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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

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BOOK: The Wind From Hastings
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He was instantly and totally ready to take me; there was to be no preparation for me at all. He required no response, although I could feel my struggles excited him still more. I willed my body to be calm but it would not, my terror was too great.
He picked me up and threw me on his bed. I do not recall his removing his gown, though he must have done so. When he flung his body on mine, I thought I would never leave that bed alive.
At last he lay, spent, upon my aching body, and in a little while he was asleep. I eased out from under him, but he did not wake. Wrapping myself in the bed linen, I curled up in as small a ball as possible at the very edge of the bed. I realized then that I had not made my evening devotions, but the God I was accustomed to addressing had abandoned me, anyway.
Before I fell into an uneasy, exhausted slumber I had one last strange thought. Edith of the Swan Neck must not have satisfied His Grace of late.
I
T WAS THE King's desire that we go on a royal progress, touring Northumbria that all of his northern subjects might see us and know their new sovereign. After the court was sufficiently recovered from the wedding festivities—the gaiety had been excessive for some—we were packed up and escorted to the city gates once more by Eldred and the officials of York. My first experience with a royal progress was a mixed pleasure. The children did not go with us; after all, they are the offspring of Wales, not England, and so I was to be deprived of their company once more. But at least I had the certainty of being united with them at the end of our tour, and I had faith that this would be so. It was my morning gift from Harold.
When I awoke well after cockcrow on the morning after our wedding I ached in every part. My greatest fear was that the King would want to repeat his performance of the night before. But no, he was already up and clothed, and when he saw my eyes open he actually smiled at me.
“Good morrow, Aldith! Was your sleep pleasant?”
“Mmmmmm.” It was the only answer I cared to make.
Undaunted, he continued in a cheerful tone, “I've been waiting for you to waken. Now that you have, tell me what you wish as your bride gift. A jewel, a manor, an endowment for your favorite abbey?” He smiled most benevolently. For once the advantage lay with me.
“I am not an extravagant woman, my lord; the jewels you have already given me are quite sufficient, and the dower house whose deed I hold is really all I desire of property. As for an abbey, I must confess that I have no favorite; most of my devotions are private, between myself and God only. But there is one thing I would ask of you that would give me more joy than any other.”
His face closed slightly. “What is it?”
I moved my body on the bed, tossing back my hair and lifting my face to the kind morning light before I answered. “Your word, my lord. Your solemn promise that I will never again be separated from my children against my will, nor have them used as leverage against me.”
Harold stood quite still and looked at me, his eyes hooded like a drowsy horse. Then they opened wide again and his nostrils flared. “Well done, Aldith! I am happy to see I have misjudged neither your mettle nor your wits! Very well, my dear, you shall have your morning gift.”
With that knowledge that is given to women in place of muscular strength, I knew that he was telling the truth and would not betray his promise. I nodded in acceptance of the gift; he reached forward and raised my chin that he might look into my eyes.
“We have each made a vow, Aldith; one to the other. You have sworn your loyalty, if not your love. I have given you sole possession of your children. On my word, Aldith, these vows do not depend upon each
other, but only upon your honor and mine.” He removed his hand from my chin, but his eyes still locked mine. “That will be enough,” he said.
We left York on a day of tumbled gray clouds and a sniff of late snow. We were to make our progress in a great circle, passing through the more populated areas and towns as well as crossing the open countryside. Each night we would be guested at some thegn's house, observing the temper of the people and, we hoped, winning their allegiance.
The temper of the people was surprisingly good; they were not all as aggrieved as the lords of Bernicia. Toward Harold there was an attitude of grudging respect and we-shall-see; I was feted and praised like the greatest beauty who ever walked the land. My grandmother's reputation had traveled north from Mercia; more than one noble toasted me as “the heiress to magnificent Godiva!”
It was heady stuff.
The nights were different. Harold used me much; I marveled at his stamina even as I deplored his lack of subtlety. My nerves were tuned to different responses; I could not enjoy the embraces of Harold Godwine. But he was unlike my Griffith, he did not seem to need or expect me to participate; it was enough for him to celebrate his conquest of my body night after night.
