I Am the Chosen King (9 page)

Edyth halted where the narrow track broadened among a swathe of silver-trunked birch. The trees, despite their height that reached to almost forty feet, were slender and dainty. She peeled away a layer of papery bark, marvelling at its softness, yet extreme strength.

“The silver-birch tree is often called the Lady of the Woods.” Harold said, leaning his back against one of the nearest trees. “Did you know that?”

Edyth shook her head.

“It is the tree of the Norse goddess, Frigga. A woman’s tree, the symbol of love and of new beginnings.”

She had not known that either.

Harold reached up and broke off a length of supple twig, its small, spade-shaped leaves tightly curled. He pushed himself away from the trunk and gave her his simple offering. “It ought to be a garland, but…” He indicated his left arm.

Edyth took the twig and looped it around the fair skin of her neck, twisting its ends together to form a crude necklace. “There,” she said, tucking her chin down to peer at her new finery, “it sits well.”

Saying nothing, Harold took hold of her fingers, placed them within the cupped stiffness of his left hand, manipulated each stubbornly resistant digit to curl around hers. Her eyes lifted, questioning, to look into his face, then she dropped her gaze quickly, uncertain at what she had felt. She saw his fingers actually tighten, felt the pressure of his hand squeezing hers.

“You can use your hand!” she exclaimed with delight.

Harold grinned. “Aye, for a few days now I have felt tingling there, like the stab of pins and needles. I hope it will not be long before I have full use restored. I…” He paused, the grin fading to a more serious expression. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Understanding the compliment, Edyth squeezed his hand back, whispering, “Thank you.” She raised her other hand and touched the tip of her fingers to his cheek. “Your smile reached this side of your mouth, that is also healing.”

Turning his head, Harold slid his lips beneath her touch, lightly kissed her fingers. Startled, she caught her breath and moved back half a pace, self-consciously twining her hands together behind her back.

“You have healed me,” he said without trying to move after her, “with your captivating laughter and your sweet voice. And with the tears that you shed in secret during the hours of darkness. Edyth, I am to leave here, but I cannot bring myself to leave without you. If you can feel for me even a part of that which I feel for you, would you consider becoming my hand-fast woman?”

She made to answer, but he moved swiftly, touching his good hand to her lips, staying any hasty word.

“I am an earl, son to a man who, below the King, is the most powerful in all England. One day I will need to make a Christian-blessed marriage in order to forge an alliance for my family. Through such a marriage I may be able to put an end to the rivalry that has existed between Wessex and the Northumbrian or Mercian lands all these many years. That time is not yet, and until then I would follow the custom of our Danish ancestors by taking a first wife, a love-wife.”

Edyth wanted to speak, yet the words would not pass the choking in her throat. So dearly had she not wanted this man to leave her, but she had never dreamt to hear what he was now saying. How could she answer him? Her joy was too great, too completely overwhelming.

A second time Harold asked, “Would you, my dearest, beloved Edyth, here among the silver trees, with none save God as witness, consent to take me as your hand-fast husband?”

Lifting her eyes, the diamond glitter of welling tears resting on her lashes, Edyth smiled up at him. “Yes,” she answered, her voice so faint that he barely heard. Then she tipped her head higher, straightened her shoulders and said again, louder and with conviction, “Yes please, I would so consent.”

Harold tossed his head back, laughed his delight and, threading his good arm round her waist, whirled her in a few dancing circles, guiding her between the upright silver trunks, her feet occasionally lifting from the damp soil. Breathless, he halted, and drew her to him, her body pressing against the firm strength of his chest. Then bent his head and kissed her, as a man who has found his love should kiss a woman.

Her arms went about his neck and as she returned the kiss he laid her gently down, taking her to him as his woman, giving in return his devotion. Giving it with care and tenderness, their union witnessed by God and the silver birch, the Lady of the Woods.

London

London, Edyth realised, was larger, busier and noisier than ever she could have imagined. It also stank.

