I Am the Chosen King (21 page)

Caen—September 1049

Snatching the parchment from the trembling hands of his cleric and twisting it between his taut, white-knuckled fingers, William screwed the offensive letter into a ball and hurled it into the hearth fire with a bellow of rage. How dare he? How dare the Pope deny him permission to marry with Mathilda of Flanders!

Several men edged towards the open doorway leading from the great hall, those nearest managing a tactful unobserved escape. The Duke in a rage was not a man to keep company with. Yet, one man sat, unconcerned, sipping at his wine. He was dressed expensively, quality cloth covering his ample-proportioned frame, jewelled rings adorning his fingers, Comte Eustace de Boulogne had nothing to fear from William, whether in good temper or foul. At least, not while the Duke of Normandy relied on him—and should William turn nasty, as he had with others, there was always kindred by marriage to call upon for aid. Unlikely that William would, by choice, antagonise the King of England.

“Calm your passion, my dear Duke,” Eustace drawled, patting the air with his free hand. “’Twill come to nothing. The Pope must trot out his impotent authority now and then, to convince himself he sustains some small power. We all know that he cannot even keep his piss in a pot.”

“Calm myself? Are you a complete imbecile?” William lashed out with his foot, sent a stool skidding across the stone flooring, then, grasping a table in both hands, upended that as well, scattering bowls and tankards, fruit and dishes. A servant crouched down to retrieve the broken shards of a pot. William kicked him. “His Holiness declares that I cannot marry the youngest daughter of Baldwin because he has decided we are too closely related—that her fifth cousin is my aunt’s nephew’s daughter—or whatever it was.” He kicked the servant again, harder. “All my plans, all my intentions ruined, and you say ignore it?”

He had several worries on his mind, without minor details of genealogy to bother with. His mother was ill, dying, the doctors said. Why could they not do anything? Give her some stronger potion, use more effective herbs? Pah, what did these cretinous idiots know? She looked so frail…God’s truth, what was he to do when he lost her?

And there was the galling matter of Guy de Brionne. His castle had still not fallen to William’s siege. How they were surviving inside those walls since the rebellion and battle at Val-ès-Dunes no one who wished to remain sane dared to consider. For more than two years had the castle been shuttered from the outside world. Surrender must—surely—come soon, before winter returned. Daily the Duke hoped for news that it was all ended, prayed that he would not need ride there again without a victory to his name.

That rebellion was the direct cause of his presence at Caen. Two years ago it had been a village of no worth; William’s anger and determination for revenge had transformed it into an expanding town, a centre of importance. Rouen had always been regarded as Normandy’s capital—until its citizens had supported and financed Guy de Brionne. William had punished the town, its citizens, economy and status with one simple blow, by moving his capital. Caen was rising like the glory of the spring sunshine after a snowbound winter. One day it would be the foremost town of Normandy, centre of law, government and trade, the seat of the Duke. When it was built, that was. Delays, delays! The castle was being given priority: turreted, stone-built, with curtain wall and strong, impenetrable defences, but the stone for the gatehouse had not been cut straight; heavy rain had flooded the foundations; men were ill from dysentery—malingering laziness, more like!

“My Lord Duke?” Eustace’s wheedling voice roused William from his reverie. “No one with an ounce of sense in his brain, save for this particular Pope who possesses no sense whatsoever, would think anything of your minor kindred with this girl. The difficulty lies within the politics. I would consider that you are, in fact, to be congratulated.”

Scowling, William slumped into his own chair. “And how,
mon ami
, do you work that one out?”

Eustace toasted his companion with his goblet. “The Pope sides with the Emperor of Germany, who vehemently opposes Baldwin and Henry of France. If his Holiness Leo, ninth of that name, believes your marriage too great a threat to the present balance of power—as he obviously does—then you are clearly considered a man of potential danger.”

Narrowing his eyes into crinkled slits, William dissected the theory. He had a point. By God, he had a point! “The possibilities that might arise from such an alliance are ruffling a few feathers, then?
Bon
! I shall do more than ruffle. Some plucking and roasting might be most pleasing.” William rubbed his hands together, called for servants to bring fresh wine, to clear the mess strewn across the floor.

“I shall marry Mathilda, whatever Rome says. I am the duke here in Normandy, not the Pope. Let him see to his work, me to mine.”

“And if he likes it not?” Eustace asked.

