Sons of the Wolf: 2011

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

A king, an earl and the terrible death of a prince

Edward the Confessor came to the throne after his half brother Harthacnut died in June 1042. Harthacnut had designated him as his heir, however it was not a foregone conclusion and Edward would have needed to rally the support of the English nobility. One of those whom it might have been necessary for him to ingratiate himself with would have been Godwin of Wessex although Edward would most likely have loathed the man. Godwin was a dominant figure in the politics of the time and had control of a large part of what was once Alfred the Great's Kingdom of Wessex. Godwin must have played a large part in rallying the other nobles and thegns to Edward’s cause and for this, Edward may have felt obliged to agree to wed Godwin’s daughter Edith.

No doubt Edward’s animosity toward Godwin, as we shall see by his attitude later, was driven by Godwin’s part in the death of Alfred, Edward’s younger brother. Alfred’s unpleasant demise had occurred when in 1036, the brothers, living as exiles in Normandy for more than 20 years, had received a letter allegedly written by their mother Queen Emma, inviting them to England and seeking their help. In 1036, Alfred and Edward had for some reason decided to travel separately to England. The expedition appears to have been a failure for both of them but at least Edward was to escape with his life. Unfortunately for Alfred, he did not. Some sources lay the blame for his death totally at Godwin’s door and others were less inclined to show Godwin in a bad light. What appears to have happened is that Alfred and his party were met by Godwin who was to escort them to meet with Harold Harefoot, then the monarch of the time. At Guildford, however, they were intercepted by Harold’s men and taken from Godwin’s custody. What happened next ended with poor Alfred being blinded and dying of his wounds at Ely.

This is what the Abingdon Manuscript (C) tells us

“But then Godwine stopped him, and set him in captivity,

And drove off his companions, and some variously killed;

Some of them were sold for money, some cruelly destroyed,

Some of them were fettered and some of them were blinded,

Some maimed, some scalped,

No more horrible deed was done in this country

Since the Danes came and made peace here....

.....The atheling still lived; he was threatened with every evil;

Until it was decided that he would be led to Ely town, fettered thus

As soon as he came on ship he was blinded, and blind thus brought to the monks,

And their he dwelt as long as he lived,

Afterwards he was buried as well as befitted him,

Full honourably, as he was entitled.......

....His soul is with Christ.

It seemed that Edward would forever hold it against Godwin for what happened to Alfred even though he was to be cleared before the court on oath more than once. To Edward, Godwin was like a boil on his backside that would never go away and when one day, the opportunity came for Edward to be rid of the whole Godwin family, he grasped it firmly in his hands. Robert Champart of Jumièges was the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury and a longstanding enemy of Godwin's. According to the sources he began whispering in the King's ear that Godwin had murdered his brother Alfred and was now plotting to murder him. A visit from Edward's brother-in-law Eustace of Boulogne seemed to fuel the fire that was burning in Edward's heart, when on his way home to Boulogne, he and his men stopped at the town of Dover and caused a fight with the townspeople. some of Eustace's men were killed in the fight as well as an equal number of townfolk. Godwin was ordered by the King to punish the town by razing it to the ground. He refused. Dover was in Godwin's jurisdiction and he may have heard the Doverian townsfolk's side of the sad, sorry tale. In anycase, his refusal to punish them resulted in a stand off between the Godwins and the King and his supporters. They were all consequently exiled and although Edward accepted Godwin back, restored his lands and in his office as Earl after a year in exile, their relationship would always be strained.

Edward’s unforgiving attitude towards Godwin later shows in his behaviour at the Earl’s death in 1053 at a court reunion with his family and the King. During the feast, Edward is allegedly said to have made acrimonious remarks toward Godwin regarding his involvement in Alfred’s death. It was said that Godwin is so enraged that it causes him to have a stroke and he dies later in Edward’s private apartment. Perhaps Edward felt a pang of guilt and offered him the comfort of his own chamber and doctor.

References
Barlow F (2002) The Godwins Pearson Educated LTD, Edinburgh.
Barlow F (1970) Edward The Confessor, Yale University Press, London.
Stanton M Translationof the Anglo Saxon Chronicle.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

An Excerpt from Chapter 16: The Exiles

The Godwinsons have just heard that their kinsmen are to remain in Normandy as hostages for the Duke. Harold and his brothers are unhappy that their sister the Queen and brother Tostig, the King's favourite, are unwilling to speak up for the hostages for fear of compromising their position with the King.

There had been no more to say. Hakon and Wulfnoth were to remain at the King’s behest in Normandy. It had not been expressly confirmed that they were part of a bargain between the King and Champart and then Champart and the Duke, but it did not have to be said. It was obvious, Harold knew it. The Godwinsons left the Council Chamber, deflated. The King had played his pieces well. He had written to the Duke, he claimed and he was happy to let the boys stay as hostages. They were being well treated and educated. What would be the point in disrupting their lives now? Had not he after all had a good Norman education?

Harold locked himself in conversation with Bishop Ealdred as they walked along the open passageway to the Godwinsons apartments. His mother walked with them, her arm linked through her eldest son’s. Behind them walked her younger sons, Gyrth and Leofwin.

“What I do not understand is what Edward gains from this?” Harold was saying to Ealdred. He had come to view the older man like a father. He’d missed his wisdom and good judgement this past year when he had been abroad and was grateful the Bishop was now here for him to confide in.

“Apart from revenge on your father?” Ealdred replied. “A promise from Normandy not to harbour pirates and allow them to use their ports to raid our shores?”

“There has to be more.”

“That he would consider William as his heir?” Ealdred answered as if he were making a statement rather than a question.

“Then why send you abroad to find the Exile and his family? Why agree to allow me to go with you to the Holy Roman Emperor’s court to fetch another contender for the throne when he has already promised his crown to William?”

Ealdred shrugged his sturdy shoulders as they turned into their apartments. The room was furnished with cushioned stools and chairs, a stone hearth in the centre of the room and tables at which to sit at. A wicker partition divided off the sleeping areas. Like Harold and Eadgyth’s apartment, it was lavishly furnished. Her family all knew that Edith’s pride forbade her not to provide the best trappings of comfort.

“I have a theory,” Ealdred began, “I don’t believe that Edward ever really meant to offer the Duke his crown. I believe it was a whim that came to him when the tide had turned against your father. I believe that he regrets it now and would prefer to steer clear of any discussions with the Duke about the return of the boys for fear of re-opening the dialogue about the succession. I don’t believe that Edward is so stupid that he does not realise William of Normandy would not be a popular choice but at the same time he would not want to risk angering him by reneging on the bargain.”

