Princess of fire, p.17
Princess of Fire, page 17
Fallon and her father sat silently at Edward’s side on the last day of 1065. The king’s wife sat at his feet; Robert FitzWimark—half Norman, half Breton, a good friend to the king—sat at his other side with his wife. Harold asked his sister if there had been any change, and the queen answered with a softly whispered no.
Harold turned to leave, and Fallon rose to follow him. He leaned wearily against the wall outside the sickroom and took her hands. “I have tried,” he told her. “As I said, I believe Edward made some promise to William of Normandy years ago. I have stated William’s case as clearly and as loyally as I might, but Englishmen reject him with a fury. If only the king would speak!”
Fallon tenderly squeezed his hands. “Father, you were coerced into giving the Norman a promise! He would have held us prisoner still, as he holds your brother Wulfnoth. Father, you owe that man no loyalty!”
“Mayhap the king will speak,” Harold murmured. “How much easier it will be to choose if he could but speak his will!”
The king did not speak. In the first few days of January, he tossed in delirium, but his mind remained deep in sleep. On the fourth day he was restless, and it was decided that he must be roused.
Fallon was behind her aunt when Edward was at last brought to consciousness. At first he seemed weak and lost, but then he smiled and his voice grew strong. He looked at the assembled earls and thanes and priests and loved ones, and he spoke in a strong voice. “I have dreamt, my friends. Dreamt of two fine monks I knew long ago in Normandy and who have lain dead these many years. We walked together, these monks and I.”
The king’s face was marked by a ghastly gray pallor. The men looked at one another; they wanted him to name an heir, but he spoke of dreams. Yet none could interrupt him. Fallon felt an uneasy chill; they were all caught in an eerie tableau, inside a castle cloaked in winter’s mist.
“For our wickedness, God has cursed our country,” Edward went on. “A year and a day from my death, demons and devils will come to the land. They will purge it with fire, and there will be fear and terror and lamenting. Our good Lord will cease to haunt this land with fire and the sword and bloodshed only when a green tree, split asunder, will join together of its own accord and bear fruit and leaves and new life.”
The archbishop of Canterbury murmured that the king was raving. No one else whispered a word, for the king was known for his gift of prophecy.
“Do not mourn for me!” the king’s voice boomed out again, and Fallon suddenly felt tears spring to her eyes, for despite all his strange ways and tempers and beliefs, Edward had always been kind to her. “Pray for my soul; I go to God. The king who died for us will not allow me to die forever; I go into eternal life.”
The queen let out a sob and reached for Edward, who took her hand. “May God reward you for your gentle service. Always you have been a devoted helpmate to me.” Then Edward took Harold’s hand and placed the queen’s hand in it.
“I charge you to look after the queen,” he told Harold. “Deprive her of none of the honors I have bestowed upon her. I commend this woman and my kingdom into your keeping. Honor her as my queen and as your sister. Summon the foreigners of my court; have them swear a new oath of fealty, or see them safely to their borders, according to their choice. See that my earthly remains are placed in the new church with all the proper rites, and do not hide the fact of my death, but spread the news quickly to all men, so that they may pray for me, a sinner.”
Edward smiled weakly and fell back against the pillows, deep in a coma again.
Silence reigned in the room, and all men looked to Harold. Then the priest moved forward and gave the last rites to the king.
Fallon wondered desperately what it had all meant. Had Edward meant to name her father heir when he urged him to care for the country? Or had he meant only that Harold should continue in faithful service to the Crown?
Fallon didn’t know. Numbly, she remained at the king’s side, holding her aunt’s hand. Men slowly left the chamber, and Fallon knew that all of Thorney Island would soon ring with the king’s words—words spoken to her father, words warning that England was about to be cursed.
Fallon began to shiver. A mantle was placed about her shoulders, and she looked up to see her father standing behind her.
“The king is dead,” a priest announced. The queen began to sob anew. Harold and Fallon left the king’s chamber together.
