The fate of a king, p.1
The Fate of a King, page 1
The Fate of a King
Cover
Title Page
Character List
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
More from the author
About the Author
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Character List
Anglo-Saxon
Harold Godwinson King of England
Edyth Swanneck Harold’s handfast wife
Alditha of Mercia Harold’s new wife
Nobles
Gytha Thorkelsdóttir Harold’s mother
Tostig Godwinson Harold’s brother
Gyrth Godwinson Harold’s brother
Leofwine Godwinson Harold’s brother
Earl Edwin Earl of Mercia
Earl Morcar Earl of Northumbria
Clergy
Archbishop Stigand Archbishop of Canterbury
Robert of Jumièges Norman bishop
Archbishop Ealdrid Archbishop of York
Bishop Wulfstan Bishop of Worcester
Normans
William the Bastard Duke of Normandy
Alan the Red Lord of Richemont
Phillip of Paris Norman knight
Adam de-Lane Norman knight
Eustace II Count of Boulogne
Vikings
Harald Sigurdsson/
Harald Hardrada King of Norway
Olaf Haraldsson Hardrada’s son
Eystein Orre Hardrada’s son-in-law
Paul Thorfinnsson Jarl of Orkney
Erlund Thorfinnsson Jarl of Orkney
Other Characters
Owen of Hereford Harold’s second-in-command
Lord Geldson Edwin’s second-in-command
Copsi Tostig’s second-in-command
Prologue
Normandy, January, AD 1066
Copsi sat alongside a roaring fire in a tavern in the port town of Rouen. The rain had been constant these past few days, and the plummeting temperatures ensured few ventured outside if it could be avoided.
As one of Tostig’s most loyal huscarls, Copsi had joined the disgraced earl in his journey to Normandy after he was expelled from the court of King Edward a few weeks earlier. The king had since died and had been succeeded by Tostig’s brother, Harold Godwinson, but there was no love lost between brothers, and Tostig had decided that if he was to succeed in regaining any sort of influence in England, then the route lay outside of her borders.
Copsi gazed into his warm mead, wondering whether to have another or take the woman at his side to his room in the cellars of the tavern. The afternoon had been long but surprisingly pleasant, sat as he was within reach of the fireplace. Warm mead, hot pork, and the company of a woman who plied her trade along the dock walls helped him almost forget the worrying situation he had got himself into.
Following his outburst at the Christmas court, Earl Tostig had been exiled from England and had wasted no time in fleeing across the sea to France, along with a few dozen good fighting men. The crossing had been rough, but they had made landfall some days earlier and had sought lodgings in the city of Rouen, taking over an entire tavern in one of the backstreets, much to the delight of the portly landlord.
The future was clouded with uncertainty for Copsi, and his men, for though they were loyal to Tostig, there was no forgetting that their master was now the brother of the next King of England and, as such, was able to command respect and station wherever he may go. Copsi, on the other hand, along with his fellow soldiers, was now in a foreign country with little to survive on except a bag of silver and the hope that his master could strike some sort of allegiance with William of Normandy.
He looked across at the woman who was waiting patiently to be taken to his bed so she could earn the few pennies she needed to feed her children.
‘What was your name again?’ he asked.
‘Martine,’ she said with a sigh, ‘as I have already told you a hundred times.’
‘I have a lot of things going on in my head,’ said Copsi, ‘so cannot be expected to remember such things.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Martine. ‘Are you ready now, for I have been very patient while you have filled yourself with mead?’
‘What’s the rush?’ asked Copsi. ‘We have all day.’
‘You may have time,’ said the woman, ‘but I have a living to earn, and as much as the fire warms my very bones, if you are not interested, then I have to be going.’
‘Hah,’ snorted Copsi, ‘have you seen it out there? I suspect you will find no man willing to pay for your services until this storm is over.’
‘You know not what you are talking about,’ said Martine, getting to her feet. ‘The taverns are full of men such as you, and most of them are easily parted from their silver for the pleasure of my company.’
Copsi stared up at the woman. There was no doubt that she was one of the prettier wenches he had spent his money on these past few days, but the tavern was warm while his room was not. Finally, he picked up his tankard and drank the last of his mead before standing up.
‘So be it,’ he said, looking across the tavern. ‘Landlord, I am going to my room and will return within the hour. Keep this seat clear for me on pain of a broken nose, do you understand?’
‘I do, my lord,’ said the landlord.
‘And make sure the woodpile is stocked up again,’ said Copsi, ‘I intend to make this chair my home until this weather changes.’
‘Understood,’ came the reply.
Copsi turned to the woman.
‘How much is this going to cost me?’
‘A silver penny,’ said Martine.
