The Promises of a King, page 2
Aelfgar could feel his heart racing. To be denied Northumbria was one thing, but to be thrown some scraps as compensation was an insult he could not take. His father saw the ire rising in his son’s face and hissed a warning.
‘Aelfgar, accept the king’s generosity.’
The silence stretched on, and the king started to turn away to conclude the audience.
‘No,’ said Aelfgar, to gasps of shock from all present. ‘I am not some dog to be thrown scraps from his master’s table. I am Aelfgar, son of Leofric, son of one of the noblest families in England. I have worked long and hard for this position, killed many men in service of my country, and I am willing to die for my king, but I will not be treated like a peasant. I demand that you retract your decision.’
‘You demand?’ asked the king, incredulously.
‘I do,’ said Aelfgar, ‘for it is only right.’
One of the guards stepped forward towards the young man, but Edward held up his hand, stopping him in his tracks.
‘Hold,’ he said, ‘for I would hear what he has to say.’ He addressed Aelfgar. ‘Tell me, for we are all waiting to hear. If I do not bow to your demands, what will be the consequences?’
Before Aelfgar could respond, his father stepped forward and punched his son across the face, sending him crashing to the ground. His men pounced on Aelfgar and dragged him from the room as Earl Leofric turned to face the king.
‘Your grace,’ he said urgently, ‘please forgive my son his disrespectful outburst. He is young and knows not what he says. I speak on behalf of all in the House of Mercia when I say we welcome your choice of Earl of Northumbria and hereby swear before everyone present that we will offer all the support Earl Tostig needs in keeping our northern borders safe.’
The king looked up as Aelfgar was bundled from the room, before turning his attention back to Leofric.
‘And what of your son?’
‘He is rash, and he is foolish,’ said Leofric, ‘and the disappointment got to him, but he spoke in haste and is not a bad man. If you can forgive him this outburst, I will mete out a punishment he will never forget.’
‘The axeman’s blade is what he should get,’ shouted a voice from the back of the room.
‘No!’ said Leofric quickly. ‘He is foolhardy, yes, but he is young and strong and can wield a sword better than most men. His words were treasonous, on that we can agree, but if he is to lose his life, let it be in the service of the Crown in the front lines of our armies. Let him pay the price of his outburst with Scottish blood, not his own, and perhaps, if he survives, then one day you will see him for the man he is destined to be, not the foolish boy you saw before you today.’
The king stared at Leofric, seeing the desperation in the old man’s face. Leofric was a good man and a loyal subject, but he could not stand back and allow anyone to threaten him without being punished.
‘Earl Leofric,’ he said eventually, ‘I recognise your anguish, but it is my opinion that your son just threatened the Crown of England in front of many witnesses. That cannot go unpunished.’ He paused for a few moments, and the room fell silent, waiting for his judgement. ‘In recognition of your loyalty,’ he continued eventually, ‘I will not execute Aelfgar, for his death would punish you long after his pain has gone, so I say this. Tell your son that I hereby declare him outlaw, and he has until the sun sets on the last day of the month to leave the country. After that time, if anybody captures him and brings him to me, Aelfgar will feel the axeman’s blade. More than that, I cannot do.’
‘But your grace!’ gasped Leofric.
‘My mind is made up, Earl Leofric, and I suggest you thank God that my mood was good before coming here today. Tell your son to run, for there is no longer a place for him in England.’
Leofric stared, knowing he could do no more. Finally, after a quick bow of his head, he left the hall, followed by his entourage. Once they had gone, Edward turned back to the room.
‘Unless anyone has anything to add, this council is over. Earls Harold and Tostig, attend me in my chambers; we have business to discuss.’
* * *
Half an hour later, Harold and Tostig waited outside the king’s chambers, both men bewildered yet excited at the recent events.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Tostig. ‘Never in my life have I dreamed of such an elevation, at least, not so soon.’
‘Think yourself fortunate,’ said Harold, ‘for you are indeed lucky to be in charge of such an earldom at such a young age. It seems that God cleared a path for you.’
‘Him and Scottish steel,’ said Tostig. ‘The death of Osbjorn threw all sorts of complications into the succession.’
‘Indeed,’ said Harold, ‘but whatever the reason, make sure you do not let the king down.’
‘Since when have you become such a supporter?’ asked Tostig, looking at his brother. ‘Do not forget how he treated our father.’
‘Our family has had its problems with Edward, that much is true,’ said Harold, ‘but those days are behind us, and Edward is still our king. If you can forget the past and embrace the reality of what lies all around us, I feel there are great things yet to come for the House of Godwin.’
Before Tostig could answer, the doors opened, and they were beckoned into a receiving chamber. Inside stood the two men Harold fully expected to be present, the king himself and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Stigand of Norwich, but as the two brothers bowed their heads in respect, Harold noticed a third man standing near the window, Bishop Ealdred of Worcester.
Ever since he had been a young monk in York, Ealdred had been a friend of the Godwin family, a relationship that had continued even after gaining the diocese of Worcester. He was a pious man, but was also known for his military prowess, especially against the ever-present threat of King Gruffydd’s patrols along the Welsh border.