They had barely reached the hall before Wulfstan of Worcester barred Harold’s way. “Earl Harold, we must convene the witenagemot.”
Fallon watched as her father was led away. The hall was deserted, and she leaned against the cold stone wall. She didn’t know how long she stood there, but soon she heard shouts, and she knew that the witan had named her father king.
She didn’t see him again until he came to her bedchamber late that night. She heard the tap on her door and, knowing that it was Harold, she flew to the door to bid him enter. He came in and hugged her fiercely.
“Edward will be buried in his abbey in the morning.” He hesitated. “And I will be anointed king in the afternoon.”
She stood back, seeking from his eyes or his tone to know if he was glad or dismayed. She could not tell.
“What think you?” he asked her carefully.
She shook her head. “No man, Father, is more capable of a just and careful rule. You will be challenged from near and far. But if you are pleased, then I am joyous; and if you are sad, I pray I may be a strength to help you.”
He hugged her again, then stepped away from her. “I had never thought to be king, but, Fallon, by God, the witan has chosen me, and in the witan lie the law and the power of England. I cannot refuse to rule. I am neither proud nor humble, but I, too, believe no other man is more capable of ruling this country.” He gazed at Fallon, and she saw in his eyes that he was glad of the faith given him by his peers. She cried out and ran to him, and he swung her about in his arms.
“It is late,” he murmured, setting her on her feet. “And in the morning, we must pray for Edward, as was his wish. Good night.” He kissed her forehead and left her.
Later, in her chamber, Fallon lay awake and thought about Edward’s dying words, and she began to shiver again. What had the king meant when he talked of his dream? She remembered the strength of Edward’s voice when he spoke of the two Norman monks—and when he prophesied that England would be cursed, that fire would rage over the land.
The next morning, Fallon sat in the new abbey beside her aunt and comforted her during the requiem mass. And in the afternoon, she attended the ancient ceremony in which her father was anointed king. It was sacred, and it was solemn. When the archbishop asked the people if they accepted Harold as their king, they shouted their approval: “Vivat!” Then Harold swore an oath to his people—a promise of peace, justice, and mercy.
Delon stood next to Fallon and squeezed her hand as the archbishop anointed her father’s head, shoulders, and hands with oil. Prayers continued—that Harold would defend the people and the church, and ever battle the Infidel. He was invested with the symbols of power—the ring of unity, the sword of protection, the crown of glory and justice, and the scepter of virtue. The benediction was given, and voices rose in song. And when it was over, Harold was king, bound to his people, as his people were to him.
Later, over a subdued meal, Fallon was able to speak to her father alone.
“Father, it is done. You are king of England!” she kissed him, and noticed that his smile was weak. “What is wrong? Are you ill?” She asked him anxiously.
“Nay, nay.” He shook his head. He sighed and lowered his voice. “Nay, I am king, and I am glad; I’ll never deny it. But while I stood in the church today, I remembered that I gave an oath to stand for William, and now that oath plagues me.”
“But, Father, you did stand for him! The witan rejected him!”
He shook his head. “William, I am afraid, will not understand our law.”
“You were coerced into pledging your loyalty to him,” Fallon said bitterly. “You kept your word.”
Harold sighed. “Aye, that is the comfort I keep in my heart. A man’s oath is sacred, and I have kept my word, whether William can see that or not. Still . . .”
“Still?”
“There is grave danger ahead. Now that I wear this crown, I must fight to keep it.”
Cold fear coursed through her, and she lowered her head, biting her lip so that her father would not see her shiver. Fire would sweep through the land, Edward had said . . . but those were the ravings of a dying man, she assured herself.
Yet she sensed already that her father’s prediction would come true—he would have to fight to maintain his rule; he might have to fight for his very life.
Fallon crossed herself quickly. “God be with us!” She murmured, and her father softly echoed her words.
