On January 5/6th of 1066 the King, Edward died - leaving the throne of England open to dispute. The rightful King was Edgar, son of Edward the Exile, grandson of Edmund Ironside, great grandson of Æthelred (the Unready). But Edgar was still a boy, probably only a young teenager. England knew there would be a dispute for the crown - primarily from Duke William of Normandy, and Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex knew first hand of William's ruthless abilities.
Only a capable, experienced man could be placed at the helm - so the Council chose Harold.
The Normans made an outcry, of course, citing that Edward had promised the throne to William (even if he had, such a private promise would have no legal status in England) and that Harold had pledged an oath, before God, to support William in his claim.
I find it unbelievable that a man such as Harold, in his position of power, would willing agree to put William on the throne of England, yet the taking of the oath is documented fact - it is depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry.
It is known that Harold went to Normandy, though the reason is not certain; more than likely he went to retrieve his brother Wulfnoth and nephew Hakon who had been held as hostage for many years - he did indeed come home with Hakon. (Wulfnoth was never to see his freedom). Harold went on campaign with William while in Normandy and was honoured for bravery - to my mind it seems logical that William would have tried various ways of securing Harold to his side, one of which was probably by offering a marriage of alliance.
So in my novel, Harold the King (the US title is I am the Chosen King) I follow this line of thought - and explain the scene where Harold is forced, against his will to make that oath.
So in my novel, Harold the King (the US title is I am the Chosen King) I follow this line of thought - and explain the scene where Harold is forced, against his will to make that oath.
Enjoy the two excerpts below:
Excerpt from
Part Two ~ Chapter 27 ~ Bayeux 1064
Agatha sat completely miserable, in a corner of her father’s great Hall, as far from the glare of watching eyes as she could. She would have preferred to remain in her bedchamber, but her mother had not allowed it. The exchange of heated words between them this morning had been almost as red-hot as the blaze of the Yule log in the central hearth fire. She did not want to marry, could her parents not see that? She had a calling, her desire was to serve God. That was her duty, not the giving of her body to a man in marriage. Not that she disliked Earl Harold, he was kind and he made her laugh, but then, so did William de Warenne and Ralph de Tosny…many other men. And to go to England? Oh, she could not, could not! It was a country of heretics and pagans, where men worshipped beneath oak trees and took oath in the name of the gods, like Odin and Thunor. Where the women were all whores and their husbands adulterers…how could her father contemplate sending her to live in such a dark pit of iniquity?
As Bishop Odo’s raucous laugh boomed across the crowded Hall, Agatha shrank deeper into her holly-green woollen mantle, clasping her fingers tighter together in her anxiety. Her uncle had been there this morning. Confronted by uncle, mother and father together, what chance had she, a ten-year-old girl, of making her voice heard? If she was frightened of her father, she feared Uncle Odo’s chastisement more, for he brought the added wrath of God’s word to his reproof. Agatha knew she could withstand any punishment, any beating, but not the condemnation of God. Surprising even herself, she had shouted and clenched her fists, declaring that she would not, would not, become betrothed to Earl Harold – and her uncle had slapped her, right there in front of her mother and father. Slapped her so hard that the bruise would blacken her cheek for many days to come, in the name of God’s displeasure at her discourtesy and refusal to accept her place as a woman and wife.
A tear dribbled down her cheek. Never before could she remember enduring such misery.
“Why the tears little mistress? What ails you?”
A man’s shadow fell tall and broad across her. Her downward gaze saw only his boots. Doe hide, dyed blue. Earl Harold’s boots.
He sat beside her on the bench, near enough to exchange private talk, distant enough not to compromise her honour. “I think we are all disenchanted this day,” he said. “The rain and biting cold does sour our humour.” He tried a small jest: “They say when this rain eases, that it will turn cold enough to freeze the feathers off a gander’s backside.”
No smile touched her mouth. Another tear dribbled; she brushed it aside.
Harold decided to try the direct approach. “Your father tells me that you have been informed of our intended betrothal.” Still no response. He leant forward, cupped her chin with his hand and tilted her face upwards to look into his own.
“Am I, then, so terrible a prospect? I am not so bad to look upon and at least my breath does not smell like that of your father’s toothless old wolfhound. Nor do I scratch at fleas with my foot.”
At last Agatha attempted a smile at his absurdity, then answered him with a choking stammer: “It is England I fear, not you.”
Harold chuckled. “There is nothing especial to fear about England, sweet one. It is just as damned cold in winter as it is here in Normandy, just as wind-blustered by the northern breezes and flatulent men. Many of us in England are descended from the Viking race, as you are, and we all have as much passion for climbing the ladder of power, by whatever means, legal or murderous, as your father’s fellow countrymen. The one difference between Normandy and England, Lady Agatha, is that we live in houses built of timber, not stone, and we prefer talking about fighting rather than risk smearing blood over our long hair and our trailing moustaches.”