Æthellan: A Tale of Kings
- Thread starter The Kingmaker
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OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT:
The second update for Æthellan is nearly complete, which means the time has finally come to resume the story. The next chapter is set to be released on May Day (May 1st) 2010. At least that's the plan.
That gives you, the readers, a little over a week to refamiliarize yourselves with the story, and me, the writer, a little over a week to finish the darned thing.
Hopefully, this time real life won't rear its ugly head to stop the writing process.
It's been far too long.
In a few short moments I will be posting my new update, but first I felt I would be terribly ungrateful if I did not acknowledge the tremendous support that I have received in this endeavor. I could not have done it without the help of my friends. I would also like to thank you, the readers, for your continuing encouragement.
I would especially like to thank Cartimandua, General_BT, The_Archduke, canonized, English Patriot and crusaderknight for all they've done to help me in this project, including brainstorming, proofreading and revision, file recovery, critiques and general encouragement, among other things.
I owe them all a great deal.
I would also like to apologize once more for the incredible delay in getting this update to you, which was caused by a flurry of things beyond my control. Also, for your information, this update is abnormally long due to the great amount of time it has taken me to prepare it.
I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
It is so good to be back.
-Alexander
I would especially like to thank Cartimandua, General_BT, The_Archduke, canonized, English Patriot and crusaderknight for all they've done to help me in this project, including brainstorming, proofreading and revision, file recovery, critiques and general encouragement, among other things.
I owe them all a great deal.
I would also like to apologize once more for the incredible delay in getting this update to you, which was caused by a flurry of things beyond my control. Also, for your information, this update is abnormally long due to the great amount of time it has taken me to prepare it.
I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
It is so good to be back.
-Alexander
Eall is earfoðlic eorþan rice, onwendeð wyrda gesceaft weoruld under heofonum.
“All is troublesome in this earthly kingdom; fate’s decree changes the world under the heavens.”
– excerpt from The Wanderer, Anglo-Saxon battle lament
Chapter II: A KING’S FUNERAL
(SOUNDTRACK)
In 1066, Lundene (the future city of London) was still composed mostly of Saxon timber structures within the stone shell of the old Roman ruins, though Saxon stonemasonry was on the rise. The various settlements that would come to comprise the city of London have yet to coalesce into a united metropolis, thus, “Lundenburh” refers to the fortified settlement built on the ruins of the old Roman city, “Lundenwic” is the Saxon town built outside the walls of the burh, and “Lundene” refers to both, as well as the surrounding countryside.
25 December 1066
Lundene, Ængland
The trampled mud of Lundene’s streets was a stark contrast to the fresh falling snow that slowly blanketed it in a thin layer of pristine white. Though the frost chilled to the bone, the gathered throng of humanity was restless; the boom of heavy drums in the distance harkened the arrival of the royal procession, and no one wanted to miss the opportunity of catching a glimpse of the king.
Trying to get a better view for himself, Wulfgar Cuthbertson roughly shoved his way past the tall man standing in front of him. He might have been successful, had he been anything but a scruffy ten-year-old ragamuffin. As it was, all his efforts earned him was a cuff round the head from the burly man’s fist.
“Oi!” shouted Wulfgar, “What’d you do that for, Longshanks? Get your hands off me!”
“Why you saucy little twerp!” barked the big man, “Be off with you, or I’ll box more than your ears!” He shook his fist threateningly as if to prove his point, and Wulfgar scarpered away as quickly as his short legs would carry him.
Moments later the boy was back in the company of his friend Lulla, the neighbourhood trouble-maker, looking for purses to steal in the large crowd. “You could ‘ave at least nicked that oaf’s coinpurse,” chided Lulla.
“He didn’t have one on him,” moped Wulfgar, his head still throbbing from the blow.
“Well, that one looks like ‘e ‘as a few coins to spare,” hissed Lulla, pointing to a plump merchant in a fine woolen tunic, “Go over there and ‘elp ‘im give to the poor!”
“You do it!” whispered Wulfgar, eyeing the two strong-arms near the wealthy merchant as they brandished their cudgels.
“Nah, they’ll notice me for sure,” said Lulla, “I’ve just passed me thirteenth birthday and I’m gettin’ to be too tall. It’s got to be you.”
“I don’t want to,” protested Wulfgar, “I don’t have to if I don’t want to, my father’s a thegn!”
“Well your father ain’t ‘ere, is ‘e?” growled Lulla, shoving Wulfgar in the direction of the merchant, “So get moving!”
