I Am the Chosen King (22 page)

Coming to the end of the row of birds, Edward indicated the door leading to the courtyard. They had inspected the hounds earlier—that bitch the Duke had sent was a superb example of a hunting dog—long, clean limbs, alert eyes and ears, slim head, muscular body and quarters. If William was as good a judge of people as he was of dogs, then aye, he should go far. Edward turned to Godwine as the group returned for refreshment within the King’s Hall. “Eustace informs me that the Duke seeks alliance with England. I intend to agree his proposition.”

“Council ought be consulted where any truce with a foreign power is suggested,” Godwine stuttered. God’s truth, why forge an alliance with an insignificant such as Normandy? What could that small duchy possibly offer England in return?

“On what terms, sir?” Harold asked. He had not wanted to join the royal party this afternoon, his thoughts still concentrated on his daughter, but after the disagreeable arguments of the morning he guessed it would not be politic to refuse the King’s invitation. And what more could he do to alleviate her suffering? The physicians had done all they could, had told him it was only a matter of time before God took her to His heart. At least in heaven she would smile again, would be relieved of her pain. It all seemed so futile, though, standing here talking of hounds, hawks and allegiance with a poxed upstart who had no care for England, beyond what would be useful for himself.

Eustace de Boulogne answered for Edward confidently: “In return for England’s affection and support, the Duke offers to censure all who use his harbours with the intention of prevailing upon your coast. He will attempt to forbid any piracy emanating from Normandy.”

Edward nodded in enthusiastic approval. “We welcome such assurance. Is it not a fortuitous alliance, Earl Harold?”

Harold caught the gruff expression on his father’s face, the scepticism that flooded Edith’s. Could Edward not see that only empty air was on offer here? “Censuring and attempts at control are not binding conditions. We would require something more solid were we to ally ourselves with territory rife with rebellion and bloodshed.”

Eustace, blustering, attempted to make a counter-remark, but Edward interrupted. “Nonsense, Duke William is my own kindred. I have every faith in his word. England is plagued by those who wantonly use his harbours for their own gain.” Edward placed a light kiss on each of Eustace’s cheeks. “On your return to Normandy you will take word that I welcome your duke’s offer and that I warmly embrace him as my beloved kinsman and friend. Tell him that I have not forgotten the succour and kindness that Normandy gave me. So long as he looks to England’s best interest, he will always be made welcome within my realm.”

Boulogne beamed, delighted. It had been so easy to capture Edward’s friendship and trust. Almost too easy.

Edward turned to his two earls and his wife, expecting approval; met instead, stony silence.

“It is prudent to close the Norman coast to our enemies,” Godwine responded with patient tact. “I wonder if the Duke could also influence Flanders to do likewise?”

Edith had no such inclination to be tactful. Must she endure more of this sickening embarrassment? To be wife to this…imbecile. There was no other word for him. Well did she realise, now, what Queen Emma had suffered during those interminable years of marriage to this fool’s father. It made her sick to her stomach to listen to the drivel that washed from his lips, the naïveté that swivelled in his empty-brained head. “Duke William,” she announced, “seeks your alliance, Edward, not for England’s well-being but because he is desperate to gain favour with influential friends of the Pope. He is threatened with excommunication for continuing his bid to wed Baldwin’s youngest daughter. Once he has her, he will show no more interest in the safety of our coast. Indeed, he may well encourage those sea-wolves, for I have no doubt he shares in their booty.”

Edward thrust his face at her, a scowling mask of hatred. What did this damned woman know of politics or government? How dare she interfere? “Go back to your loom, madam. I do not require to hear gossip from your tattle-telling lips.”

Tartly Edith retaliated. “I am not a gossip. I am telling you the facts. The Duke is set on defying the Pope’s ruling. It is not fitting for a man of your beliefs to ally with one who is soon to be excommunicated from the Church.”

Edward was not alone in cursing Edith’s interference.

“You may doubt my Lord William’s intention,” Boulogne said fiercely, his small eyes narrowing at Edith. “Let me assure you there is no duplicity.” With deliberation he turned back to the King and bowed deeply. “If it pleases you to have assurance of our sincerity in this, I am willing, on my Duke’s behalf, to place my young grandson into your personal keeping.”

The giving of a hostage; a common strategy. How simply had Eustace’s planning worked! “A child of your blood kindred”—Eustace smiled at Edward, his wheedling tone not lost on Edith—“would surely be most welcome within a childless court?”

