hunting and tendency to follow the easiest course through life, was conscientious, just and even-tempered. He was quick to laugh and the first to admit his own many faults. Tostig, at eighteen, was impatient to grow into the responsibilities of manhood, but was not as quick-witted as others of the family and resented the advantages held by his two elder brothers; while Swegn, arrogant and sour in mind and tongue, was contemptuous of all who dared cast a shadow over his path. Some maggot had surely wormed its way in with his begetting! Swegn was brash and quick to reach for anger, and often, coming close behind, for a dagger or sword.

Harold’s fist had tightened round the rein, jerking his stallion’s head higher. Twice already this day Swegn and Tostig had come close to exchanging blows. Harold was becoming sickened of these squabbles. He had only glimpsed the girl, the river was five and forty—fifty—yards across, yet he had clearly seen the alarm on her face, and that she was no drab of a serving girl. There had been a flash of gold from bracelets on her arms and her cloak, bright-coloured, was surely fine-woven.

The dogs, sniffing and circling ahead of the horses, set a brace of wild duck into a shrill of whirring wings and raucous quacking. The brindle bitch snapped at tail feathers, her darker, quicker daughter fastening her jaws around the other bird’s neck. Tostig and Swegn spurred their horses forward, beat at the dogs with their whips, the younger man leaping from his horse to retrieve the bird before it became too torn and bloody. He tossed the carcass to a servant, remounted. They were a distance further along the track by now, the horses jogging and prancing at the sudden scatter of excitement, the girl forgotten. Harold was the only one to turn round, take a last look at those secretive willows that rippled beside the ambling waters. She had gone, taking her chance to dart through the sweep of leaf and branch.

And then he saw her again, briefly, as she ran across the new green of the common-land meadows, heading for a thicker belt of forest trees, a protection of oak and beach and hornbeam. His smile returned, and the happiness bounced back into his chest. He was an earl and he had come to see for himself the lands that had been granted him. A nuisance that his father and brothers had insisted on riding with him, but for all that, the days ahead beckoned with a promise of excitement and adventure.

They would rest tonight with the thegn Eadric of Nazeing and when Harold had toured all his earldom and seen all there was to see he would consider where to build a house. A fine manor, an estate fit for a new, young earl.

And maybe he would also find a wife to give that manor the necessary comforts of a home…or at least, if not a wife, a suitable woman to keep the bed-place warm.

The dog, a great-pawed, tawny-coloured hound, bounded at the girl’s side, ears flapping, tail whipping. The girl ran fast, her skirt gathered in her hand. Her legs, Harold fancied, would be long and slender. A slim ankle, a shapely calf.

She ran with a swirl of fine, sun-gold hair and fluttering from her shoulders a cloak that was coloured as bright, and as bold, as the startling blue of a kingfisher’s feathers.

Nazeing

That the riders were the guests expected by her father Edyth had no doubt. Looking back from her vantage point halfway up the hillside, she saw them cross the river by way of the stone bridge and take the eastward track. To entertain Earl Godwine and his sons was an honour—three earls would bed beneath their humble roof this night—but Edyth could not suppress the thought that, surely, her father was not the only thegn in all Essex who had fought with Godwine twenty and five years ago? Was there not some other steading they could have made use of?

She would never reach home before them; they were mounted on good horses and she had over three miles to walk, much of it uphill. She should never have come so far, of course, not when her mother had so much to prepare for the arrival of these important visitors. The quiet of the river had always been so alluring, though, and anyway, Thor had needed the exercise. He was a big dog, prone to boredom and a fat belly, the former a fault shared by Edyth herself.

She ought to be as pleased at their coming as was her father, but she could only think of these brash, hard-voiced men as an intrusion. Her mother was flustered and anxious, the servants and slaves scuttling about…the peace of the farm had been shattered so carelessly by the arrival of a messenger, last evening, on his big, black horse.

Guilt and the knowledge that her mother would have sharp words waiting for her made Edyth run at first, arms pumping, head back, her long legs covering the ground, fair hair tossing like wind-strewn dandelion seeds. Thor bounded at her side, enjoying the excitement, but the ground was rising and Edyth soon slowed to a jog, a walk, then an amble. The dog paddled into a ditch to drink; absently Edyth put her hand to his great head as he came back beside her, water dripping from his lolling tongue, her fingers fondling the silk of his ears. For eleven years they had roamed these woods and fields together, swum in the river, dozed in the heat of the sun or sat, shivering with fear, beneath the boom of a wild thunderstorm. Thor was a trusted friend, who had listened to her dreams and doubts, shared her laughter and tears. Although, perhaps, he had been more attentive to scratching at his fleas than to the sound of her voice. Her father had put him, a rain-sodden, lost and frightened pup, into her lap when she was just turned four years of age. Edyth loved her dog, but was not much interested in men. There would be more of them sniffing around, keen to claim her dowry, she supposed, now that she was fifteen. The Hall would be full of guests tonight: would her father listen to any who took advantage of this opportunity to speak for her? Perhaps not: he would be too occupied with his important visitors.