“And so, our monarch prefers to ignore the situation and hope that it will go away. But it will not go away unfortunately and that could put our boys at risk also,” Countess Gytha added emotionally. “Oh Lord in Heaven why did that devil Champart take them away from us!” She slunk down into the nearest chair and clasped her head in her hands. Her maidservant knelt beside her to offer her comfort.

“Edward would rather play along with Duke by saying nothing. I wouldn’t put it past him to have not written Normandy at all and that he has fabricated the whole tale into the bargain!” Harold kicked the wall in frustration. “God damn them all, Edward, the Duke, my sister.... Champart!”

Gyrth threw his hands up in frustration. “This is beyond any logic, the King must do something. These boys are his wife’s family. Why does Edith care so much for all the wards in her care and not a jot about her own brother and nephew? And what of Tostig? Is he not currently flavour of the month? I cannot believe he is not able to influence the King in anyway?”

They were surprised when without knocking, Tostig opened the door to the chamber, just as Gyrth mentioned his name.

“Talking about me dear brothers? Well here I am in person. You can say it to my face whatever it was.” Tostig stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“Don’t you have your own rooms to go to, or do you sleep in the royal bed between the King and Queen? Perhaps Alfgar was right after all,” said Gyrth sourly.

“I should watch your tongue, Gyrth. That Mercian dog wasn’t that difficult to get rid of, nor should you be, brother or no.”

“Horningsunu!” Gyrth shouted as he lunged forward and grabbed Tostig by the throat, slamming him into the wall behind him. “Do you only care about yourself? What about our younger brother and Hakon! Do they not deserve some bloody consideration?”

Tostig pushed his younger brother in an attempt to release himself from his grip. “Get your hands off me you stupid fool! I could have you outlawed, just like that!”

“Just like Alfgar?” Gyrth spat as he wrestled with him. He lashed out and Tostig caught his arm and thrust his free fist into his stomach.

Harold shouted at them to stop. The Countess was crying and pleading for them to desist. “Why must it always be so with my children!” she cried.

Harold cried out for Leofwin to help him separate them and Ealdred grabbed one of Gyrth’s arms to assist. Harold grasped Tostig by his shoulders and pulled him away. He had caught Gyrth in a head lock, but Harold’s action forced him to release him. As they were separated, Gyrth managed to free his arm from Leofwin’s grasp and swung out one last punch at Tostig. Harold pre-empted it and caught it with the palm of his hand deflecting it.

“What are we, animals, or men?” shouted Harold. He pulled Tostig out of Gyrth’s reach.

“You men are not fit to be earls! If your poor father, God rest his soul, could see you all now, he certainly be turning in his grave!” Gytha had risen to her feet and was wringing her hands in anguish.

Harold grabbed hold of Tostig and dragged him behind the partition and into the sleeping area.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. He saw that Tostig was shaking. In the other room, they could hear their mother berating Gyrth in between loud sobs.

“Mother is upset,” Tostig said. “I did not come here for this.”

“What did you come here for then?”

“I came to join my family. We are still family, or so I thought. Now I realise that you are all against me.”

“And what makes you think that, brother?” Harold found that he too shook with anger. He paced before Tostig, gesticulating furiously. “Why on earth would you think we are all against you? Tell me what leads you to that conclusion?”

“I cannot for the life of me know Harold, what it is that I have supposed to have done to make all of you behave thus with me. I came here to tell you that I promise that when the time is right, I will speak for Wulfnoth and Hakon. I endeavoured before the King to tell you that it was not a good time to speak of the matter. Edith tried to tell you also. The trouble with you is you never listen to anyone but yourself!”

Harold was astounded. “You manipulative bastard! You think I am stupid enough to think you are telling the truth? You intervened because you want to keep his favour, not because you care a jot for our brother, nor Edward for that matter! Time for his afternoon nap indeed!” He paced the room, then stopped and folded his arms, glaring hotly at his brother.

Tostig looked wounded. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe me Harold? We are brothers! Does that not count for anything?” Tostig threw him a beseeching look. “What has happened to you brother, that you are filled with such suspicion of your own flesh and blood?”

“What has happened to me? Nay brother, ’tis you who are the changed one!” Harold threw his head back as if he were seeking aid from the heavens. There were words on the tip of his tongue that he did not want to let loose should he forever regret them. Instead he breathed in deeply. He knew Tostig was lying, for he had turned his face and would not look him in the eye.

“The boys are safe, Harold. I do not know what all the fuss is about. They are receiving a good education amongst the Normans, you heard what Edward said.” Still Tostig refused to look at him.

“And what will happen to them when William finds out that Edward is dangling his crown in front of others? He has been doing so with Swein of Denmark for some years and Ralph for that matter.”

“They say that William is a devout Christian. We must hope this is so and that they will come to no harm. They will be treated well, William is an honourable man, this much I do know.”

“Just how do you know?”

“Are you forgetting his wife is my Judith’s own kin? Besides, it would be futile for William to harm them if he is keen to get his hands on the crown. They are his surety, after all.” Tostig sat down on a coffer and folded his arms defensively. “Whatever you think of me Harold, I do care about our brother....and Swegn’s boy. I am not so ambitious that I would put myself before their welfare.”

Harold leaned against the opposite wall facing his brother. He sighed heavily. He wanted to believe his brother, but he knew that when a man did not look you in the eye, chances were that he was lying. He gazed at Tostig. His brother was looking at the floor. In their silence, their mother could be heard still arguing with Gyrth who fumed about Tostig’s ‘selfishness’. Harold had not realised how much of a hothead his younger brother could be. As the thought came to mind, he remembered what Gyrth had said earlier when he had been fighting with Tostig; “Just like Alfgar?!”

“What did you do?” Harold asked as the significance of what he had heard dawned upon him.

“What?”

“Alfgar. You set him up didn’t you? You said ‘That Mercian dog was easily got rid of!’ What did you mean by that?”

“Come on brother, it would only have been a matter of time before Alfgar got himself exiled. His behaviour has always been arrogant and dishonourable. He was not fit to wear the office of an Earl.”

Harold found Tostig’s own conceit deplorable. He shook his head and shifted uncomfortably. “So I was right in my suspicions. You contrived the whole thing. It was you and Ralph wasn’t it? God knows I had not wanted to believe it!”

