A series of all things 1066
Rather than write more historical stuff about the women connected with the events that led to the Battle of Hastings in October 1066, here are some excerpts about each of them from Harold The King (UK title) / I Am The Chosen King (US title)
Emma of Normandy, Queen of England
Winchester April 1043
Emma, twice married, twice widowed, Dowager Queen of England, watched her only surviving son dance, tripping and prancing with dainty steps among the boisterous twirl of men and women. With the solemnity of the coronation ritual completed, and the pomp of the banquet ended, this evening’s celebration and merry-making came most welcome to the guests here within the King’s Hall at Winchester. A pity that the crowned king had to be Edward.
Emma sipped at her wine to disguise the flare of contempt. Edward, her firstborn son, crowned and anointed this day as King of England. She would have to learn to accept it. She took another sip, savouring the richness of the red grape as it warmed her throat, overcoming the taste of bile that rose from her stomach. Accept it, maybe, but she would never come to like it! Edward was as weak and shallow as his incompetent father, Æthelred, had been. How well had the clerics who wrote the history of these things mocked that name! Æthelred, Noble-Counsel – and how soon into his dithering, floundering reign had that been altered to un-raed, ill-counselled?
A thunder of laughter from the far end of the crowded Hall drew her attention. Godwine’s two eldest sons, Swegn and Harold, stood among a group of young men sharing some, no doubt lewd, jest between them. For all their faults – and where the Earl and his brood were concerned, there were faults a-plenty – they were sons to be proud of. Swegn might be wild, more interested in the pursuit of enjoyment rather than the demands of decision making, but these faults were outweighed by better traits. All Earl Godwine’s sons were strong, courageous and manly, aye, even young Leofwine, who was but seven years of age. Where was the manliness in her son Edward?
Unable to keep her thoughts to herself, Emma spoke to the man sitting beside her, his hand tapping out the merry rhythm-beat of the dance on his knee.
“I have been wife, and queen, to two men who have ruled England.” Her words oozed contempt. “You would have thought one of them could have sired upon me a man worthy to be called son.”
“Harthacnut, your last-born… ” Godwine began, but Emma irritably waved him silent.
“My second husband, Cnut, gave me a child of each sex, both of whom had the constitution and life-span of a mayfly.” Briefly, an expression of regret clouded Emma’s face. To be a queen for over two score years, to rule as regent, survive attempts of murder and the harsh bitterness of exile: such a woman needed to shield her weaknesses from those who would, at the drop of an autumn leaf, oppose her. But Godwine knew Emma well, better perhaps than either of her husbands.
Harthacnut, her youngest son, she had genuinely adored. A boy like his father, wise and disciplined, with a sense of duty and purpose; strong of body and mind. How much had she endured for that lad! And for what? For him to die of a seizure when he was but three and twenty and crowned king for less than two short years.
“The life of the wrong son was ended,” she said softly. Godwine assumed she referred to Harthacnut’s untimely death, winced as she murmured, “It ought have been Edward killed, not Alfred.”
Godwine made no comment to that. Emma had borne two sons to Æthelred: Edward and Alfred, and Alfred was a name that still conjured difficult memories that brought the blood stealing into Godwine’s cheeks. As young men, exiled from England, the brothers had tried and failed in a pathetic attempt to claim their right of succession after Cnut’s death. Captured, the boy Alfred had been placed in Godwine’s care. It had not been good care for the lad had fallen into the murdering clutch of Cnut’s illegitimate son, Harold Harefoot. Imprisoned and cruelly blinded, Alfred had not survived the torture. Ever since, Godwine had carried the blame for that wicked death.
But such was the fate of young men who tried to take by force a crown from the one who was already, rightly or wrongly, wearing it.
Edith Godwinesdoter Harold's sister, and wife to King Edward (the Confessor) and their mother, Countess Gytha
Southwark, London 1044
“But, Mother!” Tears of annoyed frustration were beginning to trickle down Edith’s cheeks. Irritably she brushed at her right eye; weeping, she knew of old, would not get her mother’s sympathy. “Tears are for the tragedies of life, not the minor incidents,” Gytha had often remarked.
A maidservant entered from the outer Hall carrying a basket containing hanks of spun red-dyed wool. Gytha pointed to the floor beside her loom. “Place it here, Fræda.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and left the chamber through the same door. Edith, sitting hunched and dejected on a stool, was trembling with anger and frustration.
“I am ashamed before the court, before all England. The King will not allow me to enter into his Hall. Will not allow me through the gates at Thorney…I was turned away, Mother! Not an hour since, turned away!”
