The Chosen Queen (16 page)

‘
You’re the queen
,’ she told herself sternly, reaching for her crown. ‘
You’re in command – Griffin said so.
’

Griffin, however, was not here and everything seemed so much harder without him, especially his supercilious ex-mistress. As if sensing her distaste for the task, the babe kicked out, sudden and
strong, and Edyth put her hand to her belly. She could actually feel the shape of its determined little foot and she stroked it softly. She was the queen and she was carrying the king’s
child, so Gwyneth and her caterwauling women could learn to do as she said.

Decided, she let herself out of her elaborate bower and crossed the courtyard to Gwyneth’s far humbler rooms in the cold western corner of the compound. The guard on the door bowed low but
the women were slow to rise and even slower to curtsey. Edyth strode forward to where Gwyneth was seated on a grand chair, almost a throne. She stood before her in silence and eventually the lady
curtseyed but, like those of her maids, it was the briefest of dips, more an insult than a courtesy.

‘John tells me you are running our supply of candles dangerously low, my lady,’ Edyth said in her now-perfect Welsh.

‘John is a fool.’

‘John is a skilled steward and one of the king’s most trusted servants.’

‘The king is not here.’

‘No. He is fighting for the honour and wealth of our country.’

‘
Our
country?’

The mutiny was low but Edyth’s sharp ears caught it. She turned to the speaker, a sultry, dark-eyed young lady.

‘If you have a problem with Wales, Lady Alwen, I’m sure we can arrange for you to live somewhere else. Ireland perhaps . . .’ The girl’s berry-stained cheeks paled;
everyone knew the Welsh court was a picture of civilisation compared to the barbarous Irish one. Edyth smiled grimly. ‘As I was saying, the king, my husband, is fighting for our country and
will not wish to return to a dark hall. John says we can afford twenty candles a week for the bowers, of which ten are for my own. That seems fair.’

‘Fair? There are more of us here.’

That much was true. Most of the time Edyth only had her maid, Becca, for company whereas Gwyneth’s bower was bustling with ladies, gossiping and sniping and, as far as Edyth could see,
living off the royal purse for no service in return.

‘You are right,’ she said coolly, ‘perhaps some of you should return to your own estates.’

‘You can’t tell us what to do.’

Edyth put a quiet hand to her crown.

‘I am not seeking to do so, simply suggesting that your husbands will be disappointed if they return from war to find their farmlands poorly tended for your want of attention.’

‘That’s what stewards are for,’ Gwyneth spat.

Edyth kept her face straight.

‘Quite right, my lady, and
our
steward says ten candles. See he is obeyed, please.’

She turned to leave before any of them could challenge her further but as she took a step towards the door she felt a sharp pain shoot across her belly. She stopped, clutching at it. The women
watched, impassive. Another pain griped at her, this one stronger than the last. Edyth reached for the wall to support herself but misjudged the distance and stumbled. No one moved to help her.

She closed her eyes against the cramps. It was too soon, surely. Even as she thought this, though, the babe kicked out, as if to escape, and she felt something inside her burst. Fluid gushed
down her leg and Gwyneth’s women glanced to their mistress. A couple moved forward but stopped dead, as if at her signal. Edyth stood panting, alone, gathering her strength. Fear was rushing
through her as fast as her womb had emptied but there was no way she would give any of these cats the satisfaction of seeing it. She drew herself up and faced them.

‘I will tell my husband what a great help and comfort you were to me in the birthing of his heir. Good day.’

Another pain was clawing at her but she forced herself to walk to the door. Wrenching it open, she broke free and stumbled into the courtyard. John was at the far end rolling a barrel towards
the hall but the moment he saw her he came running.

‘My lady, what is it? Is it the baby?’

Edyth nodded, clenching her teeth against a new spasm.

‘Can you help me to my bower? And fetch Becca and send Lewys for the midwife?’

‘Of course.’