He had once been instrumental in getting a pardon for Harold’s older brother, Sweyn Godwinson, after King Edward had exiled him. Not only that, when the Godwin family was forced to flee England four years earlier after a confrontation with the king, he had allowed them to escape despite having been ordered by Edward to take them prisoner. It was an act of friendship that Harold would never forget.
‘Bishop Ealdred,’ said Harold, walking over to embrace his friend, ‘it is good to see you again.’
‘I returned a few days ago,’ said Ealdred, ‘but the journey was arduous, and I am not the man I used to be. I have hardly left my cot since I got back, such was my exhaustion.’
‘You are here now,’ said Harold. ‘So, how was Rome?’
‘I did not go to Rome,’ said the bishop, ‘I was… elsewhere.’
Harold’s brow creased with confusion.
‘I do not understand,’ said Harold. ‘Whenever your name was mentioned, everyone said you were on a pilgrimage to the Holy City.’
‘That’s what we wanted them to believe,’ said the king from behind Harold, ‘and it looks like it worked.’
Harold turned to face Edward.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘forgive me, I forget my place. You invited us here, and since I arrived, I have been fawning over Bishop Ealdred like a newly ordained acolyte.’
Edward waved the matter away, lowering himself into a chair and accepting a tankard of wine from a servant.
‘It makes a change to see important men meeting as allies with no hidden agendas,’ he said, ‘please, join me. You too, Tostig.’
All four men walked over and took a seat before the king. The servant poured them all drinks and departed.
‘So,’ said Edward, when they were alone, ‘there is much to discuss, but first, we should congratulate your brother on his new earldom.’ He turned to Tostig and raised his tankard. ‘It was a hard decision, Tostig Godwinson, and one that may yet cause me problems, but I am relying on you to keep the Scots at arm’s length. Do not let me down.’
‘I will not, your grace,’ said Tostig. ‘I will fight and, if necessary, die in your service.’
‘Well, try not to die too soon,’ said the king with a smile, ‘at least not until we have someone strong enough to take your place.’
Everyone laughed at the jest and raised their tankards before falling quiet to wait for the king to explain the reason for his summons. Edward placed his tankard on the table before turning to the Bishop of Worcester.
‘Bishop Ealdred, I think this may be a good time to enlighten our guests as to where you have been for the last year.’
‘Of course, your grace,’ said Ealdred. ‘As you know,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘the Lord has not yet blessed the king and queen with a child, and the longer the situation continues, the more at-risk England becomes. If, God forbid, something happened to the king, the country would be at the whim of every noble from here to Germany who thinks he has a claim to the throne. The king, in his wisdom, saw fit to put precautions in place that would prevent war should the worst happen.’
‘What things?’ asked Harold, intrigued.
‘The reason the Bishop of Worcester has not been here these past few months,’ interjected the king, ‘is because he was arranging safe passage across Flanders, Germany and Hungary.’
‘Safe passage for whom?’ asked Harold.
‘For King Edmund Ironside’s son,’ replied Edward. ‘He is the only living descendant of any English king, and we thought it would be prudent to seek out his views on sitting upon the throne, should I die childless.’
Harold stared at the king. Edward the Exile was the son of Edmund Ironside, who had been dethroned by King Cnut many years earlier. By seeking his attendance, King Edward was making a strong statement of intent, one that he was not sure he agreed with, but those thoughts were not for this meeting. He turned to face the bishop.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘I had no idea. To travel so far across territories that have no allegiance to us was a great risk. You have my admiration. Can I ask, were you successful in your quest?’
‘To an extent,’ said Ealdred. ‘I managed to make strong contacts, but alas was forced to return without actually speaking to Edward myself. However, you can rest assured that he is well aware of the king’s interest as he has since acknowledged my messengers, albeit without commitment either way.’
‘Then that is a good start,’ said Harold, turning back to the king. ‘However, may I be allowed to offer some advice?’
‘Proceed,’ said the king.
‘Your grace,’ said Harold, ‘the bloodline is unchallengeable, but can I remind you that the ultimate choice of who sits upon the throne lays in the hands of the Witan. If this is the path you want to pursue, it would be good to get their approval before taking such steps.’
‘I am fully aware of the obligation to consult the Witan,’ said the king, ‘and have already done so with many of its members, albeit informally. The mood is one of support, and before I send the next messenger to Hungary to formalise the offer, I will, of course, get their full approval.’
‘I received no such communication,’ said Harold.
‘An oversight,’ said Edward, ‘nothing more. Besides, I anticipated your full support.’
‘Of course,’ said Harold. ‘So, what is the next step?’
‘Now I know he is interested,’ said the king, ‘I will summon the Witan for their approval before sending another messenger to formalise the offer and escort Edward the Exile back to England.’
‘And who is that messenger to be?’ asked Harold.
‘Why do you think I asked you to remain?’ asked the king with a smile. ‘It is you, Harold Godwinson. I want you to go to Hungary and bring me the next king of England.’
