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  PEACEWEAVER

  The Story of Eadgyth Ælfgarsdottir

  Judith Arnopp

  Copyright © JudithArnopp2009

  kindle Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Photocredit: lenanet/dreamstime.com

  About the Author

  Judith Arnopp lives on a Welsh smallholding and is mother/stepmother to seven children. Always passionate about her writing Judith graduated from the University of Wales, Lampeter in 2007 and is now able to devote herself to writing full time.

  Peaceweaver, is the tale of Eadgyth, queen to both Gruffydd ap Llewelyn of Wales and Harold II of England.

  The Forest Dwellers, follows the lives of a family dispossessed from their home to make way for King William the Conqueror’s New Forest. The Forest Dwellers is a nail biting tale of oppression, sexual manipulation and revenge.

  The Song of Heledd is the tale of Heledd and Ffreur, Celtic princesses from the land of Pengwern, a dynasty destined for disaster.

  The Winchester Goose is set in and around the court of Henry VIII, offering a view of courtly life from the other side of the river.

  The Kiss of the Concubine is the story of Anne Boleyn.

  Prologue

  CHESTER 1070

  We watched him ride past today, the one they are calling The Conqueror. Eadgytha and I saw him pass through the city gate and, although he is just a man, I buried the faces of my young sons in my skirts to shield them from the sight. Thus concealed, they escaped the gaze of the squint-eyed king as he clattered by and did not see the splendour of his retinue throw a gaudy splash of colour across the sombre street. Around us the crowd stood silent in the rain and, although I am tall and feared that the hatred surging in my heart would knock him from his mount, he did not notice me

  The crowd dispersed slowly, muttering against the ravages of the Norman dog who, having laid waste to the south and north of England, now turned his attention to Chester, our place of refuge and the last Saxon stronghold. Many have been slaughtered and homes destroyed, leaving ruins to smoke beneath the sulky sky and the destitute to huddle in the darker places of the street.

  A ragged old fellow snorted and spat greenly into the mud where the Norman king’s horse had trod, ‘God’s curse be on ye gutter shite.’ he cried in cracked tones, shaking his feeble fist in the air. I patted his arm in mute sympathy before we turned away.

  ‘Why are you trembling, Mother?’ asked Harold as we hurried back to our lodging, heads bent against the driving rain.

  ‘Your mother is chilled, that is all,’ replied Eadgytha, hastily taking the child’s hand. ‘We have stood too long in the rain, come, hurry along, Harold, make haste, Wulf.’

  We climbed the steep castle hill, inhaling the acrid stench of smouldering fires newly quenched by sheeting rain.

  Too close to the stronghold for comfort now it is in Norman hands, we need to move on. Chester is no longer a safe refuge for any Saxon, let alone women such as we.

  Indoors the fire has sunk low. Eadgytha stoops to feed it a few meagre sticks before warming a little goat milk for a nourishing drink. Then we sit, knee to knee, before the hearth while the twins play with swords fashioned from two sticks. Anwen bursts through the door accompanied by a flurry of wind and leaves.

  ‘My, ‘tis cold out there, my ladies. I’ve managed to find a few things for supper, ‘tis nothing to drool over but better than nought. I’ll get it going right away so we can dine and get ourselves early to our beds.’

  She throws vegetables into a pot for broth while Eadgytha and I, chilled more by circumstance than weather, begin to discuss our options. There are few places of refuge left in all of England, the invasion having been thorough. No Saxons are content beneath the Norman rule yet most, eager to save their necks, collaborate, quelling their hatred to meekly bear the yoke.

  A few have rebelled, some rally to the call of Hereward, known as the Wake, in his hiding place in the Fens. Perhaps we should join them there but it is a far off place, haunted by the dispossessed and the marshes are fraught with mischievous sprites; besides, neither of us knows the way and there is no man now to protect or guide us. We cower here in this dark place, two women alone. Our household is scattered and we are forced to look to ourselves. It is not easy for women such as we to live in obscurity, raising our children and scratching a living from the dirt.