William tossed his wine down his throat, aimed the empty goblet at the rounded backside of a bending servant. “Then he can go to hell!”

They laughed, Count and Duke together, but then the Count, unlike William, could afford to. If he could no longer bask in the warmth of the Duke’s reflected glory, there were always other stars to follow, his new-born grandson being one of them. Always best to collect eggs in more than the one basket. His wife was sister to Edward of England; that king had no son of his own, no heir, save for the feeble Ralf de Mantes, his wife’s son by her first marriage. One boy was as good as another to be proclaimed heir…

Eustace de Boulogne sat drinking and discussing plans with Duke William late into the night. He had negotiated this marriage and was held in high esteem by both Normandy and Flanders. A clever man, he was already working out possibilities for the future.

Some would call his ability ambition. Other greed.

Canterbury—March 1051

Inconvenient, for Edward, that two men of the Church had died within two months of each other. Difficult to accept that Eadsige, Archbishop of Canterbury, had finally succumbed after his long illness but Alfric Puttoc, Archbishop of York, called to God also? What could be the Lord’s meaning? If it was to cause as much trouble as possible regarding the appointment of two new archbishops, then the Almighty had achieved his aim. Too many people had too many candidates and opinions to proffer, and Edward was determined to hear none of it.

Harold left his lodgings to attend Council as late in the morning as he dared. Sleet was making the prospect of the day ahead more depressing, snow within the next few days seemed an inevitability. This mid-Lent calling of Council irritated everyone from cleric to earl, but archbishops for York and Canterbury had to be decided—although given that the King seemed determined to have his own way, discussion seemed pointless.

Edward was solving a succession of state problems with great economy, but whether his decisions were politically wise remained to be seen. Like his father, Harold was full of foreboding. He knew trouble for England was swelling beneath the horizon, as sensitive skin prickles when a summer storm threatens. Whether it broke out in thundering tempest or dispersed harmlessly on the wind, only the future would reveal.

Last year, at Easter, Leofric of Mercia and his supporters had argued that the naval fleet was unnecessarily large and had called for the disbandment of the Danish mercenary ships, all fourteen of them. The
Heregeld
, the tax levied to fund their upkeep, had been unpopular, and with their commander, Beorn, buried in Winchester at Harold’s expense, there appeared no reason to retain the foreign ships. No reason, save for prudence, wisdom and the possibility of invasion, but Edward was under pressure to relieve taxes and he was inclined to listen too eagerly to poor advice.

That decision had been a direct insult to the House of Wessex, followed within a month by Edward’s astonishing about-turn in allowing Swegn to return with full pardon. Mercy and forgiveness, he had professed, were the earthly tools of eternal salvation. Weakness, lenience and a lust for gold could be the downfall of kings, Harold had thought bitterly.

After that terrible murder, Beorn’s Danish men and Harold with his brothers, sister and mother had vehemently declared Swegn
nithing
—nothing, a man outside existence. Godwine himself had been devastated, had remained silent and morose for many weeks after, his hair visibly greying, weight shedding from his cheeks and body. Swegn had fled abroad. He had not been missed.

That was all in the past, for once Swegn had succeeded in purchasing Edward’s forgiveness, Godwine had with a father’s love for a favoured son welcomed him back, leaving the family bitterly divided. It was a shrewd move on the part of the King to disunite the Godwines from within, to cleave son from father, wife from husband. Adamantly, Countess Gytha had refused to acknowledge Swegn; and Harold had barely exchanged word with his father since, not even to introduce his fourth-born child, a boy, Edmund.

Edyth was with child again, her time due towards the end of the summer. God gave with one hand, took away with the other. Tucking his chin against the cold, Harold walked the short distance from their lodging place to the Canterbury Guild Hall where the electorate council for the archbishopric was to meet. As he passed, he glanced up at the stone-built archway that led into the entrance courtyard of the cathedral of Christ Church, crossed himself and murmured a brief prayer. Their daughter was dying. Little Alfrytha was losing her battle with poor health. Harold closed his eyes. He had no stomach for this wretched meeting.

Laying his sword and dagger aside, and removing his sodden cloak, he entered the Guild Hall. The meeting was begun, verbal battle already joined.

“I will not be dictated to!” Edward cried, stamping a foot almost childishly in his building rage. “It has always been the prerogative of a king to appoint his bishops!

“Of course, my Lord King, but we merely advise you to consider all options.”