She had ridden the dozen or so miles from Nazeing in a state of bubbling euphoria. Her father had allowed her to borrow one of the farm’s mares; Harold himself had presented her with a new saddle of exceptional quality, sent for some weeks previously as a thank-you gift and purchased, he told her, from the most skilled harness-maker in all London. “Soon, you will see where such things are made for yourself. And more besides.”

They had left an hour after sunrise, thankful that the drizzling rain of the previous day had dried into a cloud-covered but pleasantly warm morning. Edyth wore a spring-green cloak, new-made riding apparel and a smile that Harold said was wider than the River Thames itself. She was also nervous, for she had never travelled so far from home, but Harold stayed always at her side, making conversation to put her at ease, although his enthusiasm for the journey was not as buoyant as he pretended.

The weeks at Nazeing had, once his illness began to abate, been a time of pleasure—not merely because of Edyth. Days of blissful abstention from responsibility; an opportunity to sit beside the river, quietly to observe the hypnotic current as it rippled and eddied. A rare chance to enjoy the spring flowers blooming, watch the wind scurry through the trees or the rain moving across the sky in banks of shape-changing cloud. He had rediscovered things from childhood that he had forgotten—fishing, riding for the pleasure of it, the marvel of new life on a farm: lambs, calves, chicks and piglets. The pace of a freeborn farmer directed by the cycle of nature had suddenly appealed, although Harold was aware that without adequate gold, such a living could be harsh. There was always work to be done—hard work—on the land, from dawn till dusk, through all weathers, all seasons. A peasant relied on a small patch of land, one pig, one goat, to provide his meagre existence; had no servant, no well-stocked barn or comfortable Hall. No fur-lined boots or cloak to keep out the cold of mid-winter. Harold knew all that, knew that the life he had been born to, of politics, leadership, warfare and government, to outwit an opponent, was the only one that he could follow. This pessimism that he was trying to hide from Edyth arose from a reluctance to return to the banal bickering of court and the tedium of pointless bureaucracy.

The office of earl was a demanding role, and there would be much for him to catch up with: legal matters to make judgment on, charters to witness and sign…he had reliable clerical secretaries who had kept him informed of the more important matters, but the first few days back in London would inevitably revolve around endless meetings, discussions and decision-making. Edward would expect his full attention too; would have much to discuss. Harold only hoped that most of it would be important, not a surfeit of information about church building or hunting. Though Harold was always willing to listen to a recounting of a good chase, Edward had a tedious habit of repeating particular anecdotes. And then there were his numerous Norman friends to be tolerated.

Naturally, Edward had brought his favoured companions with him when he returned to England and, naturally, some of them he had wanted to reward, but there were limits to the degree of honours presented to outsiders. Men like Robert Champart for example.

No doubt the matter of Queen Emma’s removal would be high on the agenda also—his father’s letters had seen Harold informed of that particular sour turn of events. He agreed with Godwine that to humiliate the Queen had been a mistake—all rumour of her involvement with Magnus had proven unfounded—but equally Harold had conceded his father’s difficulty. If Swegn, damn him, had not been so foolishly implicated, then perhaps Godwine could have prevented the whole unfortunate business. Ah, but repercussions were bound to be swirling around court still…At least he had Edyth with him. She would be waiting for him at the end of the long days, with her happy smile and soft young body.

The road they followed was level and well gravelled, with only the occasional pothole. Behind them it ran northwards up into the ancient Saxon lands of the North and South Folk and the lonely windswept swathes of the East Anglian fenlands. Ahead, the distant smoke haze that hung in a ragged fug over the city of London was visible for most of their journey. Much of the land to the north-east of London, now that they had ridden away from the forested ridges above the Lea and Roding valleys, was flat marshland divided by rivers and streams, the reed beds and isolated clumps of alder or crack willow occupied by waders and water fowl. They had passed through hamlets such as Walhamstowe, Leaton and Stokæ, where women and children had come from their houses to wave and cheer; those working in the fields had halted their plough teams to watch the cavalcade pass by.

