Frynd sind on eorþan, leofe lifgende, leger weardiað, þonne ic on uhtan ana gonge under actreo geond þas eorðscrafu.
þær ic sittan mot sumorlangne dæg, þær ic wepan mæg mine wræcsiþas…
"There are lovers on earth, lovers alive who lie in bed, when I pass through this earth-cave alone and out under the oak tree at dawn;
there I must sit through the long summer's day, and there I mourn my miseries..."
– excerpt from
The Wife's Lament, Anglo-Saxon elegy
Chapter III: OF GALLOWS AND GENTLE SWANS
The Royal Hall at Westmynster, first erected by Edward the Confessor, the site of thousands of royal feasts.
26 December 1066
Westmynster, Ængland
It was the Feast Day of St. Stephen, the day after Christmas, and all Ængland rejoiced. Their energetic new king was only a year into his reign, and he had already managed to fend off two foreign invasions, killing both the dreaded Hardrada of Norway and his ill-born Norman counterpart in the process. It was certainly a day worth celebrating for all good Ænglish folk.
However, amidst the elated throng there were a few individuals who did not rejoice. The townsfolk pelted the condemned men with rotten vegetables as they were dragged past them to the gallows. Most were solemn and dejected, but one brazen prisoner had the nerve to shout back at the mob.
Ralph de Guader had been an important man, a wealthy landowner and one of Ængland’s most prominent thegns. He was also a traitor, or so everyone said. It was all so foolish: his trial before the Ænglish king, his imprisonment by Ænglish guards, his impending execution in front of Ænglish commoners—it was all just a cruel jest of fate, for the simple reason that Ralph was
not an Ænglishman. By birth, he was a Breton.
When Duke William’s army had arrived two months before, Ralph and his father had gone over to the invaders to help overthrow the House of Godwine. They had failed miserably. His father had been killed in the fighting, hewn down by a housecarl’s axe; Ralph himself had managed to survive the battle, only to be captured by the king’s men and tried for treason. The gallows loomed above as Ralph and his captors neared the town square, where one of the king’s reeves would be waiting to publicly denounce him before the masses for his “crimes.” A spoiled cabbage struck Ralph on the head and tattered bits of the vegetable clung to his hair. Someone in the crowd shouted an unintelligible obscenity. Smug Ænglish vermin. But as he stumbled up the rickety wooden steps of the gallows, Ralph de Guader saw that his accuser was not just another bloviating Anglo-Saxon windbag, for the hardened face that greeted him atop the platform belonged to Robert Fitz Wimarc, the Shire-Reeve of Eastseaxe. A Norman.
So this was how Harold Godwinson was going to play it.
Robert Fitz Wimarc, Shire-Reeve of Eastseaxe (Essex) and one of the king’s stallers, or constables.
Ralph was not the only foreign nobleman in Ængland. There had once been a great many of them: Lotharingians, Bretons and Normans brought back to Ængland by the venerable King Edward at his return from a quarter of a century of exile in Normandy. The old man had felt more at home among his French favourites, including Ralph’s father, so they were given lands, titles, wealth and great prestige at court as the king’s boon companions and friends.
Earl Godwine had managed to oust several of them through clever political manoeuvring, but the most trustworthy and influential still remained. They were unmolested by King Harold despite his father’s policies, though that did not mean that Edward’s old favourites had to
like the fact that one of Godwine’s sons was their new liege.
“Ralph of Guader, known by some as ‘de Gaël!’” barked Fitz Wimarc, his voice solemn and imperious, “For attempting to overthrow your sworn king, you have been found guilty of treason! Your lands and wealth are forfeit to the crown, and you stand condemned to death! Do you have any final words?”
Ralph’s face was a mask of indifference, hiding the intense fear and regret that was wracking him inwardly. He was already going to lose his life; he would not sacrifice his dignity as well by begging for clemency he would not receive.
“You’re the
real traitor,” he grunted, as a black-cowled hangman placed the noose roughly around his neck.
“My hands are clean of your blood.,” Fitz Wimarc answered harshly, his voice barely above a whisper, “You should all have listened to me when I warned you that this would happen.”
“Some warning,” scoffed Ralph. The arrogant fool had actually sent a personal missive to Duke William, informing him that he and his men would be put down like mongrel dogs if they persisted in the invasion of Ængland. The Duke had read Fitz Wimarc’s letter publicly to his soldiers. The whole army had laughed scornfully at the time; now the only one laughing was Fate. Such cruel jests she played!
Ralph cast his eyes toward the King’s Hall, where Harold himself was watching the spectacle from the terrace, his arms folded. There was no hate in the King’s face, just a cold ruthlessness that Ralph found even more unsettling. He had pleaded for amnesty along with the other Norman survivors from Haestingas, but King Harold had singled him out for execution personally, along with a few other unlucky souls. There was no doubt that it was because of his broken oaths.
“So,” growled Ralph, “I am to be made an example then? Of the King’s most
equitable justice?”
“You and I both,” said Fitz Wimarc, “But you earned your fate.”
