The Chosen Queen (39 page)

There was a rumble of encouragement but Edyth hushed them.

‘Lord Osric, I leave you in charge of that operation and I thank you for it on behalf of King Harold. For the rest of us, we have a long night ahead. Come!’

The dawn came all too quickly and they had to make haste to reach the last of the little houses at the bottom corner of the city but the citizens passed the word themselves and the sun rose on a
startling sight. The winding main street of York was lined with old men, women and children; heads bared, hands clasped to their hearts, and mouths (even the smallest) closed tight. They turned
their faces up to the king as he rode in and threw leaves and flowers in his path and he saluted their devotion.

Edyth stood at the far side of the city, her children at her side, her crown on her head and the whole world catching in her throat. She saw her brothers. Edwin had a jagged gouge across his
smooth young forehead and Morcar a rough bandage around his shoulder but they rode tall, eager to prove themselves after their defeat. They blew her shy kisses as they passed and she held up her
own hands in blessing but there was no time to talk and now Harold was coming. His eyes locked onto hers as he rode the last safe street and made for the north gates, pausing as they cranked open
and turning to the city.

‘I thank you, good people of York, for your help this morning and ask only now for your prayers. We will
not
surrender hostages to Hardrada; we will
not
surrender to him
at all.’

The people raised their arms to him but still did not speak. He saluted them one more time, then leaned down, placing a solemn hand on the boys’ upturned heads, before hooking an arm
around Edyth’s waist to pull her up against his horse’s flank.

‘God bless you, my queen. You have honoured me today and I hope to honour you in return with victory over the false challenger.’

‘Ah, Harold,’ Edyth said, ‘’tis me. I do not need speechifying.’

‘Then take this in its place.’

He kissed her lips softly, a swirling moment of gentleness amid the mess, and then he released her and was gone. The men streamed past as outside shrieks of agony and rage told of a job well
done by Osric’s men. Harold, Edwin and Morcar were on their way to battle and Edyth – Edyth was waiting again.

It was longer, even, than Fulford and this time too far away to hear. There was nothing but silence and the sickening shriek of their own imaginings. Edyth sent her children
into the safety of the bower whilst she and her women tended to the wounded men from the last battle and tried not to picture the many more being carved up as they did so. Those that could survive
it had been carefully moved up into York but many others, including the Norwegians, were still in tents at Fulford and the stench of the battlefield pervaded everything, an ever-present shadow of
death.

The sun arced over the sky and descended the other side with no news and it wasn’t until the stars were bright and the moon winking from behind milky clouds that they heard anything. But
when they did – what a sound! It was singing, not soft like the Welsh, but bright and forceful and run through with a deep, resonant, wonderful base: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

The women froze. They looked at each other in wonder.

‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

The meaning of it crept joyously under their skin and only then, at the drumbeat of English victory, did Edyth realise how little she had expected it.

‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

The women flew from the city, streaming out across the plain towards the marching troops and there, at their head, banner high and smile as broad as the moon itself, was the king.

‘Harold!’ Now Edyth was running too, tripping over her royal robes in a headlong rush towards him. ‘Harold – you did it!’

She lifted her arms and he reached down and swung her onto his horse in front of him. She felt him quiver with the effort and saw, up close, how spent he was, but he was whole and he was
victorious.

‘You did it,’ she said again, twisting in the saddle to look into his eyes.

‘Did you ever think otherwise?’

‘No! No, of course not.’

‘Liar.’

‘Did
you
?’

‘Many times but I ignored it.’

Edyth thought of Edwin’s words ‘a man can only ride into battle certain of victory’; it seemed he had spoken true.

‘My brothers?’ she gasped out.

‘They are bringing up the rear but they are well, Edie. They fought fiercely despite their injuries. You should be proud of them.’

‘I am proud of you all. Is it over?’

‘For now it is. Hardrada is dead.’

‘You killed him?’

‘No. Garth had that honour – he fought like twenty men.’

‘And Torr?’

Harold’s face clouded.

‘He is dead too. I tried to save him, Edyth. Twice I offered him terms – before the battle and again when Hardrada was struck down – but he refused. We had no
choice.’

‘No choice,’ she confirmed, running her hands up around his neck. ‘You have done well, Harold. It is a great victory for England – one of the greatest ever.’

‘It is, though at great cost too. Many noble men lost their lives today.’

‘Then we must honour them tonight.’

They were at the city gates now and all those who had stood a silent guard over the troops that morning cheered them inside. Householders offered bread, ale, even precious meat to the soldiers
and York erupted in celebration. Edyth fetched Ewan, Morgan and Nesta to her, covering them in kisses as the bells of the cathedral pealed out across the furthest reaches of the great north moors.
Harold praised the boys’ bravery and together the royal family led the way to the great hall. Barrels were opened and the people of the north were drunk at the very first sip – drunk on
victory, drunk on joy, drunk, above all, on relief.

Stories flew around.

‘We caught them lying like cats in the sunshine.’

‘They wore no armour – insolent bastards.’

‘And came with only half their force.’

‘The rest came later but from too far and at too great a pace. They were sword-fodder from the start.’

After a while Edyth felt herself almost as sickened by it as she had been walking through the destruction at Fulford just a few short days ago and she clung to Harold. The details of the battle
were as hideous as the last but at least this time the pain had a reward. England was safe from the invaders who had tried – and failed – to rip her apart. Whatever the horror, it was a
blissful feeling.

Three days later messengers came: Duke William had landed.

Ware, 5 October 1066

‘
H
arold, Sire – the men are weary. We cannot go on tonight.’