“And so what? Do you think there is a man in the whole of Englalond who cares?” Tostig rose to his feet. His expression was dark.

“Do not be so sure, brother, that there isn’t. Can you not see what this means for the kingdom?”

“Aye, I see a brighter future!” Tostig smirked.

“Jesus, Tostig, do you think that Alfgar will be idly twiddling his thumbs somewhere on an island, living his days out quietly in peaceful retirement?” Tostig shrugged and sat back down. He was still smirking and that riled Harold even more. “Bloody Hell, Tostig, your arrogance offends me. Get out of my sight before I do something to you that I would regret.”

Tostig stood to his feet again. “I did Englalond a favour, Harold, if you would but see it! Do not worry, I am leaving. I would not want to sully your presence with mine!”

As Tostig moved to leave, Harold caught his arm. “Alfgar went with a band of followers, Tostig.... and money. I have heard that he went to Ireland to seek aid and gather forces. What do you think will happen if he succeeds?”

“Then we will fight him, brother and rid ourselves of him once and for all!”

“What if he allies himself with Gruffydd, it would not be the first time as we know!”

“Then we kill two birds with one stone!”

Tostig pushed past the petition and Harold let him go. When Gyrth saw him, he leapt to his feet with his fists at the ready. Harold and Leofwin restrained him.

“No Gyrth, leave him be. He is not worth it,” Harold muttered. He waited for Tostig to leave the chamber before he released him.

“I cannot believe how close we once were,” Gyrth said bitterly when Tostig had gone.

“What has happened to him to make him like this?” Leofwin asked innocently.

“Edith happened to him,” Gyrth replied.

Ealdred laid gentle hands on Harold and Gyrth’s upper arms. “My sons, we should pray for him.”

Sunday, 17 July 2011

Horstede: Setting the scene

My novel, Sons of the Wolf is mainly set in a village in East Sussex called Horstede. It was listed in the Domesday Book as being land held from the king by Wulfhere before 1066. Holding their lands from Wulfhere, were 9 villeins and 6 cottars. Between them they own 7 and a half ploughs with a team of 8 oxen each and 1 with a half team of 4. Now-a-days, it is little more than a hamlet just beyond Uckfield and called Little Horsted. Besides a single row of houses, a parish church and a school, there is also a Golf club and a hotel. Surrounding the place there are farms and fields. There is even a roundabout called the Little Horsted roundabout but nothing much else is there.

What made me choose this place for the setting of my book? I was inspired to write something after viewing the annual Battle of Hastings re-enactment back in 2004. I had been looking for a suitable subject to write about since I decided that I would fulfill my child hood dream and set about the mammoth task of writing an epic historical novel. I had worked on projects in the past but life events had served to drift me away from realising my dream. Eventually I lost my confidence and my aspiration did not return until I attended a college course for Health and Social care. Doing this course helped me to realise that I could still write.

Having come across Helen Hollick's fantastic novel about Harold the King, I decided that another book written about Harold himself would need to be really well written and a master piece if I was to better hers. As it was my first attempt, I decided to keep it simple and I thought, why not tell the story of Hastings through the eyes of the ordinary men and women? That way I could still use the historical background and characters but centralise the story around a family whose experiences through the events of the 11thc I would be free to play with.

Eventually, the real inspiration for Sons came in the form of a different book. I found David Howarth's little gem 1066 The Year Of The Conquest at a medieval fare. He tells the story of 1066 from the standpoint of a Sussex village. He chose Little Horsted as it was his own home and describes the holding as it was in the Domesday Book. I already had the basis of a story that I wanted to write, I just needed a character. I had thought to invent my own village and my own thegn but here was Wulfhere (Howarth calls him Ulfer, simply a different spelling) just waiting for me to find him.

Nothing is known about what sort of man Wulfhere was, what he did in his life and what the names of his family were. Things like that were not recorded for simple folk in those days. However, I hope that if he were alive today, he would not be offended by the life I created for him. Equally, Helghi of Gorde also was a man of the Domesday. Again I hope I would not offend him too much by my villainous portrayal of him. But this is a fictional interpretation and their story is my telling alone. I believe it is how life might have been for men and women of this time and although I have written this story from a 21st century point of view, I have tried to create an Anglo Saxon mind set and at the end of the day, these were people like you and I. They laughed, they cried, they loved and hated much like us, after all.

Saturday, 9 July 2011

Edward II: Edward II In Fiction: A Spoof

Thursday, 30 June 2011

A Segment from Chapter 7: The Betrothal; Helghi is caught trying to rape a servant girl

Helghi staggered out from the doorway and lurched down the steps of the porch, belching and breaking wind loudly as he did so. He had no wish to leave the comfort of the hall but was unable to contain his need to relieve himself any longer. He’d made sure that he’d had more food and mead than was considered gracious of a guest. After all, was it not small compensation for the troubles that Wulfhere had caused him over the years? He made a mental note of them in his head; a crippled son for one, that was definitely Wulfhere’s fault. Then there was the loss of his crops over the years.... of which he was convinced was the doing of Wulfhere’s wife, Ealdgytha and her evil eyes. Hadn’t the witch poisoned Helghi’s wife and caused her to die?... Then there was Alfgyva….ah yes beautiful, dark and bewitching Alfgyva. The woman should have been mine, dammit! And she would have been had it not been for Wulfhere’s interference. There were countless more reasons for him to hate Wulfhere that stretched back over the years and Helghi was convinced that the Horstede clan had for generations, been responsible for Helghi’s family not having advanced their status.

He made his way along the side of the Longhall, hands groping like a blind man’s, flinching as a splinter from one of the timber posts caught his finger. It was useless for a man to try and find the midden pit in this state, he thought and then a smile came over his face as he pulled up his tunic. Squatting unceremoniously on the grass, exposing his bare buttocks to the chill of the night air, he defecated effortlessly on the ground, right beside his host’s hall. He smiled at the thought of Wulfhere or one of his grubby barefoot children stepping in it. His hands found the ground in front of him and he levered himself to his feet, adjusted his clothing and turned to go back inside, stumbling drunkenly as he did so. Rounding the corner of the front entrance he paused. Swaying unsteadily, he stood aside to allow a girl to hurry down the steps into the yard.

