The Lion and the Rose, Book Two: The Gathering Storm

THE LION AND THE ROSE, BOOK TWO:

THE GATHERING STORM

a novel

by

Hilary Rhodes

Copyright 2014

All Rights Reserved

table of contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Dramatis Personae

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Winchester, England

November 1050

The clouds lay over the river bottom like a heavy iron mantle, bare trees creaking in the autumn gale and the wind whistling forlornly through the chinks. The thatch of the cottars’ cottages had been strewn in all directions, and from his solar window, Godwin of Wessex could watch a swineherd struggling in the mud with his recalcitrant charges, holding up his hood against the rain slashing sideways. Their lives are nasty and short. There was a great and tangible cost in this dark and grim earthly realm, for failing to seize power when it was there to be taken. He regretted none of the choices he’d made when it was to conquer or to collapse, whether it was accepting the earldom of Wessex from the Viking usurper Canute, serving him his life long, then double-crossing and betraying Alfred Aetheling, son of the last true king, in support of Canute’s son. Well, that last. . . it would have behooved him to have done somewhat differently. It was Alfred’s elder brother Edward who’d finally become king of the English, seven years ago, and he had made no attempt to disguise his rancid, rotting acrimony toward the man responsible for doing away with his last living relation. Wessex might still be the most powerful earldom, but that meant nothing. A king’s enmity was never to be underestimated. And with Edward or without him, Godwin meant to keep what was his.

He turned back to the letter he was writing, pausing to consider his words. He did not at all like the news his spies had brought, though he supposed he should have been expecting it. Edward, despite being wed to Godwin’s eldest daughter, had continued to fall down on the kingly duty of getting an heir on her, and hence had been sniffing around in unwelcome quarters for a possible replacement. Hence, he had sent Robert Champart, Bishop of London, to Normandy earlier this year. The place had been embroiled in a vicious, chaotic, and draining civil war for over a decade, which had only recently ended. It had done so thanks to the offices of its new Duke – well, old one truthfully, the lad had held the title in name since he was seven, and his father died on pilgrimage. But as he was a bastard-born babe, the powerful and ruthless Norman barons had decided he could much more profitably be deprived of life, land, and holdings, leaving them to enjoy fief of the place instead. One unarmed, penniless child, guarded only by a small group of devoted men whittled thinner every year with poison or ambush or assassination. How difficult could it be?

Apparently, quite. The boy’s entire minority had been nothing but one long and gruesome attempt to kill him, and yet they had not yet succeeded. And he was no longer a boy. Two-and-twenty, a man who’d crushed his opponents at the Battle of Val-ès-Dunes three years ago with the help of the French king, who’d become the most feared young warrior on the Continent, who was now, if the rumours were true, betrothed to the Count of Flanders’ daughter Matilda – a match that would firmly reinforce him as a dangerous player in the games of politics and power. Oh yes indeed. A wolf not to be overlooked, William of Normandy. And even worse, he was Edward’s cousin. Once removed or something of the sort, but in the present climate, with a childless king searching for an heir, especially a childless king who had spent almost all of his life in Norman exile and had a decided temperament for their language and culture. . .

Godwin’s mouth tightened. No, this could not be allowed. Especially with Champart off to make a report on the man, something which Edward still thought he did not know. He had a plot of his own in mind, but –

Just then, a knock on the door wakened him from his reverie, and he glanced up to see a servant hovering on the threshold. ‘My lord? A messenger’s come. Urgent news.’

‘Is that so?’ Godwin put his quill back in its pot, and shoved away the hound that was drooling on his knee. ‘Show him in before he melts away, this weather has been horrendous.’

The servant hurried off. Godwin cast another stick of wood on the fire, prodded it back to a roar, and made sure he hadn’t got any ink on his hands. Then he seated himself again and waited for his visitor to be shown in: a bedraggled, dripping, shivering monk, who continued to shiver as he bowed. ‘M-my lord.’

Godwin inclined his head. ‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

‘B-Brother Théomund, m-my lord. Of C-Canterbury.’

‘Very good.’ Godwin presented his hand for the monk to kiss. ‘Urgent news?’

‘Aye, my lord.’ Brother Théomund crossed himself. ‘Archbishop Eadsige is dead.’

There was a long pause. ‘Indeed,’ said Godwin.