  Eadgytha’s sons are far away and her daughters are … well, we know not where. My family is scattered also; my older sons are across the dyke with their Welsh kin and my brothers are lost.

  We make an odd pairing, Eadgytha and I, but we have only each other now. Of all the women in the land, we are the two that William of Normandy most desires to lay his hand upon. If captured, he will put out our eyes and cut off our noses. If we are lucky we may be shut away in a religious house but, if he lays hands upon my infant sons, he will show them no mercy but will kill them straight. There are none in this stricken land who flee King William more diligently than we, for Eadgytha the Gentle Swan was, for twenty years King Harold’s mistress.

  I am named Eadgyth too and I was Harold’s queen and mother to the Ætheling, Harold Haroldsson, who tumbles in play even now with his brother upon the dusty floor.

  Exile

  Mercia 1056

  Clad in my new saffron yellow gown, I held out my arms and turned full circle. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Fat,’ replied Morcar rudely, sending Edwin to the floor in a fit of giggles.

  ‘Morcar,’ reprimanded mother, ‘you are cruel. ‘tis nought but baby fat and will melt away as she grows. You’ll be forced to eat your words when she grows to womanhood. You are beautiful, daughter, and do your father proud.’

  As always it was snug in mother’s chamber although, outside, the world was ice locked. It was Christmastide and we were at my Grandfather Leofric’s hall in Mercia where rolling hills cupped us gently so that I felt safe; unlike the terrain of our East Anglian home where the world has no edge but spreads like endless waters to the horizon. I was always warm in those days before sadness and fear touched my life. Even when the wind blew strong across the heath and mud lay in frozen ruts there was comfort to be had within doors. I recall great fires roaring in the hearth, a full belly and the red shiny faces of the bards as they strummed their lutes, singing for their supper. Father, leaning back in his chair, bellowing with laughter at something somebody had said and my brother, Edwin, feeding his dog titbits from his trencher while mother, smiling and proud of her well run household, pretended she did not see. My father was rich and his hall a fine one. My brothers said there were finer and richer halls but I chose not to believe them; they were boys and I had learned early that boys often lied.

  The walls of my Grandfather’s house were hung with bright tapestries and the scarred mead benches, laden with festive fare, gleamed in the torchlight. Smoke curled over our heads while, underfoot, the dogs snatched and snarled at scraps discarded in the straw. My Grandfather, Leofric, was the Earl of Mercia and wed in his youth to the notorious Lady Godgifu whom, legend said, had ridden naked through the town of Coventry. Morcar had once had the temerity to ask our father if the story was true but he had clipped his ear and sent him howling from the hall.
When I broached the subject with my mother in the privacy of her chamber she threw scorn upon the idea.

  ‘Well, I know none who would dare ask her. Your grandmother, when she was in good health, was a severe old lady, I am sure she would never have stooped so low. Twas no doubt just a story made up for the delectation of men for ‘tis said she was very fair in her day.’

  When I knew Grandmother Godgifu, she was confined in her chamber, lost in some half lit world, neither alive nor dead, where none could reach her. I still wonder sometimes about the truth of the tale and try to imagine the bent crone that I knew, riding upright and radiant, bare-rumped upon her palfrey. The days when she could have revealed the truth are long gone now and my parents with her; those rosy winter feast days are gone too, slipped into the past with the other good things. Those warm childhood days, with servants to carry out my every whim, ill prepared me for what was to follow and I was not ready to be lurched into womanhood in my thirteenth year when Father fell foul of King Edward and, stripped of his lands, was exiled.

  ‘Exiled.’ I cried ‘What do you mean exiled? Why does Father not just tell the king he is sorry? He can’t let his pride deprive us of our homeland. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here at home.’

  Mother looked strained and pale and, although I realised that she probably was as loath to leave as I, still I allowed my tongue to flap on. Wearily, she looked down at her hands.

