Had they been in that sour-ale-reeking room since the autumn leaves had fallen? Since the summer fields of golden barley, or the spring flowers? Time had no meaning here, Redwald thought. His head spun with echoing moans and cries and shouts and threats, and a mounting desolation. He had stood by and watched, and done nothing, when perhaps he could have ended the king’s suffering with a word of guidance, or warning. But the torrent of abuse had crept up on him. At first, only sly urging had echoed around the room, then insistent demands, then menaces. By the time Harold had hurled himself on to the bed to shake the supine form, Redwald had realized it was too late. Trapped in his complicity, his silent observation had been an encouragement to his master. He might as well have joined in the persecution. He felt only numb.
How had he sunk to such depths? Redwald recalled the Christmas feast and Harold pressing the king to name him as heir to the throne. Edward had smiled politely and whispered, ‘In good time.’ The next day had seen the rehearsal for the consecration of the abbey, the chanting of the monks ringing off the stone walls and the sweet smell of the smouldering spices filling the air. From the back of the nave, Redwald had watched Harold berate the monarch under the arch of the great west door. In the candlelight, the earl’s face had appeared like a snarling beast, his teeth bared, his hands shaking with passion. And, trembling from the cold, the weakening monarch had nodded thoughtfully, and smiled, and then shuffled away to join his wife for the Mass.
That was the moment Harold had decided to leave any vestige of morality behind, Redwald now realized. He remembered the earl’s face framed in the candlelight, and how he had puzzled over the fixed stare and strange calm that had come over his master. Harold had made his peace with what he needed to do. Redwald remembered hurrying to the casket that contained the relic of John the Baptist and pressing his forehead against the cold wood. What lay within was not comforting. It taunted him with visions of mortality and sacrifice.
How far will you travel along the road to damnation to achieve your heart’s desire? Harold had said. How far? To the end, if the prize is great enough.
Edith appeared at the door, kneading her hands together in worry. ‘What news…?’
The earl silenced her with a cold stare. ‘Leave. You should not see this.’
‘The bishops would pray at the bedside,’ Edith whispered.
‘No. Are you a fool?’ Redwald thought his master was about to strike his sister. ‘Tell them the king has woken and insists that no one troubles him.’
When Redwald saw the ivory cross clutched in the queen’s slender fingers, he almost laughed. What prayers had passed her lips, he wondered? How could she ever make her peace with this, watching the man she had wed destroyed by degrees by her own brother, urging it on, in fact, with the aid she had given by keeping the earls and the thegns, the servants and the healer away. It was the queen who had lied to the court that her husband was sick with the fever, and who had reported back to the concerned men of the Witan that Edward had slipped into the unwaking sleep.
‘The healer has prepared another salve of the healing herb,’ she ventured.
‘Leave it outside the door.’
‘The healer wishes-’
‘Leave!’
Bowing her head, Edith scurried out, the hem of her sapphire dress sweeping across the worn boards. The emotion drained from Harold’s features. He turned to watch the juddering rise and fall of the king’s chest for a moment.
‘This man… this weak old man,’ the earl said bitterly. ‘What drives him to deny me such a simple thing? One word. That is all it would have taken to prevent so much suffering. One word and he could have been left alone to slide easily into the arms of God. His days are numbered. You can almost see the life slipping from his weary limbs, yet still he resists. Why?’
The room reeked of impending death, a bitter odour that Redwald had come to know well. He tried to answer his master, but his mouth was dry.
Harold leaned over the bed. ‘Name me heir,’ he roared at the king, grabbing Edward’s shoulders and shaking the old man so that he flopped like a child’s woollen doll.
Stepping forward, Redwald put on a grin and a honeyed voice. ‘Hold fast, my master,’ he urged, ‘or what remains of his wits will fall out of his ears.’
The words died in his throat when the monarch’s eyes snapped open. Redwald leapt back, afraid of the accusation he might see in the milky orbs.
Calming, Harold let the old man fall back on to the bed. ‘Now,’ the Earl of Wessex said, ‘make your peace with God and leave everything right here. Name me as your heir.’
Harold snapped round at a disturbance outside the door. Fast feet echoed on timber, accompanied by muffled voices. Edith burst in with Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, striding at her heels. He flashed a warning glance at the earl before pausing at the foot of the deathbed to study the king. His gaze wavered over the bruises and the cuts, but he said nothing. The cleric was a dour man, as old as Edward, but filled with a vitality that belied his years. Redwald didn’t like him. Stigand had a sharp tongue and a sour manner and was cruel to those he felt were unimportant to him. Yet he tolerated Harold, recognizing the power the earl would one day wield. Over his long life, five popes had excommunicated him for holding two sees at once, Winchester and Canterbury. But he had clung on, amassing both power and wealth until he was now perhaps the richest cleric in England. And it showed in his fine garments, Redwald thought: a brown linen robe, delicately embroidered with yellow crosses underneath a sumptuous black woollen cloak edged with fur and held at the neck by a golden clasp.
‘The archbishop insisted he pray over the king,’ Edith stuttered.
‘You have no right to keep me from Edward’s side.’ Stigand levelled his cold gaze at Harold. ‘He needs my ministrations.’
‘Pray for him, then,’ Harold snapped. He dismissed Edith with a brusque wave of his hand. The queen shuffled away, casting worried backward glances.
Pressing his palms together, the archbishop knelt at the end of the bed and began to intone in Latin. The earl paced around in mounting frustration. The rolling rhythm of Stigand’s voice washed over Redwald, but the young man didn’t feel the knot in his stomach ease as it would have done in church. He feared he was beyond God’s help now.
The archbishop finished his prayers and stood. He eyed Harold for a moment and then said, ‘I understand your heavy heart. If Edward does not name you as heir, it leaves many questions still to be asked, and a degree of uncertainty over your worthiness.’
The earl ground his teeth, then forced a smile. ‘If Edward had been well, we both know I would have been his only choice. William the Bastard would destroy everything we have built here. The king understood that.’
Stigand nodded.
‘There would be no place for true Englishmen like you or me,’ Harold continued, warming to his theme as he searched the archbishop’s unwavering gaze. ‘And Edward’s ties to Normandy were not as strong in private as he liked to make us think. Though he sent me to the duke to discuss these matters of succession, it was simply a ploy to keep William sweet.’
Stigand nodded again. Redwald knew this was a lie, but neither man appeared ready to recognize it.
‘When I sit upon the throne, I will need a good adviser with your long experience. Indeed, I would say I could not rule well without it.’
Stigand smiled, and suddenly Redwald understood the reason for the archbishop’s abrupt intrusion. Here was a man as skilled in the games of kings as Harold.
A low moan shattered the two men’s silent communication, and they turned to survey the dying monarch. Edward’s lips worked soundlessly, his eyelids flickering.
‘He tries to speak,’ Redwald called, one hand clasped to his head, the other pointing.
‘About time,’ the earl grunted, and pressed his ear close to the dying man’s mouth. Stigand hurried to the other side of the bed and leaned in too.
When the king’s lids fluttered open, his eyes rolled, pausing now and then to focus on the shadows in the corners as if he saw things standing there.
‘He is dreaming,’ Redwald hissed. ‘He does not know we are here.’
‘I know.’ The king spat the two words like an epithet. ‘Listen, then,’ he croaked. ‘Listen closely, Harold Godwinson, for this is the moment you have worked so hard to reach, and sold your soul to gain.’
Harold smiled.
