Edward’s whispery voice barely reached beyond the end of the bed. Eager to have an end to the long period of suffering, Redwald strained to hear what was being said, but he knew it would be beyond his station to draw closer.
‘No.’ Stigand’s hoarse exclamation sounded like a pebble dropped on wood. Redwald saw that all the blood had drained from the archbishop’s face. His features had grown taut, his wide-eyed gaze fastened upon each movement of the king’s mouth. Harold’s triumphant grin was slowly fading.
The cleric jumped to his feet, staggering back, one hand to his mouth. ‘A prophecy,’ he gasped. ‘The dead have spoken to him.’ Spinning on his heel, he almost ran from the bedside. Harold rose too, running one trembling hand through his hair.
‘What did the king say?’ Redwald uttered, not wanting to hear the answer.
‘Lies.’ Harold stood for a moment, lost to his thoughts. Then he replied in a distracted voice, ‘He said he was visited by two monks he knew from his youth. And they told him that all those who held the highest offices in his kingdom were not what they seem. They were servants of the Devil. And within the year they will be washed away in a tide of blood, and England will be delivered into the hands of the enemy. By fire. And sword. And the havoc of war.’
Redwald felt gripped by terror. The dead had spoken through Edward. God had cursed them all for their sins.
In a rage, Harold flung himself on to the bed, striking and shaking the king. Redwald could only watch, though he thought the monarch would be torn apart. In his heart, he knew he should stop the assault. But as God was his witness, he wanted an end to it, as if only death could expunge the terrible prophecy.
And so he watched as Harold’s rage burned as fierce as the fire in the hearth. Tears glinting in his eyes, his master pressed a hand against the king’s mouth and nose and held tight. And after long moments Edward lay still, and would never move again.
Calming himself, Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. He looked deep into the king’s dead eyes, but what passed through his head Redwald would never know. Turning to the young man, the earl glowered beneath heavy brows. ‘Nothing of this must ever pass your lips.’
‘I am your trusted servant. It will never be spoken of.’
Harold accepted the vow with a curt nod, and his mood lightened. With a smile, he said, ‘Now hurry from this place and spread the word that with his dying breath Edward named me as his chosen successor. I will speak to Edith and she will support us in this account, as will Stigand, so the Witan can be convened. Then find a scribe who can record an account of this ending that meets our needs. Let us be jubilant, and proud, for a new day dawns, and a new age for England. Make haste. I would be crowned king before tomorrow is done.’
CHAPTER THIRTY — SIX
6 January 1066
The gold crown gleamed in the flickering candlelight. Though shadows danced across the stone walls of Westminster Abbey, the emeralds and rubies incorporated from the circlet of the great King Alfred shone with an inner fire. An apprehensive hush fell across the shivering men and women pressed into the dark confines for the second time that day. Misty trails of breath drifted in the icy air. His forehead shimmering with holy oil, Harold Godwinson relaxed in the coronation chair and allowed himself a slight smile of satisfaction. Edward lay interred in the cold ground beneath the abbey’s flagstones, and though the funeral feast still cooled on the table in the king’s hall, the Earl of Wessex already had everything he ever wanted. Nestling the jewelled sceptre in the crook of his right arm, he grasped the blackwood rod in his left hand, stared at the gold cross on the high altar and waited.
Redwald felt a swell of pride. Turning his attention from his master, he examined the faces of the congregation, the earls, thegns, bishops, wives, and Westminster’s community of monks huddled at the back. In them he saw an odd mixture of relief and worry. He knew they were all relieved that the long period of troubling uncertainty was over and the succession had been decided. Yet they also dreaded what was to come. Thanks to the archbishop’s loose lips, news of Edward’s dying prophecy had swept through the court, out into London, and in all likelihood was making its way across England despite the winter snows. They were poor subjects, he thought, these frightened sheep. In taking the crown, Harold had saved all gathered in that church from the terrible deprivations they would surely suffer under a man with as bloody a reputation as William the Bastard. England remained free to enjoy its wealth and its art and its law. And the highest in the land were free to enjoy the comforts their status had brought them.
The coronation had gone well under the stern but self-satisfied eye of Stigand. In his madder-dyed red robe, Harold had been a splash of blood amid the golden candlelight. Redwald thought he had seen his master’s hands shaking when he processed into the abbey church, but now he looked calm. His white pallium luminous, the Archbishop of Canterbury had intoned the liturgy drawn up by St Dunstan. When his clear voice had soared to the shadow-cloaked roof, a clearly humbled Harold had taken communion. Yet his words rang out as he delivered the oath to govern faithfully, with justice and mercy. The solemn choir of monks had been in fine voice, their stirring rendition of ‘Zadok the Priest’ from the Book of Kings washing into every corner of that vast space. And then Harold Godwinson had removed his robe and sat rigid in the coronation chair while the archbishop consecrated him sovereign with the anointment of the holy oil. He would be a fine king, and Redwald’s own future would be assured. Here was the culmination of the young man’s choices, and they had all been good ones. He felt his eyes drawn once more to the casket holding the shankbone of John the Baptist, and shook his head clear of the thoughts that threatened to tarnish the day.
What would Hereward have said if he had been here to witness this momentous event, he wondered? Would his brother have forgiven him?
With an acute awareness of spectacle, the Archbishop of Canterbury raised the crown high over his head. Redwald’s chest tightened. When the crown came down on Harold, tumultuous shouts of ‘The king! The king!’ boomed out across the congregation.
It was done. And whatever would be, would be.
When the new king processed out of the abbey into the bitter night, the archbishop followed, and then Ealdred of Eoferwic, the earls and the thegns. Redwald waited until the church was almost empty, enjoying the growing quiet.
In the king’s hall, the fire roared high. Cloaks were thrown off and cups of ale downed and filled once more from the iron cauldrons hanging in the corner. Servants heaved wooden plates and bowls laden with goose, pork and beef on to the feasting table, a grand spread that made the funeral meal look like a beggar’s scraps. But Redwald thought too many faces remained taut, and the urgency of the drinking was more to quell fear than in celebration.
Flushed from the ale, Harold swept over when the jugglers and tumblers danced around the tables, raising laughter and cheers. He pulled Redwald to one side and whispered, ‘The coronation went well?’
Redwald, who had remained sober as he always did when in attendance on Harold, heard a querying note at the end of the sentence and knew his master was seeking approval. He thought it a sign of weakness, perhaps fuelled by guilt at how he had achieved the crown, but he smiled and replied, ‘The majesty of the occasion brought tears to the eyes of all present.’
‘Really?’
Redwald nodded. ‘England now has a king who will be loved at home and feared by enemies wherever they might be.’
Harold nodded. ‘Do not think that I am not aware of your loyalty, and the talents you have employed in my rise to power. You will be well rewarded.’
I expect to be, the young man thought, and for the briefest moment his head swam with visions of two brothers laughing as they hunted waterfowl in those long-gone Mercian days.
‘Your wise advice must be close at hand at all times from now on,’ the new king continued. ‘I will ensure you have a station that meets both our needs.’
When Harold returned to the feasting, Redwald slipped away. The celebrations bored him. He saw little gain in them now that everyone was drunk. He needed to attend to the maggot squirming deep in his head.
