I Am the Chosen King (40 page)

Allowing sufficient pause for gasps and a crackle of admiring applause, Edward passed the raised steps that would lead to the main altar and thrust out his arm to indicate an open space. “Here,” he said extravagantly, “is where I shall be laid to rest. Close to the bosom of God, where I shall sleep in peace within the sanctity of this glorious place.”

His audience nodded; no one dared comment that the abbey of Westminster was, at this moment, anything but a place of peace.

So much movement and noise! All bustle and business. Men swarming like worker ants; carriers of wood, stone, water and lime, men recruited locally and paid by the day. Skilled craftsmen were as numerous as the labourers. Carpenters, masons, stonecutters; those who mixed the mortar, their essential task demanding huge concentration. A building was, after all, only as strong as the mortar that bound it together. Mixed poor, and a wall would crumble as the rain washed and seeped and the wind buffeted. Somewhere within the network of ladders, pulleys, ramps, cranes, hoisting gear and treadmills, the architects were overseeing the transferral of the design on paper into reality.

Hammering, sawing, the squeal of rope on wood as hoists took the enormous blocks of stone from ground level up to the heights of the roof; the indignant bellowing of oxen, the roar of the blacksmiths’ bellows. Grunts and shouts, the overall swell of talk and laughter, grumbling and half-muttered swearing. The tramp of feet echoing on hollow ramp, the chink of chisel on stone, rumble of heavy-burdened wheels and the screech of metal against metal. The squeak of wheels as a man lumbered past with a laden handcart, sweat standing out on his face, biceps bulging.

And through it all, the swirl of grit, wood-chips and shavings. White stone dust on the floor, hanging in the air; layers deep along grooved edges of pillars and columns, of steps and crevices, on the sills of the windows. Dust that settled across the shoulders and in the hair of the working men.

Edward noticed a tall, stockily built man with a shock of flame-red hair standing in the centre of the nave, his back to the party, head bent over a sheaf of plans. The King called out as he hurried forward, ushering Leofwine with him: “Leofsi! Leofsi Duddesson! Come, Leofwine, you must talk with my master mason—Leofsi is a wonder with stone!”

Alditha had wandered away from Harold, was ambling down the aisled arcade of the semi-completed nave, looking up in awe at the row of arched window openings. The King had told her that every opening was to be filled with glass; some were to have small panes of coloured glass that would send ripples of colour over the stone floor when the sun shone through, like a rainbow dancing within doors. She did not see the abandoned coil of rope. Her foot caught, she tripped, falling forward on to her knees with a startled cry—and Harold was there at her side, too late to stop her fall, but quick enough to break its full impact. She glanced up, saw his concern, his smile. Smiled back. “How clumsy of me,” she said, allowing him to help her to stand. “I was studying the windows. It will look so beautiful when it is all finished. Like I imagine heaven to be.”

“Without the rubble and the noise, I trust? ’Tis difficult to imagine the monks singing among this shouting and banging. Are you hurt?”

“No, just a little shaken.” Why was she being pleasant to him? Why was she smiling, her heart fluttering? Foolishness! She must not let herself fall in love with this rugged-featured, strong-muscled man with eyes as tranquil as a mountain pool washed by moonlight. But for the love of God, how could she bear being married instead to some fat-bellied old man, or an untried beardless youth?

She half turned her back and raised her skirt. Her stocking was torn and a dribble of blood trickled from a cut to her knee. She dropped the hem of her gown, busied herself with brushing off the dust and setting her veil straight. She was not a woman who dwelt on the unfairness of life. From birth the roll of the die was weighted against a woman, so why make the hardship worse? If the taste was bitter, swallow it down quickly and make the most of the honey whenever it happened along.

Gruffydd had been delighted to acquire Alditha for his own, but saw no deeper than her unblemished skin and the curves of her body. Beyond using her in his bed, he had barely noticed her. Few women expected ought else from a husband, but the hope, the dream that love might come, was always there.

Harold took her arm, bringing her back to the present with a startled jolt, and suggested they could take the opportunity to steal away. Edward was halfway along the length of the nave, would not see them leave.

“I suggest we seek your maid, get that knee cleansed and salved.”