Edyth thought she would weep with relief at Garth’s words. They’d been travelling for five days solid and even on horseback she was weary to her bones. Heart still aching from the
pain of nearly losing her dear boys to Hardrada, she had sent them and little Nesta to the relative safety of Godiva and Meghan at Coventry whilst she rode south with her king, but parting with
them had been hard. She could see now why Svana kept her own boys in Nazeing even though Godwin, at least, was old enough to fight. It sometimes felt as if the world were too dangerous a place into
which to release anyone you held dear, especially this year.

She prayed her dear children would be safe with her mother, but she carried another to fret for now. She felt permanently sick and longed for respite but she had not told Harold why she was
suffering for fear of him leaving her in some backwater abbey. A night’s rest would be most welcome and, seeing him look longingly to the far-off beacons at the edges of Westminster, she
stepped up to his side.

‘We can go on at first light, Harold. It makes little difference where we sleep.’

He nodded reluctantly and gestured to Garth. The command rippled back down the long line of soldiers and the men parted, barely making the shelter of the woodland before hitting the ground and
curling into it as if it were the softest down. As on so many occasions these last few days, Edyth was moved by their stoicism and their persistent cheer as they trod the long, long road to another
battle.

‘We will be in Westminster tomorrow,’ she said to Harold, ‘and you can muster your forces against the duke.’

‘I am impatient to do so, Edyth,’ he admitted. ‘I want the bastard off our land before he poisons it with his evil ambitions. He has not the soul to rule England. He knows
little of government or law; little of economics beyond collecting for weapons; little of art or music or poetry. He does not even own a hawk. He is a barbarian who covets only land and titles and
he cannot be allowed to take our throne. We must drive him away.’

Those were words she suspected he said to himself over and over – a rite as strong and vital as the Lord’s Prayer, but far less sustaining. His eyes were ever fixed on the horizon
these days, his fingers ever tensed on his sword. He slept little and ate only for show. It seemed terrible to Edyth that his victory over Hardrada, the scourge of all Europe, had been so swiftly
sucked into the fear of this hideous march. Had any man ever fought two such foes so close in time, and yet so far in distance? And if they had – had they won?

Doubt gnawed constantly at her but she feared it was eating Harold alive. So many times, she’d watched him striding between his men, praising them, reassuring them, tending to them, but
who did the same for him? She’d tried, God knows she’d tried, but she had not the peace in her soul to soothe his. Only one person could offer that.

‘Edyth is a marvel, Garth,’ she’d overheard Harold tell his brother last night as they’d chatted beyond the tent where she was supposed to be sleeping. ‘I am
blessed to have her as my queen.’

‘I hope you’ve told her that.’

‘Many times – though she will never believe it.’

‘Because of . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you miss her – Svana?’

The name had driven into Edyth like a sword-point and she’d craned forward to hear the answer but there had been only a long silence before Harold had said: ‘I must to
bed.’

Edyth had heard the ashes being kicked out and forced herself to lie down and feign sleep but the missing answer had haunted her and now, as she looked out on the little town of Ware, so
familiar to her from trips into East Anglia, she knew what she had to do.

‘We are close, Harold.’

‘To London, maybe, but Hastings is a long way yet.’

‘Nay, Harold, not to London.’

He looked at her strangely and she turned her eyes east, up the road to nearby Nazeing. His whole body seemed to quake but he said nothing and Edyth touched a hand to his chest.

‘You should go. Now. The men sleep – they will not miss you.’

‘It wouldn’t be fair, Edyth.’

‘No, Harold.’ On this Edyth felt very certain. ‘It hasn’t been fair for a long time but tonight maybe we can shift the balance.’

He placed a hand softly over her arm.

‘You would have me go?’

‘
No!
’ her heart screamed. ‘
No, I would have you lose yourself in me and find the strength you need there
,’ but that was not fair. Svana had sent Harold
into her care when the times demanded it and now she must do the same.

‘I would have you go. Now. Take care and give her . . . No matter.’

‘But you . . .’

‘I will be quite well.’

His protests were token and there was a new light in his eyes that he could not hide. Edyth gave him a little shove and turned away and when she dared to look back, he was gone. She thought of
Svana ducking his touch in the Trimilchi dawn and prayed she had not made a terrible mistake, but deep down she knew that at Nazeing it would be different. Svana would welcome the man she had
handfasted beneath God’s open skies and for one night Harold would be able to stand barefoot again. The bruise in her own foolish heart was as nothing to the salve that would offer him.

‘We need to strike now!’

Harold pumped his clenched fist into his palm and glared round at the assembled council. Edyth watched him from beneath her crown. He was afire with energy and purpose, the Stamford Bridge
victor again, not the weary leader he’d become on the march south. Perhaps it was being back in Westminster that had invigorated him, or perhaps it was scenting William, or perhaps –
most likely of all – it was his night with Svana. He’d returned at dawn but had not joined Edyth in bed and she had kept her own distance, fearful she might catch the soft meadow scent
of her old friend on his flesh.

‘You are well?’ she’d managed.

‘I am well.’

‘That is good.’

‘And you, Edyth? Did you sleep?’

‘Yes.’

They had both known it was a lie.

‘She sends you her blessing.’

‘She is too good, Harold.’

‘And we must keep her that way. She knows you are as much a pawn in this crazy game as she, Edie. It is I who am at fault, yet she does not blame me either.’

‘She loves you.’

‘For all that has cost her.’

‘It is better, surely, to know love whatever it costs?’