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  While the bishop droned on, the girl with the chestnut hair Harold had admired earlier lifted her head imperceptibly. Looking up at the dais she saw the man who had been craning his neck to see her in church. She knew who he was and knew his reputation. She averted her eyes while grace was said but in no time at all found herself looking at him yet again. But at least she managed to concentrate enough on what was going on around her to realise the prayer was coming to an end and closed her eyes like everyone else, just in time to open them again after saying amen.

  The King and his new queen had provided a fine feast for their vassals. Once the drinking horns had passed through each guest’s hands and each had taken his sip of ale, paid homage to the King and acknowledged Edith as queen, the feast began in earnest.

  As the afternoon wore on the celebrations took on a less formal air; jugglers and magicians entertained, while poets told stories of ancient battles fought by heroes long dead. By evening dancers and musicians appeared, tables were cleared away, music began and dancing started. Laughter grew louder. Conversations flowed in English, French, Gaelic, Latin, and Norse. The promise of a bright future hung in the air. Spirits were high and inhibitions evaporated as the drink flowed. Even the King and Queen got up to dance, Edith with grace and rhythm while Edward pranced like a pixie. His mother Emma, grimalkin and dowager queen, watched them, contempt rising in her like sap.

  Further along the table Lady Godiva, usually quite restrained, wanted to dance. Now she had plucked up the courage there was no stopping her. Wrenching a mutton chop from Earl Leofric’s hand and tossing it back on to his plate, she dragged her bemused husband out onto the floor.

  No one else would have got away with it.

  Before Leofric could find the rhythm, Sir William Malet and his new wife, representing Duke William of Normandy, collided with them. There were smiles and apologies all round. The little accident created no problem; Leofric and Godiva were quite indulgent of the newlyweds and besides, Sir William was the son of one of Godiva’s favourite ladies in waiting. She had known him since he was a boy and had a soft spot for him.

  But there were a few guests still seated at the high table and not yet dancing. One of them was Harold. While the family talked around him he surveyed the dancers, looking for the girl with the chestnut hair. Then he saw her. She caught his eye and his heart missed a beat as she flashed a smile. In that moment she became the only thing that mattered to him. He watched her as she danced with his cousin Beorn. Harold saw his chance to meet the girl, rose from his chair and headed towards the dancers.

  Out on the dance floor Edward was feeling the strain of the day but showed a growing reluctance to retire to bed. He struggled to prepare for the next stage in the events, the thought of which had his mind seeking any convenient distraction. In an attempt to stay awake he decided to make small talk with Edith.

  A few feet away Harold nimbly dodged the dancers as he made his way towards the girl of his fancy. The music stopped, as did the dancing. He was surprised to discover his heart was racing and his hands shaking as he approached her. The girl appeared engrossed in conversation with Beorn and Ansgar, the wealthiest thane in East Anglia. Harold was close to her now and could see her clearly. He could hear the modulations of her voice. Her beauty almost took his breath away and he could not help but stare. She looked so vibrant, so vivacious, like life itself. Struggling to pluck up the courage to talk to her he was astonished to realise he could think of nothing to say. Feeling utterly stupid, he decided to talk to Beorn and Ansgar in the hope that one of them would introduce him.

  ‘Beorn, Ansgar! Are you enjoying the festivities?’ enquired Harold.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ replied Beorn. In an instant he knew Harold’s motive in joining them. ‘It’s a truly wonderful evening! Tostig has been asking after you. He’s just over there.’

  Harold did not even turn his head. ‘I’ve already seem him, thanks.’

  ‘Your father is also looking for you with something important to tell you.’

  With a quick glance to see if she was paying him any attention, Harold, sounding as casual as he could, said, ‘I’m sure it can wait. Will you introduce us?’

  ‘No,’ Beorn replied with a grin. ‘Why should I, when I know that if I do, I’ll probably never see her again?’

  ‘Beorn, don’t you trust me?’