* * *
Not far from Rouen, Alaric was testing the strength of his bow. Nearby, William was stringing his own bow. Snow covered the ground, but the party prepared to hunt in good spirits.
A scurry of sound came from the road. Alaric turned and saw that a messenger hurried toward them. William stepped forward, and the messenger dismounted swiftly and fell to his knees before the duke. His voice was soft and muted, but his words carried.
“King Edward is dead. Earl Harold is crowned king, anointed the very day of the funeral.”
“What?” William’s voice was thick with disbelief. He flung his bow aside and leapt atop his steed to race across the snow toward his palace.
Alaric hurriedly stopped the messenger. Edward’s death was not unexpected; they had heard of his illness weeks ago. But Alaric knew that William had expected to be invited to England when Edward died. Nothing in his mind had readied him for the shocking news of Harold’s coronation.
Much was at stake here. William had made no secret of his belief that he would be king of England. Not only was his dream hereby crushed, but his pride was shattered, too. And his pride was great.
“Tell me again, boy,” Alaric commanded the messenger. “Edward died, and Harold was made king?”
“Aye, anointed at the new West Minster, even as the flooring dried over the old king’s burial spot near the altar. Aldred, archbishop of York, performed the ceremony.”
“And the witan?”
“They say Harold was the witan’s choice ere Edward spoke, and that Edward gave them some final word, if not the clear determination they so craved.”
“You know this is true?”
“Word came by an English ship, Count Alaric.”
“Thank you, boy.” Alaric gave the lad a coin, then quickly mounted and rode after William. He found him in the hall of the palace, his head pressed against a pillar, his face white, his eyes cold and bleak. William FitzOsbern, a trusted man, stood before him; Alaric threw FitzOsbern a glance of inquiry.
“I have advised His Grace,” FitzOsbern said, “that there is no use trying to hide the news; they speak of it already all over the city. There is no time to regret what has happened; the duke must act.”
Alaric nodded to FitzOsbern.
William suddenly swore. “The crown was promised to me! And Harold swore his fealty!”
Alaric shrugged, risking William’s temper with his honesty. “Harold was a prisoner here—”
“A guest.”
“A prisoner, William, when he swore that oath. And his country is not a private domain, like Normandy. He had no power to swear he would make you king. Not even Edward had that total power.”
“England was to have been mine!” William snapped, his eyes narrowing. “What would you do, Alaric? Defend that usurper? Make me the laughingstock of Europe?”
“William, I have been your friend for eighteen years,” Alaric said tightly, “and I have never deceived you with false flattery or lies.”
William stared at him; he looked as if he might explode. He crushed his temples between his palms. “I will immediately send a protest to Harold.”
Alaric hesitated. “Send a protest if you like. But it will do little good. Harold has been anointed king; he will fight to keep his crown.”
William’s jaw twisted. “I mean to be king of England.” He gazed at Alaric sharply. “You know the English, my friend, and you know English law. You’re even a bloody English thane, appointed by Edward. What must I do?”
Alaric shook his head unhappily and stared through the window slit to the beautiful clear sky. “Harold is no fool,” he said. “For all practical purposes, he has ruled England for the last ten years. He is English, and the people want an English monarch. He keeps the peace as well as he wages war; his subjects will accept him, and the witan has already chosen him.”
Alaric hesitated, gazing at William, feeling that the white beauty of the winter day was a cruel irony. Bloodshed would soon be their lot. “If you want England, William,” he said, “you will have to take it by bloody force.”
William nodded grimly; he had been expecting that answer. “Call together my most powerful supporters—my brothers, the counts of Eu and Mortain and Avranches. FitzOsbern, too, has advised me to act, and so we begin now. If Harold wants war, it is war that he will receive.” He paused, watching Alaric. He placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “I know you are with me; I know you will raise troops and command them in my service. If we are fated to conquer, then we will conquer together. I will gather my forces and write my formal protest to Harold immediately.” He paused, inhaling deeply. “But, Alaric, I wish you to go to England at once to carry my warning to Harold and to seek his surrender.”