Her father proudly boasted that he had once saved Earl Godwine’s life, when they had fought in support of the old king’s claim to the English crown. Cnut, that had been, Cnut the Dane. He was fond of storytelling, her father, entertaining the household well on those long winter evenings, when it seemed that the sun had forgotten to return, although, as Edyth’s mother the Lady Ælfthryth often remarked, he had an inclination to imagine gold where there was only copper or bronze. Edyth assumed, however, that there was an element of truth to the tale of how her father’s axe had turned a sword from a blow that would have split Godwine’s head in two. He had certainly been granted a handsome reward: raised to the status of thegn and awarded sufficient gold coin to leave his meagre acreage in Wessex and set himself up instead within the fertile farmland of this, the Lea Valley. A prudent man, a good farmer and a careful lord, he had soon acquired more land and enough wealth for Edyth, his only child, to become a prize worth the winning.

Godwine and his sons—one of them the new-made Earl of East Anglia—would be at the steading by now. Her father would have come out to greet them, his smile and arms wide. The horses would be settled in the stables; wine, bread and cheese offered—the main meal of the day would come later, at dusk. She ought to have been there for their arrival. Her father would be annoyed with her, for he liked to show off his daughter. She had not minded that when his friends had merely smiled at her with the distracted indulgence of an adult to a child, but since her body had flowered into young womanhood, she had not much liked the new look that had come into their eyes, nor the surreptitious groping of her buttocks or breasts whenever her father or mother were not watching. A few months past—Yule, it had been—a freeholder from a neighbouring farm had cornered her around the back of the barn, pinned her against the wall and planted his wet, slobbering lips over hers.

Edyth scowled. He would not try that again in a hurry! She had brought her knee up, sharp, into where it had hurt. The scowl twitched into an amused smile that swarmed into a burst of laughter. Her father had never understood why the wretched man had gone off down the lane hobbling and howling without the courtesy of a farewell. She broke into a jog-trot again, Thor racing ahead. From behind the copse of trees she could see the dancing trails of hearth and cooking-fire smoke, curling and weaving up to meet the sullen, lead-grey sky.

The yard, muddy and rain-puddled, was busy with slaves and servants. Goodness, but the presence of these three earls was stirring up a nest of ants! Edyth picked her way through the ruts, sidestepping horse and cattle dung. Twice, servants warned her that her parents had been seeking her.

“You’ll be in trouble, lass, if you don’t get inside quick!” Cuthbert, the herdsman, chided her as she skipped past. For all his scolding, his eyes twinkled and his lips smiled.

“I could tell them I was delayed helping you with the cows,” she retorted with an impudent grin.

“Aye, you could, but you will not.”

Edyth smiled, put up her hand to push open the great oak door that led into her father’s modest-built Hall. No, she would not. Her father—and Cuthbert—had tutored her well. As the sole heir to wealth and land she could read and write, reckon the accounts and speak the Danish tongue as well as her own English. From her mother she knew how to weave a cloak and sew a garment; what herbs were needed to flavour a venison stew or cure a wound or cough. She knew the scriptures of Christ and that the highest sin was the dishonour of a lie.

Thor padded into the high-roofed timbered building beside her, his body pressing tighter against her skirts as he scented the presence of strangers. Edyth tucked her hair behind her ears, took a breath to steady her nerve and set a brave smile to her lips. She bobbed a curtsey as the men turned, wine in hand, to stare at her, her father exclaiming, “Why, here she is at last, my wayward imp!”

There were many hastily invited guests gathered within; prominent among them a tall, broad-shouldered man, his stomach showing the first signs of a paunch that was beginning to climb over his tunic belt, his face, firm-jowled and moustached, framed by waves of fair, slightly curled hair, his blue, piercing eyes staring from a gruff expression. Earl Godwine it must be. Not a man to cross. Beside him, three young men; from their likeness to him, his sons. One, the youngest, was scowling. His boredom evident, he turned away as he realised the newcomer was a girl, no one of interest.

Forcing her smile to remain wide and welcoming Edyth walked forward, her fingers brushing Thor’s rough coat for reassurance. Why was she so shy of men? The other girls from down in the village of Nazeing, the daughters of farmers and servants, were so at ease with the opposite sex. Some, indecently so. Elsa, Gunnor’s daughter, no more than a few months her senior—unwed—was with child. Edyth would never have the courage to be so intimate with a man! She dreaded the prospect of marriage.

The two elder sons were taller than their father by two or three fingers, leaner, one with hair a shade darker than the usual Danish corn-gold colouring. Their mother, Godwine’s wife, was from Denmark, her brother had been husband to Cnut’s sister. Earls in their own right and blood kindred of Viking nobility—no wonder these two had such presence. Edyth wondered which one of them was Earl of East Anglia.

The darker-haired one twitched a mild smile at her, but the other brother, peering from beneath heavy, frowning eyebrows, gestured at her with his tankard, slopping wine over the brim. “By God, you’re the whore we saw by the river!”

Sound and movement ceased. Servants froze. Lady Ælfthryth audibly caught her breath, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Eadric stood, his mouth open, the words that had been about to introduce his beloved daughter stilled. The insult burned red into Edyth’s cheeks, the silence stretching into an embarrassment of eternity.