Chapter Two
Bosham, March, AD 1055
A few days later, Harold and his bodyguards rode through the gates of the family home in Bosham. Since his father’s death, he and his wife, Edyth Swanneck, had relocated to administer the huge Earldom of Wessex and be closer to his widowed mother, Gytha Thorkelsdóttir. As he dismounted, Edyth emerged from the manor and walked over to greet him.
‘Harold,’ she said, ‘welcome back. We received your message about Tostig – it is indeed wonderful news. Is he not with you?’
Harold kissed his wife on the cheek before responding.
‘He is not,’ he said, handing the reins of his horse over to a groom. ‘There is much to arrange before he takes his seat in Northumbria, so he has ridden back to Anglia to start the process.’ He looked across at his mother, peering out of the doorway. Although it had been over two years since Godwin had died, she still grieved for him.
‘Has she been all right?’ he asked quietly.
‘She is fine,’ said Edyth gently. ‘Just give her time.’
‘I will go to her,’ said Harold and started walking away.
‘Harold, wait,’ said Edyth, ‘there is something you need to know. A man arrived yesterday asking to see you. I explained you would be back today, so he found lodgings in the village.’
‘Did he give his name?’
‘He did not, nor would he share his business. All he said was that he needed to speak to you, and you alone.’
‘When is he coming back?’
‘He is here now,’ said Edyth, ‘and has been since dawn. He is waiting in the chapel.’
Harold looked over at the small stone building.
‘I had better go and see him,’ he said and started walking across the courtyard.
‘Harold,’ said Edyth as he left, ‘be careful. There is something about him that makes me uneasy.’
Her husband acknowledged with a nod and continued to the chapel, ducking under the lintel to step into the gloomy interior. The space was illuminated by several candles, and at the far end, a lone figure knelt on one of the red cushions before the altar. The chapel was silent save for the gentle guttering of the flames and the slow breathing of the visitor.
Harold stared at the riding cloak hanging from the man’s shoulders. It was badly stained and worn through heavy and prolonged use, a clear indicator that the wearer was a frequent traveller or even a man of conflict. Harold took a few paces forward.
‘Greetings, stranger,’ he said, ‘I hear you seek an audience with me.’
The man raised his head but focused on the crucifix upon the wall.
‘I do, my lord.’
‘Then state your business,’ said Harold, ‘for your presence causes worry in the hearts of my family.’
The man slowly got to his feet and turned to face him. His cloak was open, and Harold could see a sword hanging from his belt.
‘We do not allow the bearing of weapons in God’s house.’
The man looked down at the sword before drawing it from the scabbard and placing it on the table beside him.
‘My apologies,’ he said slowly, ‘my heart is so full of shame and self-hate, I forget the niceties of common courtesy. I am surprised you do not recognise me, my lord, for we have met on several occasions.’
Harold’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the man in the gloom. He certainly looked familiar, but his face was drawn and covered with the dirt of the road.
‘It is my turn to apologise,’ he said eventually, ‘for though I recognise your features, your name escapes me.’
‘My name, my lord,’ replied the man, ‘is Owen of Hereford, and I rode at your brother’s side for many years.’
Recognition sparked in Harold’s eyes. He hadn’t seen Owen since well before the huscarl had joined Sweyn on the fateful pilgrimage to Rome several years earlier, and now he had been reminded, the memories came flooding back.
‘Owen,’ he said, taking a step forward, ‘I’m sorry, I just did not…’
Owen held up his hand, stopping Harold in his tracks.
‘Come no closer, my lord,’ he said, ‘there are things to say and actions to take.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Harold. ‘You were a good friend to my brother and were with him when he died. There will always be a place at my hearth for you.’
‘The time for such things is long gone,’ said Owen, ‘for there are truths to be told.’
Harold stared at the haggard man. The more he looked, the more he could see that he had suffered greatly. His clothes hung loose, and his hair was unkempt, matched by an untrimmed beard.
‘Owen,’ he said, ‘perhaps we should get you cleaned up first. After that, you can say what you have come to say. Have you eaten recently?’
‘Not for many days,’ said Owen, ‘but there is no need for food or fancy garments where I am going, and my journey is long overdue.’
‘Owen,’ said Harold, realising the man was in great distress, ‘come inside, and we will discuss this.’ He took another step forward, but Owen reached across and grabbed the sword. Harold stopped abruptly and stared at the man. His own sword was still in the scabbard attached to his saddle outside, so he was unarmed.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘This is God’s house. What sort of man are you?’ He watched as tears welled up in Owen’s eyes before cutting a path through the grime on his face.
‘I’ll tell you what sort of man I am,’ he said. ‘I am a thief, a drunk and a liar, but more than that, I am a common murderer, destined to burn in the fires of hell.’
‘Owen,’ said Harold, ‘I know not what has happened to you, but this is not the place to have this discussion. Lower your sword and tell me what this is about.’
Owen looked at the weapon in his hand as if only just realising what it was. Slowly he turned it around and, holding it by the blade, handed it over to Harold.
‘Do you recognise it, my lord? Look close, for it bears your family seal.’