“
Brûle en enfer,” spat Ralph in retort.
“Perhaps,” said Robert, “But you first.” He motioned to the executioner, who roughly forced a woollen hood over Ralph’s head.
At least he would be the first to go. There’d be no long wait pissing himself in terror while he watched the others twitch on the end of a rope.
“I am... no traitor,” choked Ralph, his voice hoarse as the hangman tightened the noose.
Then someone gave the Breton a hard shove, and the darkness took him.
Edith Swanneck stared down at the trencher before her. It was filled with the finest cuts of venison, befitting her station as the wife of the King, but the greasy meat didn’t seem especially appealing. She picked up a small purplish carrot, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. Having studied the scrawny vegetable for a moment, she dropped it back to the table. It was no use, she just wasn’t hungry.
She glanced down the table to Harold. As usual, her husband was distracted, surrounded by his brothers and his new brothers-in-law as they discussed the affairs of state that were to be dealt with in a few days at the Witan.
She frowned, and resisted the temptation to put her hand to her forehead. People would notice her ill temperament. During the celebration she had to play the part of a gracious hostess, but she felt slightly ill after witnessing the traitors’ deaths. She had always secretly disapproved of public executions. They turned her stomach and left unwanted images in her mind for days afterward. That was just what she didn’t need; it would merely add to the malaise she was already feeling. She broke off a tiny piece of bread and put it to her lips. It tasted dry and bland, just like how she felt at the moment.
The rough tales of Harold’s loud-voiced housecarls were carrying. Edith tried not to listen but she had nothing else contending for her attention.
“’Ow ‘bout that lass ‘is Lordship was chattin’ up in Jórvíkscir last summer?” said the tall, longhaired warrior called Freyr Halfdane, “She were a bit of alright, weren’t she?”
“Ooh, you should’ve seen ‘er!” answered his companion, a jovial West Saxon known as Tofi. “She was more well-favoured than a milch-cow after calving!”
“Wish I had our ‘Arold’s good fortune!” continued Freyr.
“That and ‘is good looks, rich lands and coffers of silver, I’ll wager!” laughed Tofi.
“Yeah. So...?”
“So what?”
“Did he... you know, did he
swive her?”
“’Ow the ‘ell should I know? ‘E’s the King, for Christ’s sake! ‘E can swive whatever bit of ol’ crumpet ‘e wants, can’t ‘e, but he don’t hang about tellin’ me, do ‘e?!”
“Right, ‘course he can. ‘E’s well-belov’d of the ladies, is our ‘Arold! Well, Tofi, ‘ow ‘bout you then? Would
you ‘ave swived her?”
“Are you ‘avin’ a jest? ‘Course I would’ve! She was lyin’ more fallow than any field in Ængland! Any man worth his stones would’ve gone a-plowin’!”
Neither saw the stern visage of Thegn Eadred looming behind them. He may have been the recent recipient of a royal promotion, but that didn’t make him look any less menacing.
Thegn Eadred was not known as the most even-tempered of men.
“You there! Tofi!” he snarled, “
And you Freyr, you big, half-Danish
scittecarl! I heard that! You’d best shut your bleedin’ mead-holes! Don’t you know that there are ladies present at this flamin’ dinner? You’ll offend the ears of the King’s woman, you will!”
Eadred’s intentions were noble, but his manner was something less than remedial. Being referred to as “the King’s woman” certainly did nothing to alleviate Edith’s moodiness. She felt strangely infuriated at the men’s crude jokes. She tried to reason with herself, noting that she had heard many similar stories over the years, but today the words were striking a rough chord.
Her stomach took another turn for the worse. Rising swiftly to her feet, Edith strode out of the feasting hall with as much decorum as she could muster.
Later that afternoon, Edith cursed under her breath as the needle pricked her finger again. Her mother-in-law, Gytha, looked up sharply from her seat nearby. “Honestly Edith, haven’t you learned to keep your tongue in check yet? Surely you would make a soldier blush!”
Not looking up, Edith rolled her eyes as she found her place again in her stitching. Sighing, she put her hands in her lap, they were of no use to her today anyway. She eyed Gytha warily, but having no one else to talk to, she breached the subject that was weighing so heavily on her mind. “Do you think it foolish to be jealous of your husband’s other wife?”
“Oh, come now!” scolded Gytha, “You’re not worried about her new babe are you?”
“Perhaps a little bit. Not exactly. I suppose I’m more concerned about how Harold treats that Ravenhair woman. Do you... do you suppose he
loves her?”
“Love!” Gytha scoffed. “What is love in a marriage anyway? Do you think there was any love lost between me and that old schemer Godwine? And think of my poor daughter! Do you think she ever got one bit of love from the impotent old fool she was shackled to for all those years?”
Edith had nothing to say to that. Her sister-in-law, yet another woman named Edith, had been the consort of the elderly King Edward the Confessor. She had been cloistered away in official mourning ever since his death. It was an open secret that the woman was as bitter about it as wormwood.
