The Chosen Queen (9 page)

‘
Your
fighting man,’ Harold agreed, just as softly, pulling her close, but at that moment the clink of jesses heralded Godwin’s eager return. Svana bowed graciously
away.

‘I shall leave you to it and ride back to help Elaine create a fine feast for my falconers.’

‘Oh, good,’ Godwin said. ‘I’m starving. Can it be just us? Not Edmund and Magnus?’

‘Are your brothers not allowed to eat?’

‘They can, but in the nursery.’

‘How then will you tell them of your success with Artemis?’

Svana watched Godwin struggle with this conundrum and smiled at Harold over his little head. She was glad to see her husband had relaxed again and reminded herself not to touch further on
matters of war. Harold was here too rarely to spoil their time with quarrels.

‘I suppose they can come,’ Godwin conceded now, ‘but I get served first.’

‘We’ll see,’ Svana said lightly and kissed him and Harold before heading back to Spirit.

She would order luncheon and afterwards she would reply to Edyth and urge her to caution until such time as she could be safely brought back to England.

Rhuddlan, July 1055

‘God’s truth,’ Edyth muttered to herself, ‘what do they all think I’m going to do – besiege his bed?’

She tossed her head indignantly, trying to ignore the sneaking awareness that the idea was far from unpleasant to her. She had been in Wales for three months now and Griffin had remained
flatteringly attentive. She had come to enjoy the aching tug of his touch in a dance and sometimes, when she lay in bed with her younger brothers sleeping soundly on pallets either side, she pulled
a pillow down the length of her body and imagined how it would be if it was Griffin against her. Once or twice she had even kissed it, but so? It was to practise, that’s all; it didn’t
mean she was going to actually do anything, not with him. He was just so very easy to dream about with his strong arms and his piercing eyes and his lilting, knowing voice.

‘Safe,’ Svana had said in her letter, the same word her father had used, as if they were colluding in some dull set of rules. That didn’t surprise her from her father but
she’d thought Svana was more liberal. ‘
Love needs to be free
,’ she’d told her, had she not?

‘
This isn’t love
,’ a voice said in her head and she grimaced at the truth of it. Everyone in the rough Rhuddlan court said the king would never marry and besides, he
was talking of riding out to battle soon so that would be an end to any flirtation. Edyth’s body flickered in disappointment but she ignored it. Svana had said she could go and stay with her
once they were returned to England, so that was something to look forward to. She would reply as soon as she could but for now she had to dress for dinner.

Placing the letter carefully into a leather pouch she tucked it under the bed and summoned her maid. Alfgar had been unable to bring a full staff into exile so Griffin had assigned a girl to
Edyth. Becca spoke only Welsh but Edyth was learning and she needed to practise, for tonight she planned to test her new language skills on Griffin.

‘
Ma’ fe’n anrhydedd i ddawnsio gyda chi
,’ she said over and over as Becca arranged her hair into honeyed braids – I am honoured to dance with you.

He would like that she was sure and as soon as she was ready she made for the great hall, keen to find out. Barely had she entered, however, than someone tucked a hand under her elbow and she
found Lady Gwyneth at her side.

‘Lady Edyth, yes?’ she asked in slightly broken English.

Edyth pushed her shoulders back and swallowed.

‘
Fi’n Edyth
,’ she responded carefully – I am Edyth.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

‘You speak Welsh?’

‘I am learning.’

‘And why is that?’

‘It seemed polite to be able to address my kind host in his own tongue.’

Gwyneth snorted.

‘It is not the only tongue he speaks,’ she said, curving her bony hips suggestively.

‘Indeed,’ Edyth agreed smoothly, ignoring the older woman’s insinuations, ‘his English is impeccable.’ Gwyneth clearly didn’t understand the last word and
Edyth felt suddenly mean. ‘You are very kind to let us stay here, my lady.’

‘Oh, it is none of my doing. I am little more than a guest myself.’

‘But you are the king’s . . .’

‘
Putain
? Whore?’

‘Consort.’

‘I prefer my own term, in either language.’ Gwyneth laughed bitterly. ‘Do not be fooled by the glaze of civilisation, my lady. This is not England. We do not pander to Roman
niceties here. If a man wants a woman and is strong enough to take her then he will.’

Edyth looked nervously around the packed hall. Most of Griffin’s court were here, making free with the local honeyed ale, but the king had not yet arrived. It was a warm night at last and
the great doors stood open at either end to show the magnificent views. To the back, the far-off mountains looked, for once, more blue than black and at the front the iron sea had allowed the
sinking sun to coat its softly rippled surface with pinks and apricots. The court had picked up the softer mood and was whispering and giggling easily together. Edyth drew a deep breath and leaned
in towards Gwyneth.

‘You are not married to King Griffin?’

‘No. Clearly. I am not queen, am I?’ Gwyneth’s lip curled. ‘I was married to Lord Huw of Deheubarth, the territory I grew up in and where my family live still. Griffin
wanted Deheubarth for himself and, after several attempts, he killed my husband and took it – and me with it.’

She spoke with an almost unearthly calm that unnerved Edyth.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Did you love Huw?’

‘Love?!’

‘It is not such a stupid idea. My parents love each other, I believe. My grandparents certainly do.’

‘Then your grandparents are lucky, child, or lying. I did not have the luxury of loving Huw but he was my husband and I had a respected place in his court. I was more than just a spoil of
war as I am here.’

