The Chosen Queen (21 page)

He stared vacantly at the chamber wall as if seeing through to some sort of nightmare beyond and Edyth dared ask no more.

‘Come to bed?’ she suggested softly and, like a lamb seeking protection from a fierce wind, he came, but for once he was in no mood for sport.

‘I fear I have made an error, cariad,’ he whispered into the darkness. ‘I fear, for once, I have fought too far. I have driven the English too far. They believe it was I who
led the Vikings onto them and they will want revenge. We must look to our defences.’

Edyth kissed him softly.

‘We will, Griffin. We will make it a priority for the spring but the snows will soon be upon us and they bring a safety of their own. You must rest.’

‘Rest,’ Griffin echoed, half-asleep, but his voice was strained and even in his slumbers he cried out against the possibility.

Nazeing, September 1062

‘
Y
ou are not to write to her.’

Svana looked up from the vellum as Harold strode into the kitchen at Nazeing, shaking wet leaves from his boots.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harold. I must. She will be grieving.’

Harold looked down and Svana went to him, keen to press her point. News had come to the court that Edyth’s older brother, Brodie, had died at Rheims whilst returning from a pilgrimage to
Rome and she was worried at how her friend would take the sad tidings.

‘She is all alone out there, Harry.’

‘Not all alone,’ Harold said gruffly. ‘She has Griffin.’

‘But he is not a woman.’

‘Indeed he is not, nor a man either. He is a beast, Svana. His raiding was worse than ever this summer and King Edward is furious. I swear he’s still smarting from the Viking
incursions – they remind him of the raiding on King Ethelred when he was a boy – and with these further attacks he’s ordered all communication with Wales halted. How would it
look, then, if it was I who defied him?’

‘It is not you,’ Svana pointed out, ‘but I, and I cannot see how a few words of comfort to a friend might endanger the country.’

‘It’s not a jest, Svana.’

‘Indeed it is not. I imagine Edyth is lonely enough without us abandoning her too.’

Harold groaned.

‘We are not abandoning her, my sweet. Please try and see. I am truly sorry for the loss of her brother but the situation with Wales is serious. Edward is out for blood and Torr is
encouraging him. It’s taken almost four years to re-establish the Northumbrian villages that were wiped out to satisfy Hardrada’s gold lust and the people aren’t happy. Torr has
been taxing them at a crazy rate – far more than it costs to rebuild a few cottages – and Edyth’s damned husband makes a handy scapegoat. If anyone has deprived her of your
comfort it is him.’

Svana went to the fire, stirring away her anger in the oatmeal pot. Once again, it seemed, it was the men who acted and the women who suffered. She heard Harold sigh and felt his arms creep
around her waist.

‘I’m sorry, Svana. I know it hurts you but Edward wants Griffin defeated.
Everyone
wants Griffin defeated.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Well, maybe not Alfgar, but he’s taken to his bed. Lady Meghan says he’s sick with grief.’

‘I have no doubt he is.’

Harold inclined his head.

‘Perhaps, Svana, but I think he’s avoiding military involvement against Wales too. Stupid fool didn’t know what he’d taken on riding out with the Vikings but that’s
Alfgar for you. It’s Griffin who’s the real problem here.’

‘And, as usual, it’s you who has to sort that out?’ Harold’s arms tightened around Svana’s waist and she bit down on her usual protests and turned in his arms to
look up at him. ‘Torr isn’t usually one to put himself out for his people,’ she remarked mildly.

‘That’s true enough but he’s fearful of unrest and when Torr’s fearful he lashes out. He’s hot for Griffin’s blood and, besides . . .’ he rolled his
eyes, ‘ . . . some of the best hunting is in the Marches and he wants it for himself.’

‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

‘Not much. He’s a taker. Always has been. He thinks he’s owed an easy life and I don’t like that, no. Why should I?’

‘No reason at all.’ Svana reached round and dug her fingers into the knotted muscles around Harold’s shoulders; they were tight with tension. ‘And I agree, if he had even
half your sense of duty he would be a better man.’

‘And if I had half his sense of fun you would be a happier wife.’

‘No!’ She pressed her lips to his neck, nuzzling in against him. ‘I don’t like Torr’s sense of “fun”, Harry, and I love you just as you are.
You’re ten times the husband he is.’

‘Even when I’m not here?’

‘Even then, though I would rather you did not ride to Wales.’

‘It will not be yet, my love, not unless things change. The days are drawing in and Yuletide will soon be upon us. That is no time to make war.’

‘For once,’ she said, kissing him, ‘we are in agreement.’

He kissed her back, lightly at first and then harder.

‘Let me send my letter,’ she whispered, pressing against him. ‘Just this once.’

He groaned.

‘Just this once, then,’ he agreed huskily, ‘and, Svana, I promise you – whatever has to happen to Griffin, I will see Edyth safe. No one will hurt her or her children
– no one.’

