The Chosen Queen (35 page)

Edyth turned to Harold.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘There is not a moment to lose, Edyth. The throne is far from stable and the sooner we make it so the better.’

‘We should tour.’

He looked at her curiously and she spun round to grab his other hand in hers. ‘We should tour the whole country – the north first. Let people see you, talk to you. It is what you do
well, Harold, and people will trust a king they have seen with their own eyes.’ He nodded thoughtfully and she pushed on. ‘Griffin skulked at Rhuddlan. He thought he was safe, but it
was an illusion – as you proved all too well.’ Harold grimaced but now was the time for lessons, not recriminations. ‘We only rode south when it was already too late – that
is not a mistake you can afford to make.’

‘You are right. You are so right, Edyth. See, I told you I needed you as queen.’

‘Well, you have me,’ she said shortly. ‘And now there is work to be done.’

Edyth was crowned in Westminster in her wedding gown and again two months later in the astonishing minster at York. The great church could not match Edward’s new abbey in
artistic detail but with its soaring architraves and thirty separate altars, Edyth found it every bit as impressive. The ceremony was led by the down-to-earth Archbishop Eldred and for Edyth it was
far more moving and meaningful than the service at Westminster.

Perhaps it was that she felt she belonged more completely in the north, especially with her brothers standing as her proud companions everywhere they went, or perhaps it was simply that
she’d had time to accustom herself to her new title. Day upon day of being cheered through the streets had imprinted the goodwill of England firmly onto her strange queenship and, more than
anything, she had enjoyed serving the country that was apparently now hers to rule. Sometimes she remembered Griffin’s words way back when he had first asked her to marry him: ‘
You
will be a great queen
,’ he’d told her. ‘
You deserve to be a great queen – greater, perhaps, than a rough king like myself can offer.
’

Had he known? Had he somehow seen? That was ridiculous, she knew, but then so much about life felt ridiculous and she hoped that, in some strange way, her ferociously ambitious first husband
would have been proud to see her here today.

York was a beautiful city. Some of the ancient Roman walls had been maintained for defence but they covered a huge area and much of the land within them was given over for grazing. The main town
nestled in the rich area north of the confluence of the vast River Ouse and its smaller tributary, the Fosse. It had less of the excited bustle of progress that surrounded the ever-growing
Westminster but in its stead it had the solid calm of a city sure of its place in the world. And sure too, it seemed, of its king and queen.

‘You were right to make me come, Edyth,’ Harold said the night of their northern coronation as they lay in bed together at the heart of the ancient royal palace. ‘If this
kingship does not last, if—’

‘No ifs, Harold.’

‘Well, let it suffice, then, that I shall treasure this time. I did not think I would ever feel truly a king but here I do. I have a surprise for you.’

‘You do?’

He was smirking like a small boy and now he leaped out of bed and strode to the side table to fetch a small pouch. Edyth turned away. She was used to Harold’s body against hers, inside
hers, but still she was shy of looking at it and did not turn back until he was safety beneath the covers once more.

‘See.’

He opened the pouch and drew out a penny, so shiny it had to have come straight from the mint. Edyth stretched out a hand and he placed it into her palm, face up.

‘Harold, it’s you.’

‘It is but that’s not the best bit. Here.’

He flipped it over to reveal a single word, stamped confidently into the silver: ‘PAX’.

‘Peace,’ Edyth translated. ‘That’s perfect.’

He smiled awkwardly.

‘Sadly writing it on England’s coins does not make it come true but it is a start.’

‘Have you heard any more?’

‘Nothing from Scandinavia but Duke William is building ships. He will come, Edyth.’

‘And we will be ready for him. We have the finest fyrd in Europe, with the finest leader.’

‘I hope you are right. I’m told Torr has been turned away by Duke William but I will not believe it until I see it for myself. That Norman is capable of all levels of trickery and
Torr is little better. He hates me for choosing your brother over my own and maybe he is right.’

‘Hey.’ Edyth took his chin and crawled up to straddle him. ‘That does not sound like a man who feels like a king.’

He rubbed his fingers across one of her nipples, a thoughtless gesture, almost as if he were polishing one of his new coins, but it sent desire shooting through her. She was as hungry for him as
a peasant at harvest time, determined to gorge herself for fear of famine ahead, and now she rolled her hips back, rubbing against him, rousing him.

‘God, Edyth, I knew I said this must be a proper marriage, but I had no idea it . . . Edyth?’ She jerked away, her lust collecting into a hard, hateful ball, rattling its way up from
the wanton core between her legs and shaking tears from her eyes. ‘Edyth, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.’

‘I should not pester you. You are not mine to command.’

‘Nonsense. That’s nonsense, Edyth. You are my wife.’

‘To everyone else, yes, but we both know that is a lie, don’t we?’

She scrabbled for covers, pulling them up and around herself. ‘
It’s late
,’ her head told her. ‘
It’s been a long day, an amazing day. Don’t spoil
it. Don’t fight him. Don’t annoy him.
’ It was no use. Sorrow was rising up, cresting high on a wave of guilt, and she could escape it no longer.

‘Do you pretend I’m her?’

‘Edyth!’

‘Do you? Is that how you bear it?’

‘No.’ He grabbed her wrists, yanking her towards him so the covers fell away leaving her naked. ‘It’s different, Edyth. I don’t know how to explain it. When I was
in the Ottoman lands years back, I met men with more than one wife. It is their way, their law. I spoke to one of them about it and he said he loved them all equally. I did not understand it at the
time but I do now.’

‘You love us both.’

‘Is that wrong?’

‘But you love her best – as you should.’

He shook her gently.

‘Best, Edyth? What is best? Which of your children do you love best?’