Sigfrith was making her way out into the dim moon-lit darkness to Lady Gerda’s bower to check on her as she had been doing throughout the night. Intent on her purpose and used to drunken men’s stares, she paid no heed to Helghi’s lewd observance of her. She made her way along the coarse pathway and paused for a moment to observe two figures stealthily dart across the yard and disappear amongst the darkened shadows of the out-buildings. They appeared to be a male and female, one being tall and slim of build and the other much smaller and slighter. In the darkness she could not have been sure, but was almost certain that it was Edgar and Freyda. Her tongue clicked the roof of her mouth, scornful of their disregard. If they are caught…she thought to herself, they will be whipped.

***

She made to move on when suddenly she felt an unexpected hand on her shoulder. She turned in surprise only to have a big hairy face with foul stinking breath, shoved into hers. Slobbering thick wet lips sucked at her own as she was pushed roughly up against the outer wall of the hall. Sigfrith tried to fight, but despite his inebriated state, Helghi was strong and she felt her skirts whipped up and his hands groping at her groin.

“Son of a…! Look at that fool!” exclaimed Tigfi, who had just been sharing a joke with Esegar on their way back from the urinal pit. “Not the best place to seduce a wench, in full view of anybody on their way for a piss. The man must be as full as a cow’s udder on a winter’s morn!”

They both laughed but they stopped laughing when they heard the girl’s muffled cries.

It was dark and light was sparse, but it began to dawn on them that the girl’s cries were not moans of pleasure after all and that she was struggling with the man who had her pinned against the outer wall of the Longhall.

“’Tis no seduction, my friend, that girl is the Lady Ealdgytha’s servant girl, the baker’s daughter. Looks like that filthy scum Helghi is attempting to be free with her and she is not liking it very much!”

“Nor would I, for that matter!” Tigfi replied in disgust. “Best we put a stop to it, my friend.”

“Aye, but we must not make a fuss. Wulfhere cannot know of this or he will fly into a rage, end the betrothal.... or worse still, kill Helghi and thus incur the Earl’s displeasure!”

Esegar knew that the fortune of his lord affected all of his people. It was of the utmost importance that the hostilities were not resumed.

Tigfi nodded. “There is nothing like a good feud to alienate Lord Harold. He hates feuding amongst his people. He says there are better enemies to fight than ourselves.”

“Then it is up to you and I, Tigfi to keep the peace,” Esegar said and the two men hurried to the girl’s aid.

Sigfrith was fighting hard against Helghi’s groping hands and was holding her own, but she didn’t know how long she could maintain it. It was with great relief that she felt Helghi pulled forcibly away from her. She stared with pure hatred at her assailant as he was held back by the two men, spitting and snarling like an angry bull.

“Are you alright lass?” Esegar checked as Helghi struggled to break free.

Sigfrith took a deep breath and nodded, then, with her skirts lifted, she swung back her leg and kicked her attacker full between the legs. The blow took them all by surprise and as they staggered back, Sigfrith took the opportunity to hurry away.

Tigfi and Esegar chuckled as Helghi bent double.

“The bitch! Fucking wild cat! ” He spat as he rubbed his private parts in agony. The blow had taken his breath. “She was asking for it all night!” he spluttered in a poor attempt to excuse his behaviour.

Enraged, Tigfi swung Helghi and slammed him up against the wall of the hall, eyes blazing in anger. He was only a youth, no more than twenty, but powerfully built from the rigorous training that huscarles were expected to partake of. Helghi even when clear-headed would have found himself no match for the younger man.

“You dare to dishonour the Earl and Lord Wulfhere by forcing yourself on his servant girl in his own home?” bellowed Tigfi angrily. “At your own son’s betrothal feast?”

The young huscarle held Helghi by his fleshy neck.

“What are you going to do about it?” Helghi snarled defiantly.

“Nothing, Helghi. It’s what you are going to do that is important.”

Helghi stared at Tigfi uncomprehendingly.

“You are going to get your fat arse back inside and behave as a good guest should,” Tigfi continued, “...and behave with the grace and decency a man should toward his host and lord.”

“What if I said I didn’t want to?” Helghi said through clenched teeth.

“Now now, Master Helghi. Let’s not be childish about this.” Tigfi tightened his grip on the older man. “I don’t want to have to explain to the Earl why your bollocks are impaled on my seax. If you follow my advice, then we won’t tell and the Earl won’t have to punish you for raping a servant girl. What’s the punishment for rape these days, Esegar? Is it still castration?”

“I didn’t rape her,” protested Helghi. He gave them a frustrated look.“Didn’t get the chance!”

Tigfi grasped Helghi’s balls in his other hand and squeezed them painfully as if to emphasise what he was threatening.

“OOOW! ALRIGHT!” Helghi gasped as excruciating pain struck him in the crotch. “Don’t you think they’ve had enough for one night?”

“Good man. Good man. Then we won’t have to tell the Earl that you raped a servant girl?” Helghi shook his head. “Good. We won’t tell him as long as you conduct yourself in the manner of a gracious guest from now on. Now run along like a good little peasant!”

Tigfi wheeled Helghi around in the direction of the Hall and watched him stagger back up the porch. Just as he entered through the door way, a group of young men came out on their way to relieve themselves. Seeing his dishevelled appearance, they smiled suspiciously at Esegar and Tigfi as they passed, for the two of them were loitering as if they had just been up to some mischief.

“What of the girl? Do you think she will tell?” Tigfi asked when the others had passed out of ear shot.

“I will speak with her,” Esegar replied.

Tigfi looked thoughtfully at a coin he had pulled from his pouch. “Maybe this will ensure that she keeps her silence.”

“That and your good looks,” smiled Esegar.

Tigfi grinned broadly. “They have been known to work for me before.”

“She won’t mind, but she’s evidently choosey, that one.”

“Apparently so, judging by her treatment of Helghi. Where do you think she was going?”

“Probably to check on the old lady in one of the bower huts over there,” Esegar replied and pointed into the darkness.

“Wish me luck my friend. Let’s hope my bollocks get better treatment! ” he said as he disappeared across the yard to a cluster of out buildings.

“Rather you than me,” Esegar called to him and returned alone to the hall.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

Comments please?

Thought I would post a short thankyou to everyone for reading my blog. Over the last few weeks stats have increased on average by at least 600 views per week. Thats incredible and I am so pleased people are interested in my blog. I would, however love to have some feedback and get very little in the way of comments. I would be so grateful if people would be kind enough to take the time and comment on my posts as it would help me to find out what works and what doesn't. Now I am sure I have opened myself up for all sorts, but I will be prepared!

