The Chosen Queen (27 page)

She took a step forward as if she would hug him, but recollected herself at the last moment and held back. Even so, Harold felt he had melted just a little of her ice and was glad of it. This
speck of warmth, at last, was like a trace of the old Edyth, a seed that could grow and maybe even blossom again. The maid had described Svana as Edyth’s lifeline and now he vowed to himself
to make sure he carried this poor, deposed Welsh queen safely home to her care.

‘You are ready to ride for England then?’ he asked.

Edyth set her chin up.

‘Yes, my lord, I am ready to ride for England.’

Westminster, October 1063

E
dyth could hardly believe how Westminster had been transformed in the eight years since she had last been there. Thorney Island had been
flattened and mounds of earth brought in to rid it of the marshy softness that had long caught at unwary shoes. The old abbey church had been torn down and King Edward’s grand new one was
rising from the ground in layer upon layer of glowing Reigate stone. Already the pillars that would support the nave were heading for the sky as if urging the rest of the walls upwards towards
God.

Edward had called the court together at first light to bless the footings and they were all stood in the crisp autumn air, shivering in their finest clothes and trying not to yawn as Archbishop
Stigand of Canterbury sprinkled holy water and chanted a benediction. Edyth knew her eyes should be cast down in devotion but she could not tear them away from the masons and craftsmen all around.
For it wasn’t just the abbey; all of London was expanding.

Beyond the rivers surrounding Westminster, houses were springing up everywhere so that, from where Edyth stood, she could barely glimpse grass at all. Much woodland had been cut down and the
village of Chelsea to her west seemed to be creeping up to the very edges of the Tyburn. Even on the far side of the great Thames people were building homes, pushing out across the Southwark
meadowlands like eager pilgrims. There were also more and more merchants operating along the beaten-down streets, selling foodstuffs and textiles and fancy goods brought in on the ships that lined
the banks of the Thames. It was like a permanent market and Edyth marvelled at it.

She had known herself to be stepping back in time in Wales but had not realised how far England had been leaping forward. Years of peace had given the country time to grow and prosper and she
found herself wondering what Griffin would have made of all this. She thought of him every day. She missed his bulk at her side, his incautious enthusiasm, even his temper. She missed his pride in
the children and his fiery dancing and his attentions in bed. She hated that little Nesta, thriving obliviously, would never know her father and cherished the fact that his last hours on earth,
however confused, had been given to bringing her into it.

His death haunted her. She went over and over it in her mind and longed to have Becca to talk to, though her maid’s part in the tragedy had been, perhaps, too raw to allow that. Such a
silly argument, such a simple flare of Griffin’s ever-ready temper, and he’d gone. Yet, had it not been that, it would have been something else. Looking back now, his death seemed a
hideous inevitability. From the moment Harold had brought fire to Rhuddlan they’d been running and they’d been bound to trip at some point. Or he had. She, it seemed, had been caught in
Earl Harold’s competent arms again and was safely back in Westminster, almost as if her life in Wales had never been.

‘We are both widows now, my dear.’

Edyth turned to see her grandmother at her side. Lady Godiva looked as composed and elegant as ever but her voice was quieter and her eyes not so sharp. Edyth nodded.

‘I was just thinking of him – Griffin.’

‘You will do that for a long time to come but you are young. You will marry again.’

‘I might not.’

Godiva inclined her head.

‘You might not. It is your choice.’

‘You think so, Grandmother, truly?’

‘That depends on you. In law you are beholden to no one.’

‘But I have my children to protect and everyone says I can do that best with a husband.’

Instinctively her hands went out for Ewan and Morgan but the boys were with their baby sister in the royal nursery and she met only thin air.

‘They are thriving?’ Godiva asked.

‘They are. My Princes of Wales are turning themselves into little English lords so fast it makes me giddy.’

She had been worried for them with their sparse English and Welsh manners, but both boys were tall for their age and possessed the natural confidence of their royal upbringing and they seemed to
have been treated less as foreigners than mystical heroes. They had slotted straight in with the other children and already they were shedding the lilt from their tongues like an adder its
skin.

‘Children recover fast.’

It was true, and if Ewan still cried out for Papa in the night and Morgan still wandered the fields looking for the sea it would pass. By the time they were men they would probably remember
Wales only as a fleeting trace in their minds, like a dream of the country they’d been born to rule. Edyth shook herself.

‘We cannot, I suppose, dwell on the past.’

‘No, my dear, we cannot, but we can treasure it still.’

Edyth smiled her thanks. Godiva, as so often, understood what others did not – that her time in Wales had not been some interlude best put behind her, but a part of her life. Even so, she
had to go forward, as Westminster went forward.

The blessing was over and the court was milling round in the autumn sun. Edyth saw Archbishop Eldred talking earnestly to a gang of young lords, borrowing a sword from one of them to point to
some key architectural feature. She saw Lord Garth – now Earl Garth of East Anglia – bowing low before a blushing young lady and Earl Torr watching him darkly with his wife Judith, for
once, on his arm. She saw her own mother, sadly shrunken without Alfgar at her side, and young Morcar scooping her protectively up to talk to a nearby group of lords and ladies. Edyth smiled and
moved to join them but at that moment the king himself stepped up at her side.

‘Welcome home to England, my lady. I trust you have been made comfortable.’

