―Yes! Yes!‖ Edward shrieked, the first two coherent words he‘d uttered in the past hour.
―Salvation awaits,‖ Aldred continued, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. ―Heaven
and the next world awaits. You shall live at God‘s side for eternity.‖
―Salvation!‖ screamed Edward, his hands flapping at his bed linens. ―Eternity!‖
Caela winced, then looked away.
―The Devil shall be bested,‖ shouted Aldred, now working himself into a true fever.
―Bested!‖ shrieked Edward.
―Evil shall be overcome.‖
―Overcome!‖
―God and His angels shall prevail.‖
―Prevail!‖
―Your subjects shall be saved.‖
―Saved!‖
―Harold shall reign a true Christian king.‖
―A true Christian king!‖ Edward echoed. Then, more softly, and far more suspiciously:
― Harold?‖
―Harold shall be your heir.‖
Edward said nothing, but glared at Aldred.
Across the room Harold also glared at Aldred, who flushed.
―My best and truest lord,‖ Aldred said, his tone unctuous, ―evil thinks to create
disharmony and confusion within your realm. There is no surety as to your heir. Name him now.
Best the evil! Ensure that righteousness prevails! Name Harold—‖
―Godwine‘s cursed son?‖ Edward said. ―You want a Godwineson to sit the throne of—?‖
He stopped, and uncertainty appeared to overcome him. He coughed, spitting into the
linen that Saeweald provided, then looked with watering, tormented eyes at Eadwine, the Abbot
of Westminster. ―What should I do?‖ he whispered. ―What should I do?‖
―You must do what is best,‖ Eadwine said.
―What is best?‖ said Edward.
―Harold,‖ said Eadwine, and about the chamber breaths were released in profound relief.
―Harold?‖ said Edward.
―Harold,‖ said Eadwine.
Edward gave a small nod, then looked back to Aldred. ―Perhaps Harold would be best,‖
he said.
―Name him,‖ Aldred said very softly.
Edward sighed. ―Harold shall succeed me.‖ He did not look at Harold as he said this.
For his part, Harold‘s face flushed with relief. He had been named. He had the right to the
throne. If William or Hardrada or even a bevy of church mice tried to lay claim to it then they
would do so illegally, both in the sight of God and in the sight of England.
―Harold…‖ Edward said, and his tone was one of immense sadness, as if he felt he had
failed somehow, but was not quite sure of that ―how‖.
Aldred laid a heavy hand on Edward‘s shoulder. ―Be at peace, my lord,‖ he said, and with
those words Edward slipped quietly into death.
There was a silence, then cries of ―Harold! Harold! Harold!‖
Through the tumult, Aldred raised his face and caught Swanne‘s eye.
William, he whispered into her mind. William is on his way… and you shall hand me his life. Yes?
A pause during which Swanne‘s face twisted in silent agony and she grabbed with one
hand at her belly.
Yes?
Yes, she whimpered back, and her eyes ran with tears.
SEVEN
Harold‘s election to the throne was a foregone conclusion, the result not only of Harold‘s
careful and ceaseless canvassing of the members of the witan as Edward lay a-dying over the
Christmas season, but Aldred‘s ability to wangle a succession order from Edward in those
moments before he died. Within an hour of Edward‘s death Harold‘s succession was proclaimed
over Westminster and through London; within a day it had spread to most parts of the realm.
Edward‘s chamber was abandoned within moments of his passing, save for Damson,
Caela and several other ladies who attended to his laying out. The rest of the witnesses, the
counts and earls, the chamberlains, chancellors, stewards and thegns, the priests and bishops and
abbots and abbesses and all their attendants, had moved with Harold to the Great Hall of the
Westminster palace, there to plan the coronation.
It would take place in the morning at the newly consecrated Westminster Abbey, directly
after the funeral service to bury Edward.
And directly after he was crowned king, Harold would wed Alditha and crown her queen.
All would be settled before noon.
The morrow was going to be a rushed day indeed, but that was, as Harold explained to
his crowd of old retainers and friends, heavily augmented with new hangers-on and applicants
for powerful positions, all to his advantage.