‘Aye. It wasn’t unexpected. . . he so old, and this poor weather. God rest his soul.’

‘God rest his soul,’ Godwin agreed. Inside, his mind was already whirring. Eadsige had been his creature, and had incurred considerable criticism for his habit of persistently siphoning off land and money to the earldom of Wessex. The archbishop of Canterbury was a useful ally, and Godwin felt that he should have anticipated this development, but he had not. Nonetheless, he had a long and well-practised ability to land on his feet. ‘How long ago?’

‘Just a few days past, before All Hallows.’

‘And the monks will soon be placing nominations for a new archbishop?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Whenever they do, I hope they remember my kinsman Æthelric, who has served there for some time. Quite ably too, I understand.’ Godwin smiled at the monk. ‘You look cold, Brother Théomund. Would you care for a goblet of mulled wine?’

‘Th-thank you, my lord, but I really ought be getting back.’

Godwin shrugged. ‘If you insist. At least allow me to provide you with a dry cloak.’

Brother Théomund was induced to accept this liberty, and departed into the dusk. Godwin watched him go, considering, then turned to the servant. ‘Fetch my son Harold.’

The servant scuttled out again, leaving Godwin to prepare the mulled wine for himself instead. He sat to wait, sipping, until the servant and Harold returned. Godwin dismissed the former and indicated the latter to take a seat, which he did. Stretching out his long legs, Harold accepted the goblet that Godwin handed him, fair skin ruddy from the wind and hair tousled with sleet. ‘It’s colder than blazes out there.’

‘Indeed. No doubt you are wondering why I dragged you out of a warm hall. Well, I have a few pieces of news.’

‘Aye?’

‘Aye. First, Edward sent that creeping Champart off to visit Duke William of Normandy, earlier this year. My source swears up and down that it was only a diplomatic courtesy, but I think that as likely as me growing wings from my arse. Secondly, Archbishop Eadsige of Canterbury is dead, and I did my best – not too delicately, I fear – to plant the notion that the monks should support your cousin Æthelric for the succession.’

Godwin took a drink, watching his son’s face. At the moment, it showed polite interest coupled with complete confusion. ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Harold said. ‘I am sure that Eadsige will rest in peace, he was a good man.’

‘Indeed,’ said Godwin again.

Harold raised an eyebrow. ‘No doubt there is another motive here which you wish me to discover, but I fear I lack your subtlety, Father, so I’ll ask straight out. What do you mean?’

‘I mean that Edward is sending secret envoys to France! The last thing we need is for him to take it into his head to name the Bastard heir.’

‘The last I looked, Edward was King of England. He does have that prerogative.’

Godwin frowned. ‘Who are you loyal to, lad? Edward or me?’

‘I was not aware that was a choice which had to be made.’ Harold’s clear blue eyes had gone flinty. ‘If you’re trying to recruit me into your intrigues, you’ll have to do better. I won’t betray my king, and I won’t betray my country.’

Godwin considered that Harold’s propensity for gallantry was really rather tiresome sometimes. ‘That is precisely why you should be concerned. Aren’t there enough Frenchmen here already? Next he will name the Norman his heir, and we’ll all be a province of France!’

‘Are you suggesting I sue for him to name me instead?’

‘Something to that effect, yes.’

‘Sweyn – ’

‘Come, lad, do better than that. Any man wagering on Sweyn to do anything aside from cause trouble will lose his money. He’s a niðing, after all.’

‘He is my elder brother.’

‘And drastically unpopular. I did everything I could for him, but he could hang himself with a handspan of rope. When Sweyn careers over the cliff and into happy oblivion, you will stand as heir to my title, lands, and wealth.’

‘Sound any sadder, Father, and you’ll be weeping.’

‘Why are you pretending affection for Sweyn?’ Godwin regarded his son with a cool green gaze. ‘He has had his chances. He is out of my hands. You’re much better fitted.’

‘If that was a compliment, thank you.’

‘It was. From this moment on, you will be groomed as my heir. Why not ask Edward to name you heir to England as well? Not out loud of course, but carefully, slowly. Elegantly. Get him to trust you, share the burden. He keeps running into difficulties with the witan. Help smooth them over. If we can get Æthelric into Canterbury, why, there’s the first step to securing it. You are my son, Harold. You’ll never be anything else.’