Currently, the subject of my blog, my first novel Sons of the Wolf, which is the first in a quadroligy of stories about pre and post Norman Conquest of England, is being edited and hopefull will be published by Silverwoods books soon.

Thanks to all of you again. I look forward to reading some comments soon!

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Aelfgyva, the mystery woman of Bayeux: Part Two,

Welcome to the second part of the post concerning Aelfgyva, the woman, who over the years has caused many a historian to scratch their heads in wonder. In this piece of work we will examine one of the possibilities as to who this woman could truly be. There are a number of theories, all of whom have been thoroughly discounted by others, myself included. I would like to examine here one particular source that alludes to her representing Emma, who, as I previously stated, had taken on the English name Aelfgifu upon marriage to King Aethelred. Eric Freeman in his Annales de Normandie explains through a story that was circulating in the 14thc that Emma had been involved in an unorthodox relationship with a bishop of Winchester and had proven her innocence through trial ordeal. She was said to have achieved this by walking barefoot across 9 red-hot ploughshares. What followed is even more absurd; her son King Edward, who had instigated the trial and had always shown harsh resentment toward his mother anyway, begged her forgiveness and was duly beaten by both his mother and the accused bishop Aelfwine. So, could this ridiculous tale be the scandal that we think the Bayeux tapestry is referring to? Bearing in mind that it is only an assumption of a scandal, however, the lewd depictions that accompany the image would indeed strongly suggest so.

My research of this strange anecdote has turned up no other contemporary source. Quite how it shaped its way into the fourteenth century one will never know, but what it does show is the mediaeval mind-set that could so effectively create the believable in the unbelievable; but if we take this story as having some basis in truth, it would be a credible subject, if not for the trial by ordeal which would have been impossible to survive. So, if we put that aside and concentrate on the rest of it, what do we have? Emma/Aelfgifu, depicted as a bishop-loving adulteress whose scandal has somehow enmeshed itself into the threads of the Bayeux Tapestry.

Now here comes the why, the how and what for. If we consider the scene and its place in the tapestry, the images before it show Harold standing before William having some sort of discussion. Incidentally, Harold appears to be touching the hand of one of William’s guards, but that is another story we will go into in part three . Our gaze next rests upon Aelfgyva and our priest, who is definitely not a bishop, otherwise the tapestry would have read Unus Episcopus rather than Unus Clericus. If we can imagine that the two men are deep in conversation about some important topic, could the image of Aelfgyva have been inserted to allude to something that may have been better known at the time? If it was meant to be a representation of William’s great aunt Emma, she may well have been referred to by the English artist by her English name and this would be plausible. Yet the insertion of a bishop touching her face and the lewd creature underneath them in the border is a strange way to portray so great and noble a lady such as the former twice Queen of England. Not only is she William’s great aunt, but also the basis for his claim to the English crown. Through her, he was a first cousin once removed to the reigning monarch, Edward the Confessor. It was because of this kinship that William sought acceptance as heir to Edward’s throne. Emma, in her time was often criticised but despite this, she was respected by her English subjects. It is not likely that she would have been denigrated in this way on the tapestry by the creator unless she was involved in something pertinent to the story of the conquest. And I think considering the lack of a contemporary insertion in the sources for this story, we can safely assume that there is no credence to this legend.
It would seem that there is no other connection with Emma and the tapestry and the absence of a bishop and the presence of a priest, although perhaps an error but this is unlikely, means that this cannot be the Aelfgyva story the artist is referring to. In my next post on the subject, I will be exploring with you another Aelfgyva in the final concluding part of this story.

We must give credit to the intriguing artistry of the creator who at every turn and twist manages to confuse us all.

Tuesday, 31 May 2011

The Beginning: Wulfhere the Warrior

CHAPTER ONE

THE HOMECOMING

Late Summer 1054

Wulfhere rode wearily through the great lush forest, once known to the ancient Britons and their Roman conquerors as Anderida. It was now called Andredeswald by the Englisc, descendants of the Southern Saxons who had come to these lands to settle in the dark days that followed the death of Rome. His companion Esegar, his shield bearer and right hand man rode beside him, half asleep in the saddle, eyes all but closed and his head nodding as he fought to stay awake. The horses too were tired, heads low, pace no more than a lumbering amble. Their destination was home, Horstede, in the heart of Sussex on the marshy slopes of a shallow valley. They’d been travelling many days along the ancient trackways, which for centuries had witnessed the various comings and goings of the many different peoples of these lands. Wearing their armour so as not to unnecessarily encumber the pack horses, the feel of it against their skin was perhaps somewhat uncomfortable, but nonetheless familiar. It was a feeling they had got used to over the last few months, campaigning in the north.
Displaying the stern expression of a warrior, Wulfhere looked formidable to all who would have encountered him on the journey home. Beneath his gleaming helm, strands of sun-bleached hair blew in the cool breeze. The mail shirt that hugged his torso emphasised strong broad shoulders upon which was strapped his battle-scarred shield. The chips, dents and holes in its facing had been made by Scottish spear tips, a testimony to the recent bloody encounter with Macbeth’s army. Even the shield’s deadly metal boss had not escaped damage and was now crushed beyond repair. His sword, the most precious weapon he possessed, hung in a decorative scabbard secured to a leather belt worn around his waist. The pommel, inlaid with gold banding, rested against his upper thigh, the silver lobe at the end of the grip was impressively decorated with the figure of two intertwined wolves; it had been in his family for many years, handed down to first sons through the march of generations. Its name, Hildbana, meaning battle slayer, was etched along the broad blade, for warriors were inclined to give their weapons such fierce names to enhance the reputations of their owners. For a fighting man, a sword or an axe was more than a battlefield tool; a sword was a companion, a lover, a life-giver and a death bringer. For Wulfhere, Hildbana was like an extension of himself, another limb into which his heart pumped his life’s blood.
The men were returning home after more than two months of brutal campaigning with the Earl of Northumbria against the Scottish king, MacBeth. Although he had not been eager to travel so far north away from his family, Wulfhere accepted his duty with the unquestioning loyalty of a king’s faithful servant. It had been a hard won battle with many lives lost on both sides. It was natural for a man such as Wulfhere to take up the mantle of warrior, for he came from a long line of such men. However nothing could have prepared him for the carnage that he had witnessed that day on Dunsinane Hill. Death in battle had not been a stranger to him, but never had he seen it on such a scale as this.
Wulfhere was proud of his ancestry, able to recite an abundance of tales about the prowess of his forefathers in battle, but despite his magnificent weapons and polished war attire, he was more a man of reasonable means than a man of great wealth and land holdings. He held roughly five hides of village and pastoral lands, the minimum amount a thegn might possess. It had been endowed to his ancestors by subsequent royal lines in return for both official and military services

