I Am the Chosen King (48 page)

Wilton Abbey—January 1065

Tostig was seated beside Edward, a sheaf of parchment pages on his lap; the Queen sat, as usual, attentive at her husband’s feet. Tostig was reading from the work that Edith had commissioned from the Flemish monk Goscelin of St. Bertin, an account of her husband’s life. Well, in truth it was her own biography, but her mother-in-law had been so condemned for the vanity of her
Encomium Emmae Reginae
that she, Edith, had decided not to make the same mistake. The
Vita Ædwardi Regis
would be sufficient for her purpose—providing that self-congratulating fool of a monk kept his wits about him and wrote a sensibly balanced history.

Et ut statum siue formam
…on his appearance and attitude the King, Edward, is a fine figure of a man—of outstanding height, distinguished by his milk-white hair and beard…

Edward beamed at the praise, his fingers proudly and fastidiously touching his hair and beard.

…Always dignified but pleasant he is affable to all. To petitioners he will grant graciously or graciously deny, so that his denial appears as the highest generosity.

Delighted, Edward clapped his hands, those slender hands that Goscelin had so well described. ’Tis an excellently written work.” He beckoned the monk forward. “A brave work, sir. My wife did well to find so accomplished an author for her commission. This is but the first chapter you say? How many do you plan?” Edward’s enthusiasm was reassuring; the monk had been on edge for most of the day, anxious that the King might not like this first draft—or worse, that the Queen would not. It was she who was paying for the thing, after all, and she who had decreed that just the right balance of her own family’s history was to be interspersed with that of the King.

The monk bowed appreciatively. “For this, the first book, I have six chapters in mind, my Lord King, being the history of yourself and the Queen. A second book will concern your attention to religious devotions.”

Edward took the loose pages from Tostig and peered at the rounded, minute Latin hand. He could barely decipher one word, so poor was his sight now. Handing it back to Tostig, he said with a smile at the monk, “I shall enjoy hearing further instalments, though I trust you will not dwell on my mother’s part in my life?”

Goscelin flushed. The problem of the King’s dislike of his mother had been almost impossible to overcome. At Edith’s suggestion, he had eventually decided to begin at the inception of Edward’s reign, glossing over his childhood and involvement with his mother, except where unavoidable, and then only reporting the more pleasing anecdotes.

“Your mother, my Lord King, had the wisdom to produce her account of her courtly life—it is not my pleasure to retell that which is already written.”

Edward nodded. Just so.

“Shall I have a part in the story?” the boy Edgar asked, tipping his face up to squint at the tall monk. “I am the ætheling, after all, I ought to be mentioned.”

Goscelin coughed, discreetly hiding a rise of embarrassment. Of course the prince would have a place in the book, but not until Edward was dead! Thankfully, the Queen answered for him. “Of course you shall be spoken of, my child, and your father, mother—God rest their souls—and your sisters. But not until the appropriate place.” She smiled. “Perhaps, when one day you are king, you shall have your own life written down.”

“Oh, when I am king,” Edgar scoffed. “I shall be too busy to bother with musty old books.” He wrinkled his nose. “Why do they always smell of mould so?”

No one answered him, for there came a discreet knock at the chamber door and a novice nun entered, followed close at heel by a tall, heavily cloaked man. Snow was spattered on his shoulders and hood and stuck to his boots. He tossed back the hood and was greeted by a gasp of surprise.

“Earl Harold!”

“Brother?”

Edgar’s and Edith’s exclamations sounded together, only one was with delight, the other mild annoyance. Edward smiled, the blurred figure identified, and he rose, holding his hands out in welcome.

Harold looking tired and saddle-sore, crossed the room, knelt before his king and kissed the royal ring, acknowledged Edith in the same manner, but not with as much enthusiasm. “Aye, ’tis me! Despite all the foul weather that the Narrow Sea and this damned country of ours could toss at me these past weeks, I am here. Although I wasted some time travelling first to Gloucester!”

Noting the ice coldness of his earl’s skin, Edward invited Harold to sit before the fire, calling for mulled wine and hot broth. “You must be warmed both inside and out, else you take a chill and fall ill. I myself have not been well for most the Christmas—we only left Gloucester at Epiphany, three days past.”