Many mornings saw me seated most uncomfortably, even on my easy-gaited palfrey. Although I disliked being carried in a litter, there were times when I had to request it—and then bear the additional discomfort of dust in my face and a lack of pleasant conversation.
The Bishop Wulfstan rode with us, as Harold's confidant and personal priest, and I found I enjoyed his company as much as the King did. A learned man who was interested in everything, he told me the names of the trees we passed and the history of Roman settlement in Britain. Harold made a joke of it: “My Bishop is educating my wife for me again,” he would laugh
as the two of us rode side by side, Wulfstan talking and me listening.
The ubiquitous Osbert rode with us as well, and my brother Edwin and his party traveled with us for a while before they turned south to Mercia. Sometimes I was moved to wonder to myself, watching the faces about me, which was enemy which was friend? My sworn allegiance lay with the King, albeit reluctantly. But in my heart I felt very alone, a mote in the eye of a storm. If I were in dire peril, whose strong arm might reach out to save me? Harold? Osbert?
None?
Through a twist of fate I was First Lady of England, yet I felt homeless and dispossessed. Gwladys, given into bondage as a child, was more sure of her place in life than I.
Harold and the nobles talked of battles won and a kingdom to be held, speaking with the confidence of men who had never lost. But I knew how quickly all security can be wiped away; a word written on parchment, the slash of an ax, can do it. On those rare nights when Harold gave me peace in my bed I was tormented instead by nightmares, so that I awoke fearful and began the day under a cloud. Griffith would have noticed and commented on it; the King had larger issues on his mind.
By the end of the month, just as the countryside was greening and becoming worth the seeing, we finished our royal progress and returned to York. So happy was I to see my little ones again that even the sight of Gytha's sour face did not spoil the day for me.
“Your children have been raised as savages,” was the greeting she gave me. “I understand that the King has most generously extended his royal protection to them, but does that not place a certain responsibility upon you, madam, to see that they are taught decent Saxon customs and behave themselves accordingly?”
I bristled. “My children are Welsh! I would not have them forget their father's heritage!”
Gytha sneered, an expression for which her thin lips were singularly well suited. “A heritage of blood, madam! The elder boy, that
Thloo-ellen!
”—she mispronounced his name to vex me!—“talks night and day of his bloodthirsty sire! He would have us believe that a great army is forming in those godforsaken mountains this very minute, intending to swoop down on us all and murder us in our beds!”
So Griffith's boy had grown defiant in my absence! I was secretly pleased at his spirit, but alarmed at the danger such bravado might bring upon him.
I spoke to him of it in as much privacy as I could arrange during the day. “Llywelyn, you must restrain yourself from these brash speeches! Now you are a child; and people will tend to overlook what you say. But in a very few years there will be those who seize on your words and try to make something more of them. You could bring more warfare and bloodshed to your people, my son. Is that what you want?”
He stared up at me with his father's eyes. “When you are not here, my lady, we are sometimes insulted by these Saxon dogs!” His young eyes flamed with righteous indignation.
“I will remind you, my son, that I am a Saxon by birth! My inmost sympathies are not with these people; they have brought too much heartache on me in my lifetime. But it is important that we survive, particularly you and Rhodri and your little sister. And to survive, you must avoid making enemies!”
He tossed his auburn forelock out of his eyes with a familiar gesture. “My father was not afraid to make enemies!”
I sighed. “Yes, and look what it got him. Even with all his strength he was betrayed and brought down—for nothing! Just to be a feather in Harold Godwine's cap!
“If anything happens to you children, his blood is wasted and his line dies forever! That is a treasure I guard, Llywelyn, as Griffith would have wished me to,
and I will not let anything endanger it. Not even you! Now hold your rash tongue or answer to me!” My voice shook with my emotion and I do not know what was in my face, but Llywelyn fell silent and took a half-step backward. After that I heard no more stories about imprudent talk by my children, but sometimes I saw Llywelyn looking at me out of the corners of his eyes in a way that hurt me. I knew he felt I had betrayed his father's memory in some way, but of course I did not try to defend my actions to a child.