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Welcome to my Blog

Hi there thanks for dropping by. I am Paula Wilcox and I write using my maiden name of Lofting. I also go by Lofting-Wilcox on Facebook. Welcome to my blog Sons of the Wolf. Sons, as I fondly call it, is a fictional novel set in 11thc England and is one of a planned trilogy about the fortunes of a king’s thegn’s family in the lead up to the conquest of William of Normandy. So far it is in the pre-edit stage and coming along nicely. It is a novel that has taken me 5 years + to complete in its present stage. Its fiction, but has many historical characters that are woven into the story and facts blend nicely within the setting. Wulfhere, my thegn was a true character, a man of the Doomsday book owning the land that is present day Little Horsted in East Sussex. His character, appearance and the members of his family are all my invention because all we have of him in history is his name and his landholding. As for the other historical characters, I have done my best to research them and the events of the time as accurately as I can and have some knowledge of how they live through my participation of a re-enactment society of whom I am a proud member, Regia Anglorum.

On here you will find lots of interesting facts about the history of the time I am writing about and character biogs. I update as often as I can when I am not busy working at my day job. My brother recently said to me that you find a job and then you pursue your career. I try to live that way at the moment! Please feel free to leave comments on my posts. Constructive criticism is always welcome and thoroughly desired! Also I am open to any ideas on relevant topics that you might want me to write about.

Regards

Paula

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Aelfgyva, the mystery woman of Bayeux: Part One, 2nd ed.

Aelfgifu, or as it was sometimes spelt Aelfgyva, must have been a popular name and one of some significance, for when Emma of Normandy was espoused to Aethelred, the witan insisted that she be called Aelfgifu, which incidentally had been the name of a couple of Aethelred's previous consorts, though none of those women had been given the title of queen, unlike Emma. Perhaps they had been so used to referring to their king’s women by the same name they thought it more expedient to refer to Emma as Aelfgifu too, lest they forget themselves and mistakenly call her Aelfgifu anyway. I say this tongue in cheek, but it is unclear as to why the name Emma was objectionable to them, after all, it was not unlike the English version of Ymma. But changing a queen's name is not an unheard of phenomenon; later Queen Edith, great-granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, was sneered at for her Saxon name and was forced to become Queen Mathilda when she wed Henry the first.
There were so many Aelfgyvas/ Aelfgifus amongst the women of the 11thc that it must have become quite confusing at times. Even Cnut's first consort was called Aelfgifu, mother of Cnut's sons Harold and Sweyn. She was known as Aelfgifu of Northampton whose father had been killed during Aethelred’s reign. So one can see that if anyone called Emma, Aelfgifu, by mistake, it would not have mattered as they could be referring to either of them! Even Cnut would not have been caught out by this one.

There was a story about Cnut's Aelfgifu, that she had been unable to produce her own off-spring and involved a monk to help her pass off a serving maid's illigitemate babies as her sons by Cnut. In another version, it was said that the monk himself had fathered them. Were they a monk's children fathered on a serving maid so that Aelfgifu could present them as hers and Cnut's? Or, were they lovers themselves, the monk and Aelfgifu? These are questions that, after reading the evidence, I am pondering upon. However, Emma, it is said, hated Aelfgifu and the two women were at odds with each other for many years until Aelfgifu died. It would not be implausable that these tales, rumours, chinese whispers if you may, could have been put about by the Queen to destroy her rival's reputation.

Which leads me now to the mystery of Aelfgyva on the Bayeux tapestry. Aelfgyva is the same name as Aeflgifu, just a different spelling, much like Edith and Eadgyth. For centuries people must have pondered over this scene, where a slim figure, clad in what would appear to be the clothing of a well-bred woman, stands in a door way, her hands are palm upwards as if she could be explaining something to a monk, apparently behind a doorway. He is reaching out to touch the side of her face whilst his other hand rests on his hip in a stance of dominance and he looks as if he might be touching her face in a fatherly way, perhaps admonishing her for some misdeed, or perhaps he is slapping her? On the other hand he could be caressing her face. The text sewn into the tapestry merely states ‘where a priest and Aelfgyva...’ and the onlooker is left with no more than this to dwell on. So just what is the author alluding to? Why did he/she not finish the sentence? Perhaps they were referring to a well known scandal of the time and they had no reason to describe the events because everyone would have known about it anyway. Who knows what the truth is? It seems the answer to the questions of the lady’s identity and the relevance the scene has to the story of the downfall of Harold Godwinson, died with the creators of the tapestry long ago. Those who presented it to the owner must have given a satisfactory explanation to him about the scene. One can only wonder as to what it might have been and was it a truthful explanation, or did it have a hidden story?

This brings me to my burning question. Was this scene depicting the scandal of Aelfgifu of Northampton and the monk and if so why and what did it have to do with the tapestry? What was its creator alluding to? Or had someone woven them into the tapestry, mistakenly confusing Cnut's Aelfgifu/Aelfgyva with a similar story that did have some legitimacy with the story of the conquest? I have an interpretation, but it is just that, and most likely the fanciful ramblings of my imagination, although it could perhaps be close. I will attempt to explain my idea further sometime in part two soon. Watch this space as the mystery unfolds!

Sunday, 17 April 2011

An excerpt from Chapter One : The Home-Coming

Wulfhere approached the strong wooden palisade that surrounded his longhall. He reached for the blowing horn that hung on a leather thong around his neck. Putting it to his lips he blew a couple of short notes, then a long shrill high one to sound his approach. Wulfhere was answered by the appearance of his blacksmith’s nephew, Yrmenlaf. The sandy-haired lad shouted a hearty greeting as his red-cheeked face peered above the rampart before swiftly disappearing to run down the steps to open the gates.