Harold nodded. So he had discovered.

His heart would have sent him straight home to Waltham Abbey, but protocol dictated that first he must see his king. Add to that, these disquietening rumours that he had heard in Gloucester…What in all hell had been happening in England while he had been away?

Goscelin the monk carried a stool to the fire for the newcomer, then discreetly withdrew from the room, realising that there would be no more praise for his work this night.

“So, what of Normandy?” Edward asked with interest as he seated himself. “Has my cousin the Duke sent me any gifts? A new couple of hounds would not come amiss—those we used at Christmas were useless, you know. I ordered their throats cut. Lost the scent of a fox—a stinking fox, mind you—in a farmyard. Useless.”

Harold muffled an exasperated sigh. Edward and his petty interests! God help us if William did ever decide to come! He said nothing, though, for he had already heard in detail the sorry tale of Tostig’s accident and Gospatric’s execution. Except they were calling it murder in Gloucester. Gospatric’s men, disgusted, had deliberately lingered to spread their version of events; no doubt the telling would be double-tarred with inaccuracies by the time the tale-tellers reached the wilderness settlements of the north. If Harold were Tostig, he would have returned home to his earldom immediately to quiet rumour and any unrest that might—most assuredly would—arise from that ill-handled business. Oh, Lord, what had he come home to?

“Duke William has sent you four couple of the most finely bred hounds, my Lord King—and further substantial gifts besides. Though I fear he is expecting more by way of recompense in the future.”

Edward frowned. “Meaning, my Lord Earl?”

“Meaning that Duke William has his heart set on obtaining for himself a crown. Your crown.”

Edward barked amused laughter. He ruffled young Edgar’s blond mop of unruly hair. “Edgar here is the ætheling, it shall be he who follows me when the far-off time comes. Eh, lad?”

Edgar smiled up at Edward from his stool, although he was not all that certain he actually wanted to be king. It seemed a dull occupation, all this arguing in Council. And others before him had met worse fates. His grandfather had died fighting for his crown, as had many another king. He did not much relish the thought of fighting. It was the smell and sight of blood—it did so easily turn his stomach queasy.

Harold shrugged, in no mood to go into detail. He was tired; the ride had been long and weary, made all the more difficult by the swirl of snow that was settling deeper. As much as he wanted it, he might not be able to make his way to his manor for several days yet. Tomorrow would be a better occasion to tell Edward of all that had happened in Normandy, of the mess of dung that he had managed to step into. Aye, tomorrow, for the King’s hearing, not Edith’s and Tostig’s. “Suffice to say,” he said, “that Duke William has overreached himself with dreams.”

“And the reason for your going? Our brother and nephew?” Edith asked, Edward squirmed to one side, peering at the door, expecting to see two more blurred outlines arrive. “Have you brought them with you?”

Harold held his hands to the hearth fire. He was thawing slowly, the sharp prickling needle stabs of pain tingling in his near-frozen toes and fingertips. “I took ship to Bosham. Hakon, our nephew, left with our mother. I did not have the heart in me to take him so soon from her company.”

“And Wulfnoth?” Tostig said, a sneer in his voice to match the scowl on his face. “Did you leave him also at Bosham?”

Like his father before him, Harold, as with Edith, could read others well. Edith’s greeting had been no more cordial, but then, their mutual regard had for some years grown further apart. Tostig blew hot and cold as it suited him. This day was distinctly chill. Harold had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that his return home to England was unwelcome. Why, he would have to discover, but not yet; it could wait. He had to report to the King and catch up on affairs of state, but beyond that, his priority was to ride home. Nigh on seven months had he been away from Edyth and the children, seven months too long.

“Wulfnoth was not permitted to leave Normandy,” he said succinctly. “The Duke continues to hold him as hostage.” The words came out more bitterly than he had intended.

Tostig snorted his derision. He had known this fool idea of Harold’s was but an empty gesture. In truth he was piqued that Harold had gone on this family mission. His mother, Edith, no one in the family had said it, but he knew they all silently reproached him for not making more effective attempts at securing the boys’ freedom when he had, in the past, been a guest of Normandy. Judith had mentioned the two lads to her sister on more than one occasion, had been promised that the matter would be looked into. It never had, but that was hardly Tostig’s fault.