Wulfgar Cuthbertson, a young thegn’s son fallen on very hard times.
If Wulfgar’s father could have been there to see his son act the part of a low-born cutpurse, he would have been beside himself with shame, but alas he was lying in a shallow grave at Haestingas with so many other brave Ænglishmen.
With no other choice, at least in his mind, Wulfgar watched for a good opening as he sneaked carefully towards his target. At last, as the grand cavalcade drew nearer, the moment came. With their backs turned, the rich merchant and his two thugs were preoccupied watching the spectacle, thereby giving Wulfgar the chance he needed to slink by them unnoticed.
As quietly as he could, Wulfgar drew his small knife, reached up to the man’s bulging coinpurse, and with a simple flick of his wrist severed the cord tying the purse to the man’s thick leather belt. He’d done it! Backing away as quietly as he could, Wulfgar looked around for his partner-in-crime. Lulla was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?
“Hey!” shouted a loud voice from behind him, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Anxiety instantly gave way to panic. Without even turning to see the face of his accuser, Wulfgar took to his heels, weaving through the gathered throng with a deftness that only adrenaline can provide.
“Come back here, you little turd!” echoed another angry voice over the heads of the people, “Stop the thief!”
Terrified, Wulfgar fled deeper into the closely packed masses, desperate to try and hide himself from his pursuers. He dropped to the ground, hopefully to crawl out of sight. Darting between a tall man’s legs, he bumped into an old woman in a ragged dress who shrieked in alarm. A deafening blast of trumpets immediately silenced her cry, and the woman’s attention turned to the street, where the royal procession had at last arrived.
It would make for a perfect diversion.
Wulfgar slipped away as the lordly procession slowly wound its way through the tangled streets of Lundene. No longer even watching where he was going, Wulfgar found himself caught up in the bustle of excited townspeople who were craning their necks to get a glimpse of the parade. It was easy to blend in with the distracted crowd, and Wulfgar couldn’t help but find his eyes drawn to the magnificent spectacle as well.
Leading the procession was a young cleric bearing a brightly coloured banner, and an escort of heavily armed guardsmen. They were followed by a handful of richly-dressed nobles and clergymen on horseback, the great men of the realm. After them came the victorious conqueror himself, astride a proud warhorse and already wearing a golden circlet upon his brow.
Temporarily forgetting his predicament, even Wulfgar was swept away by the exhilaration of the moment, but then as he moved closer to the front of the crowd, he slipped on a pile of fresh horse dung and fell headfirst into the street.
Grand processions such as this were very common in cases of important royal events, such as coronations... or funerals.
***
Brother Jehan was ecstatic. The fresh-faced Benedictine monk cast his eyes smugly over the crowd as he waved his charge aloft. The Abbot had recommended him by name for this task, and he felt deeply honoured to be the one chosen to bear the papal banner brought across the Channel by Duke William of Normandy.
He was so preoccupied with his duty that he was completely taken aback when Wulfgar tumbled out of the crowd to land face-down in the half-frozen mud at his feet.
“Hey, boy!” shouted Jehan, “Get out of the way!” Leading the new king’s triumphal entry into Lundene was the greatest honour that the youthful priest thought that he would ever receive, and he was not about to let some young miscreant ruin his moment.
Wondering what had stopped the parade so suddenly, three guardsmen left the royal entourage to investigate, and immediately seized the boy, with Jehan all the while castigating him loudly for interrupting such a momentous event. All were so preoccupied that no one noticed as the great man’s warhorse cantered nimbly behind them.
“Let him go!” bellowed the lord from his saddle, “Did I not command that this be a day of clemency?”
Brother Jehan blanched. The trio of footmen obediently dropped Wulfgar back into the mud and then returned shamefaced to their comrades.
Brother Jehan, being put squarely in his place.
For a moment, Wulfgar stared up bewilderedly at his benefactor, whose stern face briefly broke out it in an amused grin, until at last the boy caught hold of his wits and scarpered back into the burgeoning crowds from which he had sprung. The regal destrier trotted back to the cavalcade with its eminent rider while Wulfgar watched wide-eyed from the sidelines.
As the procession resumed its course, another band of soldiers was followed by two horses drawing a heavy wooden cart. A large leaden box rested on a bed of straw in the back of the cart, its surface ornamented in places with finely-crafted oaken panelling. As the cart rolled slowly past him, Wulfgar noticed that the box was sealed with thick wrought-iron fittings and engraved with a large cross. This was no mere victory parade...