The horse’s weary hooves trudged across the wooden planks of the ford, clattering as they crossed the defensive ditch. Wulfhere looked up proudly at the familiar sight of his formidable twin-towered lookout structure, made by his own hands from the strongest timber. He passed through the gate, opened eagerly by the boy and gave a contented whisper of thanks to the Lord for his safe arrival. The sight of his longhall was welcoming, standing as a symbol of safety from the outside world. It was surrounded by smaller out buildings that served as sleeping bowers, work sheds, animal byres and storage huts.

The little wooden chapel comforted Wulfhere as he passed it. He crossed himself piously, grateful to be home and safe at last. The stallion’s ears pricked at the clanking of Aelfstan’s smithy hammer as they passed the forge and Wulfhere breathed in the familiar aroma that wafted from the stables nearby. As he approached the house he imagined that Ealdgytha might be tending her garden to the rear where she grew herbs and vegetables; or perhaps she was in the orchard where the sweet succulent apples grew abundantly. He heard the recognisable laughter of children at play and knew he was finally home in the place he thought he would never see again.

Monday, 4 April 2011

An investigation into the true Lineage of Hereward "the Wake"

There has long been a tradition that Hereward, the English rebel who lead a stance against the Normans in the Fens around Ely in 1070, was the wayward son of Leofric of Mercia and Lady Godiva of the naked horse ride fame. But Peter Rex has done extensive research in his book Hereward, the Last Englishman, which disproves this theory and sends old ideas of his parentage into the archives of myth and legend.... Well it should do at any rate if Rex’s delving is anything to go by. For me at least, his thoroughly analysed and researched thesis on Hereward’s true lineage produces a plausible and well argued conclusion that Hereward was really the grandson of a wealthy Anglo-Danish magnate and dispels the other two main theories that had been followed for several centuries.

That the idea that Leofric of Mercia had fathered this much loved outlaw of legendary fame had been preceded by another Leofric, is nothing new. Domesday had shown that this other Leofric, Lord of Bourne did not exist and so it would be quite reasonable to assume that writers of chronicles in seeking an easier explanation, deemed that Leofric of Mercia could possibly have been the one they were looking for. If we look at the major source for his roots, the Gesta Herewardi is one of the first mentions of his parents being Edith of York and Leofric of Bourne, a supposed nephew of Ralph the Staller. This does not tie in with an account by Abbott John of Peterborough that states that Brand, Abbott of Peterborough was his uncle on his father’s side:

‘There died paternal uncle of the said Hereward the Wake, to whom by the king’s choice there succeeded Turold’ –Rex (2005)

Later writers later believed Herward to be the son of Earl Leofric of Mercia, whose son Alfgar was exiled more than once and by all accounts a difficult son who brought shame and embarrassment on his father. Contemporary records seem to omit Earl Leofric as having another rebellious son called Hereward and surely if Hereward had been born into such a notable family, there would have been some mention of it around the time of his existence, especially given the heroic activities he was later to have been purported to have been involved in.

Hereward was said to have been exiled to Flanders after his unruly behaviour and the suggestion that he was a ringleader who encouraged the bad behaviour of others, had caused his father to request that he be exiled. He was also said to have participated in military activity on the continent as a mercenary during this enforced exile. There is plenty of evidence to show that there was such kind of activity the like of which would have attracted mercenaries like Hereward between the years of 1060-70. As the Gesta informs us that Hereward was exiled in 1054 at the age of 18, it would seem that the dates are out of sync with the military activity he is believed to have participated in. If the Gesta is to be believed and he was 18 at the time of his exile, he might well have been on the continent around the early 1060’s and returning home to England some time after the conquest making him available to take part as a leader in the rebellion and siege of Ely 1069-70.

So why does this not make him son of Leofric of Bourne or Leofric of Mercia? Firstly, the Gesta and The History of Crowland Abbey both contain discountable errors. In Gesta Herward is described as being son of Leofric of Bourne, son of Earl Ralph, the Crowland version has him written down as son of Leofric, Lord of Bourne, nepos of Radin Earl of Hertford whose wife is Goda, sister of King Edward. I shall discount the mother as it is of no consequence here. In the first case of the Gesta account, Ralph is meant to be Ralph the Staller and there is not a shred of evidence to say he had a son called Leofric who was Lord of Bourne. In the latter account, Radin is a mistake for Ralph and Earl of Hertford is an error and is meant to be referring to Earl Ralph of Hereford, King Edward’s nephew who was son of Goda not her husband; she was King Edward’s sister. He certainly did not have a son called Ralph. He did have a son called Harold who would not have been old enough at the time to have fathered a man called Leofric, let alone be grandfather to Hereward. Furthermore, there is no record of a Leofric of Bourne. So where did the Bourne element come from? What is the source of this confusion? Well, perhaps that would be for another post at another time.

As for Leofric of Mercia, we can also discount him, as we know his son was called Alfgar and Alfgar’s sons were Burghred, Edwin and Morcar. There was never a contemporary record of a Hereward there and Leofric did not hold any land that was called Bourne.

So who was his father then?

It seems that the answer may lay with Brand the abbot of Peterborough, who, as stated earlier, was said to have been Hereward’s uncle. Peter Rex, in his research has uncovered the truth about Hereward’s lineage and it would appear that if the abbot was indeed his uncle then Hereward’s father must be one of Brand’s brothers, Asketil, Siward, Siric or Godric. Their father was a man called Toki of Lincoln whose own father was Auti the Moneyer of Lincoln. They were an established wealthy family of Danish descent which would make Hereward an Anglo-Danish hero like Harold Godwinson, but nonetheless and Englishman all the same. Rex, by careful elimination has pinpointed the brother that would have been his father: Asketil Tokison.

I have tried to be brief but concise in my explanation of why I believe Peter Rex’s theory. I have not covered every aspect of research that needed to be done to arrive at this conclusion. If you would like to learn more Rex’s book will give a more in-depth insight into the story.

What do you think? Do you think that the Leofric of Mercia myth has been dispelled?

Thursday, 10 March 2011

A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER

            The frosty silence was broken by her mother’s equally chilling tone. “So, what do you have to say for yourself daughter?” Ealdgytha demanded eyeing her daughter reproachfully.
Freyda ignored her mother’s disdainful gaze and tried to catch her father’s eyes as it was for his approval she sought more than her mother’s. They darted here and there to avoid her; as if he would turn to stone if her gaze caught him. He was unrecognisable to her. Gone was the laughing eyes and the smile that was often only for her. She studied him keenly, as if the real Wulfhere would reappear if she searched hard enough. From a little girl, she would tease and cajole him, ensuring that he gave her his full attention. Sometimes he would pretend to swat her away bemoaning that she was ‘a little gadfly, tiresomely buzzing around’ and that he had ‘better things to do’; but she nigh on always got what she wanted from him. From a babe she had ensnared his heart, perhaps because she was his first born child, but now it seemed that he had hardened it against her.