Edith clenched the rage within her teeth. So she was right in this. That was indeed this odious man’s aim. Unless a son was born to her and Edward—and that did not seem likely—at his death the nearest in blood kindred would stand good chance of gaining the crown. Ralf de Mantes, Edward’s nephew, the son of Eustace’s wife by her first marriage, was at this moment proclaimed ætheling, a man throne-worthy to be considered next for king. But why not Edward’s great-nephew? A kingdom was a wondrous lure for an ambitious grandsire.

For his own part, Edward thought he had more sense than either his wife or earls credited him with. He had divined Eustace’s intentions from the first day of the Count’s ostentatious arrival two weeks past—why else would a man of his position travel abroad for an insignificant Duke, who would probably meet the wrong end of a dagger blade within the turn of a year or two? He had enjoyed Eustace’s exaggerated flattery, however. Let the ass believe he had wooed and won the King of England, set his fledgling into the nest like a cuckoo. Here was a way to slam a door into the faces of both Godwine and Edith together, and neither could murmur a word against it.

“It is a good offer,” he declared, with a delightful clap of his hands. “The child will come to my court and I shall nurture him as if he were my own son.” Then he hurled his full spite at Edith: “After all, in that respect, my wife shall remain a disappointment to us all.”

Edith’s face flushed scarlet. How dare he put blame on her, make pretence that her childless condition was of her doing! Harold reached out to clamp his hand around his sister’s wrist, shook his head with warning, advising her silence. The barb was deliberate, but now was not the time or place to pluck it from the wound.

She stared with contempt at Edward, ignoring her brother’s warning. “From what I hear of Duke William,” she said, “he is a strong-minded man, who possesses a remarkable sense of political ingenuity. He is a leader who knows how to fight for what is his. You may send your grandson to Edward’s court, Lord Eustace, but I assure you he will learn nothing from the King of manliness. Here, he will learn naught but how to live as a monk and hunt game.” Her insult was aimed direct at Edward and it hit its mark. She shook her arm free of Harold’s restraining grasp and walked away, leaving Edward to splutter his indignation, and her father to placate him.

Dover

Self-satisfaction was a gratifying emotion. The pleasure of success radiated from Eustace de Boulogne as light flows from the sun. With his grandson entrenched in the royal household and written messages from the King to Duke William in his saddle bag, his future glowed rich with promise. Duke William would be delighted with the alliance that Eustace had established on his behalf, would undoubtedly reward him well. It had occurred to Eustace that perhaps his grandson’s interests would be better served if he himself were to remain in England, but he could not bear to part with his lands and established station in life; and were he to alter allegiance from William to Edward, the Duke’s anger against him would extend across the Channel Sea.

The road to Dover was dry and throat-choking with dust, the August heat shrivelling the crops, drying the streams and rivers. Unless rain fell in England soon the harvest would be a poor one this year, not that Eustace cared for the plight of English peasants.

His men, an escort of twelve Norman knights, rode sullen and sweating, their horses lathered and in need of water. The harbour town would offer a cool breeze from the sea and, hopefully, the ship that was to carry them back into Normandy would be awaiting their arrival. Now that he was going, Eustace was eager to return home, his men also, for they had not seen their families since the early months of spring.

Where the track crossed the river ford, a boy was allowing his father’s small herd of milk-cows to drink. Eustace ordered his men to move the urchin on so that the horses might be watered. The lad, barefoot and dressed in a rough, home-spun tunic, ignored the approaching horsemen, not understanding their gruff French. The ford was wide and the water, although shallow from the drought, was there for all who travelled the road. One of the men rode his horse into the river, shouldering the cattle away, his hand gesticulating. The boy stared up at the man in his chain-mail armour, puzzled.

“Are you so insolent that you ignore my order? Move away, imbecile, before I take my sword to you!”

The boy stared at the knight’s contorted, angry face. He had heard French before, for sailors who spoke that tongue often put into the harbour, but the words meant nothing to him. He shrugged, fear widening his eyes as the knight drew his sword and pointed the gleaming blade at his throat. Turning quickly, abandoning the cattle, the lad began to run. The Normans laughed, exchanging sneering remarks on the pathetic nature of these English as they allowed their animals to drink their fill.