Harold recognised the weariness and exasperation in his father’s voice, Godwine was wasting breath; the King’s mind was set—the complacent expression on Robert Champart’s face made that clear.

“Cleric!” Edward boomed, flagging his hand at the scribe sitting hunched over a desk, spread parchment to one side. “Make mark of this, Cynsige is to go to York, Spearhavoc removes from Abingdon to London.”

Several gasps of disapproval from Council, Edward frowned at the noise. “I appoint my cousin Rothulf in his place.”

Godwine, as senior earl present, was the only man with the courage to speak out, “Sire,” he said, struggling to hold on to his composure, “do you not consider Spearhavoc to have inadequate experience for a position such as London? He is your goldsmith…”

Edward’s hands clenched around the broad, curved arms of his chair, the knuckles whitening as he leant forward, his snarl adorned with affronted rage. “I consider him suitable. Do you doubt your king’s wisdom, my Lord Earl?”

Spearhavoc is suited to the making of that precious new crown he has presented you with, and very little else
, Harold thought sadly.
Ah, Edward, you go the way of your father; bribery and subornation are chiming the better of wise judgement.

“And Canterbury, my lord? Whom are you to appoint as archbishop in Canterbury?” asked the Queen abruptly. She sat on her husband’s right-hand side, her designated place within the Council of England, by the tradition and law of the Saxon peoples, Edith had contributed very little during the morning—indeed during the entirety of this two-day Council. Tired, lonely and bored, she trailed in Edward’s wake as if she were his barely seen, faded shadow. He paid no heed to her attempts at conversation, sneered at her suggestions for the simplest of domestic decisions—furnishing for the royal palace being built at Westminster, the co-ordination of colours for cloak and tunic. Edward was incapable of dressing with taste—yet he listened to Champart, eagerly sought his advice and direction. If she could not be wife to Edward in these homely matters, what hope had she of being heard in her role as queen? On this morning, as with many others of late, Edith found herself envying her mother-in-law’s retreat into retirement.

“The monks of Christ Church have expressed a desire for one of their own,” she reminded her husband. “Their proposed candidate, Æthelric, is a good man.”

“A choice you would naturally champion, Madam.” Edward’s reply was acerbic. “Æthelric is, after all, your father’s half-brother.” These persistent interferences from Edith were becoming more than annoying. She had not adopted the passive role that he had assumed a wife would take, nor had Godwine been subdued. The only advantage was that he did not have his earls pestering him to take a wife, as in those early days of his reign.

“I do not endorse him because of family connections, Sir!” Edith retorted. “I would remind you that I emphatically opposed your favouring of a certain member of my family.”

Was that a reason, Harold secretly wondered, why Edward had decided in favour of Swegn? To spite Edith?

Edward’s features wrinkled with displeasure as he regarded his wife. An interfering, sour-faced bitch, that’s what she was. Influenced by her arrogant father who sought to control King and Council.

Council! Huh! What need had he of the mutterings of a group of old men? England needed young minds and spirits, eyes that looked to the future, not toothless old gums that regurgitated the past. Moribund men who were as tedious as his wretched wife.

Edward’s confidence in government had increased as the years of kingship had passed. Apart from the occasional minor border or coastal raids, England had been at peace for eight years, a peace Edward was determined to see continued, if only the Council would allow him a free rein. He was King, damn it, and his word ought to be law! About time these humourless bigots realised that fact. All he need do was keep his nerve in the face of their opposition, make his decision and stick to it as firm as a spider keeps a fly caught on the web. He ruled this land, not his Council—and certainly not the family of Godwine.

“I have made my choice for archbishop.” Edward stated, his scowl focusing on Edith. “Robert Champart, Abbot of Jumièges, is to go to Canterbury.”

They had expected it, but still the clamour of outraged disapproval could have shaken the very walls of the building. All were on their feet, some shaking their fists, vociferously expressing horror that a Norman, a foreigner, should take such an exalted position. Only Edith and two men remained quietly seated: Robert himself, with an expression of self-congratulation idling across his mouth, and Harold, whose thoughts were with his daughter. Her breathing had been fragile when he had left, her skin damp. It did not seem right that God was soon to take one so young and innocent. What had she seen of the sun? To run and laugh, to find delight in the wonder that was His world

Edith sat stunned at her husband’s sublime foolishness. Could he not see that England would never accept such an appointment? Unease was already rippling through the country that too many of Edward’s Norman friends were receiving positions of high office: advisers, clerics, abbots, shire reeves and constables of law. If Edward wanted to ensure the loyalty of the land-folk he ought to promote the English-born, not the ambitious, greed-wasted friends of his exile. Champart especially would not be tolerated. Could Edward alone, among everyone within Council, court and country, not see his true character? That his fawning and grovelling was for naught but his own gain?