  ‘Do not rant Eadgyth, it is unseemly, remember who you are. Your father is accused of treason so we should praise God that King Edward has seen fit only to exile him. He has slandered the king, claiming him unfit to rule and so we must take flight to Ireland.’

  Throwing my arms in the air and pivoting on my heel, I wrenched dramatically at my hair. ‘Ireland.’ I wailed, ‘Oh Mother. We can’t go there. I’ve heard ‘tis an outlandish place where the rain never ceases. And the Irish. They say they are an ungodly race. Mother, there must be something to be done. Where is Father now?’

  Morcar stood sulky by the central fire that was dying from want of fuel, picking up a log he tossed it into the embers.

  ‘He has departed already and awaits us at port. There is nothing to be done, the king is a fool and a coward and Father was right to say so. Edward knows the earldom should stay in our possession but he is too afraid of Godwin to enforce it. He should have kept them down when he had the chance and never have let them back from exile. Father has the right of it but the king is too lame to back him up in the face of Godwin’s strength and so thinks to replace us. I say ‘tis a shame when a fool rides the throne but worse indeed when that fool is a coward also.’

  ‘Morcar.’ reprimanded mother ‘That is enough. Curb your tongue. Eadgyth, I will not argue with you now, just do as I bid, for heaven’s sake. I have more important matters to attend to. Tell Anwen to pack your things, we leave at daybreak.’

  Anwen, more friend than slave, had been with me since childhood. We had grown together and now she served the role of my own personal servant and companion. As she flew about the room tossing things into a travelling box, I questioned my brothers further about the reason for our plight. Edwin’s determination to prove himself able to follow in Father’s footsteps had made him a fine source of political information.

  ‘So, tell me,’ I said, ‘what is the cause of all this upset? Are the Godwins truly so evil?’

  ‘Not evil, no. Just ambitious and ruthless. Old Godwin was used to having things his way and his sons flourish under him now they are grown. I must admit that they have done England some favours. Edward is no warrior-king and Godwin provided the military strength and leadership that he lacks. Our country has floundered for years beneath Edward’s rule; he is a weak and feeble king, much like his father Ethelred was in his day. Since old Godwin dropped dead at Eastertide Edward’s puny attempts at leadership have been at the expense of the rest of the Saxon nobility. And the earldormen, are further displeased by the way he insists on filling his court with Normans.’

  I raised my eyebrows, surprised.

  ‘Why does he do that? I didn’t think anyone liked Normans.’

  Morcar laughed.

  ‘You are not wrong there, little sister, but Edward was brought up in exile in Normandy and once he had finally gained his rightful throne he began to fill his court with the friends he had made across the channel. The Godwins didn’t like that any more than the rest of us and sought to prevent Norman influence from growing too strong. In a shrewd move they somehow managed to persuade Edward to marry their sister which, I’ll admit, did keep him from a Norman marriage, but now the Godwins themselves grow too dominant. Even though the old man is dead and their brother Swegen dishonoured, it is Harold and his brothers, Leofwine and Gyrth, that stand to take over where the old man left off and as for Tostig …’

  ‘Well, if there was ever mischief in the making it’s him.’ interceded Edwin, ‘and now we are ousted from the picture, the Godwins will have rule over the whole blasted country from north to south and all because Edward can’t or won’t control them.’

  Collecting my psalter I lay it with my other few treasures on my bed for Anwen to pack.

  ‘But didn’t you say that they had been banished before? How did Edward find the guts to do that if he is such a coward?’

  Edwin and Morcar glanced at each other, each waiting for the other to reply; finally Edwin spoke up again.

  ‘That’s a good question. They were banished before and, God knows, they should have been made to stay away. There was a massive fall out with Edward when some of his fancy friends visiting from Normandy fell into a dispute with some locals in Dover. Some of them were killed or injured, I do not recall the details, and Edward ordered Godwin to carry out retribution. When Godwin refused, Edward exiled the lot of them and even had their sister, his own wife and an anointed queen, thrown into a nunnery.’