Alditha blushed. He had noticed, then, must have also seen her torn stocking. She had heard from the whispers at court—there were always whispers, some kindly, most not—that Harold rarely missed much detail concerning a maiden.

Goddwin Haroldsson was skulking in what would become the cloisters. He watched, angry, as his father escorted Alditha back towards the palace, their arms linked, his father’s head bent attentive.

It was not right! Was not fair! His father already had one woman to love, what need had he of another? While he, Goddwin, was saddled with a sour-faced complaining sow! He walked with a quick, purposeful stride towards the stables, called for his horse, mounted and set off at a fast trot. Both his father and the King would be furious when they discovered that he had left Westminster without permission, but his stomach was full of court. He was going home.

***

Linking his fingers and stretching his arms above his shoulders, Harold eased the ache of a long day from tired muscles. “My eldest son is, I think, somewhat annoyed with me.”

“Lose a game, gain a game. Our sister is delighted. You have brought a glow into the face of the Welshman’s widow.” Leofwine lay on the bed, his long, lean body taking up the entire length. He still wore his boots. “Edith has plans for you, mark my meaning, big brother! She has never been content to let a man lie where it pleases him.”

Harold scowled. “I have resisted her attempts to marry me off to some wealthy hag all these years.” The scowl broke into a more amused expression. “She was so certain I would tire of Edyth Swannhæls, cannot forgive that I have disappointed her and would do anything to entice me into a marriage she approved of.”

Leofwine folded his hands behind his head and grinned mischievously. “So you are not attracted to a certain dark-haired widow-woman then?”

“Of course I bloody am! I’d lay her tonight if I were not Earl of Wessex with my honour to uphold—and she were not the sister of Eadwine, Earl of Mercia!”

Reaching out for the tankard of ale that stood on the table beside the bed, Leofwine saluted his brother with it. “So Goddwin does have ground for jealousy!”

Harold conceded the point. “Why do you think I’m so damned embarrassed about what to do with his behaviour!” He was intrigued by Alditha, was attracted to her…perhaps if he did not have Edyth he would have courted her, but as it was, Goddwin’s fears for his father making a fool of himself and his mother being hurt were unfounded. At this moment there was no one to challenge his status of authority as Earl of Wessex, second-in-command to the King; he had no need to seek new kin to assure his position. Tostig ruled in the North, outside Mercia, Gyrth and Leofwine controlled between them much of the rest of England. When Edward passed to God the situation might alter; then, to keep their place, the family Godwinesson might be forced to tie the loose ends, bind a few stubbornly independent hearts to them. All of which could depend on whom the Council chose as the next king—young Edgar was the attested ætheling and he had two as yet unmarried sisters. One of whom Harold might well need to use as security. Besides, he might have a man’s natural desire for a comely woman, but he still loved Edyth.

“So what of Goddwin?” Leofwine asked, breaking into his brother’s thoughts. “Are you going to ride after him?”

Harold rubbed his fingers over the stubble that was accumulating on his chin. He had no idea what he ought to do about his son. That he was resentful there was no doubting. He would talk to Edyth about it as soon as he returned to Waltham Abbey. Edyth possessed the wisdom of Solomon.

“Ah, he’s young, leave him,” Leofwine suggested when Harold made no answer. “He will soon realise the fool he has made of himself over this thing.”

“And there speaks the accrued wisdom of one who is, what, nine and twenty?”

The two brothers laughed together, Leofwine hurling a pillow at Harold who caught it, tossed it back.

After a while, the younger man said thoughtfully, “Our sister means well. She has always been one to organise others—look how content she is mothering Edward. You would never have believed the pair could turn out to be so well suited. The one a clucking mother hen, the other an open-mouthed fledgling happy to have his dinner fed him.”

Making no reply, Harold idly toured the chamber, his hand automatically fondling the ears of the two hounds stretched before the brazier as he stepped around them. As Earl of Wessex he was entitled to his own quarters within the complex of buildings that made up the royal palace at Westminster. Edyth had chosen the tapestries with especial care for their masculine content and strong colour—Harold particularly admired the one depicting a Viking longship. The waves were skittish, their white-topped caps splashing against the keel as the vessel ploughed her way ahead of a vigorous wind that filled and billowed her sail. The sea—there was always a thrilling excitement about the lure of the sea.