It was a funereal wake fit for a dead king.
***
The grand procession ended at King Edward’s magnificent Westmynster, scarcely a year old, where queues of black-robed monks poured out to greet them. The great stone cathedral towered imperiously over the neighbouring timber structures, which appeared rustic and rude by comparison. The roar of the crowd drowned out the chanting of the monks’ psalms, which made for a very unusual display, their mouths opening and closing soundlessly like so many fish out of water.
Off to the side, an elegant noblewoman’s social standing was markedly apparent as her fine clothing caused her to stand out from the crowd of common folk surrounding her. She was accompanied only by a few sparsely-armed footmen and a handful of grey-shrouded clerics.
As the members of the procession began filing towards the steps of the cathedral, the well-dressed woman and her retainers broke away from the crowd and blocked their way, trying to approach the royal party. Burly foot soldiers immediately barred their path, steel weapons gleaming.
“No, wait!” called the man on horseback, “Do not hinder her.”
And at last the man named Harold Godwinson dismounted his proud warhorse.
Harold Godwinson, King of Ængland and victor of the great battle at Haestingas (Hastings).
Handing the reins to a servant, Harold regarded the stoic face of the petite woman before him. He more than recognized her, for they had come to know each other very well at their last meeting. She was just as he remembered her.
As Harold drew near, the woman bowed her head in greeting. “My lord,” she said, dropping to her knees, “Please… have mercy on a poor widow, newly bereaved of her husband.” Her voice was determined, though quiet.
“My lady Matilda,” said Harold, “It pains me that we must meet again under such unhappy conditions. But please, join us in the Mynster. It is unseemly for a woman of your dignity to kneel in the mud like this.”
The Duchess of Normandy looked up to catch the King’s gaze, pride and purpose fuelling her words. “Not until you hear my plea, my lord.”
“How could any man refuse a boon to such a noble and virtuous woman?” said Harold, “You need only ask.”
Matilda’s eyes reflected her uncertainty, obviously gauging the King’s motives. “My lord, I seek only to take my husband’s body home for a good Christian burial, so that my House will not be shamed before all of Christendom. I will gladly pay the body’s weight in gold, if that is what you wish.”
“Dear lady,” answered Harold, the corners of his mouth curving upwards slightly, “How can I take money for that which has been my intention from the beginning? We have merely brought your husband here to the Westmynster to receive a funeral worthy of his station. Afterwards, I have commanded that his remains and personal effects be given over to your care.”
Matilda blinked in surprise. She undoubtedly had not expected such generosity from the King, not after the terrible violence her husband had inflicted on Harold’s kingdom.
“But please,” urged Harold, “Surely you must be freezing. Allow me to help you out of the cold and the filth.” Clasping her hands, he lifted her gently to her feet. Matilda found herself unable to protest.
Walking down the path leading to the cathedral steps, Matilda chose her words carefully, aware of the many eyes watching her. “To show you that our intentions are genuine, I made them release your brother Wulfnoth, long held by my husband as a hostage.”
“Yes, I had heard,” said Harold, “You have my profoundest thanks.” He held out his arm for her. Tentatively, she placed her hand upon it.
“William?” called Matilda. A small red-haired boy with an extremely ruddy complexion emerged from her retinue, “We’re going into the church now.”
“I’m not going anywhere with him!” protested the boy, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he paused on the cathedral’s steps, “He killed father! I hate him!”
“Your youngest son?” asked Harold, half-smiling, “He has spirit. Rather like his father in that respect.”
“Please forgive him,” begged Matilda, horrified, “He’s just a boy. Hush now, William! Behave yourself. His Grace has been very generous to us.”
“No!” shouted the young William, “I won’t betray father! I won’t!” Before Matilda could answer, the boy was already running back to the comforting arms of his nurse.
“Of course the boy’s upset,” said Harold, “He’s lost his father. But tell me my lady, why did not the young Duke Robert, your elder son, come himself to seek such an important boon?”
Blushing, the Duchess bowed her head low to hide the warmth in her cheeks from King Harold’s vigilant eye. “My son the Duke has… reservations about looking into the face of his father’s killer.” Her cheeks turned a deeper red. “Can any man be blamed for fearing for his life in such trying times as these?”