Gytha was standing at her loom, threading stone weights upon the ends of the warp threads. This latest family crisis permitting, she intended to begin a new cloth today; the youngest boys were in desperate need of new tunics – how fast they grew! She dropped a weight, bent to retrieve it, inspecting the ring of stone with care to ensure no crack ran through it. With a sigh she answered her daughter. “Edward has been a bachelor for so many years, child. It must be difficult for him to adjust to the prospect of taking a wife into his bed.”
A fresh cry rose from Edith’s lips. “He will never take me to his bed, though, will he? Not now! He detests the sight of me, has set me aside. I am shamed. I may as well retire to a convent or drown myself in the Thames!”
Gytha was losing patience; she had much to do this afternoon. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Edith from Wilton? At the nunnery all this delaying of a marriage on Edward’s part would have passed her by. “Two rather extreme solutions, do you not think, daughter?” she responded with mild derision. “If Edward truly no longer wants you, then your father will simply find you an alternative husband.”
“If there is any man desperate enough. Who would want me now – would take a king’s cast-off as wife?”
Plenty of men, Gytha mused. Men who would be only too pleased to ride on the back of your father’s position and fortune, regardless of the status of his daughter. But it was an unkind thought and she kept it to herself.
Nazeing, Essex March 1051
Edyth was certain her heart was to crack into two. Never had she expected this, that Harold would leave her, so hurriedly, without warning. That one day he would perhaps take a noble-born church-law wife was always there as a possibility, but this? Surely it was all nonsense, a misunderstanding? Harold’s letter confirmed otherwise. The King would not listen, would not entertain impartial justice for Godwine or the folk of Dover - exile was the only option, above death for accusation of treason. She knelt beneath the copse of birch trees, the wind rippling the underside of the leaves into dancing waves of silver, closed her eyes, the tears slipping from beneath her wet lashes.
When Harold had left here less than twenty days past to answer his father’s urgent appeal, he had assured her there was no need for undue concern. “It is all hissing steam from an over-boiling pot,” he had said with an easy, confident laugh. “My father will sort things amicably, you will see.”
“Mama?” A frightened voice quivered beside her. Edyth looked up, saw her eldest boy standing there, his face sombre, concern etched into his widened eyes. His grandmother Gytha had once said how much he resembled his father at that age of seven years; the same curl of fair hair as Harold, jutting chin and quick, exuberant laugh.
“Mama?” he asked again, stretching out his hand to touch her cheek. “What is wrong? Are you ill? Shall I fetch someone?”
Attempting a smile of reassurance, Edyth gathered Goddwin to her. When would the boy see his father again? “No, my honey-sweet, I am not ill.”
“Is it the babe, then?” Goddwin set his hand lightly on the bulge of his mother’s stomach. “He kicks hard, I can feel him.”
“He is kicking to tell me that he wants to be out in the beauty of the world, playing in the sunshine with his elder brother.” Edyth kissed her son’s forehead. He was a good boy, quick to learn, slow to cry or whine. Harold was so proud of him, of all their four children. Five, if you counted Alfrytha, who was with God, buried in her cold and lonely grave within the churchyard at Canterbury. Suddenly, afraid, Edyth held the boy tight and close. She would never see her little girl again, as she might never see Harold…no, she must not think like this. Must remain strong and calm. Harold had gone to Ireland to bargain for mercenary help, Godwine to do the same in Flanders. To buy aid in the form of men and arms, to return as soon they might to persuade the King to listen to reason. “Your father has had to leave England for a while,” she explained to her son. “He will return when he can, as soon as he can, but that may not be some long while.”
Goddwin chewed his lip, his young mind rummaging through the implications. “Why has he had to leave?”
“Because the King is angry with your grandfather.” Best to answer simply and with the truth.
“But if the King is angry with Grandfather, why has my father had to go away?”
Placing a kiss on her fingertips, Edyth laid the caress on to the boy’s lips and set him to his feet. “Because if a son loves his father, it is his duty to be with him in a time of great need.”
The boy digested her words, then nodded. “My grandfather is lucky to have my father as a son, isn’t he?”
“Aye. As your father is lucky to have you.” Edyth pushed herself upright. The babe was heavy; she would be glad when this birthing was over.
Goddwin bent and retrieved the piece of paper, squinting at the writing that he had not yet learnt to decipher well. With it, he picked up an unopened package. Gravely, he gave both to his mother. Rolling the parchment into a scroll, Edyth slid the precious letter into her waist purse, then unthreaded the knots of the string that bound the cloth of the package.
Inside lay a necklace made of threaded gold bullae and biconical gold beads; at the centre, a gold and garnet cross. It was exquisite. Edyth squatted down so that Goddwin could fasten it around her neck, emotion almost choking her as the tears once again welled up from her heart. A gift, sent with love from Harold. She cupped the crucifix in her hand, closed her eyes. “God protect him,” she prayed, “Please, God protect him.” She could not know it, but Harold had sent the gift with the same prayer, aware that childbirth and all its possible difficulties would soon be upon her.