Alaric held still, fully aware that Harold would not surrender. Then he sighed. “Aye, William, if you wish it, I will go.”
It was a fool’s errand, Alaric thought wearily, but he would be glad to see Harold one last time as a friend before meeting him on a battlefield made crimson by rivers of blood.
As he turned to leave, his heartbeat quickened. He would see Harold again, aye. And he would see Harold’s daughter, proud Fallon, who haunted his dreams and teased his senses even as he tarried with other, gentler women.
Fallon . . .
PART TWO
The Warriors
Chapter Eleven
“Never betray weakness, never leave open a place of vulnerability!” Fabioni, the sword master, warned Fallon.
She nodded beneath the visor of her helmet. The tip of her tutor’s broadsword swept before her, and she gracefully danced back, meeting the steel of his sword with her own.
“Bravo!” Fabioni applauded. He was a small man with dark curly hair and bright eyes. “You have the speed of the cat, my lady, and the eye of the eagle.” He bowed to her with great ceremony. “A few minutes’ rest, and we will begin again.”
Fallon nodded again, discovering that she had little breath left with which to speak. She sank down on a bench in the garden where they practiced and watched Fabioni fall upon a bench himself. She had seen him best many a stronger and heavier man with his agility, and because of that, she respected him highly. Harold had tried to dissuade her from continuing these lessons, but she had steadfastly reminded him that she needed to be adept at defending herself.
Despite the fact that both the northern earls, Edwin and Morkere, had been in London and joined in the witenagemot in proclaiming Harold king, the thanes of the north country felt that they had not been properly consulted on the matter. Harold had immediately ridden to York, not with a show of arms, but with his daughter, the saintly Bishop Wulstan, and a number of his other followers. King Edward had never traveled to York, and the people had been therefore doubly pleased by this visit by Harold. There had been talk that Harold might even marry the sister of Edwin and Morkere, and such an arrangement might well come to pass, Fallon knew, because her father needed an alliance with the northern earls. But Harold’s party had long ago returned home and as yet there had been no wedding. Fallon now waited with her father on Thorney Island for the Easter mass and the meeting of the witan that was to follow.
England was decidedly behind Harold, she knew. But the country was surrounded by hostile forces. A protest from William of Normandy had arrived not two weeks after her father’s coronation. Svein Ulfson of Denmark—her father’s cousin and a great-nephew of King Knut—could well decide to claim the English crown. And Harald Hardrada, the berserker king of Norway, was ever ready to seek warfare. Fallon knew that her father worried about his brother Tostig, too. It was rumored that he had appeared in various courts, seeking assistance to wage battle to earn back his earldom. “Sometimes,” Harold had murmured to Fallon, “I fear that Tostig has lost his senses. He does not think or reason; he seeks only revenge.”
For Harold, Tostig presented perhaps the greatest dilemma of all. He could not reinstate his brother, for the northern thanes would not accept him. Gytha, Godwin’s widow, remained in London, where she bemoaned the fate of two of her sons—Tostig in exile, and Wulfnoth a prisoner in Normandy.
From the beginning, Harold had planned for warfare. His housecarls were the mainstay of the army, the true fighting men, the warriors of England. They had fought in Wales with his father, and they were nearly as fierce as their Viking ancestors, adept with double-headed axes and the great maces they often carried into battle. They were just a part of the army, though, and sadly, the fryd—the thanes of England and their men—owed the king only so much service a year, and they had not seen warfare in fifty years.
A tall blond figure came around a yew tree, and Fallon leapt to her feet with pleasure. “Delon!” Fallon called to her betrothed. She had barely seen him since her father became king. He had been sent to scour the countryside, to warn the people that danger lurked at their doorsteps, and to summon the fryd, the fighting force drawn from the people and called upon for the defense of the land.