Leofwine had invited himself to share his brother’s company and Harold had been pleased to take advantage of his good-humour. This restlessness was gnawing at his insides. He wanted to be doing something, to be away from the tedium of this faery world, this enchanted island where problems and political upheaval were held at bay by fixed smiles and prattled conversation.

“Diplomatic discussion can never fully compensate for the thrill of battle lust.” His father, Godwine, had said that. When? Harold stood before the tapestry, his tankard of ale in his hand, staring at that spirited ship. Ah, yes, during their time of exile, when the family had reunited in that shallow bay on the Island of Wight before turning their attention—and their fleet—on London. Leofwine had been there, too. Tostig, Gyrth—Swegn was already dead, or was he dying at that time? Harold could not recall. Only their brother Wulfnoth and Swegn’s son Hakon were missing. Taken as hostage into Normandy by that bastard Robert Champart. He was dead these many years now. A pity he had died of a natural cause; Harold would have liked to have slit his belly and let him die slowly and in agony for the trouble he had caused.

Wulfnoth and Hakon. Boys when they had been forcibly taken from England, men of twenty-three and seventeen now. How many petitions, pleas and offers of ransom had been sent to Duke William for their release throughout these years? Diplomacy? Hah! Would that he could take an armed force such as that which he had taken into Wales and demand their return!

Suddenly Harold turned, setting his tankard down with a decisive thud, startling the dogs awake. “I am going to Normandy. It is time we were united with our brother and nephew.”

Leofwine lazily sat up, a frown creasing his forehead. “William always manages to find some plausible excuse to keep them with him. Our messengers report how charming and attentive he has been, how he has promised to review their plight as soon as opportunity presents itself.”

“Opportunity that has not arisen for ten years, damn it! If he has reason to keep them hostage, then I think it time he explains it, personally to my face, not to some disinterested courier or in a letter that he can neither read nor write for himself.”

Swinging his legs to the floor, attention aroused, Leofwine asked, “Have you some new strategy of assuring our uneasy English relationship with Normandy, then? If not, William the Bastard will not listen to you.”

A slow grimace spread over one half of Harold’s mouth. “No doubt I will think of something before I reach Normandy. If not, I’ll rely on charming the stubble of hair off the back of his Norman-shaved head!” Harold’s grin broadened. He leant forward, plucked the pillow from the bed and pounded his brother with it. “I could always negotiate a wife for you. William has two young daughters, I believe.”

Protecting his head with his hands, doubled over and protesting loudly, Leofwine spluttered laughter through a sudden shower of feathers. “Ah, no, you take one of them, I’ve a mind for a Lady Alditha. You are not the only stallion with an itch to service a pretty filly you know!”

Bosham

Leofwine elected to ride south with Harold and his family; the June weather was sun-warmed and the court dull. He might as well enjoy the company of his brother’s brood and visit his mother at the same time.

Of all her sons, the Countess Gytha considered Harold and Leofwine—eldest and second youngest—the nearest in looks, character and thinking to their father. Both reminded her so heart-wrenchingly of Godwine. In his younger days he had been as handsome as they, as quick to laugh; as restless and adventurous. From where Tostig had received his moral seriousness or Edith her capacity to make such a dramatic fuss Gytha had no clue. Certainly not from their father!

For all that his intentions were good, she was uncertain that Harold’s impulsive expedition to Normandy was to be recommended. While she would welcome with open heart Wulfnoth’s return, Gytha was uneasy at the venture. So many terrible rumours surrounded Duke William. All the more reason, Harold had pointed out with a quick laugh and fond hug for his mother, to deliver a hostage from the Norman’s taloned clutches.

Leofwine seemed enthusiastic and the King had given his blessing, but then, with Tostig just returned to court from Northumbria, Edward was unlikely to take note of anything asked of him, preoccupied as he was with the new hawk Tostig had brought him.