‘None, but that is different, Harold.’

‘Is it? Surely it shows the heart can be open? I know this is unusual, Edyth, but the times are unusual and it is we – you and I – who must carry them. Others may not
understand but surely, if we are honest with one another, we can? Did you not love Griffin?’

‘Yes, but he is dead.’

‘
And I am alive and so are you – alive and here with me.’

His hands held her wrists and now his lips found her neck, biting at it, teasing a flare from her body which her mind fought uselessly to resist. He was right. She was here with him and,
intangible as that sometimes felt, it was all she had and she must make all of it that she could.

Westminster, May 1066

F
or what felt like months nothing happened. England busied itself with Easter. Harold and Edyth were cheered around the south and the
blossoms opened. The lambs were born and it was possible to believe, if you did not look over your shoulder to the seas, that all was bounty and peace in King Harold’s England.

‘Begging your pardon, Sire,’ Avery said one morning as he was helping Harold dress, ‘but it’s Trimilchi next week.’

‘So it is.’ Harold turned to Edyth, burrowed into the covers, not yet accustomed to being seen in the royal bed, even by servants. ‘Shall we celebrate the May Day, my
queen?’

Edyth considered. Trimilchi, or May Day as it was becoming known, was an ancient festival with its roots in paganism and it could get a little wild. King Edward had reined festivities back in
the pious last years of his life but it was celebrated the length and breadth of the country and it would be an honour to mirror that in Westminster.

‘I think we should,’ she said. ‘I shall set plans in motion today.’

Harold grinned at her.

‘You will have to rise then.’

‘All in good time,’ she retorted primly. ‘Avery can summon my maids when he is done with you.’

Avery bowed and backed away and Edyth looked around the sumptuous royal chamber with its richly hung bed, embroidered seats and expensively glassed windows. She might be still shy about being
with Harold but, God help her, she was swiftly becoming accustomed to being a queen again. She scrambled up, grabbing her bedrobe, and Harold wrinkled his nose.

‘Must you wear that, Edie? You look so much nicer without and is it not, after all, ancient tradition to go naked at Trimilchi?’

‘In Wales it was certainly encouraged,’ she agreed lightly and his eyes darkened.

‘In Wales, as far as I can see, too much was encouraged.’

He advanced on her, his eyes flicking to the bed, but she ducked his arms with a smile.

‘What’s past is past. Come now, King Harold, we have a feast to prepare.’

Four days later, on the eve of Trimilchi, Edyth looked out across the Chelsea meadowlands and smiled with pride. Preparations had been frantic but the result was magnificent.
The trees were hung with ribbons and coloured pastries. Two great piles of dry wood were set for bonfires and the royal tents stood, sides open to the soft spring air and trestles laden with food
and drink to sustain the courtiers through a long night of celebration.

It looked a rich feast but in truth Edyth and her cooks had been forced to be creative for food was sparse and dry in this lean period before the crops began to yield. The ale, however, was
plentiful and Harold’s men had caught a boar in the forest this morning so at least there would be fresh meat. Besides, no one was here for the food. The joy of rekindling the ancient
feast-night, designed to ward off spirits sneaking through the loosened boundaries between the living and the dead on the eve of the summer festival, would be enough to sustain them.

The courtiers were chattering excitedly as they flooded across the meadow. They were all dressed in green – the faeries’ colour – and many, Edyth included, wore ribbons and
flowers intertwined into their costumes, at odds with the usual more sombre, tight-lined fashions of the court. Even the adults skipped with the mass of overexcited children as they milled around
the great oak that would be the centre of the festivities. They seemed stripped of their usual ranks and restrictive order out here in the open and something about their carefree muddle reminded
Edyth of Griffin.

She had teased Harold about Wales’s traditions but it was true that there Trimilchi had lingered firmly in its wanton Beltane origins. Griffin’s court had paraded statues of the
Green Man, clad in little more than leaves, and couples had jumped naked, or ‘sky-clad’, over fires for fertility before claiming the sparse shelter of the bushes. Edyth flushed to
remember her own husband ‘green-gowning’ her little more than a sapling’s length from other couples welcoming the summer in each other’s arms. It was no coincidence that so
many women had gone to their childbed in February and not all of them married either, not that anyone in Wales had concerned themselves with such ‘Roman’ scruples.

In England, however, things were more civilised, at least in the early part of the celebrations. Already today the court had crammed into Edward’s new abbey to celebrate a mass for Mary,
the bearer of Christ and therefore the queen of the May Day celebrations of fecundity and fertility. Her statue had been brought forth to the meadows at the end of the service and sat coyly beneath
the great oak but already coloured eggs lay at her feet and love-token ribbons twirled in the branches above her head as the courtiers embraced more earthy traditions.

As the skies darkened forgivingly, the singing and dancing began and Edyth had little doubt that, even in Westminster, the bushes would not go unexplored once night was fully upon them. She
glanced to the trees behind. The woodland was little more than a copse these days, so much had been cut back for housing, and she wondered if the tree she had climbed as an eager girl still stood.
She would not recognise it if it did – her eyes had not been on the branches but on the couple beneath. She flushed as she recalled Torr’s lazy sensuality when he’d claimed her as
a dance partner and his dark pleasure in her foolish spying the next day. Thank the Lord Harold had been close or the naive episode could have ended very differently.

‘Are you well, Edie?’

His voice spoke through her memories and she looked up at her then saviour, now, by some strange tangle of fate, her husband.

‘Very well, Harold.’ She shook the past away. ‘The court is in festive mood.’

‘As it should be. We must keep the spirits back with our good cheer tonight.’

‘Such superstition, Harry, from the King of England?’

‘Even kings are men before God, especially on nights like this.’