  Beorn smiled, ‘No. Not where women are concerned,’ then he turned to the woman and with a big smile said, ‘Edyth, this is my cousin Harold. Harold this is Edyth.’

  ‘And I’m her uncle Magnus,’ boomed a voice from behind Harold’s shoulder.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Edyth,’ said Harold, then turning to the huge bearded stranger, ‘and pleased to meet you too, Uncle Magnus.’

  ‘This is my cousin, Harold Godwinson,’ said Beorn.

  ‘You’re Earl Godwin’s son, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I had the pleasure of accompanying your father to Denmark to fight with Knut against the Norwegians. He’s a fine man.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A very honourable man, especially where the ladies are concerned,’ Magnus added.

  ‘Yes, and like father, like son,’ chipped in Ansgar.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Magnus replied.

  ‘I wonder if you would allow me the pleasure of a dance with your niece?’ enquired Harold, with a disarming smile.

  ‘You are most welcome, as long as she wishes to dance with you.’

  Then turning to Edyth, Harold asked, ‘Would you care to dance with me?’

  She looked into eyes as blue and deep as the ocean and a shiver ran through her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I would.’

  At the reply, Harold felt fire tear through his veins. Excitement grew within him as he took her hand. She smiled and a flush came to her cheeks and he knew he wanted so much more than a dance. He wanted to walk her straight across the floor, right out of the door, back to his room and throw her on his bed but somehow, he thought, not even he would get away with that. Not yet, anyway.

  He led Edyth on to the floor and they took their positions just in time start the next dance. The musicians struck up and everyone took their steps, the men forming the outer circle and the women the inner, each couple facing in alternate directions. As they made their way among the couples, moving this way and that, passing here and there, Harold snatched every opportunity to talk to Edyth. When he discovered she was an East Anglian, he was delighted and asked her questions about exactly where she came from. And all the while he had a manic grin on his face. By the time the dance was over Edyth was beginning to think him a little mad.

  By coincidence, another Edith was beginning to wonder what was going on in the head of her partner. She was keen to make a start on her wedding night but King Edward, who usually disliked dancing, was showing an obstinate reluctance to leave the dance floor.

  ‘Edward, if you’re ready, perhaps we could retire before we’re both exhausted.’ She smiled seductively.

  The allusion struck a note of tension in the King and for an instant he was lost for words. In that instant Edith struck. With Edward’s arm in her grasp, she turned him so he was close by her side, then looked up to him and smiled. The King was still speechless as the rest of the company stood in anticipation. No one would begin another dance until the King permitted. All eyes were fixed on the royal couple.

  ‘Good people, the time has come for me to bid you goodnight.’ The King’s announcement was greeted with a bawdy cheer. ‘Please continue the celebration for as long as the fancy takes you,’ he continued, counting the likely cost of the festivities in his head. To cheers, the newlyweds made for the bedchamber.

  ‘Would you care for another dance, Edyth?’ Harold asked.

  ‘I would like that, but I promised my uncle Magnus that we would stay only as long as the King was present.’

  Harold was about to persuade her to change her mind when he noticed Edyth’s attention wande
r. He followed her gaze to see Magnus giving her a meaningful look.

  She walked over to Magnus and as Harold watched them leave, his eyes moved up and down the length of her body. She turned to see if he was watching her just as he looked away, distracted for an instant by Beorn, and for a moment disappointment swept over her.

  Still at the feast was Harold’s older brother, Sweyn. He had been standing to one side with some of his cronies getting drunk. He hated this kind of occasion, being happier in the confines of a tavern, where he found life less complicated than court.

  Sweyn and his few friends slipped away unnoticed, looking for a livelier party. There were plenty of places down by the quayside where a pretty woman was not averse to a good time with a fun loving man like himself. Staggering about in the dark, he found himself down by the river with his men.

