The Chosen Queen (40 page)

She had to believe that, not just for Harold but for herself. She’d longed to ask him more about his night, longed to know what they’d said to each other, done to each other, but
known too that she must not. Even at Trimilchi Svana had been more a ghost than solid flesh and now it was almost as if Harold had crossed, for the space of a night, to the other side. If he had,
though, he’d returned more alive than ever and Edyth was both grateful and shamefully heartsick.

‘
You’re here now
,’ she reminded herself, glancing around Westminster Palace, but it felt like small consolation for Harold was very much the king again.

‘Surely, Sire,’ the Bishop of London was saying, ‘we are better to wait until we can gather a greater fyrd? William does not seem to be moving from the coast.’

‘No, but he is ravaging the lands all around – my lands; my people. And he might move at any time. One night he might mobilise the whole damned lot of them and suddenly we’ll
be on the back foot. He’s a cunning bastard. I know. We need a battleground of
our
choosing and to gain that we must reach it first. We wait only for the troops from the west and the
east and then we march. We can meet with the southern bands on our way through.’

‘But Sire,’ the bishop protested, ‘the men from the north . . .’

‘Are here already. They came with me.’

‘And brave they are to do so, but there are only a thousand of them. Mercia and Northumbria are meant to provide five thousand.’

‘Yes, and the rest lie dead below Viking swords, giving their life to destroy the greatest commander Europe has ever known so that you can sit safe in Westminster.’ The bishop
cowered and Harold moved closer. ‘Despite their great losses, the earls Edwin and Morcar are marching with reinforcements, may the Lord bless them. In the meantime, however, we must look to
our own men to fight. I hope your armour is well oiled, my lord.’

‘I have no armour, Sire, save the grace of God.’

Harold snorted.

‘Does that deflect a Norman blade?’

‘I trust so.’

‘Then you are a fool, Bishop. God’s altar is for shining out his glory, not for hiding behind. You are concerned about the number of soldiers I take into the field, so arm yourself
– all of you. We march in four days’ time.’

‘But Sire—’

‘Do you not have better things to do than chatter with me? You’ll find armourers in Steel Street but hurry, they’ll be busy.’

The gathering broke up and the clerics scuttled from the hall, heads bobbing indignantly.

‘Was that fair, Harold?’ Garth asked.

‘Of course it was. We’re going to need everyone we can to defeat William. Have we heard from the north?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But they will come,’ Edyth said, keen to speak up for her brothers.

Harold had left Edwin and Morcar in the north to muster more men. They had promised to follow their king south as soon as they had sufficient troops but as Edyth and Harold well knew it was a
long and slow road.

‘We must keep pressing forward,’ Harold insisted now. ‘We have defeated Hardrada and we will defeat William. Let them see that this island is not to be conquered.’

His spirit was infectious and it spread rapidly around the troops that filed endlessly into Westminster over the next three days. The Chelsea meadowlands on which they had so carelessly danced
in May now burst with armed men, and the whole of London, it seemed, was an army camp. Soldiers huddled on every street corner or, if they dared, in every tavern. All were hot for Norman blood and
the place was alive with eager swords, too eager sometimes, especially of an evening.

Harold spent all his time patrolling and Edyth was unable to find enough time alone with him to even tell him of the gift she was now certain she was carrying. On the morning they were due to
ride out, she went with him through the makeshift camp. There was a smell of mingled mud and sweat, of leather and wool and rough stews. Everywhere holes in the trees told of sword and arrow
practice but now the fires crackled gently and the men murmured to each other and Edyth caught snippets of wives and children, homes and villages, called up in words.

‘Oh, she’s a beggar about boots on the bed,’ she heard one man say fondly.

‘Mine too. Gives me a right tongue-lashing if I’ve not scraped ’em off.’

The second man sighed as if this were the greatest pleasure of his life and rubbed carefully at the rough leather jerkin that would be his only protection in battle. All around, men sharpened
their weapons as carefully as they did their memories and the air rang with the scrape of stone on steel, honing blade edges and hammering dints out of shields. Sparks flew and men cursed and Edyth
threaded between them, watching Harold talking tirelessly to the nervous battalions. All faces turned up to his and all men listened intently, as to an oracle.

‘Has he spoken like this with everyone?’ Edyth whispered to Garth.

‘Just about and he’s not yet finished. I think he is waiting for someone to complain or to protest about his right to lead them but no one has.’

‘Or will. They love him, Garth.’

‘As they should. Never, I swear, has a king given so much of himself for his country.’

Edyth nodded and went to his side.

‘Must you ride out tomorrow, Harold?’ she begged. ‘Can you not wait for my brothers to come?’

‘I dare not, Edyth. Every day William’s hold on the south coast gets stronger.’

‘He has no hold on the coast, I swear it. His only true hold is over you.’

He winced and looked around his men as they lined up for the heavy march south.

‘You think so? You think this battle is all for me?’

‘No! This battle is all for England but it is exacting a heavy price on you. You have done so well, Harold.’

It sounded hollow, wrong, like something you would tell a child, not the King of England, and she was not surprised when he pulled away. He paced a few yards then suddenly spun back, his face
pinched.

‘I cannot pray, Edyth. I have tried but I cannot feel God any more.’

Edyth grabbed his hands.

‘God blesses you, Harold, truly he does. He must or you would not have defeated Hardrada.’

‘Hardrada had no right to England. William though . . .’

‘William is nothing.
You
were promised the throne on Edward’s deathbed, Harold, a promise sanctified by God, so do not doubt it now. You have told me many times that Duke
William can never be allowed to rule England and you must hold fast to that.’