“Indeed,” answered Harold, furrowing his brow. The irony of her statement in light of recent events was not lost on him. “Though it seems young William does not share his elder brother’s apprehension. Now let us go inside, before you catch your death from the chill.”
“May I ask but one other small thing of you, on behalf of my sons?” said Matilda, her proud face breaking in concern. Harold gently nodded his assent.
“Please… tell me truly,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “Did my husband die well?”
“He died honourably, with a sword in his hand.” Harold said simply, his expression inscrutable. To spare the lady’s feelings, he intentionally refrained from mentioning the more unpleasant aspects of just exactly how her husband had met his demise.
“Why do you honour him with such a lavish funeral, my lord?” asked Matilda, “You must know that he would not have shown you such compassion, were your places reversed.”
“Yes,” said Harold, “And that is exactly why I must see that he receives a good Christian funeral. A funeral fit for a king.”
A modern depiction of the death of William the Bastard at the hands of Harold Godwinson.
Death by battleaxe is never pleasant and always messy.
***
The ordinarily chilly stone interior of the Westmynster provided a measure of warmth against the frigid winter weather outside. Despite her descent from the illustrious Alfred the Great, Matilda felt uncomfortable in the presence of so many tall and burly Saxons. She pulled her shawl close around her and tried to use her already diminutive stature to make herself appear less noticeable.
Her mind wandered as the requiem mass droned on interminably. Why was it that the clergy always had to use so many words to describe one little thing? Uninterested in the long Latin recitations, she reflected on her current state of affairs. Her life as she knew it was over. Her married life, her childbearing... all gone forever.
Now that everything had ended, she found herself reflecting on how it all began, that day many years before when, as a proud young teenager, she had refused to be betrothed to William because of his illegitimacy. On that occasion, their very first meeting, he had yanked her off her horse by the braids and beaten her senseless. She could still remember the fury in his eyes.
Matilda thought about William, the russet hair shorn in the back in Norman fashion, the hard grey eyes in the full-fleshed, clean-shaven face -- a face she would never see again. She tried to imagine how it all must have ended for him; William thrown from his own horse, beaten down by the merciless blow of a Saxon axe. For thirteen long years her life had been his. She had shared his bed and borne his children.
Despite this, she found she had no tears for the man. He had spent those years beating and belittling her, and she had never lost the pride of her youth. Often she provoked him, daring him to strike her one more time. He diminished himself a little bit more in her eyes with each blow. William had been a hard man, but what husband didn’t beat his wife every now and then?
Harold Godwinson.
She sat bolt upright, surprised at herself as the familiar tingling returned to her limbs. She hadn’t meant to let her thoughts turn to him again. It was so inappropriate for her to have such a fascination with the man who had slain her husband, and it made her feel guilty as Judas. It definitely didn’t help that the King was sitting right next to her, ever the paragon of chivalry, courteously attending his poor, bereaved guest with the same indefatigable zeal he must have had when he cut her husband down on the battlefield.
Matilda knew she wasn’t an ugly woman, despite being painfully short of stature. She was good at using her looks to her advantage when dealing with men, especially William. So what was it about this man Harold that made her breath catch in her throat?
She glanced past him to where his wife, Edith Swanneck, was seated with their three eldest sons. The two women couldn’t have been more opposite in their appearance. Matilda studied the Ænglish woman’s flawless features. Harold Godwinson really knew how to pick them.
Edith’s long golden tresses were caught up in a fashionable style that flattered her namesake feature immensely. Her own mousy brown hair was slightly wind-swept, despite her best efforts to smooth the wayward strands. Matilda’s eyes were dark and she fancied that they made her look mysterious, but Edith’s eyes were a striking icy blue and sparkled with intelligence.
Edith’s white, swanlike neck led down to a proud bosom that was accentuated by a gown of deep blue. Matilda couldn’t help but glance down at her own black funeral gown, splattered and stained with the mud she had so recently knelt in.
Feeling suddenly quite inadequate, Matilda could not help but envy Edith. She coveted the woman’s entire life! Never ever beaten, her every need attended to, her desires satiated by an adoring husband who loved her with his whole heart, mind and body.
Matilda watched as Harold took Edith’s hand, warming her thin fingers in his. She kept watching, and was embarrassed to notice the secret smile the two shared. More than that, she was terrified at the emotion which suddenly overcame her.
