I Am the Chosen King (5 page)

Edward had been considering taking monastic vows but, unexpectedly, England had recalled her exiled heir to the throne and Robert had not hesitated to accept the request to accompany him home. Eight years, now, had Robert known Edward, and for eight years had he waited to rid the son of the vile influence of the mother.

It seemed that Edward slept, for he lay quiet, his chest slowly rising and falling. Carefully, Robert removed the King’s boots, laid a fur over his resting body and murmured a prayer of protection—gasped with surprise as Edward, eyes closed, spoke. Yet it was not the suddenness of the voice that startled Robert, but the words.

“My mother wishes me to take a wife, but I do not care to be harangued by another woman’s tongue.”

Robert paled; sickness rose into his throat. Edward? Take a wife? A wife who would be constantly at Edward’s side, who would influence him, divert his mind? A woman who would negate the necessity for him, Robert, to tend all Edward’s needs? How could Robert tolerate the presence of another dictatorial harridan? Yet, as king, Edward must have his queen. A slow smile played around the corners of Robert’s lips as the initial shock gave ground to sensible thinking. The blood returned to his pallid cheeks and his bouncing heartbeat steadied.

Had Emma considered this adequately? Had she, at last, made her fatal mistake? She probably had a scheme in mind, but what if Robert could outmanoeuvre her?

Until a king’s wife was anointed as queen, the dowager retained the title, the power and influence—king’s mothers in the past had taken great care that their daughters-in-law never received the church’s official blessing of anointing. Was that Emma’s intention? To marry Edward to some pale-faced, timid mouse of a girl who would never dare stand up to a woman who adamantly refused to relinquish the title of queen?

But what if Edward were to take a girl of different character? A girl of courage and ambition—or, if such a child did not exist, then one who had a father with power enough to enforce her rights?

Robert’s eyes narrowed, a faint smile painted across his lips. It would be annoying to share Edward’s devotion with a woman, but Robert could endure that. The smile widened into an expression of reassurance as the King opened his eyes. “The right woman, my Lord King, could bring you much happiness.”

Edward’s mouth dropped into a childish pout. He detested women.

“A wife, Sire, could set you free. She must make certain vows to her husband.” Robert tucked the bed fur more comfortably beneath Edward’s chin. “She must vow to love and honour her lord.” Added pointedly, “And, unlike a mother, must, without question, vow obedience.”

Bosham

Countess Gytha was well used to offering hospitality to the king, for his visits to her husband’s Sussex estate were frequent, but on this occasion Edward’s presence was proving difficult. The hunting would be poor, for an early frost lay heavy on the ground, with the stream beyond the manor wall already partially frozen. Ice had wallowed on the edge of the tide this morning, a rind of glistening white around the rim of the bay. Supervising the choice of preserves and joints of meat to provide respectable feasting, Gytha suppressed a churn of tempestuous anger. This embarrassment was Swegn’s doing, damn the boy! When would he assume the responsibilities that ran with his age and position as eldest-born son? When would he recognise the consequences of these fool actions of his? It really was too bad of him to put the family in such an awkward situation!

Swegn’s disastrous foray into Wales had caused nothing but problems for his father and brothers—and for her, for to the Countess fell the task of soothing a husband’s and a brother’s frayed temper. Edward was obviously deeply affronted by Swegn making alliance with Queen Emma—why else would he come south to Bosham at this time of year? He rarely hunted far from his own manor when the days were short and the weather so inclement. Was it possible to believe that this unexpected visit was nothing more than a whim? Of course not! By the middle of the October month, Swegn had been whipped out of Wales like a runt hound, barely escaping with his skin intact. Gryffydd son of Rhydderch had pissed his breeches laughing at the incompetence of the English, of Godwine’s son, so rumour said. And to make an even greater fool of himself, Swegn had retained the men that Emma had allotted him—those few poor wretches who had made it back across the Severn in one piece, that is. A sensible man would have gone straight to his king, presented them into his service—but, oh no, not Swegn! Gytha, after years of denying it, finally conceded that her first-born had not an ounce of sense to his name.

“The pork,” she said, pointing to a half-side of salted bacon hanging from one of the many rafters. The storage place of Godwine’s Manor was rectangular, wattle-walled with a low shingle roof, the interior cellar-like, with several wooden steps descending two feet below ground level to a floor of laid slate: thick, hard-wearing slabs that repelled rodents and remained cool even on the warmest of days. An earl such as Godwine was expected to maintain a plentiful store of meat and grain for his household and guests. After the recent harvest—which had, for the sixth consecutive year, proven good throughout Wessex, the containers of preserved fruits and root vegetables were full; cheeses, wrapped in linen, were stacked to ripen and mature; meat of varying cuts was hung, smoked, from hooks, or packed into layers of salt within wooden barrels. “We will have that side of beef also,” the Countess added, thoughtfully surveying the ample stocks, “and this one.”