‘Just like Edith will never be anything but your daughter,’ Harold mumbled.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing, Father.’

‘This is for England.’ Godwin refused to let Harold off the hook. ‘To keep it guarded against the French. If it means going against your king’s will at the moment, we’ll all be better served in the future.’

Harold was quiet, and Godwin knew he’d struck a vein. Then Harold said, ‘No doubt you are right. May I have your leave to go, my lord?’

Godwin waved it. Harold rose from his chair, bowed, and was gone into the darkness.

Part one

The Lion and the Wyvern

1051 – 1060

CHAPTER ONE

London, England

August 1051

‘Welcome to England, my lord. I pray you’ll overlook the smudges.’ The king of the English descended the dais to clasp his visitor’s arm. ‘It’s good to see you, Eustace.’

‘And you, Your Grace.’ Count Eustace of Boulogne, a thin, angular man whose face looked perpetually pinched, was Edward’s former brother-in-law, the second husband of his late sister Goda, and the two of them remained close allies. ‘Though I must say, I see no smudges.’

‘These aren’t the sort you would,’ Edward said dryly. ‘Just a way to say that all is not. . . ah. . . internally tidy at the moment. I fear Earl Godwin is sulking.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he made a brazen attempt to install his lackey to the archbishopric of Canterbury, and I stopped him, that’s why.’ Edward smiled. ‘I made sure Robert Champart was appointed instead. He recently returned from Rome with the pallium, and Godwin was obligated to watch him be enthroned.’ This was a concise summary that more or less qualified as the truth, but notably failed to mention that the monks of Canterbury, who actually had chosen Æthelric, had been less than pleased at the king interfering with their ancient right to select their own archbishop. Edward, however, thought it had been justified in this instance. He knew quite well what was at stake, and he flatly refused to give Godwin virtual command of the Church.

Eustace made a shocked noise. ‘Who does this Saxon think he is, to defy you like that? Unless it is a habit – yes, it must be. I seem to recall he was the shining example who butchered all my men with your brother Alfred.’

Edward cast a furtive look over his shoulder. Some of the courtiers, noting his preference for French, had learnt it, and it would do him no good to have them overhearing that. ‘It can be trying,’ he allowed. ‘The English have a stubbornly patriotic streak, and anyone I appoint to any office with a French name must be resisted on those grounds alone.’

Eustace shook his head. ‘Even more difficult, I collect, is the fact that you are married to Godwin’s daughter?’

‘My queen is not to blame,’ Edward said gruffly. ‘I have been advised several times to set her aside, but I will not.’

‘She has not given you an heir, however.’ Eustace shrugged. ‘You may be interested to hear that I have brought my stepson with me – your nephew Ralph. A good lad, courtly and mannered, if perhaps a touch too chary at times. I hope your barbarians will stiffen his mettle.’

‘Is that so,’ Edward said neutrally. He could hear, of course, what Eustace was truly saying, and indeed as his sister’s son, Ralph had the strongest claim by blood. The last thing he needed, however, was to throw a meek, waffling young Frenchman to the English wolves. If Godwin wasn’t de facto king within a fortnight of Ralph’s coronation, Edward would be disappointed in him. I need someone who can hold these madmen.

Nonetheless, Edward succeeded in getting his hopes up that the visit would go well. The banquet that night was even accomplished without a single derogatory remark about pet Frenchmen – at least, none that he heard. Ralph proved a charming young man, whom Edward took a liking to at once, and Eustace refrained from insulting his lords to their faces.

The only hint that all might not be copasetic came, as usual, from the Godwinsons. Five of them – the earl of Wessex was the patriarch of a damnably fertile family. Sweyn, Harold, Tostig, Gyrth, and Leofwine, and all of them, true to form, looked to be causing some sort of difficulty. Sweyn’s hawk glare was fixed on Ralph, which Ralph was attempting to pretend he had not noticed. Harold looked troubled, Tostig drank too much, and Gyrth and Leofwine were playing a game that required them to shout some sort of colourful word, clash their tankards, and arm-wrestle furiously, whereupon the loser had to chug the victor’s ale at one go. The rest of the hall started getting into it, and trouble developed when Gyrth beat one of Eustace’s knights three times running. ‘Ah, you French piglet,’ he said. ‘You can’t match against a real man.’