She had had many children with William. She had literally spent the majority of her marriage pregnant with his heirs. Many nights she had found herself alone in her bed, trying to convince herself that she was satisfied with her life. William had always provided for the needs of his household; he had given her wealth, prestige and protection. But she would have traded every last pearl to have had William show her the tenderness that Harold was currently bestowing upon his Edith.
As these thoughts swirled through her mind, her emotions completely overwhelmed her. Matilda had not shed a single tear at William’s death. She had not needed to. However, now she now felt the tears streak down her cheeks. She was not grieving for William, but for the life she had never had -- the one thing William had not given her, and the only thing she had truly wanted.
Her tears were born of a sorrow that had lain beneath her controlled exterior for years, kept at bay by the hope that things might be different on the morrow. Well, tomorrow wasn’t coming for William, and he would never have changed anyway. She felt her youth wasted as she watched the couple next to her, content in their togetherness. Despite her best attempts, she could neither control nor hide the streams coursing down her cheeks.
“My dear lady, are you alright?”
If only the King had not noticed. She was absolutely petrified at the thought of Edith Swanneck watching her weep.
Matilda did not trust her voice enough to reply.
Duchess Matilda weeps for what might have been and what never would be.
***
Stigand grinned subtly as Archbishop Ealdred of Jórvík finished his sermon on divine justice. This moment was especially sweet for him, since his ecclesiastical position was now vindicated. As Archbishop of Cantwaraburh he ought to have been lauded by all as the Primate of Ængland. Were it not for something as trivial as a pallium bestowed by an Antipope, he would have been. However, everything was about to change.
Approaching the pulpit, he cleared his throat loudly. Feeling the expectant eyes of the whole congregation upon him, Stigand felt only anticipation. Yes, this was going to be immensely satisfying.
“We are gathered here today to remember the life and deeds of William, Duke of Normandy,” he began, his voice taking on the calm, pious tenor expected of a venerable Archbishop. None suspected what lay beneath his dulcet tones.
“In times as perilous as these, as we think on the departed let us take solace in the words of the seventh Psalm: ‘Behold, he travaileth with iniquity, and hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. He made a pit, and digged it, and is fallen into the ditch which he made. His mischief shall return upon his own head, and his violent dealing shall come down upon his own pate.’”
There were a few audible snickers from the congregation. Stigand stifled another smirk; he had grabbed the attention of a few already. Good. Now, to slowly stoke the fire…
“As we ponder these words of holy writ, we must understand that it was not old age that took dear Duke William from us, nor illness, nor accident, but the sword. Many a man has had his life cut short before his time by the brutal edge of the sword,” admitted the Archbishop. The nodding heads of several widows in the congregation indicated that many shared his sentiments. “And so it is that we must ask ourselves: who was it who truly wielded the blade that felled Duke William? Who cut him down in the prime of his life? Who is to blame for his untimely death?” he asked.
There were a few murmurs of uncertainty from the congregation, and Stigand again resisted the urge to smile. Now he clearly had their attention, for everyone knew how King Harold had struck down the Duke of Normandy at Hæstingas. Surely the Archbishop did not mean to impugn the King?
Seated at the front of the congregation, King Harold raised a coy eyebrow, though his ever-present half-smile never left his lips. Stigand paused briefly, forcing the solemn expression back onto his face as he raised a calming hand over the throng. The buzzing murmur died to a few hushed voices, and then silence once again.
Archbishop Stigand of Cantwaraburh (Canterbury).
Though his episcopal appointment was controversial at best, he nevertheless remains a very shrewd and powerful man.
“I tell you this,” he finally spoke, his voice echoing down the nave, “The bloodguiltiness for William’s death rests squarely on his own baseborn head!” The Archbishop let the stinging accusation sink into the crowd for a moment, before contorting his face into a contemptuous scowl.
“While he was devising his scheme to overthrow our king, moment by moment he was laying the foundation of his own destruction! When he launched his accursed fleet he drew the sword that would take his life! When he ravaged the countryside, he was sharpening its blade on the whetstone of his own evil intent! And when he came against our King to do battle for the kingdom, he laid his neck bare to receive the killing blow!”
A raven cawed in alarm somewhere up above and fluttered out of the sanctuary, though the gathered masses paid it no heed. The only other sound was the increasing volume of the Archbishop of Cantwaraburh’s invective. Stigand knew by their silence that he had seized hold of his audience at last, their ears absorbing every precious word.
“Indeed, even as the Psalmist said, his mischief truly returned upon his own head, and his violent dealing came down upon his own pate! This prophecy stands fulfilled yet again, for such is the fate of any man who seeks to defy the will of God!” Stigand cried, a damning finger rising in exclamation.