“What about these birds, my Lady? They are plump, and have hung an adequate time.”

Absently Gytha nodded. Cedric was a capable steward who had served her and her husband from the time of their marriage. He did not require supervision—but she had welcomed an excuse to leave the Hall and the sullen-faced presence of King Edward. If he should openly accuse her husband of treachery because of Swegn’s imbecility she would…Gytha sighed, wiped her hands on the square of rough linen that hung around her waist to protect her best gown from dirt and stains. What would she do? What could she do? Very little, apart from appease Edward by providing him with a sumptuous meal and bidding him welcome to Bosham Manor.

The steward sensed something of his mistress’s apprehension, for he laid a hand on her arm and, smiling, offered reassurance. “Tonight there will be a banquet fit for the King, of that I can assure you.”

She patted his hand. He was a good, loyal servant. The thought came, unbidden but strident:
loyal and faithful…unlike my son
.

All were welcome at Godwine’s table, and the Manor was, as usual, almost full for the serving of the evening meal. Precedence of seating, below the immediate family and especial guests, went to the housecarls, Godwine’s personal, elite body of fighting men: bodyguards, warriors and companions. Earl Godwine they served and no other man, until death released them from the oath of allegiance. In return, an earl undertook to house, feed and clothe these men and their families; it was for him to mount and arm them, to honour them with splendid gifts. When a lord, be he thegn, earl or king, provided generously for his followers’ everyday needs, then he could be sure their courage would not fail when he needed it. A feast was an occasion for giving and receiving together—for getting drunk, an occasion to confirm the loyalty and unity of vassal and lord. This night Godwine’s Hall, high-roofed, sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, was filled to capacity, the usual company swollen by the King and his retinue.

Godwine, like Gytha, had found it difficult to remain cheerful, but unlike his wife, found no means of escape. Even during the feasting, the atmosphere at the high table remained strained, with Edward as disgruntled as when he had arrived at mid-morning. Lamely, Godwine tried to think of a topic of discussion that would interest his King. “We will set the hounds tomorrow,” he said cheerily, aware that he had already suggested hunting half an hour or so earlier. “The scent will be poor if this frost lies any heavier, but I have a new young bitch who is good: she may do us proud.”

“No matter.” Edward answered. He waved his hand, the shadow-flickering light from torch, candle and hearth fire glinting on the vibrant jewels in his finger rings. The gesture and his tone displayed his boredom. Then he turned his head and stared at his appointed earl. “I have a better quarry in mind. One that I have waited long enough to bring to bay.”

“Indeed?” A beat of alarm jolted Godwine’s pulse, but Edward had already turned his back and was talking animatedly to the man who sat, as ever, at his right hand: Robert Champart.

Countess Gytha caught the momentary look of alarm that swept across her husband’s face and the smirk of triumph that sat, bold and brazen, on Champart’s indulgent features. She took several deep breaths, fighting an urge to shriek her husband’s loyalty. What good would that do? It was not a woman’s place to meddle in the affairs of men.

The Hall grew hot and noisy as the feasting swung into the enjoyed consumption of good food and excellent wine. When stomachs were full, the trestle tables would be cleared and removed, benches shifted to the sides in preparation for the entertainment that always accompanied a feast.

Gytha, as head woman, poured wine for those seated at her husband’s high table. As she served, there was much laughter and shouting from the lower Hall, and she looked up to see two men stepping into the central space to begin a friendly wrestling match. The cheering rose to the high rafters of the timber roof and hung there with the hearth smoke and the wood-carved spirit faces. This was a Christian household, but no man dare build without seeking the added protection of the Old Ones. The King, Gytha noticed, was talking again to Godwine; this time their conversation seemed light, even jovial. Perhaps, the Countess thought, their differences were settled, any misunderstanding caused by Swegn’s foolishness set straight. Then she saw Edward lean slightly towards her husband, noticed a look of concern flash across Godwine’s face. What now? She glanced again and relaxed as Godwine began to smile.

“I am thinking of taking a wife,” Edward had stated blandly to the Earl.

Startled at this confidence, Godwine had momentarily found himself lost for words—but delight almost immediately suffused his features. “That is good news!” he enthused. “A wise choice could bring many an advantage to England.” A king needed an heir to his throne and England needed secure alliance. A wife was the means to both. Godwine’s alert political mind had already begun calculating, rapidly selecting and discarding suitable daughters, widows or sisters of emperors and kings.

A faint smile tipped the sides of Edward’s mouth; he knew Godwine well enough to guess at those busy thoughts! “I have already made my choice,” he stated. “I need to ensure that my back is shielded against treachery. With England secure from internal wrangling, we can outface anything Norway may throw at us.” He paused. “I am going to choose a wife from the family of one of my earls.” He watched, mischievously delighted as Godwine’s brows dipped warily. A marriage with Northumbria or Mercia would bring extreme difficulties for Godwine—perhaps even ruin him.

