The Event That Started The Beginning Of The End - 5th/6th January 1066

The Death of Edward The Confessor
by Helen Hollick

Christmas 1065 saw King Edward, later known as  Edward The Confessor, in poor heath that rapidly deteriorated. He was an elderly man, frail, had lost the friendship of the young man he adored, Tostig Godwineson, to treachery and exile and was stressed about the completion of the abbey he had built - Westminster Abbey. Hastily the magnificent Abbey was completed and consecrated, but Edward was never to see its final magnificence. He died during the night of 5th / 6th January 1066.

Edward's death and the consecration
of Westminster Abbey
(Bayeux Tapestry)

Edward and his wife, Edith Godwinesdaughter,  had no children, no heirs. His nearest kindred was Edgar Ætheling, born circa 1051, son of Edward The Exile, grandson of Edmund Ironside. Another kinsman was Duke William of Normandy, whose Great Aunt Emma was Edward's mother - Emma of Normandy, Queen Emma of England.

William believed that Edward had promised him the throne back in 1051/52 but this was not a thing in Edward's power to give - before the Norman Conquest the English/Saxon ways of doing things were very different. There was no feudalism as such and kings were elected by consent of the Witan (the Council). Usually the eldest son was chosen, for he would have been trained in the art of ruling and warfare - but the eldest son to take up the crown was not a given rule. 

Edgar Ætheling

At fifteen, Edgar was thought to be too young and inexperienced to take on the responsibility of becoming King, especially as it was well known that William was lurking across the English Channel waiting to seize England for himself. Harold, Earl of Wessex was an experienced commander and soldier, he had virtually ruled for Edward as his chief adviser for many years. It made sense for the Witan to elect him as King... But with Edward dying would the old king endorse that  common sense?

Excerpt from Harold the King (UK edition) I Am The Chosen King (US edition)

Westminster - 5th January 1066

The fifth day of January. For the first occasion in many a week the sky had cleared and brightened from the misery of rain into the vivid blue of clear winter sky. There was a nip of frost to the air. The sun was low, eye-dazzling, glittering through the diamond-bright grass and reeds.

  Throughout the short hours of daylight King Edward’s breath rattled in his chest, incoherent words flowing from his blue-tinged lips. As the sun set, burning gold over the Thames marshes, the temperature dropped to below freezing. Come morning, there would be a white crust riming the edge of the river, the courtyards would be a film of treacherous ice.

   Queen Edith was at her husband's feet, attempting to rub some feeling of heat into them. Earl Harold of Wessex stood, wrapped in his own thoughts, beside the brazier, absently adding more charcoal. By Edward’s bedside stood the King’s personal priest, Robert fitz Wimarch, the Archbishops Stigand alongside Ealdred and his doctor, Abbot Baldwin.

  “I like not this dishumour,” Baldwin muttered, laying his fingers on his king’s feverish temple and shaking his head in resignation. There was nothing more he could do for the dying man.

   Stigand bent over the bed, shaking Edward’s shoulder with anxious temerity. 

   “My Lord King, wake up. My Lord, please rouse yourself!”

   Edward’s eyelids fluttered, then, for a long moment, he lay still, quite silent, the breath caught in his throat. Suddenly his eyes flashed open and he recognised Stigand leaning over him. His eyes wide and fevered within a skeleton-like translucent face, Edward stared into the startled face of the Archbishop. “I am for God,” the King croaked. “I have no fear of meeting Him, I look forward to sitting at His feet. Bury me within my mausoleum, now that it is made ready for my coming.”

   Stigand nodded. “There is no need to fear death, for you have served God well and you go to an everlasting life from this transitory one.”

   “The succession.” Edith hissed. “Quickly man! While he is lucid, ask him of my brother and the succession!”

   Harold, remaining beside the brazier with arms folded, had to admit his sister was resolute. She was determined to have their disgraced younger brother, Tostig, wear the Crown.

   Either Stigand deliberately misunderstood, or had no intention of mentioning Tostig’s enforced exile from England, a subject that could upset the King mortally. The Archbishop held the monarch’s bone-thin fingers and said, “We are here, my Lord Edward. Your beloved wife Edith and Earl Harold be at your side.”

   “No, no. Tostig, remind him of Tostig!” Edith brushed Stigand aside and took her husband’s hand earnestly within her own.

   Irritated but unable to retaliate, Stigand curtly beckoned Harold to come to the bedside. With reluctance, Harold complied. It did not seem possible that Edward was actually dying, that so much was going to change from this day forward. As a king he had fallen short of expectation, was, Harold had to admit, almost as useless as Æthelred had been, yet unlike his royal father, the people loved Edward. For his unstinting care and concern for the well-being of the common folk he could not be faulted. In affection, Harold had never felt anything but amicable indifference - neither liking nor disliking him. There were things he admired about Edward, others he despised, but that was so of any man. None save Christ himself was perfect.