  Clambering onto the first ship he came across, he started looking for anything that might contain drink. With the luck of a drunk, in a moment he found what he had been looking for a barrel. It was small but he tested it and it was full. He was about to lift it when a sailor, who had been left on board as night watchman, challenged him.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want? ’ snapped the sailor, appearing out of the night.

  ‘Oh, in the dark, I confused this ship with my own,’ slurred Sweyn casually.

  The sailor was still suspicious. ‘That’s all right, friend. It’s an easy mistake to make. Why don’t you put the barrel back where you found it? Perhaps I can help you find your ship. What’s it called?’

  ‘What’s it called?’ repeated Sweyn, stalling for time.

  ‘Yes. What’s it called?’

  Sweyn stared at the sailor with cold, blank eyes that in the darkness were the colour of the night. He tottered back slightly as he searched his drink-addled head for an answer. The sailor, thinking the stranger was about to topple over, moved forward to grab him. Sweyn whipped his head forward, butting the man square on the nose; the sailor fell over backwards, groaning with pain. Sweyn now lifted the barrel above his head and brought it crashing down on the sailor’s skull as hard as he could. There was a pop as the bone smashed. The sickening sound seemed to spur Sweyn on and he stamped on his victim’s face several times before looking down at the body and remarking with contempt, ‘He didn’t even put up a decent fight. Come on, lads, give me a hand.’ His men, used to his sporadic outbursts of violence, stepped over to help. They tied up the body with a rope, weighted it and dumped it overboard. No one other than the little gang heard the splash.

  Sweyn grabbed another barrel of beer to consume at his leisure. He and his men clambered back onto the quayside as Sweyn got the bung out of the barrel. He was now drinking from it, holding it above his head and pouring the beer straight down his throat and all over himself as he did so. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and have some fun. The drink’s on me,’ giving a loud guffaw. His men followed suit, laughing raucously. He and his gang wandered down a street to where they saw a light and heard laughter — a tavern. Sweyn rapped hard on the thick wooden door with his knuckles and was pleased when a good-looking young woman opened it.

  ‘’ello ’andsome. Come in,’ she welcomed him with a smile.

  When he left the following morning Sweyn had enjoyed a night of pleasure. But the woman would ever after be wary of men and distrustful of nobility in particular, left scarred in mind as well as body.

  Nuptials

  Edward climbed the stairs to his bedroom like a man heading for his execution. He felt no better when he and Edith entered the bedroom and were greeted by the aroma of dried flowers and the warm glow of beeswax candles. As the servants undressed them, Edith was disappointed that Edward appeared not to notice the undergarments she wore specially for the occasion. He stared straight ahead, transfixed like a cat, by something only he could see, hanging in the air. He bade the servants leave. The two of them were alone for the first time that day, she naked and he in a nightshirt.

  Candlelight caught on golden threads in the wall hangings and glittered in the semi-darkness. Edith, her strawberry blonde hair hanging loose to her breasts, a beautiful young virgin, her skin soft and creamy, her curves accentuated by shadows, waited patiently in silent anticipation. She saw Edward, her king and husband, standing before her, older, mature and masterful. He was bound to know the ways of love. What would he do to her? What, in return, would he expect of her? Her cheeks were reddening and the flush spread down her neck, across her shoulders and down to her breasts. Her heart pounded and her blood raced through her veins. She could barely repress the urge to throw herself on the bed and let him take her there and then.

  Edward moved towards her, attempted a smile, leaned over and with a trembling hand, pulled the bedclothes back for her to climb in. His heart was also beating faster. His breathing too was shorter and quicker. Edith kept her eyes on his face, all the time trying to detect an emotion. When would he pounce? She sat on the bed and turned as she lifted up her legs before slipping them under the covers. As she did this, Edward shuddered. He had caught a glimpse of what looked like an ugly wound. As he walked slowly round to his side of the bed a picture of her imagined injury ran through his mind. He had seen an evil-looking cut, which looked sore and could not have healed. Worse still, she had hair!