  Astounded, I stopped petting Stella, my greyhound and turned back to my brothers.

  ‘But, what had she to do with it?’

  ‘Oh, probably nothing at all, although I have heard that she meddles in Edward’s affairs. There is little doubt he did it out of spite; Edward can be an unpleasant fellow for all his pompous piety.’

  I pondered upon what I had learned while I ate a rough and ready meal before embarking upon our journey. It seemed that Father had gone too far and, in raging at Edward of injustice and accusing him of cowardice, his lack of diplomacy and use of blasphemy had offended the saintly king and sealed our fate. As a consequence my family were doomed to live out our lives in a state every man dreaded … exile.

  Looking back, I now scorn the girl that railed so hard against her fate; the weak tears that I shed that day were those of a child. In my ignorance I believed that eviction and exile were the worst things that could befall me. Had I known how wrong I was I would have saved my tears.

  Ireland –1056

  At daybreak I was helped onto my mare and we rode, chilled and miserable, from our home to the coast where a ship bobbed at anchor waiting to take us across the seas. As despondent as I was, the sight of the sea thrilled me. My brothers said it was just a little choppy but the waves tossed our small ship about so that one moment we crested the wave and the next plunged down unto the depths. It was my first experience on board ship. I clung to the side feeling the salt air whip my hair from its cap; laughing I turned to make comment to Edwin but found instead my father, who was furious.

  ‘Get thee behind with the women!’ he cried, ‘are you a fool?’ and, forced to obey, I slunk back to my mother’s side.

  Huddled in the makeshift tent beneath the mast, I tried not to listen while mother and Anwen heaved over leather buckets and wept that they were dying. It was a long, weary voyage; our only food the coarse stuff that made up a seaman’s diet and brackish water with which to quench our thirst.

  Morcar and Edwin, allowed the freedom of the ship, had a better time than I and their faces were soon burnished to gold by the sea winds.

  ‘I was
born to be a seaman!’ declared Edwin as he fell to learning how the sailors navigated the longship across the choppy waters but I was glad when, at last, a cry came that land was in sight. Gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air, I clutched the side of the ship with both hands, eager to see land again but Ireland was so swathed in mist that I was unable to discern where the sea ended and the shore began.

  King Diarmaid’s court was a dank, cheerless place. The mist and the rain billowed in sheets, crept up through the wooden walls and trickled down through the leaky thatch. One by one we were beset with chills, Anwen, just as sick as we, shuffled about our miserable dwelling in her outdoor clothes, her nose dripping as she dosed us all with warmed honey and wine. Mother wept, night and day, yearning for her cosy chamber, her fleet of servants, an appetising meal and her sumptuous fur-trimmed wardrobe. She swore we suffered some evil Irish malady that lurked in the loathsome bogs about our temporary dwelling. While we endured the torment and I mourned the loss of my dog Stella, Father spent his time interred with Danish and Irish chieftains, plotting against his king.

  The Welsh, ever ready to harass the Saxon throne, had joined with us against Edward. In better days Father had hated the Welsh, cursing them as savages and thieves but, in his exile, he clasped them to his bosom and called them brother. Years before I was born the Welsh king had slain my uncle in battle but now it seemed Father had forgiven him and for the first time I heard the name Gruffydd ap Llewelyn spoken without a curse.

  He broke bread now with Magnus, the son of the Norwegian king, a man he had disdained during his days as Earl. Magnus, like his father Harald Hardrada, was a huge man, towering over everyone around him; one day I met him as I was coming from the privy. I made to creep past but he barred my way and greeted me with glee, grasping my shoulders and planting a wet kiss on each of my cheeks. I did not understand what he said but I knew it was an expression of his approval. He smelled of ale and woodsmoke and when he laughed, which he did often, he displayed large yellow teeth.