―If I leave my coronation until the usual period of official mourning has passed then
William, Tostig, Hardrada and half the ageing Vikings still left in Norway, for all I know, will
have moved.‖ Harold sat the throne on the dais, having marched there without hesitation the
instant he entered the Great Hall.
One of the senior members of the witan, Regenbald, who had been Edward‘s chancellor,
stepped forward. He was an old man, but still radiated a powerful virility, and was renowned
across half of Europe for his insights and sagacity.
―Mourning will only take a month,‖ he said. ―No one is going to mount an invasion in a
month. Not in the bleakness of midwinter. To rush into a coronation might appear to smack
of…unseemly haste.‖
There were murmurs of agreement in the five-deep throng about Harold.
―Aldred, my friend,‖ said Harold. ―What say you?‖
The archbishop visibly preened with pride; Harold‘s prompting for advice was a direct
reward for Aldred‘s securing of a succession order from Edward.
―I cannot speak for Hardrada,‖ said Aldred, his eyes skimming quickly over the watching
faces before returning to Harold, ―but I think I can for William. His spies at this court—‖
There were murmurs and dark looks exchanged about the gathering, but Harold kept his
own gaze steady on Aldred.
―—will have already sent word regarding Edward‘s demise,‖ Aldred continued. ―William
will have been waiting for this news. Surely, yes, he will swing his plans for an invasion into
place, but the first thing he will do is seek to claim the throne himself. He has, as we are all too well aware, been protesting for years that Edward promised him the throne many years ago when
Edward sheltered at the Norman court. William will proclaim loud and long all over Europe,
from the papal court to the Holy Roman Empire to Flanders itself that he is the legal King of
England. He will do this because he will hope to make the witan think twice about electing
Harold. William will do everything he can to make Harold‘s succession, should it happen, as
illegal as possible.‖
―We will never have a Norman king,‖ said Regenbald.
―We would never elect William,‖ said Robert Fitzwimarch, who had been a member of
the witan even longer than Regenbald.
―A Norman and a bastard,‖ muttered yet another witan member, Ansgar.
Harold smiled. ―If he surrounded London with enough swords you would elect him
willingly enough,‖ he said, then carried straight on through the howls of denials. ―Aldred is right.
If I give William so much as a day of space he will have petitioned most of the reigning princes,
dukes, kings and prelates of Europe regarding his right to the throne and, knowing William‘s
charm and his reputation, most of them will have agreed to his right to it. If I waited for the full
month of mourning before being crowned then I would have the weight of European opinion
behind me, and William would have his excuse for an invasion. This way,‖ he paused
momentarily, his face suddenly looking old and haggard, ―this way, perhaps I have a chance of
circumventing him.‖
There was a silence.
―St Paul‘s?‖ said Aldred brightly. ―I will send word to the dean that he should ready the
cathedral for your—‖
―No,‖ said Harold, ―I will be crowned in Westminster.‖
―But kings have always been crowned in St Paul‘s,‖ said Stigand, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and Spearhafoc, the Bishop of London, as one. Stigand had always been a stickler
for tradition, and Spearhafoc could suddenly see the coronation sliding out of his control into the
eager hands of Eadwine, the Abbot of Westminster.
―Then I shall start a new tradition,‖ snapped Harold. ―Think, damn you! Edward
stipulated that he be buried in Westminster Abbey, and I dare not go against that lest I be seen to
disrespect his wishes and his holy corpse. So the funeral service for Edward, with every court
member present, will be held in Westminster Abbey in the morning. I am not then going to insist that everyone up and move themselves through the heart of a frozen winter‘s day to London‘s St
Paul‘s for my coronation! Westminster it is.‖
Harold leaned forward on the throne and looked Stigand in the eye. ―Is your matter still
before Alexander?‖
Stigand looked down. ―Yes.‖ For several years now Stigand‘s appointment as
Archbishop of Canterbury had been in dispute. The matter had gone to the pope for a final
decision, but Alexander II, not known for his speed in dealing with business matters not directly
connected with either food or young girls, had not yet proclaimed on the problem.
―Then Aldred shall crown me,‖ Harold said.
―No,‖ Stigand cried, taking a half-step forward. Harold raised his hand.
―I cannot afford to be crowned by an archbishop whose appointment is in doubt,‖ Harold