  As he made his journey round the foot of the bed, Edith watched Edward closely. She thought about the consideration he was showing her. He was taking his time; putting her at ease before sharing his passion, prolonging the anticipation. How considerate he was.

  Edward climbed gingerly into bed beside her. Edith wriggled over toward him expectantly, like a puppy wanting to play. She smiled and put her warm hand on his white, hairless chest. She looked at him with sparkling, doe-like eyes. He returned her look but recoiled as his senses reached saturation point. He had had enough. He had seen her disfigured body, felt its touch and now he could smell, at close proximity, the womanly fragrances emitted by her and it disturbed him. This was all too much. Godwin, he was convinced, had palmed him off with a freak.

  ‘Edith, excuse me, my dear,’ he said earnestly, ‘I need spiritual guidance.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I must seek spiritual guidance?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’ Edward jumped out of bed and dressed faster than he had ever done, then left the room as though escaping a fire.

  Later that night, after she had finished crying, Edith lay in the nuptial bed wondering whatever had she done wrong but she had a growing awareness that perhaps the fault lay in Edward. This feeling would be confirmed during her lifetime. But for now, echoes of overheard whispered conversations and recollections of some of Sweyn’s jibes, jibes she had thought odd at the time, flew through her weary mind.

  Edward’s spiritual guidance took the form of a visit to Robert de Jumieges. Robert was surprised to see Edward and greeted him with a warm welcome and offered him wine.

  ‘This is a calamity, Robert, a complete calamity. You must know something of these things. Surely you can advise me.’ With an imploring look he asked, ‘Can I have the marriage annulled?’

  ‘Annulled? This is all a little sudden, my Lord. Take a deep breath and compose yourself. Perhaps if you sat down here,’ he offered, indicating the bed. ‘There, now you can relax and tell me everything.’

  Edward told de Jumieges all about how Edith had looked naked. ‘She’s not like you and me, Robert,’ the King complained, the disappointment welling up inside him.

  ‘All women are like that,’ spat Robert in reply. ‘They are the devil’s work. It was they who had us cast out of Eden. Remember they are the daughters of Eve. To be charitable, they can’t help themselves but are nevertheless best avoided.’

  ‘You mean Edith is not a freak?’

  ‘No more so than the rest of them.’

  ‘Oh my God, it’s worse than I thought. Does this mean I will never be rid of her?’

  ‘Only for the time being,’ and then as an afterthough
t, ‘some more wine, my Lord?’

  Edward accepted de Jumieges’ offer. His goblet refilled, he sat and talked with the bishop. Edward was glad he had come to see his friend; he was a good man, a Norman, someone he could trust, someone to whom he could open his heart. And so he did. Then the two men prayed to God for guidance. It was dawn before they had finished talking and it was during this time de Jumieges became the first person in England to realise there was still a succession problem.

  The new day brought a fresh, more positive mood to Edward and he returned to his chamber to greet his new queen good morning.

  ‘You’ve been praying all this time,’ observed Edith bitterly. ‘You must have done wicked things, to be on your knees in front of de Jumieges all night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Edward, do you think it appropriate for a man who has been in confession all night to act so innocent?’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Given the choice between spending the night with your newly wedded wife or the Bishop of London, you choose the latter. Do you think it any way for a man to behave?’

  ‘I am the King. It is for me to decide how I behave. I am not like other men.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he replied.

  Edith sighed. Looking him in the eye she saw a man in hiding.

  ‘It was our wedding night, Edward. Why would you wish to spend it with anyone but me?’

  ‘I had spiritual matters to attend to,’ he said in his defence, realising even as he spoke how weak he sounded.

  ‘The Kingdom desperately needs an heir to the throne. It is our duty to provide one.’

  ‘God will provide a successor to the Crown.’

  ‘And how do think that will happen?’

  ‘I spoke with our Lord the Creator last night and I am to remain chaste and he will provide. Come to breakfast, my dear.’ He smiled and bounced out of the door.