By tomorrow, to Gytha’s sorrow, Harold would be gone, sailing on the morning tide. This week had passed so swiftly. It seemed only yesterday that he, Edyth and their dear children had arrived, bringing a flaming spark of energy to the somnolent atmosphere of Bosham Manor. Not that Gytha minded the tranquillity. She would be sixty years of age come late summer and while she felt sprightly and energetic on such sun-filled days as today, the chill of winter sent an ache through her bones that had not been there in previous years. Today, it was pleasant sitting in the sun of her sheltered, walled garden finishing the hand-weaving of a border she had been working to edge a new cloak.

She lifted her head at the sound of a trotting pony’s hoof beats, craned her neck to see over the wicker gate central to the west wall. Was that her granddaughter? Algytha had promised not to ride too far with the men as they set out to hunt after breaking their fast.

Within a few minutes a young woman opened the gate and ran through, her fair hair tossing and fluttering beneath the confines of a linen veil, a wide and attractively pleasant smile on her face. In her hand, a jug of her grandmother’s medicinal drink. How like her to think of it without being asked.

“They have ridden out on to the marshes. I thought it too hot to ride far.” Algytha flopped on to the grass, fanned herself with her hand a moment and said almost in the same breath, “Father says that if all is ready, he may well make sail on the evening tide and not wait for the morrow. I wish I were going with him. I love the open sea.”

Countess Gytha tutted as her thread snagged. Harold was impatient to be off and doing, never had he been one—man or boy—to sit idle. “Have you told your mother so?” she asked.

“She is in the village still. I have left word in the Hall.”

“Well, then,” the Countess said, setting her wools safe, “we had best ensure a suitable feast is prepared for his departure. As well I have an adequately provisioned storeroom.”

***

The moon was high by eleven thirty and the tide calm, about to turn. With the ship loaded, all was ready. At the moment Leofwine regretted not agreeing to accompany Harold, but then, there was that young redhead he had discovered a while ago at the White Boar tavern. If he left her untended overlong, someone else with a keen eye for a shapely leg might pluck her away.

He had, however, accompanied Harold into Bosham church for evening mass. It had been a strange experience, that service, almost ethereal. Cnut himself had ordered the building of the church; his young daughter, drowned in the mill stream, was buried beneath the nave. Godwine was buried in Winchester, but there had been a strong sense of him also—so great, that at one point Leofwine had thought that if he were to turn round he would see him looking up the nave towards the altar. He had glanced at his brother to see if he had noticed anything untoward, but Harold stood, rapt in thought, staring at the chancel arch. Later, however, as they had walked the short distance between church and manor house in the fading light of evening, Harold had said something that had again prickled the nape hairs of Leofwine’s neck.

“Father would, perhaps, rather have been laid to rest here at Bosham. He loved this place so. Winchester, for all its magnificence, does not have the quiet contentment that abounds here.”

Leofwine had said nothing, walked on in silence, only his boots crunching on the gravel path.

“I have told Edyth that I would be buried at our manor if circumstances allow. My home is with her, whatever second wife I may one day take, whatever future track I may follow.”

He had walked on, then, matching Leofwine stride for stride, and said nothing more until they had reached the open gateway of Bosham Manor. “Take good care of Edyth should anything happen to me, my brother. My heart has always, will always, rest with her.”

***

Leofwine stood on the shore beside his sister-in-law, his hand poised in its rising, the other draped around Edyth’s waist. Those few last things had been loaded as the tide flooded, bobbing the ship, anxious to break free of her mooring. Harold was to take gifts to Duke William: hunting hounds, a hawk. Gifts that would symbolise his intention of peace.

When Harold would be back again in England none of them on the shore at Bosham had the knowing. The three boys, Edmund, Magnus and Ulf, were off and running through the marsh grass to keep pace with the ship while they could. Little Gunnhild, six, was almost asleep in her mother’s arms, her fair lashes sweeping down sleep-heavy over blue eyes. Edyth was biting her lip—Leofwine could see the blood oozing—trying not to weep out here where others could see her.

It must be so lonely
, Leofwine thought,
being a woman so often left behind while we menfolk go off happily chasing our goblin-pot of ideas.

“He will come home safe, won’t he, grandmother?” Algytha asked, a tremor in her voice.

The Countess Gytha quietly took hold of her namesake’s hand. “Of course he will, child. What harm can possibly come to the King’s Earl of Wessex?”