‘Griffin might.’

‘No. He loves her, Svana, as I love you. Actually no, no one could love anyone as much as I love you, but somewhere close.’

Svana shook her head, though her mood was softening now she had his approval for her letter.

‘You are sweet-talking me,’ she accused him with a smile.

‘Is that not allowed?’ he asked, dipping his lips to her neck. ‘You are, after all, very sweet.’

‘I’m too old to be sweet,’ she objected but now he was smiling too.

‘So what are you now that you are so “old” then – bitter?’ He squeezed her waist, making her squirm deliciously. ‘Twisted?’ His hand crept up and
tickled beneath her arm until she was helpless. ‘Crooked?’

‘Harold, stop! Do not tickle me, I beg you.’

‘You beg me? Very well then, but only if you let me tickle you somewhere nicer later?’ Svana flushed. ‘See – not so old now, wife.’

‘Not so old now,’ she agreed, looking up into his amber-ringed eyes. ‘I do love you, Harry.’

‘And I you. I cannot stop King Edward ordering war, my sweet, but I can, and I will, bring Edyth safely back if it is the last thing I do.’

Rhuddlan, Yuletide 1062

E
dyth looked out across the Yuletide court, trying to absorb the festive merriment. Rhuddlan sparkled with life and colour and her big,
bold, resilient husband sparkled with it. He had long since cast off his Viking troubles and was revelling in all he had and Edyth admired him greatly for it. The southern lords had kept their
usual distance but all the great and the good of northern Wales had been here for the last two weeks to pay homage to their king and queen and to drink their cellars dry.

Now it was Twelfth Night and they were celebrating the end of the nativity period with a wedding. Becca had finally taken Lewys, newly Lord of Bethseda, as her husband and the court was making
the most of the last chance to feast before austerity bit once more. The Yule decorations were still just about in place and the hall was rich with greenery. In Celtic Wales they did not bring in a
tree like the English, for trees, Griffin had assured Edyth earnestly on her first year here, held ancient spirits and uprooting them would bring bad luck for the coming year. Ivy, however,
apparently sucked the spirits from the trees, so prising it away from the bark earned favour and great swathes of it were always hung triumphantly around the hall.

Edyth had found the creeper unnerving at first, especially when it put out its tiny feelers into the very walls, but Griffin had insisted it represented victory and as that was his favourite
thing she’d tried to make the best of it. She had ordered the little leaves daubed with limewash to mimic snow and collected fine gold dust from the king’s jewellers to sprinkle into
the paint so that it shimmered like magic in the rush lights. Griffin had been delighted the first time he’d seen it.

‘You’re so clever, cariad,’ he’d said, kissing her and on Christmas night he’d taken one of the vines to bed with them to wrap it around her naked form.

‘What if it sucks the spirit from me?’ Edyth had objected but Griffin had just laughed.

‘Nothing could suck the spirit from you, my beautiful girl.’

That had certainly felt true then and she tried to believe it now, though at times this Christ’s mass she had felt sadder than she had dared show. Even tonight, with Becca looking radiant,
her little princes running around, wide-eyed with excitement, and a sickness churning in her belly that suggested another babe might be on the way, she felt choked.

It had been several weeks now since she had eagerly opened a letter from her mother to find the terrible news of Brodie’s death, but still the thought of it froze her blood. She had barely
seen her brother since he had ridden off to his first battle with Griffin and knew little of him as a man but his sudden absence had sucked a hole in her world. Her mother’s tidings had been
taut with heart-wrenching sadness and she had turned gratefully to her second missive, stamped with a familiar laden-vine seal.

Edyth had been touched by her friend’s concern but it had spiked her grief with fear. A woman’s year? A timely peace? It had been a warning, carefully worded to
enter her heart unnoticed by prying eyes. She had done little with it during the feasting but maybe, with the New Year, it was time to make plans. She leaned over to Griffin who was indulgently
watching some of the youngsters of the court dance to the minstrels.

‘I think the English plan to attack soon, Griffin,’ she said. ‘I think they have had enough of you niggling at their border.’

‘Niggling?
Niggling
, Edyth?’

‘You understand me well enough.’

‘Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘Yes, I do. You think we should beat them to it? Mount a proper attack. Take Hereford maybe?’

‘No!’ Edyth grabbed at his hand. ‘No, Griffin, I did not mean that. Why not just be content with the kingdom we have?’

‘Edyth . . .’

‘Wales is a fine country, Griffin, and you have achieved so much here. Do you not want peace?’

‘Of course I do but can’t you see – that is what I am giving us. Whilst we fight the English we do not fight amongst ourselves.’

‘And when the English attack?’

‘We will be ready for them. Tonight is the end of the Yuletide feasting; tomorrow we can turn our thoughts to more austere matters. Niggling indeed! Come, cariad, grief is addling your
brain. Drink, be merry.’