Either the soldier had a better grasp of Saxon than expected, or he took the meaning admirably from the tone of voice, because he launched himself at Gyrth – a decision doubtless facilitated by the three tankards he’d had to imbibe. Gyrth, who was as tall, broad, and strong as his brothers, got his assailant in a headlock and danced him in a circle, making oinking noises, to the uproarious amusement of his fellows. The rest of Eustace’s men sat looking very tight-lipped, something Edward noted with a sinking heart. Then, deciding that he had damned well better remember he was king, and do something about it, he shot to his feet. ‘GYRTH GODWINSON!’

Gyrth dropped the sputtering Boulonnais into the rushes. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Leave off this childish foolery at once,’ Edward ordered. ‘The man did you no insult.’

Gyrth blinked incredulously. ‘He jumped me.’

‘Because you insulted him. I will not have you shaming me like this before our honoured guests. Apologise at once.’

Gyrth looked at the snivelling Frenchman, then back at his brothers, who were in transports of mirth; even Harold was biting a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said lazily.

Leofwine got up and sauntered over to Gyrth, slinging a companionable arm over his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, milord, we were just finished here. Weren’t we, lads?’

‘Aye,’ Sweyn grated, eyes still fixed on Ralph. ‘Harold, help me with Tostig.’

Harold glanced at Edward briefly, but obeyed Sweyn. The two of them hauled the giggling Tostig upright and suspended him between them, his boots dragging like a puppet’s. It was in a suddenly complete silence that the five Godwinsons vanished through the heavy doors at the end of the hall. They closed with a boom that must have been heard in Hell.

‘The ingrates!’ Eustace fumed, later. ‘They insulted us on purpose! They walked out – any man tells me there was no disrespect meant, and I will tell him he is a liar!’

Edward said nothing, mainly because he could not deny it. Eustace was, of course, right – it was a slap in the face of the first order. He was angry as well, furious that the Godwinsons had to always complicate everything. Christ, perhaps they were barbarians, and worse, there was a sixth – young Wulfnoth, only ten years old, but sure to grow up to be another head of the snake. He disliked blaming children for their fathers’ sins, as it reminded him too much of his cousin William and how he had left the boy in a vulnerable position, to pursue his own inheritance in England. But every day Godwin and his ilk ran unchecked, the more dangerous they grew.

Eustace was still ranting. Hoping to distract him, Edward said, ‘On the morrow, I’ll show you the site where I am building a splendid church, on Thorney Island. Dedicated to St Peter.’

‘St Peter? Any reason?’

‘Aye. I swore that if I became king, I would undertake a pilgrimage to St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, to make up for the sin of abjuring my vows as a monk. But it would be worse than foolish to leave my kingdom for a day, let alone for months, so I decided to build a church instead.’ Edward had spent much of his time in Normandy as a monk in Fécamp Abbey, a temperament and a vocation that he oftentimes felt he had been vastly more suited for. Tilling the fields and singing the hours was scant preparation for the realities of ruling a kingdom.

‘In the style of the Continent, I am sure?’

‘But of course. The Saxons do not have much skill in architecture.’

‘Do they have skill in anything apart from bashing one another’s brains out, my lord?’ Eustace asked sourly. ‘I have already lost quite enough thanks to this lawless gang of wastrels.’

Edward hastily attempted to steer them off this dangerous topic. ‘Also, you may wish to spend a few days in Dover. It is beautiful in this high summer.’

‘Dover. I shall consider it.’ Eustace got up. ‘I’d best go see that Ralph hasn’t gotten into any more fights with that horrid Sweyn character. Good night, my lord.’

It wasn’t until after Eustace had gone that Edward had time to think on what he’d said. His heart sank still further. I wish there was a way to rid myself of Godwin and his spawn all at once. One clean bolt from heaven. I do not pray often for violence. It frightens me that I am doing so now. I fear that I am losing my path, O God. My torch is flickering out, and soon I will be alone here in my darkness, a small and bitter old man, waiting for an echo.