Then the man with the darker hair tactfully brushed his brother aside, stepped up to the girl, took her hand and formally bowed. His smile was genuine, more than just an upturn of the mouth, coming from the laughter that glistened behind his penetrating eyes. “No, brother, you are mistaken,” he said, his voice rumbling, pleasant and soothing, like the sound of rippling waves caressing the shore. This is no village whore I see before me. With these sapphire eyes and flawless white skin, this lady has the beauty of a swan-maid.” He took her hand, brushed her palm, lightly, with his lips. “I am Earl Harold.” His gaze touched hers, lingered for a long moment, before he bowed again. “Your servant, my Lady.”

And all was well, the noise of chatter and laughter resuming. The Hall was full of Eadric’s neighbours from the valley and the upland forest who had come, eager, to meet their new overlord, Harold Godwinesson. Land-folk, freehold farmers, a few of Eadric’s own tenants, the priest from the village of Nazeing and Abbot Osbert from the little chapel at Waltham; the smith, a giant of a man with muscles as strong as an oak tree. The potter, the cooper and the fuller, the stench of his occupation forever clinging to him. Servants bustled about their duties, pouring wine, setting the trestle tables and benches, where soon the guests would sit and eat and drink. A forgotten hen scratched at the earth floor in the far corner, the dogs jostled for the best places beneath the tables or near the hearth fire.

Edyth blushed, ducked her head from Harold’s gaze. Liked the warm, excited feel that he roused within her.

***

Swegn lurched into the side of the barn, cursed as a prominent timber-edge stabbed his shoulder, the oath followed by a belch. He would say one thing for Eadric the thegn, he certainly hosted a fine table!

After the brightness within doors it was dark out here, the night overcast, carrying a threat of more rain. The cool air slapped his hot cheeks, sobering him slightly as he strode along the narrow path, but it was slippery, and after only two unsteady paces his foot skidded in the mud. The latrine pit was somewhere over to the left, beside the high boundary fence, too far to walk in this slime. Swegn turned to face the barn wall, relieved himself against its timbers.

“So, you persist in bringing discredit to our host. Could you not hold yourself until you reached the proper place?”

Swegn looked up, but made no effort to stop the stream of urine. Finished, he readjusted his clothing and said caustically to his brother, “I care not for muddying my boots. What difference is there between a dog or a man piddling against a wall?”

Harold’s smile as he walked on was sardonic. “In your instance, none at all.”

Swegn took a few steps away from the barn, heading back towards the Hall and another goblet of Eadric’s fine-brewed ale. Many guests had already returned to their homes, for the feasting was finished and it was growing late; only a few remained, those who lived close by, or who had elected to curl into their cloaks before the hearth fire. For those who warranted them the servants had already set the bed-places ready, hay-stuffed mattresses laid within the alcoves that ran to either side of the aisled Hall. Swegn intended to sit drinking with his father and their host for most of the night. If there was no woman to companion him, what point in seeking a bed?

He stopped, then pivoted to call to his brother’s back, the night masking the ugly sneer on his face. “Then we run as a pack, you and I. Your tail has been wagging at that little swannhaels, that swan-maid bitch, all evening, has it not?”

Harold ignored him. Deep in his drink Swegn was an unpleasant man; sober, he was not much improved. The shy lass, Edyth, had amused Harold. A quiet, gentle child—no, young lady—who had blushed whenever he had caught her looking at him. It had amused him to intercept her frequent glances when he reached for bread, salt, ale or meat. Easy to make that rush of crimson flood into her pretty cheeks. All he had to do, it seemed, was smile at her. He had deliberately teased her, although it had been unfair of him, a man of his age, tormenting a young lass so. Trust Swegn, seated to the left of their own father, also to notice her flush. Whistling, Harold sauntered down the hill to the latrine. Aye, the path was muddy and only dim lit, but he would not dishonour his host’s steading by piddling against the barn wall.

Reflecting on the feasting, Harold decided he very much liked the man Eadric—as his father had told him he would. Liked, also, the respect and courtesy that had been offered him from the thegn and his guests. Liked the importance that this earldom brought him. As the second-born son of the King’s most senior adviser, he had expected to be granted such a position at some time in the future, but he was still young. To be awarded the responsibility of an area the size of East Anglia was a daunting prospect, which would be made easier if the thegns and minor nobles all turned out to be as pleasant, and welcoming, as Eadric.

There was another man relieving himself in the cesspit. Harold joined him at its turfed edge, wrinkling his nose at the noisome smell. Tomorrow, after so many had used it, the place would be filled, a new hole dug. A sobering thought passed through Harold’s mind. Some men were born to higher status than others, some with more wit, others with greater strength and ability, but when all was weighed in the sight of God, all men, whether earl or servant, needed to piss into the same latrine.

***

Opening the side door, Swegn, already ruffled from bruising his shoulder and from his brother’s chiding, growled as he found his path blocked by someone coming the opposite way. A dog thrust past his legs. Swegn stood, glowering, refusing to move. He was an earl. He did not step aside, especially not for a chit of a girl.