The Chosen Queen (38 page)

It was Hardrada.

He came riding high on a huge black horse, a lord striding before him waving his great banner. Edyth stared at the dark wings of the predatory raven and tasted defeat, sharp and bitter. In Wales
she had known it too but in Wales the victor had been Harold, her Harold. The Harald who now rode towards them had no reason to favour her and they were in grave danger. Vikings were not known for
their mercy. Edyth’s hand flew to her belly. She had lost Harold the north and now she might also lose him his child – his heir.

‘They will rape us all!’

It was so exactly an echo of young Alwen’s cry way back in Rhuddlan that Edyth momentarily lost her place in time. For a heartbeat she was queen of a different country, a different race,
but the thud of a thousand enemy feet on the great York road brought her to her senses. She was Queen of England now and she had to behave fittingly.

‘Compose yourselves,’ she told the women sternly. ‘We are not peasant girls. Dry your eyes and stand tall – and quickly.’

She pushed her own shoulders back and stepped as far forward as the narrow top of the tower would allow. Hardrada drew up his horse below her and fixed her in his stormy eyes.

‘You are defeated, my lady.’

‘So it seems – for this day at least.’

He laughed.

‘Your noble brothers are fled.’

Edyth’s heart leaped; they were alive. The knowledge gave her courage.

‘What do you want of us?’

‘We seek entry into York which we claim as our own.’

Edyth bowed her head.

‘I cannot oppose you, Sire, but I can ask that you honour me and all of my people.’

Hardrada glanced back at his men. Their heads were high but they looked weary and many were nursing wounds. He fixed on Edyth again.

‘We come not to pillage, my queen, but to conquer. Today is but a step on our path.’

‘A victory on the way to defeat.’

His eyes flashed.

‘If it suits you to see it that way. It makes no odds to me. I seek food, I seek wine, and I seek terms – hostages.’

Behind Edyth the women whimpered. It would be their noble sons who would have to be turned over to the ruthless Viking king and Edyth’s own heart squeezed in on itself at the thought of
her own dear Ewan and Morgan going to Hardrada, but what else could they do? The men were fled, hiding so they could live to fight again, and the women were alone. There was only one thought in all
of this that gave Edyth the strength to order the gates open and the Vikings inside – Harold would come. She had sent word and he would come but it was a long way with foot soldiers, perhaps
too long. She had to stall Hardrada, and she had to pray, and above all she had to hope she was not simply luring more men to their deaths in the futile name of peace.

York, 23 September 1066

H
ardrada stayed in York just one night but it seemed to go on for ten. Edyth and her women were forced to serve their conquerors and
whilst the Viking king kept a tight rein on his men, there were still plenty of presumptive hands and lewd threats. Far worse than such petty pestering, however, was the knowledge that within
walking distance their own men might be lying mortally wounded and they could not go to them. Earl Torr, a gaunter, darker, even more predatory version of his previous self, prowled after Edyth and
she was spared – if spared it was – only by Hardrada.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband,’ the Viking king opened as if this were no more than a social dinner. ‘That is, your
first
husband. Do you make a habit of
marrying your husbands’ conquerors? I do hope so.’

‘You are married already, Sire,’ she replied stiffly.

‘As was King Harold.’ Edyth gasped and Hardrada looked at her curiously. ‘You knew her? She was a friend perhaps? Ah, you women – you are so fickle.’

‘At least we do not kill each other.’

‘You think?’

His words were as sharp as his blade and he was a man who knew how to hunt down weakness. Edyth thrust her head up.

‘I am queen of this country and the people love me. You would do well to remember that if you wish to rule them.’

‘Oh, I
will
rule them and you, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, would do well to remember
that
. We will talk terms.’

‘Now?’

‘Do you have any better plans?’

His eyebrow rose and Torr leaned lasciviously in from his other side.

‘No,’ Edyth snapped. ‘We will talk terms.’

The next day Hardrada took his troops back to his ships, anchored at Riccal. It was evident, despite the bravado, that they had suffered heavy losses and when Edyth and her
women crept onto the battlefield it was apparent why. The open stretch of land was mired in bodies. They lay piled on top of each other like gruesome stepping stones across the oozing marshland.
The water, forced out by the mass of flesh, flooded around the edges as scarlet as a dyeman’s vat of madder and the stench of death was batted across the air by the black clouds of common
crows feasting on Vikings and Englishmen alike.

‘We cannot bury them all,’ Edyth said.

‘The bog will take them for us.’

‘Dead or alive. We must hunt for any still breathing.’

It was a sickening, loathsome task but worthwhile. Even now men cried for help and each one they pulled from the filth felt like a victory all of its own. All too often, though, the cries were
Norwegian.

‘Do we leave them?’

Edyth shook her head.

‘No. We save them. Hardrada can have them to swell the numbers of his precious hostages.’

It was sound politics but it masked a far more basic truth – leaving a man, any man, to die was like condemning your own soul. Edyth was strong, yes, but not that strong. All day they
laboured, helping men, some almost twice their own weight and size, to the empty tents of the English battle camp. Edyth longed for word of her brothers but none came. She longed for word of Harold
but none came. She was adrift in a bloody sea and could only walk on one bandage at a time.

She sent a message to Hardrada: ‘
We are treating 213 of your soldiers and offer them in place of half the agreed hostages
.’ She longed to ask for more. Hardrada had demanded
one hundred men and boys so it was hardly a fair swap, but she knew he needed surety and his own men would not offer that. She wrote on: ‘
Of the remaining fifty we have not yet a full
quota and ask one more day to restore our own wounded to sufficient health to march into your keeping.
’

It was a miserable task to heal men only to send them into the jaws of the enemy but so far Hardrada had behaved honourably. If he wished to rule England as his ancestor King Cnut had done, he
could not afford to lose respect and she could only pray that he would treat the hostages well. She sent the messenger and returned to the wounded. She could see those of her women who had
retrieved husbands and sons looking daggers at her but she could do nothing.