   Edith glowered at Harold, furious that he had not demanded Edward reinstate their brother as earl, or, in protest at the gross insult to the Godwinesons, gone into exile with him. 

   Harold had tried to explain  but she had adamantly refused to listen to sense and reason, too wrapped in her own fears and disappointments to recognise the truth. Perhaps a more astute king would have removed Tostig from office before it had been too late - but Edward was not a wise man. What was woven could not be unravelled.

   Harold sighed with regret for what might have been. He stared at the sunken face beneath the white, silken beard, the blue eyes that sparkled, not with a zest for life, but from the heat of fever, ðæt wæs göd cyning - he was a good king. He sighed again. He could not deny Edward that epitaph, though it was not the full truth. It was not of his fault that he had made errors of judgement along his way, that he had been weak where he ought to have been strong. Edward had not wanted the weighty responsibility of a crown. He should have been an abbot, an archbishop; in that sphere he would have warranted ðæt wæs göd.

  “There is much I need say!” Edward rasped. “I would have my household around me.” He glanced fretfully at those few occupants of the room. Harold nodded to fitz Wimarch who went immediately to the door.

  They were waiting below, the members of the Council and other men of importance who had served the King. Were waiting for a summons or to hear that their king was no more.

   In silence, save for the noise of their boots treading upon the stone stair and brushing through the fresh-spread rushes, they filed in one behind the other to encircle the King’s bed. He had asked to sit up and Robert fitz Wimarch stood behind him, tears blurring his eyes, supporting the frail old man.

   “I had a dream,” Edward said, his voice clearer than it had been for many a day. “I saw two monks whom I knew well while I was in Normandy and who passed into God’s safe hands many years ago. They told me of the evils of the men around me, of my earls, my bishops and my clerics. They told me in this dream that unless I warned you to repent and bow your heads in shame before God there would come evil to my kingdom, that the land would be ravaged and torn asunder by the wrath of God.”

   “That is indeed a vision of warning, my Lord King.” Stigand said with grave concern, making the sign of the cross as he spoke.

   Agreeing, Ealdred of York nodded. “There is evil intent in all mankind and unless we humble ourselves before God we shall all face His anger.” He glanced meaningfully at Edith. “Men and women must serve God, and the chosen king, as they are commanded.”

   Satisfied that his archbishops of York and Canterbury could be trusted to do their best to save the tormented souls of men, Edward spoke, with a dignified clarity, the words of the verba novissima, the will declared aloud on the deathbed, naming lands and gifts that were to go to those who had served him well. He spoke of the loyalty that his wife had shown him and said that like a daughter had he loved her. He smiled up at her, begging her not to weep. “I go to God. May He bless and protect you.”

   In vain, Edith had attempted to sniffle back the flood of tears, but now gave in to her despair. She had not thought that she had felt anything for Edward, had simply endured his presence, his whining and pathetic weaknesses, but suddenly, now that she was to lose him, Edith realised that she looked upon him, this man who was three and twenty years her senior, as a father. Did she love him? She did not know, but she would miss him. She let the tears fall.

   Similar tears were pricking in the eyes of them all. Some fell to their knees, others bowed their heads. Nearly all murmured the prayer of the Lord.

   “Sir,” Stigand said softly, again leaning nearer to Edward, who had closed his eyes. “We would know your last wish. Would know who it is you would commend to follow you.”

   Edward’s eyes opened. He attempted a weak smile at his Archbishop of Canterbury, fluttered his left hand towards Harold, who took it, absently rubbing his thumb over the taut surface of the proud-standing knuckles.

   “My Earl of Wessex.” Tiredness was creeping over Edward; his words came with difficulty. He allowed his eyelids to droop closed once more, his hand fall limp within Harold’s. “I commend my wife’s protection to you.”

   Energy drained, his body slumped against the supporting arms of fitz Wimarch, the breath catching with an indrawn choke in his chest. The effort of putting thought and speech together had taken everything from him. “Leave, me,” he gasped. “I would make my confession.”

Or if you enjoy alternative history why not try 

1066 Turned Upside Down

nine authors contributed a selection of short stories for the year 1066 -

• What if Harold had not been elected King?
• What if Harald Hardrada had wone at Stamford Brisdge?
• What if Duke William's fleet had been destroyed before he could set sail?
• What if the English had won at Hastings?