The protests clamoured in Edward’s ears, jangling at his nerves and temper. How dare these imbeciles dispute his decision? What right had they to challenge the crowned and anointed?

“Champart is a foreigner!”

“A Norman!”

“This is not acceptable!”

“We must have an Englishman at Canterbury!” Godwine said and Edward unleashed his fury at the Earl, who in his mind was the instigator of all discontent and disorder. It was always Godwine who barred his way—Godwine who had supported Cnut, who had made no attempt to secure the safety of the two princes, himself and Alfred.

“My mother was a Norman foreigner!” Edward shouted at Godwine. “Yet you supported her without qualm. Nor is your wife of English blood. Is it, then, one law for you, Godwine, one for me? I owe much to those in Normandy who gave me succour when England cast me aside. I remember the kindness—aye, and the hatred that my mother and you held for me.” Edward thrust himself from his seat, took three long strides to stand before Godwine. His spittle flecked the Earl’s cheeks. “Nor have I forgotten the death of my brother.”

Men had backed away, their shouts of dismay at Champart’s appointment fading into whispers. The Earl of Wessex stood alone and vulnerable before the fury of the King. How Godwine wanted to thrust a dagger into Edward’s uncompromising, shallow heart—but despite the occasional rumour and slander he was no murderer. He cared too much for his hard-won position, his wealth and family. Oppose Edward and he could lose everything.

The Earl breathed deeply, spread his hands, etched dismay and innocence into his voice and expression. “My Lord, your wisdom supersedes mine own. You are King, I am but an earl.”

“Then remember it,” Edward hissed. “You will begin by sanctioning my choice of archbishop.”

Godwine retained a calm exterior. Inside, his rage was seething. One day Edward would push him too far. This came close—to capitulate to that scheming devil Champart…but what could he say? Do?

Godwine bowed his head. “Of course, my Lord King.”

***

The King’s private residence at Canterbury was basic: practical for the necessity of government, but lacking in comfort. Several timbers of the high, arched roof beams were showing signs of woodworm and dry rot, the flooring was substantially patched. The Hall smoky, draught-riddled and stinking of damp.

Edward’s guest, his brother-in-law comte Eustace de Boulogne, thought it more representative of a swine hovel than a royal building. “Duke William builds in stone. It is more enduring, and adequately expresses power, control and strength,” he remarked casually to Godwine, as the two men strolled behind the King, inspecting his mews.

“Expresses the awareness of attack also. Protection is only required when there is vulnerability.” Godwine observed, standing back so that Boulogne might admire a particularly handsome falcon. “I have no need of stone castles in Wessex because I am not likely to be attacked from within.”

Boulogne haughtily cleared his throat. “Normandy is a young land; she perhaps has more troubles than do you.” He turned to Edward. “You have some splendid birds here, Sir, I would be honoured to purchase a nestling or two from you.”

Edward glowed at the praise; hawks and hunting dogs were his pride. “I shall arrange it—you must take something of worth back to the Duke too, in exchange for the generous gifts he sent. He is a young man of some renown, so I hear, a lad with promise.”

“He is valiant in both battle and politics. Normandy is becoming an important duchy under his hand.”

“A hand that spares not the lash, so I hear,” Queen Edith said. She passed the kestrel that had been gripping her hand back to the master falconer, removed the stout leather gauntlet that had been protecting her skin against its talons. “It is said that his ambition is over-zealous and his kindness non-existent.” She had no liking for Count Eustace, found him to be an obsequious lecher, who set his own worth above that of any other man—duke or king included—opinions not formed entirely by her own observations. Her sister-in-law Judith, Tostig’s wife, had known him in Flanders. That he was here with some private motive, beyond his official representation of Duke William, was obvious. Edith could see his ambition as clearly as his puce-coloured nose. Edward saw naught but a man interested in hunting and hawking. The fact that Eustace had a grandson born to his only child, a daughter, added weight to Edith’s suspicions. While Edward had no heir of his own seed, there would always be others coveting a crown.