The first thing that struck Edyth as they approached London itself was the height of its walls. The Roman giants, Harold told her, had built them to defend England’s most important town from harm. “No one can attack London,” he informed her with pride. “Not without the prospect of a long siege and much discomfort. London can only fall from within. When—if—the people decide to surrender.” And that, Edyth thought to herself, they would surely never do!

They followed the banks of the sluggish Walbrook river as it trundled towards the Thames—and then they were at the Bishop’s Gate, riding beneath its echoing stone archway. Their escort, Harold’s housecarls and servants, bunched closer, their horses’ shod hooves clattering on the road that was suddenly no longer rough gravel but cobbled. The noise of the city was not immediately apparent, for they rode down through the Corn Hill, where not so many years past the wheat had been more dominant than the new-settled inhabitants. The hovels were beginning to encroach further out on to the few acres of open land, especially in the vicinity of All Hallows with its high-gabled, resplendently thatched-reed roof. The Londoners affectionately called it Grass Church, visitors and foreigners, mistaking the common-used accent, knowing it as Grace Church. The building squatted, serene, in the last oasis of peace before the bustle of the market streets of East Cheap.

They turned their horses into the busy scramble—Edyth had never heard so much noise, not even at the autumn slaughter. She thought the old bull last year had bellowed loud, but this, this was incredible! Traders yodelled from behind their heaped stalls, men and women bawling out the attractions of their wares, haggling sharply and furiously with buyers, irritable with the slower minded, quick to strike a bargain whenever they could. A barrage of voices, high-pitched, gruff, cursing or laughing. Accents Edyth had not heard before, languages she could not identify. The riders passed stacks of wooden, copper and clay bowls; pewter ware; woven baskets of all shapes, sizes and forms. Stalls bright with colourful bolts of cloth, fruit stalls, meat stalls, wine and ale sellers. Leather and hides. Iron, wool…everything imaginable. She saw a black-haired person with skin as dark as a bay pony’s polished coat, another tall and fair with a bright-bladed axe slotted through his belt. This was the part of London where people headed, where trade flourished, where the gold and silver was made and paid. They came to London from all over the world, the merchants and the traders. From Denmark and Norway, Flanders and France and Normandy. From further away than that: Rome and Greece and the Holy Land. From Africa and Spain!

Women carried bulging packages; men humped rolls of cloth, sacks or crates and barrels. Handcarts blocked the road, while ragged children darted in and out of it all. Barking dogs, squealing mules, lowing oxen. Above the noise rose the smell of unwashed people all crowded together. Muck and filth clogged the road. Debris and animal dung mixed with raw sewage. Yet no one seemed to notice either the raucous din or the appalling stench. It was all a part of what made London what it was—the busiest, almost the most important port in all the world.

Edyth did not know where to look first, what to see, what to hear. Her heart raced and thumped from the thrill of it all, her throat croaking a sudden cry of fear when her horse was thrust aside from Harold and the escort. The crowd closed into the sudden free space; a man, bent beneath heavy sheepskins, pushed in front of her. But instantly Harold reappeared at her side, his mouth grinning reassurance, his hand coming out to take the mare’s reins, to lead her quietly forward.

They were through the press of the crowds and coming out on to Thames Street. More traders had set their stalls along the open embankment, fish sellers, pie makers—every culinary concoction imaginable. The river itself was no less crowded. Small boats and fishing boats. Merchant vessels with their high, swooping prows, flat-keeled boats with their single sails furled, moored against the oak timbers of the wharves or beached upon the clay reinforcement of the low-tide mud banks. Great sea-going beasts out of the water, some at anchor, others with oars out to manoeuvre against the water’s flow before the flood tide should come in upon them.

Ahead towered the wooden structure of London Bridge sweeping across the river. Never had Edyth imagined that a mere bridge could be so wide or so long, nor that it could take the accumulated weight of so many. Surely, any minute it would creak and groan, and fall into the white-foamed water that was rushing beneath?

The mare faltered as her fore hoof touched the timber, but again Harold was there, coaxing her forward. “I can see I will have to buy you a mount more used to these crowds,” he said. “As soon as I can, I will take you to the horse sales down on the Smoothfield market.”