Duchess Matilda, wife to Duke William of Normandy
Bruges 1051
She had at least expected her sister Judith to come to her aid, but she had changed since her own marriage, cared only for Tostig Godwinesson, had treated her younger sister almost with contempt. “We all need to marry, child. Take your fate and make the best of it. You may end up as happily settled as I.” It was all right for Judith, her husband was as besotted with her as she was with him. Duke William did not care a tinker’s dented begging bowl for his prospective bride.
He had arrived yester-eve, coming by sea direct from England where he had spent ten days with the King, Edward. Dishevelled, smelling of sweat and shipboard tar, he had not bathed or changed before demanding that she be brought to him for inspection – as if she were a horse or hawk that he had purchased unseen from a travelling merchant. The introductions had been frosty and reserved. He had not been over-pleased by her appearance – well, neither was she taken with him. She would never forget, or forgive, those first words that he had exclaimed as she had come down into her father’s Hall.
“Is it likely that she will grow any taller? Or am I to wed a stunted shrub?”
Mathilda was dwarfed by his own comparative tallness. William of Normandy stood, stocky and broad-shouldered, at five feet and ten inches; she, slight and more than one whole foot shorter, had answered him with pert anger. “The smallest bush, Sir, can bear the most perfect blooms.”
“Then you had better bear a brood of strong sons and prove your worth to me, girl.” With that the Duke had turned away from her to talk with his friend, another odious man who had resided at Flanders this past month, Eustace de Boulogne.
Mathilda tugged the pillow from beneath her head and hurled it across the room. She would not marry him. Was there no one else to lay claim to her – Swegn Godwinesson was here with his father and brothers, why could he not plead for her? Or the absent brothers who were in Ireland, Harold or Leofwine? Harold had no official wife, would it not grant the family higher strength by taking another of Baldwin’s daughters? Yet perhaps that was being foolish. The Godwines, while not poverty-stricken, were in disgraced exile. Their vehemently proclaimed intention to regain everything the English king had unjustly taken might be nothing more than pride-injured boasting.
The situation was hopeless. Mathilda leapt from the bed and ran to a small side table, snatched up the fruit knife, short bladed but adequate to open a vein…she laid its edge over her wrist, steeling herself to slash the thing downward…gasped as the door was unexpectedly flung inwards with no warning. He stood there, alone, silhouetted against the smoking torches that illuminated the narrow corridor outside: William, Duke of Normandy.
“I am told that you refuse to come to your wedding.”
Her throat ran dry and her hands shook. He had attended to his appearance, his hair shorn up the back of his head in the Norman manner, his chin clean-shaven. Had bathed, changed into clean and elegant robes. Was so much taller and more dominating now he was well groomed. Somewhat frightening, but alluring.
Mathilda found the courage to stand square before him, her head tilting upwards to meet his narrow stare. “I do not wish to wed you,” she said with bold impertinence, although a high-pitched squeak entered into her voice halfway through the sentence. “I do not like you.”
“I do not like you, but that makes no difference to me.” William entered the small chamber, taking in its comfortable furnishings and the clutter of feminine trinkets with one hasty sweep of his assessing gaze. “You are insulting me with this childish behaviour. Were you a man, you would learn that I do not take insults lightly.”
“Were I a man, I would have cut you down for the insult you offered me!”
William laughed at her audacity. Despite what he had said, he liked this girl, she showed courage and determination, qualities he admired. She was also, as they had promised, fair of face. A pity they had not told him of her limitations of stature, but of what consequence was small height? As long as she was capable of breeding him a son or two…He was not a man who was used to being defied, however. Once his mind was made up to something he would have it and he had decided to forge an alliance with Baldwin of Flanders, have the youngest daughter, Mathilda, as his wife. Whether it was her wish or not, and whether the Pope gave or withheld his blessing.
“You will complete your dressing and accompany me to swear our wedding vows.” William picked up the wimple that Mathilda had flung there and tossed it at her. “Dress yourself and come.”
Mathilda stamped her foot. How dare this man enter her room when there was no chaperone or servant present? And then order her to do his bidding? “Get out of my chamber!” The fruit knife was in her hand; she raised it and awkwardly lunged for William’s stomach. He merely side-stepped and, chopping with his hand, sent the little blade spinning across the room.
She fell forward, wincing at the pain in her bruised wrist – and he was bending over her, pulling her to her feet, shaking her as if she were a rat caught by a dog. She tried to strike out, screaming defiance and a simultaneous plea for help. Dodging her flailing legs, he set his arm around her waist and hoisted her across his shoulder.
“I take it then, that you are content to be wed as you are dressed. So be it. I care nothing for fripperies and niceties. I am here to take you as wife because I require an alliance with your father. And as I have stated, no one defies my will.”