‘Has King Griffin not been . . . kind to you?’

‘Kind?’ Gwyneth spat into the rushes. ‘Kindness is not a virtue we prize in Wales, Edyth. Griffin is strong and powerful and lusty.’

‘Lusty?’

‘Oh yes. That man gave me more fun between the sheets than Huw ever did.’

‘Gave?’

‘
Gives.
I may be older than you and less . . .’ her eyes wandered out of the great doors to the wanton sunset beyond, ‘ . . . less rosy, but Griffin wants me
still.’

‘I doubt it not, my lady. I am but fourteen – a child yet.’

Gwyneth grasped at her arm.

‘Then act like one or you will regret it. Men are easy to control, Lady Edyth, as long as you do not offer false promises. I shall show you, shall I?’

‘Show me . . . ?’ Edyth began but now the king was stepping into the hall and Gwyneth was whipping past to greet him.

‘My lord.’

He bowed tightly.

‘Lady Gwyneth.’

‘You look well tonight, Sire, lusty.’

She ran a slow finger down his tunic, curling up to him and blocking Edyth out.

‘As I recall, my lady,’ he responded instantly, ‘you like me best that way.’

‘Ripe for battle – yes.’

Her hand crept lower and Edyth turned away. How could Gwyneth behave like this in front of everyone?

‘Then make sure you eat well,’ Griffin laughed, loud enough for all who chose to hear, ‘for you will need all your energy tonight. Shall we?’

He offered her his arm and Gwyneth took it and sailed past Edyth with a mocking wink. All night she monopolised the king, engaging him with intimate conversation in sing-song Welsh and touching
him with her clearly expert hands. By the time the minstrels were called, Griffin had pulled her onto his lap and was plainly in no mood for the dance floor. Indeed, barely was the first jig over
before he leaped to his feet and, announcing to the entire hall that he had ‘a battle to fight with this lady’, departed the company, Gwyneth in triumphant tow.

Edyth watched them go to raucous cheers and wondered what she was meant to feel. Jealousy – is that what Lady Gwyneth had intended? Because it wasn’t that. Pity came closer, with
scorn hot on its heels. To be treated like that in front of everyone was shaming. There was no way any man would do that to her, be he the king of all Christendom. And yet, much of the joy had gone
out of the evening and, with the habitual Welsh chill creeping back into the night air, people soon peeled off to their beds.

Edyth was glad to go and burrowed down into the welcome warmth of her covers. Listening to the soft snuffles of her younger brothers either side, she tried to be grateful that King Griffin was
not subjecting her to his lust. Yet her mind refused to shut down and kept snaking off to the bed, somewhere in this isolated palace, where, right at this moment, he was doing ‘battle’
with Lady Gwyneth. If his dancing was anything to go by it would be wild and rough and that thought sparked memories of Earl Torr in the woods. Edyth pulled her pillow over her head, trying to
muffle out her damned curiosity but she knew, already, that she would sleep little tonight.

She woke from an uneasy slumber next morning to find the bedchamber empty of all but Becca, sewing in the corner. Sunlight was slanting in through the cracks in the wooden
window shutters and noises from beyond suggested that the men were already at their training. She leaped up and ran to look out onto the central courtyard below. The bedchamber she shared with
Edwin and Morcar was on the second floor above the commander’s rooms and offered a fine view of the yard. The main palace buildings were positioned around four sides of a square, tighter in
design than their English counterparts. This was presumably to create shelter from the bitter sea winds but Edyth liked the feeling of intimacy and privacy it created once within and today it
looked magnificent.

The sun was casting an already warm glow onto most of the rough central square so that many of the knights had thrown off their outer tunics and were fighting in their thin linen undershirts and
trews. Edyth watched, entranced, as Griffin’s commander led them in a series of punishing drills, swords flashing in the sunlight and clanging alarmingly as they sparred in pairs.

There was no rest for the king’s militia. Griffin had explained to her that Rhuddlan was ever under threat from possible invasions by rival Welsh factions or the barbaric Irish. Dublin
remained closely linked to the roaming Vikings and with the voracious warrior Harald Hardrada on the Norwegian throne, the seas were more threat than protection. There were rumours the Scandinavian
king had aspirations to be an Emperor of the North like the legendary King Cnut and Wales would be a useful back door into coveted England to help him achieve that goal. No one was fool enough to
believe the locals would be spared on the way through so it was vital, Griffin had assured Edyth, that the men stayed sharp.

Now she could see the intense concentration in everyone’s eyes as they wielded their blades – blunted training pieces but impressive all the same. She could see the way they bit down
against the pain in their muscles and even, in those closest, the ripple of the muscle itself. It made her own body ache restlessly.

‘
Yn olygfa bendigedig
,’ her maid suggested shyly, coming over – a splendid sight.

‘
Bendigedig
,’ Edyth confirmed with a smile.

‘
Gweld dy frawd
?’ – see your brother?

Edyth looked where the girl pointed and saw Brodie deep in training. He was working his blade with the same intensity as the rest and, as far as she could tell, he was doing well. She glanced at
Becca and saw a misty look in her maid’s eyes.

‘
Ydych chi’n hoffi fy mrawd
?’ – do you like my brother?

Becca flushed and shook her head fiercely, pointing instead to Brodie’s sparring partner, a young Welsh guard.

‘
Pwy yw e
?’ – who is he?