‘I will give you half,’ said Copsi, ‘but if you are good, I will double it.’
‘Oh, I am good,’ said Martine, ‘and by the time I have finished with you, I suspect you will be begging to pay me more.’
‘Hah,’ snorted Copsi again, ‘we will see,’ and he steered the whore to the back of the tavern where the cellar stairs led down into the gloom.
As he disappeared, the tavern door opened, and a well-cloaked man staggered in out of the storm. He made his way over to the fire and discarded his sodden cloak, giving it to one of the few tavern rats lurking around the room, homeless children who hung around such establishments hoping to earn a coin for an errand run.
‘You,’ he said, turning to another, ‘my horse is tied outside. Take it to the stable and see that it is dried and fed well.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the boy.
‘Do it well,’ said the man, ‘and there will be half a coin in it for you.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ gasped the boy, and he hurried out of the tavern, his mind full of the riches he was soon to receive. The man dropped into the chair recently vacated by Copsi and looked over to the landlord’s wife emerging from a side room.
‘You there,’ said the traveller, ‘does this pot contain ale?’ He nodded to a metal jug nestling in the corner of the fire.
‘It does,’ said the woman, ‘as long as you have the means to pay for it. Do you have coin?’
‘I do,’ said the stranger, ‘fill me a cup, and make sure it is full to the brim. I will not be robbed by those inferior to me.’
The woman threw him a dirty look but saw he was well-dressed and probably of some importance. She finished what she was doing and walked over to the fire with an empty tankard. She removed the lid and poured the ale into the tankard before putting it on the table before the foreigner.
‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.
‘Any hot food?’
‘There is some potage left. It is rich with meat.’
‘What meat?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does, for I will not eat horsemeat. At least, not French horsemeat. It is well known they are riddled with disease.’
‘It is pork,’ huffed the woman. ‘I will bring you a bowl.’ She walked away, watched closely by the traveller. The ale was too hot to drink yet, so he sat back and looked around the room, seeing none that he recognised.
‘Landlord,’ he called, ‘where are the Englishmen who landed a few days ago? Are they not staying here?’
‘Aye, they are,’ said the man, ‘but all have ventured into the town. They will be back later.’
‘Everyone has gone?’
‘There is one still here, an ugly brute by the name of
‘How so?’
‘He has the company of a lady,’ said the landlord, ‘and cannot be disturbed, but he will be back soon enough.’
‘Go and get him for me,’ said the man.
‘My lord,’ said the landlord, ‘did you not hear what I said? If I interrupt him now, I will no doubt see my nose spread across my face.’
‘Stop wasting time,’ said the man, ‘and go and get him, or it will be I that administers the beating.’
The taverner shook his head in resignation and headed towards the stairwell.
‘And who shall I say it is that summons him?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Tell him that Lord Tostig is back,’ said the man, picking up his tankard, ‘the brother of the new King of England.’
Part One
Chapter One
Westminster Abbey, January, AD 1066
Harold of England sat on an ornate throne at the end of a magnificent hall deep in the bowels of the newly built Westminster Abbey. The hour was late, and it had been a long and emotional day for all concerned, for it was not every day you buried a king and crowned his successor all in the space of a few hours.
The first half of the day had been taken up by the burial services of his predecessor, Edward the Confessor, and nobles from all around the land had gathered in attendance. The ceremony had been long and suitably majestic for the man who had ruled his kingdom for so long. Legs and backs ached from so much standing, and most were relieved when the archbishop and his priests finally left the hall to head into the inner chambers to say their final prayers over the dead king’s body.
The hall quickly emptied, and though some headed away from the abbey to go about their business or head back home to their estates, many took the opportunity to grab something to eat, knowing full well it would only be a few hours before they would gather again to see the Archbishop of York consecrate Harold Godwinson as the new King of England.
Ordinarily, the coronation of a new king would have taken place in a different venue a few days after the funeral, but with the threat of invasion hanging over them like a heavy cloud, the Witan had decided that there was no time to waste and that Harold had to be crowned with all haste. To leave England without a monarch, even for the briefest of time, would invite problems not just from the country’s enemies, but from those still not convinced that Harold was the right man to bear the crown.
Traditionally, there would be great feasting on the evening of any coronation, but with Edward’s body laying just a few hundred paces away, Harold had decided that any celebrations could wait until a suitable period of mourning had elapsed. The gesture was quietly admired by all, but deep down inside, Harold was in no mood for festivities and knew there were troubling times ahead. Duke William of Normandy had made his claim to the throne of England abundantly clear, and now Edward was dead, Harold had no doubt whatsoever that William would do everything in his power to gain what he believed he had been promised.