He marched from the room, descending the narrow stone stairwell two steps at a time. They were all there, gathered below in the Hall, ready to leave her father’s house and walk in procession across the cobbles of the courtyard to the great doors of the cathedral that stood opposite.
There was laughter and much ribaldry as William, Mathilda cast across his shoulder as if she were a sack of corn, threaded his way through the crowd. Her mother fluttered nervously among her women, but Baldwin ordered her to be still. The Duke knew what he was doing and the Count of Flanders approved wholeheartedly. In truth, he would be content to be rid of his most vexing daughter.
Alditha, sister to the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria. King Harold's offical-taken church-law wife.
London and York, February 1066
“I have made up my mind as to the problem of satisfying the North,” Harold said after a while to Bishop Wulfstan. “There is one way I can convince those northern nobles that I intend to remain true to my word as their king. I shall forge an alliance with their earl, one that cannot easily be broken.” Turning his head, Harold met the wrinkle-lidded gaze of the Bishop with his keen, clear-sighted eyes. “I shall offer to wed with Morkere’s sister Alditha.”
Wulfstan pursed his lips, nodded approval. “And you doubt your wisdom? Ah, no, my king, ’tis excellent thinking.”
Harold returned his attention to the front, studied a bone-thin goose girl herding a gaggle of hissing geese to new grazing on common land. He ordered that someone toss her a coin. A new-minted penny which bore not the head of Edward but of Harold, second of that name.
“It was not of my thinking,” he admitted to Wulfstan. “my Edyth, when last I saw her, suggested it.”
Holding his peace for a few paces, the bishop observed, “It takes a brave woman to suggest a suitable new wife for her own common-law husband.”
Harold made no answer. It took a braver man not to break down and weep as he had clung to such a woman. And Harold had realised, at that instant of saying goodbye to his love, that he was not a brave man.
Alditha stood with her two brothers on the entrance steps to the Earl’s palace in York. She dipped a deep curtsey as Harold, stiff and cramped after the long hours of riding, dismounted. The townsfolk had waited at the London gate and lined the narrow streets to see their king ride in. Some had cheered his coming but many more stood silent. A few had dared to jeer, cursing the name of his brother, Tostig Godwinesson. The housecarls had made moves to reprimand them for the hostile welcome but, with a sharp word, Harold had forbidden any retaliation.
“It is not me they show disrespect to, but my brother. I know him better than they and have every sympathy for their ill feeling.”
“My Lord King.” Earl Morkere stepped forward, bowed and greeted Harold with an embrace. “It pleases me to welcome you to York.”
Harold returned the embrace then said without a qualm, his hand flicking to the sullen crowd, “It seems not all the folk hereabouts share your enthusiasm for my arrival.” Seeing Morkere’s unease, he added with a broad smile, “I must, then, make an effort to ensure that when I leave, they regret my going.” Gallantly, Harold then turned to the Lady Alditha, kissed her hand and offered her his arm to escort her within doors.
Morkere exchanged a wry glance with his brother Eadwine before gesturing for Bishop Wulfstan to proceed after Harold. Neither man had missed the radiant smile with which their sister had appraised the king, nor his answering expression of delight.
“You are as thin as a peasant goose girl we encountered on the journey here,” Harold remarked to her as they walked together. “Shall I cheer you by tossing you a penny with my portrait stamped upon it?”
“I have no need for pennies or portraits, my lord.”
“No, indeed, not when you have the man in his very flesh beside you. I do believe I am not as hard or round as coin though. Somewhat of a higher value too, I would say.”
She smiled at his absurdity. She had, she must secretively admit, missed his company.
“I was surprised not to find you at court when I returned from Normandy,” he said. “Was Edward not kind to you after I had gone? Or were you pining for your brothers – or for your former home as widow of that princling of Wales, perhaps?”
Since his questioning had been candid, Alditha answered in a similar vein: “I doubt King Edward could have been deliberately unkind to anyone. The ladies were somewhat tedious, and my brother Eadwine’s household suited me better. As for Wales, I have always admired the scenery. ’Tis but a shame the temperament of the people was not always as beautiful.”
“I think you will find that the new king will be as kind, and that the ladies of his court will not be so glib with their remarks.” Harold halted, placed his finger beneath her chin and tipped her face upwards. “As for Wales, no scenery could match in beauty that which I see before me.”
She blushed crimson and moved her head away, but almost immediately found her courage and stared back at him. “Kind words, my lord, but words come easy. Sustained kindness that issues from the heart is far harder to find.”
Harold laid his fingers lightly over hers. In what was almost a whisper for her hearing alone, he said, “That depends, does it not, on who speaks the words and who owns the heart?”
Wonderful stuff!
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