Curses and laughter emanated from the press ahead, a flurry, and a piglet, ears flat, tail bolt upright, ran squealing from between people’s legs, heading for the street beyond the bridge. Several men made to clutch it, one woman tried to toss her shawl over it, but it dodged aside, hurtling between the hooves of Harold’s horse. The animal merely snorted and sidestepped.

“There is every kind of mount imaginable at Smoothfield,” Harold continued, as if nothing had happened. “Mares, geldings, ambling palfreys and high-stepping colts, destriers with quivering ears and proud hearts. Mind, there is many a rogue at the horse market—man and beast—but if you know what you are seeking you can find it, if you’re prepared to haggle the price.”

A boy, a barefoot, ragged-dressed lad of no more than seven years, darted in the piglet’s trail, ripples of teasing and more than a few crude curses following in his wake. He dodged around the horses, leapt the last three strides from the timber bridge and scampered on up the lane to where astonished voices marked the animal’s route.

Edyth had watched with growing horror as the pig narrowly missed her own mare’s trampling hooves—what if she shied? She gasped as the boy almost collided with her mare’s broad rump, hardly heard Harold’s calm narrative of the horse market.

Staunchly, she concentrated on looking ahead, telling herself not to look down, not to think of that mass of water below. Her relief on reaching the other side was immense, quickly overshadowed by the realisation that they had arrived, were at Godwine’s London estate, his Hall in Southwark.

It looked much the same as her father’s steading, save that it was larger, with double the number of outbuildings—and that it was surrounded by a timber-built palisade fence that stood twice the height of a man. Guards stamped to attention as Harold rode through the open gateway; servants ran to take the horses and unload the pack ponies. Countess Gytha was suddenly there, coming quickly down the wooden steps from the Hall, her arms outstretched to welcome her son. Behind her came Godwine, rough-faced but wearing a beaming expression of pleasure, and beside him a fourteen-year-old boy, Gyrth, his fourth son, who strongly resembled his mother, with her high cheekbones and slender-shaped mouth and chin.

Others were clustering around, coming, it seemed, from every door and from around every corner. Family and kindred, servant and housecarl…so many people clustered into the confined space of the courtyard. So much noise and bustle!

Edyth sat her mare, uncertain whether to jump down or wait, embarrassed by the sudden realisation that she was in high company and had no idea of the correct thing to do. A tall blond-haired young man who had been vigorously pumping Harold’s arm detached himself from the Earl and strode over to her. He thrust both his broad, strong hands around Edyth’s waist and lifted her from the saddle as if she were as light as a single goose feather, proclaiming, “And who are you? Not attached to Harold, I trust? He has all the fortune when it comes to the finest-looking ladies!”

Embarrassed, Edyth blushed and looked at the toes of her boots, Harold rescued her, taking her hand and drawing her protectively close to his side.

“I am sorry, cousin, but my Lady here is spoken for.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “She is Edyth Swannhæls, and she is my hand-fast wife. This, my dear-heart, is my mother’s nephew from Denmark, Beorn Estrithson. He has an intelligent brain and a brave heart, but uses neither because he has discovered that his privy member has other uses than the necessity to piddle!”

Playfully Beorn protested. He made to punch Harold’s shoulder; the older man, laughing, caught the fist and sent a mock blow in return. Two younger boys had darted into the assembly, their faces grimed, boots muddy, one carrying a fishing pole, the other three fresh-caught fish. From their colouring and appearance, and the way they launched themselves simultaneously on to Harold’s back, feet kicking and hands clasping at his hair, they had to be his two youngest brothers, Leofwine and Wulfnoth, one eight, the other nine years old.

Edyth smiled shyly, aware that she was not one of the family. With Harold distracted by the boys, Countess Gytha stepped forward to embrace her, bidding a welcome with a genuine affection. Godwine, after half-heartedly admonishing his youngest two, patted Harold’s shoulder and then turned to sweep his bear-muscled arms around her. “Delighted!” he boomed, holding Edyth at arm’s length and looking at her approvingly. “I am delighted for you both. Every good fortune to you!”