‘My boys go too,’ she reminded them, her heart aching with the weight of her sons’ young lives.

She longed to hide Ewan and Morgan away, protect them from this. They were Welsh princes, after all, not truly a part of this English battle. And yet, in marrying Harold she had made them a part
of it and she could not hide from that, however much it hurt. She could only tell herself that it was not in Hardrada’s interests to rip apart the families he sought to rule but it was small
consolation for it was not just Ewan and Morgan who were in danger.

‘If Hardrada wins again,’ she added darkly, ‘my husband will never be granted the chance of being hostage.’

It silenced the women but not her own fears. It was the first time she had ever dared to think of Harold as hers but it was bitter consolation. Besides, for all she knew he might be dead
already. It felt as if the death of a king should echo instantly around the whole country but such a thing was not possible. The trumpet had not been crafted that could sound that far and her
heart, whatever she might choose to wish, could not sense his – though Svana’s perhaps could. She lifted another bandage and forced herself on.

Hardrada accepted her terms, praised her nursing and vowed honour to the Englishmen he would rule. Delivery of the hostages, along with more of York’s ancient treasure than the weakened
men and boys could carry, was set for the next day, 25 September, at a pretty crossing of the Derwent known as Stamford Bridge. Messengers crept in to say that Edwin and Morcar were hiding out with
Morcar’s fleet, stationed on the River Wharfe at Tadcaster. They were, the messengers assured them, seeking to raise resistance, but in truth they all knew there were not the men to be found
to defeat the Vikings. Edyth sent more messengers south to find Harold but knew she had not won him enough time.

On the eve of the hostage-taking she took Ewan and Morgan aside in the beautiful bower she had last shared with Harold on their triumphant procession through the north.

‘The time has come,’ she told them, ‘to stand as the princes I know you are.’

Eight-year-old Morgan obligingly adjusted his stance in a manner that would normally have had her laughing out loud but there was no place for laughter now. She put a hand on his little
shoulder.

‘You must go with the other men and boys of York for a little while.’

‘Where?’

‘To stay with the Vikings.’

Both boys’ eyes opened wide.

‘On their ships?’ Morgan asked keenly.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I be on the one with the dragon at the front?’

‘I don’t know, Morgan.’

‘And can you be on it with me?’

Edyth looked away, sucking in tears.

‘It is men only, I’m afraid, my sweet.’

‘Oh.’

Morgan looked bemused but ten-year-old Ewan was sharper.

‘Will we be prisoners, Mama?’

‘Not prisoners, Ewan, not really – hostages.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘The difference is . . . is . . .’ She fought for composure. ‘The difference is that when the kings have stopped fighting you will be released.’

‘When will they stop fighting?’ Morgan asked.

Edyth was losing her battle against tears and could not answer. Ewan, however, was there again: ‘When one of them is dead.’

It was a stark, brutal truth and beneath it lurked an even starker one – only if Hardrada won would the boys gain their freedom. Once her precious Welsh princes were delivered to the
Vikings it was them or Harold, and either way, Edyth would be torn in two.

That night she invited the hostages and those of their families still cowering in the city to the archbishop’s palace to dine, presiding over the gathering with her sons
either side of her. It was a sombre meal, salted with tears. They all fought to eat but too many platters returned to the kitchens untouched before Edyth caught sight of an arrival at the door
– a man, armoured and travel-stained. A messenger! She rose and beckoned him in and he came forward until he was so close she could smell the sweat of his journey.

‘I come from the king,’ he said, his voice low.

‘Harold!’

He put a finger to his grimy lips.

‘He is at Tadcaster with your brothers.’

Edyth’s heart soared. Tadcaster was but a few hours’ march to the south-west of the city. Harold must have flown like Mercury to travel this far in so short a time and if he was with
Edwin and Morcar they could surely form the resistance they had sought? The hostages might not have to be delivered; Edyth’s heart leaped with a hope that seemed to ripple through the whole
hall.

‘King Harold is here. King Harold will save us.’

It was hard not to believe but their situation was precarious; they needed to be very calm.

‘He has troops?’

‘Some five thousand, my lady.’

‘And Hardrada’s force is decimated; most of them lie in Fulford’s marshes.’ Edyth looked round at the people crowding in, unable to hide her excitement. ‘What does
he plan?’

‘To surprise them at Stamford Bridge on the morrow but to do that he must march through York. If he approaches from the south they will see him too soon. Harold says it is imperative the
troops are kept hidden for as long as possible – they must pass silently through the city.’

‘We can do that.’ Edyth leaped up. ‘Seal the doors!’

Guards pulled the great wooden doors shut and Edyth put an arm round both her sons and beckoned her people in closer yet.

‘We must go forth now, all of us. We must knock on doors and tell all householders to make no sound when the troops come through at dawn. Hardrada has a guard beyond the north gates. If
they catch wind of anything they will despatch messengers to warn him.’

‘Not if we reach them first.’ It was Lord Osric of Northallerton. He had one arm in a sling but the other gripped his sword firmly. ‘There are enough of us fit. We can slip
round behind the camp and block them off. When Harold emerges from the north gates we will cut them down. No word will reach that bastard Viking if we have anything to do with it.’

‘It will be risky.’

‘Better to die putting Vikings to the sword than go to them with a yoke around our necks.’