‘Very, thank you, Sire.’

Edyth swept into a curtsey but the king raised her immediately and offered her his arm. Godiva nudged her subtly forward and she took it, glancing in amusement at the furious courtiers forced to
make way for her either side.

‘What do you make of my abbey?’ Edward asked.

‘It’s beautiful, Sire, truly. I have never seen anything so magnificent; it honours God greatly.’

‘I am glad you think so. It’s based on the abbey at Jumièges – a magnificent church, though I flatter myself I’ve added a few improvements.’

‘We must progress, Sire.’

‘We must, my lady!’ Edward beamed at her. Now fifty-eight years old, his tall frame was stooped and his thin figure gaunt but he held her arm strongly and his pale eyes still burned
with life. ‘Stone is the future, you know.’

‘I believe you are right.’

Edyth thought of Harold’s stone defences at Hereford and of Griffin’s refusal to have the same at Rhuddlan. If he’d built in stone, Harold would not have been able to burn the
palace and they would not have had to flee to the boats and . . .

‘What do you think?’

The King of England was looking intently at her and Edyth realised, mortified, that she had let her attention wander.

‘I’m so sorry, Sire, I did not hear you right.’

‘Bless you, my lady, you have been through much.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Edyth stuttered again. ‘And I’m sorry my husband made war on you.’

‘It was not your fault, Lady Edyth. Queens have a lot to put up with – ask my wife.’

He gestured to Queen Aldyth who had come up at his side.

‘It is good to have you home, my lady.’

Edyth felt her eyes welling up with tears and had to glance to the skies to force them back. One drop of kindness from the elegant king and queen and she was melting away!

‘You are very gracious,’ she muttered but now, thankfully, they had reached a great slate showing the mason’s plans for the abbey church and she was able to focus her attention
on the intricacies of stone carving and architrave design.

‘Magnificent,’ she said again.

‘Yes,’ the king agreed, ‘and it should last many years, centuries even. It is my legacy to England.’

‘But who will carry that legacy?’

Queen Aldyth’s words were soft, like a whisper on the breeze. Edyth turned to her, puzzled, and a courtier seized the chance to step up to the king. Queen Aldyth smiled sadly at her.

‘You have children.’

‘Yes. Three.’

‘You are blessed.’

‘I am.’ Edyth saw her pain and longed to ease it. ‘You are very slight, my lady,’ she offered. ‘Perhaps God did not wish to risk losing you in
childbirth?’

The queen looked startled but then she smiled.

‘What a lovely thought, Lady Edyth, thank you – though I find it hard to believe I am so precious. Queens are meant to have children, you know. It is our duty.’

‘One of our duties – I mean
your
duties.’

‘You are a queen too, Edyth, and I’ll warrant a good one.’ Aldyth drew her aside from the crowd. ‘I am glad you are back, truly. Your father was a great loss to the
country, as I’m sure he was to you.’ Edyth inclined her head, desperately hoping she wasn’t going to cry again. ‘He was a . . . lively man but an experienced earl. Your
brother is doing very well but he is young, God bless him, and was not raised to rule. I am sure you will be a great support to him in keeping Mercia strong for the king.’

‘I will do all I can to help, my lady.’

‘And you will marry again.’

Unlike Godiva, the queen made it a statement not a question.

‘Maybe, in time.’

‘You have land?’

‘A little.’ Much of Edyth’s dowry lands had been in Wales so they were now lost to her. She had some in the Marches but it did not amount to a great living. ‘I have
Billingsley,’ she remembered aloud. ‘It was gifted to me by Earl Harold in 1055.’

‘Of course. My brother takes a keen interest in you, Lady Edyth.’

‘He has been very good to me. His wife too.’

‘Lady Svana, yes.’ The queen stroked her hand across Edyth’s arm. ‘She is not, though, you know, truly his wife.’

Edyth jerked back, then remembered herself and had no idea how to retract the slight. Confused, she curtseyed, her cheeks flaming scarlet, but the queen simply took her arm again and walked her
still further from the crowd. Edyth looked frantically around. Svana was here. She had spent a wonderful evening with her just yesterday but she was always awkward around churches, even half-built
ones, and had avoided this morning’s blessing. Edyth cursed her friend lightly under her breath. She should be at Harold’s side stopping such talk, for if it was coming from the Queen
of England herself it was surely dangerous.

‘I have never seen a couple more closely joined,’ Edyth said stiffly.

‘’Tis true,’ Aldyth agreed easily. ‘My brother loves Svana dearly, as do I, but she is still not his wife in the eyes of the church.’

‘But in the eyes of God she is.’

The queen smiled tightly.

‘Your loyalty does you credit, my lady, but ask yourself this – can Lady Svana be queen?’ Edyth looked around, horrified, and Aldyth sighed. ‘You do not approve of my
loose tongue.’

‘No, my lady, of course not, I . . .’

‘Peace, Edyth. You are right, but I cannot help but worry. I have not provided an heir for England. It means we have no foundations.’ She gestured to the deep-set stones all around
them. ‘And without foundations this beautiful country my husband has worked so hard to build could crumble away. We had a letter last week from Duke William of Normandy.’ Edyth blinked;
the conversation was shifting too fast for her post-birth mind. ‘He wrote to tell us personally of his conquest of Maine, a province he believed he was promised the inheritance of.’