He swept a strong arm around her waist and she leaned gratefully against him. Behind her she was vaguely aware of some of Gwyneth’s clowder emerging nervously from the bower and knowing
they were there gave her the power she needed to keep walking away but it was hard.

‘Oh God, John, it hurts.’

‘I can see that, my lady, but you are strong and you are brave. Lord knows you must be to face Lady Spiteful in her own lair.’

Edyth tried to smile but another pain tore through her and it was with the greatest relief that she reached her bower and collapsed on the bed, curling herself in around the pain. She was only
vaguely aware of Becca rushing in and helping her into the loose birthing gown she had not even finished sewing. The girl mopped at her brow with a damp cloth but Edyth pushed it away. What damned
good was a cloth? She needed some sort of clamp to pull the thing out. She needed a miracle. She needed this to end.

But it did not. Edyth laboured on, almost delirious in the struggle. The midwife arrived with a young assistant and at some point two of Gwyneth’s women – older wives with more
compassion, or perhaps just a stronger sense of self-preservation – came too. Still, though, the babe did not let go its grip on her womb.

‘Keep going,’ they all said. ‘You’re doing so well. You’re nearly there.’

It was all nonsense. Edyth seemed to be nowhere near there. She just wanted to drop down and sob but the endless pains gave her no respite to even do that.

‘I can’t do it!’ she cried.

‘You can,’ came the determined chorus, then suddenly there was a commotion outside and a rustle of excitement ran through the women, rapidly turning to alarm as the door slammed
open.

‘Cariad.’

‘Griffin!’ Edyth threw herself at him. ‘Your damned child is turning me inside out.’

‘You will master it,’ he said, his voice ringing round the bower, sounding somehow so much more convincing than everyone else. Edyth clung to him and the women fluttered
nervously.

‘Sire,’ one of them dared to say, ‘you should not be in here.’

‘Why on earth not? My wife is giving birth to my child. It seems to me that I am the very best person to be in here.’

The women cowered back and Edyth nearly laughed, save that her body was torn by a new pain, even fiercer than any that had gone before.

‘I feel it,’ she cried as a great weight seemed to press between her legs. ‘I feel it coming.’

At that no one challenged the king further.

‘On the bed, my lady,’ the midwife said but Edyth shook her head and gripped at the bedposts.

‘Here. I want to do it here.’

‘But—’

‘Here!’ Griffin roared.

Quickly the women laid sheets beneath Edyth and hovered, knees bent, like boys waiting to catch a pig’s bladder.

‘Push,’ the midwife urged and Edyth pushed.

It hurt like the devil himself was pushing his way out but it was a relief to actually do something with the pain and Edyth fought with it, bearing down and gritting her teeth. Through the mist
she heard someone call, ‘the head, I have the head’ and then, on a last great push, she felt the babe slide from her and her whole body grow still. She collapsed against Griffin who
held her tight though she could feel him shaking like a ship in a storm.

‘You’re afeared,’ she found the breath to tease.

‘I admit it. I’d rather fight ten battles than go through that again.’

Edyth felt tears and laughter blurring in her eyes but everything cleared as the midwife lifted the cleaned baby.

‘’Tis a boy, my lady. ’Tis a son, a gift from God.’

‘May He be praised.’

Edyth felt her husband’s chest swell with pride as he took in the clear evidence of his male heir. Tenderly he dipped his big, copper-crazed head to kiss him and though the babe blinked,
he did not flinch.

‘Ah,’ Griffin said, ‘he is brave. That is good. A prince needs to be brave. Here, cariad.’

He stepped back a little and, unclasping a gleaming gold band from his upper arm, set it softly on the boy’s tiny head.

‘Tush now,’ the midwife clucked, fingers plucking nervously at her cream skirts, ‘he is but a babe, Sire.’

‘Nay,’ Griffin admonished, ‘he is
my
babe and he is Wales’ future king – is he not, Edyth?’