The Archbishop could feel the building tension in that great space. Many of those present had fought in the great battle at Haestingas, and countless others knew those who had died because of the pride of the late Duke. Their collective fury lay beneath the silence like a coiled spring -- one that Stigand intended to loose.
“But Duke William does not bear the blame alone!” he continued, “We must not forget the example of Simon the Sorcerer, who tried to buy the power of the laying on of hands from St. Peter! ‘May your money perish with you!’ the Apostle said to him.”
“Even so did William of Normandy attempt not only to procure the realm of Ængland with the strength of his own arm, but with the swords of his servants, and the swords of the Bretons, and of the Flemish!”
Stigand pointed towards the great cathedral doors, and symbolically towards distant Brittany and Flanders. “Now I say to those whose swords were bought with William’s coin -- may your money perish with you! You cannot serve God and mammon!” He could see the mounting rage in the eyes of the congregation. It was time to bring the tension down slightly, before the final coup de grace. Stigand sighed audibly, offering the pretence of calming himself.
An early medieval church constructed in the Romanesque architectural style.
King Edward’s Westmynster would have been constructed in a similar style, though likely on a larger scale than this.
“We learn from the Gospels that Christ is the Good Shepherd, and the Church is His flock,” the Archbishop once again adopted his familiar pious inflection, reminding the more furious members of his audience that he was a man of God. “We are also warned, however, of ravening wolves in sheep’s clothing, which come amongst the sheep to devour them!”
Stigand darkened his tone almost imperceptibly, “Need I remind you of the fate of the wolf when he is at last cornered by the vengeful shepherd?” The rhetorical question drew many to shake their heads.
“Thus was the chief of wolves,” Stigand rumbled on, allowing the anger to gradually filter back into his voice, “William, whose parents coupled like wild beasts in the field, justly put down like the animal that he was!” He spun and glared at the ornate coffin, its fine wood panelling concealing the mouldering carcass of the hated man. “Can any man look upon the fate of William of Normandy and not see the intervention of deity?” Stigand snarled, pointing at the coffin, “Is there any doubt that he was struck down by the very Hand of God, the eternal Shepherd of all faithful folk?”
Archbishop Stigand took a long, deep breath. This was the calm before the tempest, which Stigand prepared to unleash like a destroying angel. He glowered, his face dark as a stormy sky, his voice as thunder, “Such will be the end of all who seek to unjustly hinder the work of the Lord! For we have a King already, one called by God, and for any man to seek to take the crown from off his head is blasphemy of the gravest kind!”
The crowd began to rumble in agreement. “Yet, the late Duke was not content to commit blasphemy alone, but perjury as well! He claimed a right to the crown knowing full well that the claim he made was entirely spurious! Let us reflect on the legitimacy that is garnered in a forthright kingly election. No man can justly claim the throne by his ambition alone, for that is nothing but the detestable sin of covetousness! No, the man who would be king must attune his will to God’s and the people’s, for that is how kings are made in Ængland! Can any man by taking thought add a cubit to his stature? Neither is it possible to make a king out of a low-born bastard!”
That got a reaction from the crowd, a rumble of laughter and shouts of agreement. Stigand felt himself getting caught up in the vehemence of his own sermon. Now it was time for some real showmanship, to bring the crowd to its feet!
“What say you, good people of Ængland?” asked the Archbishop, his voice clear and smooth as the clarion call of heady trumpets, “Would you have taken William the Norman to be your king?”
The rumble of the congregation erupted into a cacophonous roar. Some even rose to their feet, jumping in the aisles, though Harold Godwinson demurely remained seated, his expression the very picture of royal dignity.
“No!” shouted myriad voices.
“Let him burn in hell!” came another, in a deep baritone.
The uproar was so overwhelming that Stigand had to raise his hands for quiet so that he could continue. He had them! However, as his eyes looked over the pulsing throng, they fell on something that slowed the rapid beating of his heart, for the Duchess Matilda could be heard to be weeping quietly. Lest his audience find their fervour consumed by pity, Stigand hurriedly picked up where he left off, with an especially pointed barb.
“Moreover, Duke William dared to fly the papal banner over the heads of his infernal host, as if any true man of God could endorse such a malevolent endeavour!” he went on, tapping into the hidden fear that many kept deep in their hearts, for why should the Pope, a man almost as foreign to the Ænglish as the Saracen, care anything for their well-being, his papal tiara notwithstanding?