One by one, the nobles walked forward before kneeling to kiss his hand and pledge allegiance. Time passed in a haze, for there were so many waiting to declare their loyalty.
The crown was surprisingly light, and the royal robes uncomfortably heavy, but Harold endured the ceremony with little gladness in his heart, only impatience to be getting on with the task of preparing England for war. Finally, the hall doors slammed shut, and Archbishop Stigand walked towards him, carrying two ornate silver goblets, full to the brim with ale.
‘Are we done?’ asked Godwin.
‘There will be more to come,’ said Stigand, ‘but that is enough for today.’
‘Thank the Lord Himself,’ said Harold, taking the crown from his head and handing it to a servant. He removed the coronation cloak and left it on the throne before walking down to meet the archbishop and take a long draught from one of the goblets.
‘This kingship thing is thirsty work,’ he said, wiping the moisture from his moustache, ‘and tiring.’
‘Nobody said it was going to be easy,’ said Stigand, ‘but I am surprised at your statement, for you have been king for no more than a few hours.’
‘I can fight for days on end with little rest,’ said Harold, ‘as well you know, but sitting in one place listening to so many nobles promising unfettered allegiance takes a different type of toll, one of the mind rather than the body, especially as we all know most would gladly switch allegiance without a second thought if the price was right.’
‘It is the way of the court,’ said Stigand, ‘and a price you will have to pay.’
‘I have not seen Mercia, or Northumbria represented today,’ said Harold, ‘not since this morning, anyway.’
‘Earls Edwin and Morcar stayed for the funeral rights,’ said Stigand, ‘but were summoned away on urgent business. They instructed me to pass on their respect and promise to attend you as soon as possible to pledge their allegiance.’
‘So I do not have the pledge of the two men who could cause the most trouble for me,’ said Harold. ‘How convenient.’
‘They have given you their word,’ said Stigand, ‘that should be enough from the mouth of any noble.’
‘I trust them no further than I could have them thrown,’ said Harold. ‘The truth of the matter is that I need them more than they need me.’
‘England needs them,’ said Stigand, ‘not you personally. There is a difference.’
‘I suspect they will be waiting for me to fulfil my pledge before offering any support.’
‘To wed Alditha?’
‘Yes,’ said Harold, ‘a concession I should not have made.’
‘The promise has been made and must be fulfilled,’ said Stigand. ‘You would not be king if it was not for the deal we made. Do not even think of breaking it.’
‘I did not say that was an option,’ said Harold. ‘Did they say how long it would be before their return?’
‘A month,’ said Stigand, ‘two at most.’
Harold sighed and drained his tankard.
‘It is a problem,’ he said, ‘but one that will wait. I need to eat and sleep.’
‘All has been arranged in your quarters,’ said Stigand, and they both headed towards the back of the hall.
‘Does the morrow offer a break from all this ceremony?’ asked Harold as they walked.
‘Alas, there are similar audiences to be had,’ replied Stigand, ‘mainly representatives from other countries.’
‘How did they get here so soon?’ asked Harold.
‘Many have been here for weeks,’ said Stigand, ‘since it became obvious that Edward was unlikely to survive his illness.’
‘I will suffer this boredom for one more day,’ said Harold, ‘and no more. Anyone we miss can wait until we offer a similar opportunity in the weeks ahead.’
‘As you wish,’ said Stigand, ‘but there is one delegation I think you will be keen to accept.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘They are messengers from William of Normandy,’ said Stigand.
Harold stopped dead in his tracks.
‘William has sent me a message?’
‘He has, your grace,’ said Stigand. ‘They arrived this morning.’
‘And you have not seen fit to bring them forward.’
‘Today was about the ceremony,’ said Stigand, ‘both for you and for Edward, may God rest his soul.’
‘I need to see them now,’ said Harold, ‘else I will not sleep.’
‘They are not here,’ said Stigand, ‘they have left to find lodgings for the night but will be back in the morning.’
‘When they return,’ said Harold, ‘bring them directly to me. I refuse to see anyone else until that audience is over.’
‘As you wish, your grace,’ said Stigand, and both men headed out of the coronation chamber.
Harold Godwinson’s first day as the King of England was over.
* * *
The following morning, King Harold was up and dressed well before the first cockerel crowed. By the time the first light started creeping through the high windows of the abbey, he had dealt with a mountain of documents that needed the royal signature, guided by the ever-present Archbishop Stigand.
Once done, he headed back to his chambers to break his fast before the main business of the day began. He sat in a large chair alongside a fire, flanked by two side tables groaning under the weight of hot meat, smoked fish, and two different concoctions made up of oats and honey.