“No,” continued Gytha, “You, my dear Edith are one of the lucky ones. You have already tasted of love. This other woman, she has not--at least, not before Harold--and he will love her because she has borne him another man-child. In such times as these a good man cannot have too many sons, least of all a king. But you know that Harold loved
you with all his soul before you ever bore him a son. Be grateful for that.”
Edith frowned, resenting the old woman’s chiding. She
was grateful for what she and Harold shared. It was a miracle and a blessing to have a husband such as him. Trust and loyalty were very rare qualities indeed, especially in men as popular and successful as Harold Godwinson. He had always had his pick of the women and yet he had always chosen her. Until his
other Edith, that is.
She understood the difficult situation that her husband had been placed in, but really, he was still such a
man! She and Harold had been married in the traditional
more danico, the Danish manner, with a handfasting ceremony outside of the Christian Church. Therefore, in the eyes of the Church, Harold was still free to marry another woman, and when the political expediency to marry Edith Ravenhair had arisen, he had not hesitated long enough. “Such a man!” Edith thought again.
His wedding night to Edith Ravenhair was the worst night of Edith Swanneck’s life. She was awake all night, as if straining to hear any possible noises that might arise from the new couple’s marriage bed despite their distance at the time, far away to the north in Jórvík. By the time Harold had returned home again three weeks later, Edith could barely contain herself as she waited in her room, hoping against hope that Harold would come in to her and declare his new bride to be a boar in the bedchamber. She had waited in vain, for Harold never spoke a word about the nights he spent with his other wife. Edith could only imagine his joy at being with such a beautiful young woman, barely more than half Edith’s own age and brimming with youthful vigor. Of course Harold had never complained, but oh how Edith wished he would!
As she sat, needlework in her unmoving fingers, she remembered the joy in Harold’s face when it was announced that Edith Ravenhair had finally given birth to a healthy baby boy. Jumping from his chair and nearly tripping over the dog, he had rushed from the room to greet both the new child and the boy's happy mother. The gifts Harold had bestowed on the woman hadn’t bothered Edith; she had received gifts of her own upon the birth of each child. But rather, it was the gentle kiss on the forehead that she had glimpsed Harold give to the dark-haired woman. It was the smallest of gestures perhaps, but it was still a gesture filled with all the tenderness of a husband’s feelings, and a measure of affection that Edith treasured receiving from Harold herself. It wounded her deeply to see him give it to another.
Across the room Edith’s eldest daughter was chattering about the new babe, whom Harold had proudly named Harold Haroldson. At thirteen, the girl was old enough to know the difficulties Edith had with her husband’s other wife, and yet still young enough to appreciate the joys of a new baby in the house, especially during the Christmas festivities. Edith tried to feel happy for Harold too, but all she felt was a headache coming on instead.
***
Edith had finally retired for the evening, relieved for a rest from her excruciatingly long day. She was pulling the comb through her long, golden hair when she was surprised by the familiar tap on the door and the quiet entrance of her husband. With his warrior’s mustache well-groomed and his chin freshly scraped, he gave her his usual adoring smile. Edith knew how much he loved it when she let her tresses down. Coming up behind her without a word, he took the carved whalebone comb from her hand and gently pulled it through her soft, flowing locks.
For a brief moment, Edith felt at peace--as if everything was right with the world. She allowed her eyes to close as the comb massaged her head, and felt her heart beat to Harold’s tender touch. Opening her eyes, she remembered that everything was
not alright. With a sad sigh, she stood up and pulled away, the despondent emotion unmasked on her tired face.
“Why my dear Edith, what is wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”
Edith didn’t know how to approach the subject gnawing at her without appearing petty, silly, and jealous, all of which she felt were probably true descriptions of her at the moment. “I feel... I feel uneasy with that
woman in the house.”
“That woman? Which woman?” Could he really be that oblivious?
“Your other wife... your other Edith.” She turned away, ashamed at the blood that had risen in her cheeks and the tears threatening her eyes.
Harold sat down in front of the hearth, not entirely surprised by Edith’s words. He sighed, obviously not sure how to answer. “Edith, you know you have always been my gentle swan, the one who knows me best and has shared my life. Surely you must know that of all my possessions, your affections are my greatest treasure?”
Edith shook her head. She wasn’t sure of anything any more.
“Darling, be relaxed and happy that for the next few months I am completely yours. I will come to your room every night if you wish it.”
“For the next few months?” Edith’s emotions spilled out in a rush of words, “Just until she has recovered from giving birth then? How am I to know that when we are together in passion and you call out my name, that you aren’t really thinking of your
other Edith? How can I ever measure up to a woman half my age? But sharing you at night isn’t the hardest part. I know that it was necessary for you to marry her, but is it also necessary for you to love her? I thought... I thought that you had already given your heart to
me.” She turned away, unable to look into his face.
Harold might be king and conqueror, but in the bedroom he was just an ordinary man.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said softly.
Intuitively, he pulled Edith into a familiar embrace and ever so carefully began to take down her defences with his compelling kisses to the back of her swan-like neck. The questions wouldn’t go away, but for tonight at least, she could let him make her forget.
***