In that year the feast of Easter fell on the sixteenth of April, and with it the Easter Witenagemot was to be held in the West Minster. The great spring meeting of the Witan was formerly held in Winchester, the seat of the West Saxon kings since the time of Alfred. But it was Harold's intention to center the administration of his kingdom in London, which was so located that it could receive and dispense communications better than any other part of the country.
So, with all the wedding ceremonials behind us and the King feeling relatively sure that the strength of Northumbria stood behind him, we moved south to London and the West Palace on Thorney Island.
Our elaborate procession consisted, as usual, of the vast number of housecarles which were a permanent part of Harold's retinue, serving both as men-at-arms and as squires of the body if needed. They must be fed and equipped, so that meant many cart and pack animals. There was the king's steward and two butlers, his chamberlain and priest, as well as pages, heralds, equerries, cooks, wardrobe masters, herbalists, the physician, minstrels, mounted couriers, and any number of other dogsbodies whose functions seemed obscure. Yet Harold was considered to be a man of simple and restrained tastes—for a king.
We went back along Ermine Street, across the Humber and the Trent, to Watling Street and London. And everywhere we went Harold paid court to his people,
even as he had on our wedding tour through Northumbria.
When we passed a cottage with its wind doors unshuttered in that cool season, Harold straightway dispatched housecarles to cut down a giant oak and build shutters for the astonished ceorl who lived there.
At the village of Ouestraefeld the King saw that the townsfolk who lined the road to watch us pass were thinly clothed, and he left with them two carts of woolens and a bale of furs. And these things happened everywhere we went.
And, always, good Bishop Wulfstan was at his elbow. I believe Harold had courted the goodwill of Eldred by asking his blessing for our marriage, but he courted the goodwill of God through his friendship with Wulfstan. The Bishop was saintly, for truth, and his kindly goodness cast a spell. He even found the time to teach Llywelyn to read some simple Latin and instructed both boys in counting and geography.
I feared Harold might object to such favors being given, but he did not seem to pay mind to it.
It was sweet, that spring, riding down out of the north country. The light in the long valleys was bluish, the air clear and fine. Great forests of beech and oak marched like armies along the watercourses, bent on forcing out their rivals, the noble spruce. Game was everywhere: red deer, boar, all manner of wild fowl in the scrub on the hills and big fat salmon in the cold streams. The people were hardy and hardworking, more reserved and suspicious than those in the South. Interested though I was in seeing London, I almost regretted leaving Northumbria.
On our way I had made every opportunity to avoid Gytha, and she had done the same for me, but the afternoon before we were to reach London it chanced that we were riding together, with no one else close of our own rank. Feeling an obligation to make some sort of social remark, I commented on my eagerness to see London.
“London's single virtue is that it is an end to all this journeying for a while,” Gytha sighed. “I am so tired of horse sweat and having my bones jounced! But I suppose”—she cast an eye toward me, suddenly spying a chance to play the cat—“a person such as yourself is used to living a rough life?”
It was too good an opportunity to overlook, even if it meant further alienating the woman. “Madam,” I told her coolly, “the truly highborn always have greater stamina than the baseborn, and are able to bear a few discomforts without difficulty. The King's greyhounds have trotted gaily at his horse's heels since York, but I notice that Egbert's mongrel pack deserted us at the Ouse River. Mayhap, my lady, you have been misinformed as to the flawlessness of your pedigree?”
Enjoying the spectacle of Gytha speechless for once, I rode at a pleasant pace for some time, much puffed with myself. But the snake was merely waiting to strike back; I should have known it. As the shadows grew longer and we hastened to reach the monastery of Saint Paul, where we would spend the night, Gytha reined her horse close to mine again and hissed in a falsely friendly voice, “I am surprised that you are so eager to see London, Your Grace, considering.”
BOOK: The Wind From Hastings
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