The next morning, Eustace departed for Dover in a puff of dignified outrage, removing himself, Ralph, and the rest of his muttering Boulonnais for what Edward desperately hoped would be a relaxing outing. Not that it seemed exceedingly likely. Nobody had been sorry to see them go, and more than one comment was made to the order that if m’lord decided to carry on right back across the Channel, he’d be doing the whole of England a favour. Edward was grimly aware that public sentiment was overwhelmingly on the side of the Godwinsons, who were cheered for having the nerve to thumb their noses at the latest incursion of meddlesome Frenchmen. Gyrth in particular was strutting around like a victorious pugilist, escorted by crowds of admirers. Aye, and now it’s the fashion to defy your king.

Edward woke often that night, and had disturbing dreams when he did slip off. He finally gave up near dawn and rose, going to his small chapel. It was early enough that even his chaplain – Osbern fitz Osbern, one of the many Normans who had come to England with Edward at his accession– was still abed, and the castle had not yet roused to life. Yet he breathed the cool morning air drifting in the window, and managed, for an entire hour, to feel at peace.

This apparently impermissible state of affairs was remedied late that afternoon.

Edward was inoffensively occupied with business. The financial situation had been retrieved enough that he was considering abolishing the heregild, a measure introduced in his father’s day to keep the treasury stocked in the all-too-likely event of a Viking attack. But he had not been required to pay off armed invaders yet, and he took leave to hope that this would continue. Like most taxes ever invented by mankind, the heregild had been the cause of heated displeasure since its inception, and without marauding Danes to require it, he might just –

‘Your Grace?’ A harried voice interrupted him.

Edward jumped, nearly overturning his inkwell, and looked up to see a servant hovering in the doorway. At once his hackles went up. Oh Christ, now what? He arrested the inkwell’s progress before it ruined his work, resisting the urge to rub his tired eyes. ‘Aye?’

‘My lord. There has been a. . . small disturbance. At Dover.’

And by small, doubtless you mean colossal. ‘What?’

‘Your kinsman Eustace and his men. . . ran into a difference of opinion with the Dover townsfolk,’ said the servant evasively. ‘They demanded to be fed and sheltered for the night. The townsfolk refused. The matter escalated from there. There was a brawl. . .’

Oh, bloody hellfire. This was simply splendid. ‘Was anyone wounded?’

‘Aye, and . . .’ The servant hesitated. ‘My lord, I fear there are several dead.’

‘Where is my kinsman?’ Edward asked, far more levelly than he felt.

‘But recently arrived back in London.’

God almighty, if they see him, they’ll start another riot. Edward, unwilling to show just how angry he was, turned away. The dragon in his chest was breathing a firestorm. ‘Fetch him.’

The servant bowed and scampered. Upon his re-entrance some moments later with the grubby Count of Boulogne in tow, he immediately made himself scarce, a decision for which Edward could not well fault him. Eustace was sooty, breathless, and almost incoherent with fury.

‘They are savages!’ he gibbered, pouring a cup of wine and splashing it everywhere. ‘All we asked for was decent lodging and a good supper, hardly unreasonable! And what do they do but fall on us like the witless beasts they are! By the love you bear me, my lord, punish them!’

‘I shall.’ Edward noticed his brother-in-law was still wearing his armour – itself a harbinger of trouble, as no man would ride in full chainmail unless expecting an imminent attack. ‘I swear.’

This promise of justice was far from enough to placate Eustace, who subsided into a chair, wiping his forehead and gulping his wine. He was so thoroughly overwrought that it took close on three goblets to bring him back under control, and Edward stood gazing out the window, as the light faded. Finally he said, ‘Go to bed. I will have double the guard on your chambers.’

Eustace hauled himself to his feet and nodded jerkily. He departed in a sullen silence, and Edward turned to a page. ‘Fetch me,’ he said, even more grimly, ‘my lord of Wessex.’

The page’s jaw dropped. ‘G-Godwin?’

‘None other. And his sons. All of them. Saving only the youngest, Wulfnoth.’

‘The sons are here, but Earl Godwin is in Winchester, Your Grace.’

‘Send a messenger.’

‘With respect, Your Grace, it is – ’

‘Now.’

Edward had never heard that coldness in his own voice before. He fancied that he was standing on the brink of a lightless abyss, as if his kingship, and indeed his life, hinged on his next move. And it was not cowardice he felt; he’d never been less afraid. But all there was in its place was a hot, hard wall of iron. I am hating, he realised. It is even easier than I thought.