He was becoming tetchy, sour-tempered. His leg was aching abominably. The ride to Wilton had not helped and soon, after the consecration of Edith’s abbey, they would be returning to Winchester: more long days in the saddle.

Gospatric’s vehement outburst had shocked Tostig—frightened him. That there was dissent in Northumbria he well knew, but he thought it nothing more than a storm in a village duck pond. Ignore it and it would bluster itself out. But knowing that a man could so cruelly and deliberately leave another to die was playing on his mind; nightmares visited him: he was lying trapped, smothered, and a man stood over him, laughing…he had not realised his enemies were so embittered. Scornfully, he took his insecurity out on Harold, who had always been so well liked by everyone; so successful in all he did. “So you have failed. While you were so concerned with a brother neither of us knows or remembers, and with the bastard-born brat of Swegn’s whore, I have had to deal with great difficulties here in England. How like you not to be here when I needed you! There is dissent and grumbling against me in Northumbria. I could have done with your support, but no, you were off, pursuing your own interests.”

Harold laconically folded his arms. “Would these grumbles have anything to do with the murder of two men who were invited into your own chamber in your palace in York? Or with the disposal of Gospatric?”

Edward’s head was turning from one brother to the other, attempting to follow the bewildering conversation. How had he missed the cause of this sudden rise in temper? All he had asked was if Harold had brought the lads with him. Not that he cared, he had no recollection of either of them.

Tostig made to snarl an answer, but his sister interrupted. “They were, all three, traitors to the crown. The two in York were plotting outright to murder Tostig—would you have let them harm our brother? And Gospatric openly admitted his guilt. His execution was lawful and by my command.”

“Aye,” Harold remarked, belatedly realising that because of tiredness his temper was getting the better of him, “at your command, but most ill advised. The North will make much of it for its own purpose.”

Perhaps it was despondency over his failure in Normandy that made Harold feel drained; he suddenly did not give a broken pisspot about anything. Or perhaps it was because of this stark reminder, so early upon his return, of all that was different between him and his brother and sister. The pair of them were scheming and plotting for naught but their own gain, with no care for whom or what they dragged into the mire as they passed.

He thought, inexplicably, of the parable of the good Samaritan. His brother, unless there was some gain for himself, would not have paused to help a man lying injured on the road. His moralistic hauteur had always been for show, deliberately paraded to goad Swegn’s temper, or to set one brother against another. Tostig always reminded Harold of the pretty shells that his children collected from the beach: beautiful on the outside, but when opened, containing nothing except black mud. There was no genuine goodness inside Tostig, he was too full of jealousy, greed and self-importance.

“You have brought the dissatisfaction that is swelling in your earldom upon yourself, brother, by ruling too ruthlessly. The law is better served by a degree of leniency, and high taxation is only justifiable if it is necessary for the common good, not for private gain. You are attempting to enforce the structure of Wessex on to a people who have lived by different ways. Northumbria is a fiercely independent land. You do not quieten a nervous horse by beating it into submission, but by offering it kind words, care and comfort.”

“You always were a soft-hearted fool.” Tostig thrust at him. “Treat peasants and imbeciles with honeyed words? The North understands only the lash of the whip. They are unmannered, vulgar, primitive barbarians.”

“And this is a land that nourished the Christian centres of Durham, Whitby and Lindisfarne? Venerable men like the saints Cuthbert and Bede?” Harold retorted mockingly.

“I retract what I said.” Tostig sneered. He bowed briefly to Edward, then headed for the door. “You would be of no help to me—go back to Normandy, you and William are well matched, both pathetic dreamers!”

Provoked beyond endurance Harold moved with two long strides to catch his brother’s arm. He thrust his face close, said with vehemence, “If you assume Duke William to be inadequate, then you are the fool He is a man to be reckoned with. If Edward should die before Edgar reaches a suitable age, England will be dragged into a war similar to—or worse—than that against the Danes. The Normans are descended from those same Vikings who produced Cnut—but I tell you this William is not, by any short measure, comparable to that noble man.”