Robert had indeed suggested one of Siward’s kindred, or Leofric’s youngest…ah, Edward had been sorely tempted to follow his friend’s advice, to take the first step towards bringing Godwine to his knees!

“Siward’s daughters and nieces are not so fair to look upon, yet there must be something good to be said of them, surely?” Edward was finally beginning to enjoy himself. Satisfied at the pale look of horror that flickered across Godwine’s face, he added, “They may all have been bred in that uncivilised cesspit of the North, but one of them must have received an education, can read and write, and talk in an accent that is at least vaguely understandable.”

His anger at Swegn Godwinesson’s treachery, coupled with the impotence he felt in the face of his damned mother’s interference, had decided him in favour of Robert’s tentative suggestion. How disruptive to a king’s routine and way of life would it be to take a wife? He only need bed her once or twice to impregnate her; see her only when public protocol dictated—she could have her own apartments, even her own palace. Once he had fulfilled his husband’s duties he could hunt and pursue his reading and studies of God unhindered. And Robert, as his personal priest, would still be there to proffer comfort and understanding. Yes, the delight of putting a man such as Godwine back into place far outweighed the minor disadvantages of taking a wife.

“Alternatively, there is Leofric’s only surviving daughter,” Edward continued, immersed in his private enjoyment. “She is young, I grant, but that is no disadvantage to a man of modest years like myself. She will soon reach breeding age.”

Godwine did not know how to answer. He could not appear churlish or fatuous, but, by God, he could not allow Edward to ally as son-in-law to Leofric or Siward! He swallowed, slid a pleasant smile across his mouth. “A woman fresh with the bloom of childhood is to be much desired, my Lord King, but to take such a young—and so often sickly—girl as wife would mean a long wait for a child of your own.”

To his immense relief, Edward agreed. “My thoughts exactly, Godwine, I cannot look to Mercia. I have therefore made my choice, I will take your daughter Edith.”

Godwine’s heart pounded fast for several beats. Had he heard aright? God in His mercy, was this so? His daughter, his Edith, to be Queen? The mother of the next king! He had always hoped for it, of course, but had never dared suggest such a move. He looked up, saw Gytha; grinned broadly at her, saw her smile. She would be as pleased at this news as was he.

“There is of course dowry and such to be discussed.” Edward said, offhanded, pausing to applaud a particularly excellent bout of the wrestling. “But it would be good for myself and Wessex to be bound together in alliance, would it not?”

Enthusiastically, Godwine agreed. What power and position a son born to Edith would give him!

As if reading those thoughts—indeed, they were all too plain—Edward then said, “For such a betrothal to be considered, I will naturally require unquestioning loyalty.” Godwine made to reassure him, but Edward allowed him no chance to answer. “I ride on the morrow to Winchester, My Earls of Northumbria, Mercia and East Anglia have been summoned to meet me there, I would have Wessex with me also, when I have my mother arrested for treason.”

***

Harold’s head ached, as did his limbs, his neck, his back. He gripped the reins, his fingers stiff and cramped—from the bite of the frosted air he assumed. He ought to push into a canter for he had only three days to reach Winchester, but it hurt to go faster than a walk and even that slow pace jarred his body with every step.

When the King’s summons had come, Harold had been at Ely, settling some long-rumbling dispute over the ownership of church land. Bishop Stigand was not much liked or respected among the clergy, especially since he knew every trick of the law concerning what appeared to be his on paper. The written word, the monastery opposing him claimed, could be falsified, whereas the tradition of word of mouth could not. Ah, the Bishop had countered, but what was written and witnessed must be upheld in law…and so the thing had circled on. Harold had, in a way, been grateful to Edward for the timely distraction.

He was so tired! Why, he did not know; he had not overexerted himself these last few weeks. Was it the thought of the long ride ahead, the coldness of the air? The knowing that Edward was not over-pleased with any member of the Godwine family? If only he could stop, rest, close his eyes for a moment…his head drooped…and he was falling, slithering from his horse.

His servant was out of the saddle and squatting beside him within the space of two heartbeats, hands fluttering over his master’s body. The skin was burning with fever, yet Harold was shivering.

Leofgar, Harold’s chaplain, dismounted as rapidly and ran to join the anxious servant. He touched his own fingers to Harold’s flushed face. “My Lord, you are not well. We must seek warmth and shelter for you.”

“No, Leofgar, I thank you for your concern, but the King’s summons…” It was difficult for Harold to speak. His chest felt as if it were bound by tight bands, his mouth was dry, face taut and stiff. He tried to uncurl his clenched fingers, but there was no movement in his left arm, no feeling beyond a heavy weight, as if it were encased in lead.

“…Can go to the devil,” the chaplain interrupted. “The King will need do without your presence for the time being.” Leofgar stood, surveyed the landscape, beckoned one of Harold’s housecarls forward. “I am unfamiliar with much of this area,” he said. “We need take my Lord Earl to a place of security, for I fear he is gravely ill. Where do you recommend?”