“The insidious Duke not only bore false witness, he sought to claim divine endorsement for his attempt to desecrate the sacred, divinely-ordained office of the kingship! Are not such deeds among the very worst and most dangerous of blasphemies ever seen throughout all the history of Adam’s progeny?!”
There was now a roar of audible agreement from the congregation, mixed with scattered applause and the stamping of feet. Stigand found he could no longer resist the urge, and a smile broke through --a twisted, snarling thing, as he prepared his sharpest, most pointed barb yet.
“Let us never forget the illegitimate nature of his claim!” the Archbishop roared, “Can any good come from such an improper beginning? Indeed, the very notion seems ill-born!”
The crowd was on its feet again, loud laughter rolling off the rafters. They were eating out of the palm of his hand!
“So let us remember the Duke of Normandy!” Stigand shouted over the tumult, “He sought a coronation in this holy place; he has gained for himself only a funeral! A dirge in place of a vivat, a bone for a sceptre and a skull for an orb! He coveted the throne, and now he reigns over a kingdom of ashes and dust, a sovereign to the worms and beetles!”
Stigand’s hand lashed out over the crowd, shaking in his excitement, pulsating with the energy inside the cathedral. “Let the ignominious fate of William of Normandy be a lesson to all who would seek to supplant the Lord’s Anointed! No mortal man may justly seek to dethrone our lawfully elected king, whether nobleman, prelate, or sovereign, or even the Vicar of Christ himself, never mind such a perfidious Norman bastard!”
The crowd roared like a hungry bear, eagerness trumpeting its victory. “A victory for Harold and Ængland,” thought Stigand, “And for the Archbishop of Cantwaraburh as well.” He allowed himself one last pregnant pause, while a broad smile spread across his face unhindered, already knowing how the crowd would respond to his final words.
“And so William, Duke of Normandy, passes on to be judged before his Maker. We remember his soul, and we thank the Lord for its departure. God save King Harold!”
No longer able to restrain his mirth, the celebrated Archbishop of Cantwaraburh finally began to laugh, while all around him the roaring acclamation of the congregation seemed to permeate even the very stones of the cathedral itself.
The moment of William’s death, as memorialized in the Canterbury Tapestry.
Archbishop Stigand commissioned this tapestry to commemorate the events of 1066 that so nearly cost King Harold his kingdom, but instead became his greatest triumph.
***
At long last the Battle of Hastings is decided: Harold Godwinson is victorious and William the Bastard is food for the crows! Anglo-Saxon Ængland is at last free to play out its destiny unhindered by foreign invaders, but what does the future hold for this fledgling nation? Find out next time on Æðellan!
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A quite horrible funeral.
But why did Matilda and her kid have to attend?
Nor why could they just not send the body back to Normandy?
Or better, burn it where he fell.
A quite long update.
Shall you manage another update during this year?
But why did Matilda and her kid have to attend?
Nor why could they just not send the body back to Normandy?
Or better, burn it where he fell.
A quite long update.
Shall you manage another update during this year?
Excellent and well-written. It's clear you put a lot of time into this and the result definitely shows, the writing is not only good but the portrayals of characters are believable and the beginnings of this story are interesting to say the least.
This is a FANTASTIC UPDATE! Believable characters, excellent descriptions, and suitable writing, what doesn't this story have, even on it's second update? And the first update is glorious as well!
I look forward to further writings from you, AlexanderPrimus. Especially about Harold Godwinson. You've really captured his character.
I look forward to further writings from you, AlexanderPrimus. Especially about Harold Godwinson. You've really captured his character.
Ah, but the Witenagemot did not elect Edgar in RL until after Harold was dead. They instead recognized Harold as king.
Yes I have to echo the sentiments that the characters were quite believable and an excellent update indeed ! I especially liked the emotional interplay of Matilda herself . Rather well crafted .
By blood, at least, he is the true king as the last man in the house Cerdicingas.
Really really impressive update.
Well done. I liked the Canterbury tapestry. The episcopal puns were however quite awful.
Well done. I liked the Canterbury tapestry. The episcopal puns were however quite awful.
Having sat through many of my father's sermons, episcopal puns are usually awful. :rofl: I found it true to the character.
There's not much else to be said that hasn't been said, other than "Welcome back!"
There's not much else to be said that hasn't been said, other than "Welcome back!"