‘You speak true.’ Harold clasped her to him. ‘God, Edyth, I could never have come this far without you – you do know that?’

‘Nay, Harold, I am but a substitute.’

‘No!’

‘Fret not. I am a willing one, too willing perhaps.’

‘You are no substitute, Edyth. It is not that simple. It may look that way to others but we – you, me, Svana – we know. Tell me we know?’

Edyth thought back through the years, through the tumble of events and emotions that had carried them, somehow, from that innocent day when Harold brought her, ripped and scared, into
Svana’s pavilion through to here. They had been buffeted, all of them, by the tide of England’s greedy needs. They had been thrown tight together and pulled too far apart but maybe
Harold was right – through it all, in whatever strange patterns they had formed, they had been stronger for having each other.

‘We know, Harold,’ she said.

She glanced around. Harold’s housecarls were taking their places around him ready to lead the men south and the commanders were mustering their battalions into marching order behind them.
Time was running out. She drew in a deep breath.

‘I have something to tell you.’

Harold pulled back.

‘You are not riding to battle, Edyth.’

‘No. No, not that. I, I am with child.’

‘You are?’ He looked down at her, eyes bright with joy. ‘That’s wonderful.’

Her heart sang at his simple response and only now did she see how much she had feared it.

‘It should be born next Eastertime.’

‘Easter, when Christ was born again. It is a sign, Edyth. Nay, more than that, it is an heir – an heir for England!’

‘It is.’

She laughed as he lifted her into his arms and for a moment it felt as if the whole of Westminster looked up at the sound and smiled.

‘An heir to fight for at last. Come, I must to my horse.’

He tugged her forward to where his great stallion awaited him at the head of the brave men of England. He reached for the reins but Edyth clutched him back.

‘Please let me ride south with you, Harold,’ she begged.

‘No, Edyth.’ His fingers found hers, tangling in them. ‘I could not bear to have you that close to danger.’

‘The moment I agreed to marry you, Harold, I put myself into the path of danger.’

‘I know and I am sorry for it.’

‘I am not. I have cherished our time together.’

‘It is not over yet, Edyth. You will have to put up with me for many years but only if you do as I ask now. Once your brothers are here you may come if you must.’

‘I distract you.’

For a moment she caught a smile flickering at the edges of his weary mouth.

‘Yes, Edyth, you distract me. You are distracting me now, God bless you, and I need to marshal the troops.’

His fingers, though, stayed locked in hers.

‘If you will not let me ride with you, you must promise me one thing.’

‘I must?’

‘Yes. Look after yourself as well as you look after everyone else.’

Now he truly smiled.

‘You know me too well, Edyth Alfgarsdottir.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise. Now, unhand me!’

He lifted their entwined fingers and kissed them, then he pulled away and mounted his horse to order his troops forward out of the city. Edyth wrapped her own hands into each other to hold onto
the imprint of his touch but they were cold long before the main troops had even reached London Bridge.

She watched them surge across the great structure and head purposefully south, a coarse marching song floating back on the crisp October wind. She watched until even her churning belly grew
still and the brave voices were just a mist hanging in the empty air. She had sent a husband to war again and, again, she was stuck waiting. She thought of Svana and her yearning for a year of
peace and wished her dear friend were here with her, but Svana was in Nazeing on her lonely estate and Edyth was here in Westminster on her lonely throne and Harold, Harold was marching to a lonely
battle with a man who had haunted him for far too long.

Senlac Ridge, 14 October 1066

‘
H
old the wall!’

It was all Harold had been shouting and it was all he would continue to shout. The shield wall stretched like a living turtle all along the ridge, writhing and shifting but never falling back.
The Normans had been trying to breach it all morning and he could see the frustration in the eyes of those who came closest. It was a good sign. A frustrated soldier took risks, forgot orders,
broke formation.

‘Hold the wall!’

Harold could hear both his brothers bellowing the same command, hear the trumpets blaring the measured notes that told the mass of troops to stay tight.

‘We are defenders,’ Harold had told them last night. ‘We will defend. It will be tough and it will be slow but it is the best way. Let them do the work. Let them labour up the
incline to attack and let them roll back down it. Let us fill the valley with Norman corpses and let us keep our own men safe to return to the homes they hold dear enough to stand with us
today.’

Now his eyes roved the field endlessly, wary of holes, but there were none. The Normans had come in wave after wave, great warhorses rushing forward, muscles rippling, jaws foaming, hooves
pawing. Even Norman beasts, though, could not be forced to charge into walls and they had been repulsed time and again. Now, as the sun reached its apex, the ground was littered with corpses,
making it harder yet for William’s attack to penetrate.

‘Hold the wall!’

He sounded like a fool but in the heat of battle men’s minds could get lost and they needed simple instructions to hold on to. Harold could feel them pushing to charge the enemy and finish
the battle, but a man stood far less chance in the loose than wrapped in tight with his comrades and now the Normans were retreating again. Water skins were swiftly passed forward as the sun shone
mildly down on men and corpses alike. It was hot work weighed down by metal and men stretched their backs and flexed their shield arms and gritted their teeth for the next wave.

Harold glanced back, desperate for signs of the northern troops. He had been forced to draw battle lines without them when his spies had reported William was set to attack but a messenger had
galloped into camp in the first pulse of battle to say they were on their way and he needed them sorely now. Reports said Queen Edyth was at their head with her noble brothers and he knew she would
be pushing them furiously but sometimes there was only so much distance a man – or even a woman – could cover.