To their disappointment, the ship was ready but the tide was not. Eustace was annoyed, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Ordering the baggage to be sent aboard and the horses loaded, he pointed to the White Horse tavern, straddling a corner of the narrow, sewage-strewn main street. With its candles and lamps just lit, the sound of talk, laughter and singing emanating from its open doors, it appeared welcoming.

Eustace and his men sat together at a table near the door, appreciating the evening breeze and fine English ale. Two of the knights had shoved aside the group of men who already sat there, using hands and swords; the Englishmen had moved, muttering angry curses. Merchantmen, sailors, men of the sea were welcome at the White Horse; rowdy, arrogant foreigners who thought themselves superior to the local inhabitants were not.

All taverns harboured a whore who plied her trade around the ale-splashed tables. The girl at the White Horse was comely enough, although her hair was matted and greasy, her skin pock-marked and pitted with dirt. Well into their drink, two of the knights had made use of her services in the small, curtained back room. Eustace watched as a third from his party pulled back the shabby curtains and, reeling slightly, shambled across the room to join his comrades at the table, his hands fastening the lacings of his braies as he walked.

“By the virgin, that whore stinks!” he gasped, seating himself.

“She has all the necessary equipment in all the right places, though!” another cackled, simulating the shape of her bosom. “I will say one thing for Englishwomen, they are quick to lift their skirts for a proffered penny!”

“And we expect the penny to be paid!” The girl strode across to the Normans, her palm held out, flat and demanding. She spoke French well, if with an awkward accent. “I do not work for free,
monsieur
. I expect to be paid, even by a man with a pizzle as difficult to find inside your breeches as was yours.”

“Get you gone, woman! You stink more than my prize sow. When I want to pay for gagging on such a foul stench, I’ll visit the midden heap.”

The girl stepped nearer, her fist raised to strike, but her opponent was a soldier and was quickly on his feet, one hand blocking her blow, the other grasping her hair, pulling her head back. His knee came up and crunched into her belly. She doubled up, fell to the floor, clutching at the pain that burst within her. The Norman lifted a jug of ale, poured its contents over her head. “There, you have been paid! I have given you a bath and a bellyache!”

The landlord of the White Horse was a small, squat man with balding hair and pale-blue eyes that crinkled often into a cheerful smile. There was no pleasure on his face this night. Wiping his hands, he bustled from behind his serving counter. The girl was a fool, but she was popular with his customers and these crude louts were annoying him. He crossed to the window and began closing the wooden shutters. “Good sirs,” he said amiably, “I am closing, I would ask you to finish your drinks.”

“Closing?” The man who had refused to pay the whore was refilling a tankard, oblivious to her body curled on the floor and the low groan hissing from her lips. “It is but early, nor have we drunk our fill!”

Count Eustace stretched. The place was shabby and smelt of decomposing cabbage, but it was near the harbour and he had no inclination to walk further than was necessary. “I am content with this slurry pit. You will stay open.” He turned his full gaze on the innkeeper, daring him to contradict a count from Normandy. “Bring more ale.”

Although small in stature, the taverner was of Viking blood. No foreign muckrake, however noble, was going to make such rude demands of him.

“I say again, sirs, I am about to close. Finish your ale and get you from my inn.”

The whore managed to crawl out into the street. Men were making their way down to their fishing boats, preparing for the tide to turn, Englishmen of Dover who already disliked the Norman kind, who responded eagerly to the girl’s screams for help. So the Norman scum were ill-treating the landlord of the White Horse?

What began as a scuffle rapidly turned ugly. Outnumbered, the Normans battled their way to the door, into the street; in the mêlée, a candle tipped against the whore’s ragged curtain, flames engulfing it, taking hold of the dry timbers of wall and roof. Within moments the White Horse was ablaze. The innkeeper, dazed and bloodied from the savage beating the Normans had given him, staggered against an upturned table, fell. Was buried beneath the roof as it collapsed.

They ran for their lives, Count Eustace and his men, fighting off as best they could the anger of Dover. Two Normans were killed, one struck on the temple by a stone, the other, his skull split wide by the favoured English weapon, the axe.

Somehow, they reached their vessel, the Count bellowing for the crew to unship the oars and row. Anger thumped in rhythm with his pounding heartbeat; he cared naught for the several English dead, nor for the fire sending sparks into the night sky. No matter that his own people had begun the affray: the English peasants had murdered two of his men. The King must hear of it and the town made to pay compensation.

“We sail for Gloucester!” Eustace roared at the crew. “To where Edward resides with his court. I shall demand retribution for the insult paid me this night!”