He lay awake all that night, boiling himself dry with it. When the morning came, he rose, and went out to meet his match.

‘I must have misheard, Your Grace.’ Godwin’s face showed the weariness of a long ride to London, but his voice remained as urbane as ever. ‘Surely a man as renowned for wisdom as you would not ask such a thing of me.’

‘Surely a man as renowned for brutality as you would not shrink from it.’ Edward whirled to stare down the earl, making no attempt to disguise his fury. ‘Dover is under your jurisdiction. The townsfolk damn near started a war for the most vanishing of causes, insulted Eustace and killed several of his men. I would be fool indeed to let them think they can expect no reprisal. I will not wear a puppet crown. Punish them.’

Godwin’s green eyes were flint. His sons stood at his back like stormclouds, Sweyn and Tostig shoulder to shoulder, Gyrth and Leofwine grinning, Harold with that same troubled look. Godwin himself spoke two words. ‘I refuse.’

‘You wish to join them in their treason?’

‘I fail to see how punishing my own countrymen counts as service to the crown.’

‘I fail to see how permitting anarchy is in the service of the crown!’ Edward snarled. ‘Because you speak the same language, that makes you all one? Mayhaps next you won’t hang a murderer who has green eyes, is that just as defensible?’

Godwin laughed. ‘Perhaps that fame for your wisdom is quite in error, my lord. You, you sad little would-be Norman, with your pet archbishops and your shoving and your grasping and your cultured French. You’ve never wanted to be an English king. You’ve gone so long in exile that it would have been better if you’d never returned.’

‘God rot you! You brand yourself more a traitor with every word you speak!’

‘My lord.’ Harold’s voice was so quiet that Edward almost did not hear. ‘My father speaks without tact, but he strikes at the heart of the matter. We long for you to be our king. Our king. You were turned out from England when very young. It is reasonable that you seek to reshape it as the only place you found solace. But it is more than a language. It is who we are.’

‘Oh,’ said Edward. ‘Aye. Speaks the half-Dane.’

Harold held his gaze. ‘Why do you shun the Danes, and not the Normans?’

‘The Normans never assailed this country constantly for the last three centuries.’

‘Nor ruled it twenty years with good purpose and fairness, encouraged settlement and intermarriage. The Normans do not attack us with swords, nay. But they attack something deeper: our very soul. Not on purpose, mayhaps. But it happens nonetheless.’

Edward remained pale. ‘I will give you one more chance, Godwin. Punish the burghers of Dover, and I will forget even this. Or else you are in defiance of your king.’

The look Godwin gave him might have withered the Tree of Knowledge. ‘My king?’

‘Aye. Mayhaps you recall an oath you made at my coronation, when you knelt in the sight of God and man to do me your homage? I acknowledge my most grievous transgressions. You need never doubt my loyalty. I am your man now, in life or in death.’

Godwin’s lips turned up into an even more alarming smile. ‘Pardons. That was when I still thought you something which you are not.’

‘Do you stand as an oathbreaker?’

‘Does an oath sworn to a lie have any power to hold a man?’

‘Then get out,’ Edward said. ‘Go, and think on your own lies. And then, my lord Godwin, we shall judge who is in the greater wrong here.’

Godwin bowed. He turned, escorted by his sons. It was only Harold who looked back. ‘My lord. Do not do this.’

Edward’s lips peeled back. ‘I shall stand for no more,’ he said. ‘I will.’

The rumours were about by Vespers. Godwin was summoning the might of Wessex: ships, housecarls, fyrdmen. He was about to raise his banners in open defiance of the crown.

Edward stood in the chapel and did not hear a word of the service. He knew it would be hypocritical to pray for peace, so he did not. Afterwards, he returned to his chamber and wrote two more summons. He stamped them with his ring, gave them to a messenger, and sat staring out the window. It was some hours later that he was roused by the arrival of the first man he had sent for: the earl of Mercia, the central region of England. Old and stout and strong as a weathered oak, Leofric had counselled Edward sagely in previous times of trouble. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, when the formalities were through. ‘You have my oath in life or death, I meant it. If Godwin is gathering an army, I will stand for my king.’

Edward let out a breath. ‘I know what this is. If I break, it is the end of me. I will not.’

‘Godwin has broken many stronger men,