Edyth nodded. Pride and delight and relief were swirling inside her and she fought to find something worthy of the moment to say but for herself her baby’s shiny crown was as nothing to
his little eyes as they stared wonderingly up at her, as blue as his father’s.

‘A son,’ she whispered, gathering him into her arms. ‘I have a son.’

Then she burst into tears.

Coventry, October 1057

E
dyth could scarcely believe she was back in England. She’d only been away two and a half years but already she felt like a
stranger. She’d been sad when the news of her grandfather Earl Leofric’s death had come to Rhuddlan but had seized at the chance to finally return to Edward’s court for the
funeral. Somehow, though, it all felt different now.

Her gowns, though sumptuous, were of Welsh fabric – soft and strong but not quite as fine to the discerning eye as those of the English ladies. Few traders dared travel as far west as
Rhuddlan so the high-quality wools of Flanders and Italy or the rich silks of Byzantium rarely made it to Edyth’s seamstresses. On his summer raids Griffin often brought her back beautiful
jewels and fine wines but it would not occur to her warrior husband to look for fabrics and why, indeed, should it? Welsh wool was beautiful.

Even so, Edyth could not help stealing envious glances at the new fashions. Many women were wearing gowns with extravagant triangular side pieces sewn into their skirts to make them swirl
elegantly around their legs as they danced and she felt the restriction of her own tighter design like a reproach. Others had gowns cut in some clever way to pull tight at the waist without the
need for a girdle, making the wearer’s own slim lines clear to all. Not that such a style would benefit Edyth at the moment, she reminded herself, for she was carrying Griffin’s second
child and her belly was swelling enough to rob her of any waist – though not enough to make it clear this bulge was more than just Welsh ale.

Sucking in her stomach, she ran her hands over the costly chains of gold looped between her jewel-studded shoulder-clasps for reassurance. She was a queen and she must carry herself as such.
Even so, she felt as if all her old acquaintances had taken a step sideways, not far enough to be out of sight but definitely enough to make her stumble constantly to find her place amongst them
and, disorientated, she looked around for her son. Griffin had named him Ewan – God’s gift – and he had been a gift indeed, more company than she’d thought possible of a
child, both in Wales and now here in the swirling English court. She’d left her lively toddler with his proud young Uncle Morcar just a moment ago and now she spotted them surrounded by the
young women of Edward’s court.

‘Listen to him!’

‘Isn’t he sweet.’

‘Like he’s singing. He’s an angel!’

Ewan flashed his admirers his cutest smile.

His father’s son
, Edyth thought ruefully and felt a pang of loss for her husband, for Griffin was not with her. He’d excused himself, suggesting that the man who spent his
summers raiding England’s borders might not be welcome at its court and pleading concern for rebellion in the south now that Gwyneth had been returned in dishonour. Edyth had accepted this,
secretly believing she might find King Edward’s court easier without her bluff husband at her side, but in truth she missed him. She had forgotten how tired pregnancy made her and now, with
her grandfather’s funeral on the morrow, she felt more vulnerable than ever. Craving her son, she rushed over and took him into her arms.

‘Mam!’ he cried and his admirers giggled again.

‘Is that Welsh?’ one asked, peering at Ewan as if he might have come down from the North Star.

‘It is,’ Edyth said haughtily.

‘As you are now, Edyth Alfgarsdottir?’

‘I am Queen of Wales, yes.’

That shut them up, for a moment at least. Edyth looked around their faces, vaguely recognising some of the girls she’d once played with at Crownwearings, but struggling to recall any
names. Twelve-year-old Morcar had ducked off after a pastry tray and she was left here feeling awkward and vulnerable, especially when they so clearly knew her.

‘The language sounds so strange,’ another girl said, pointedly smoothing down her full skirts, ‘so ancient. Earl Torr says the Celts are an old, old people.’

‘That’s right – long established in this land.’

‘That wasn’t how he put it.’

They all giggled again, delicate English tinkles that set Edyth’s teeth on edge.