“Well?” demanded her mother, after a moment of cold silence. “Have you nothing to say?”
Freyda continued to ignore her, remaining focussed on her father. Once upon a time, Ealdgytha had been a kind and loving mother, but not anymore. Something had changed within her over the years and lately, Freyda’s rebellious nature had resulted in mother and daughter being constantly at conflict with one another.
The young girl saw her father shift in his seat, blatantly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
“Wulfhere, make her answer!” Ealdgytha said, turning to him for assistance.
Her husband glared at her as if he resented her prompting. Then he looked back at Freyda and his daughter knew by the burning in his eyes that he was quietly seething. Growing up witnessing many of her parents’ arguments had given Freyda enough insight into their relationship to know that her mother had a way of making her father feel inadequate.
            “What were you thinking of Freyda, running off to tryst with this fellow in the woods without your mother’s knowledge?” Wulfhere demanded.
She could tell he was forcing himself to look at her. She steeled herself for the coming onslaught and said with as much courage as she could muster, “We could not help ourselves. We are in love.”
“Love?” Wulfhere rebuked. “Don’t be foolish, girl. What could you know of such things? You have been listening to the songs of too many scops.”
Freyda looked down at the floor. She knew it would be imprudent to argue. “I am sorry Father.... if I have disappointed you in any way,” she said somewhat more meekly.
“She should have a good whipping!” Ealdgytha broke in angrily, turning her head toward Wulfhere. “My father would have had me skinned alive had I dared to behave so disobediently!”
“I have always been a dutiful daughter,” Freyda objected. “Surely that has to count for something.”
“You know who this boy is?” Wulfhere asked. His voice had softened a little. He gave Ealdgytha a look that told her that he was in charge. He had never laid a finger on any of his children over the years but if he had to, it would be his decision not hers.
“She knows, husband. Of course she knows who he is,” Ealdgytha interjected impatiently.
Freyda smiled inwardly, pleased that her parents were still at odds with one another, if not in the bed-chamber then elsewhere in their lives. She knew that her mother would be silently willing Wulfhere into action and his lack of it so far would infuriate her. Freyda was strangely comforted by this and hoped she could use this fact to her advantage.
“I know he is the son of Helghi; that there is contention between you and his father. But it has nothing to do with Edgar or I.” She spoke assertively and with confidence.
“ It has everything to do with you and since you have described yourself as a ‘dutiful daughter’, I would not have expected you to go running into the woods to meet with a lad whom you know to be the son of your father’s sworn enemy; a man who caused the death of your own uncle!”
The harshness in Wulfhere’s voice sent a shiver down Freyda’s spine, causing her to flinch. She could see him clutching at the scrolled arms of his chair with such force that his knuckles blanched with the intensity of his grip. “Aye.... ’Tis true, daughter. My brother Leofric’s life was lost because of Helghi, the night my own stables were burned to the ground and my horses killed.”
Freyda felt the tears gather in her eyes but held on to them, refusing to let them go. She lowered her gaze and said in a low voice, “T’was not Edgar’s doing Father and it was never proved that it was Helghi who caused your stables to burn. Please papa, I want you to end the feud and allow me to marry him.”
            She recoiled when she heard her mother gasp in horror. She kept her eyes lowered and did not look up, feeling their disgust penetrate through the air.
Wulfhere ignored her request. Instead he focused on another more important matter. “Does this man have carnal knowledge of you?” His voice was severe and dramatic.
Freyda felt a storm brewing. She quivered, her boldness greatly diminished. For the first time in her life she was afraid of her father.
Wulfhere lunged forward in his chair causing startled gasps from the women. “Answer the question! Or so help me God, I will skin and gut him and stick you in a nunnery quicker than you could spin thread!” The thegn’s eyes were ablaze with anger and his handsome features were blanched with rage.
Though she shook with fear, she remained steadfast in her resolve and determined that she would stand strong, defiant to the last. She lifted her face and narrowed her eyes at Wulfhere, more like a conniving cat than the playful kitten she was to him. Let him think what he likes!
The desire to hurt him as he was hurting her burned within her. She was like a cornered animal. She fought back the urge to smile, satisfied that she could see the pain etched on his face. Like the cat who had struck out with its claws, she had drawn blood. She knew that the thought of his daughter giving herself to a man he loathed, would be a wound deep enough to cause him terrible pain. And so what? Was that not retribution enough for the pain she was feeling now? She clenched her teeth, set her jaw firmly and continued to say nothing.

“Answer the question!” Wulfhere demanded again, frustrated at her stillness. “Am I to take it that by your silence you are guilty of having given yourself to this man?”
When no answer was forth-coming, Wulfhere suddenly kicked out at the heavy oaken table and caused it to fall from the dais and crash onto the floor in front of her. The remains of their lunchtime meal flew in all directions, wooden bowls and clay cups crashed to the floor.
“Answer your father Freyda!” demanded her mother, rising to her feet. She looked somewhat shaken herself at the ferocity of Wulfhere’s rage.
“No! He does not have carnal knowledge of me!” Freyda replied, as she sprang out of the way. She let out a gasp as one of the cups smashed by her foot and a piece cut her ankle. With a cry of fear Sigfrith ran to her protectively. She had been watching from the other side of the hall, poking her head out from behind a partition.
Freyda looked up at her father as he stood on the dais. The anger that he had tried to suppress had reached boiling point when he had kicked out. Freyda had seen him display such rage before but she had never thought to be the cause of it and it filled her with horror as to what would come next. Her resolve was beginning to crumble and her mouth and chin were quivering. Sigfrith’s arms were thrown defensively around her and Freyda was grateful for her presence. Good Sigfrith, stoical and stalwart, lent her courage to continue and she stared at him, forcing herself to hide her fear and remain defiant. His brow was furrowed sternly and his mouth set in an unsympathetic line. His hands were clenched into fists as he stood towering over her on the dais. She saw that every part of his being shook with anger and her heart beat anxiously.
“You will never see Edgar Helghison again. Do you understand?” Wulfhere stated grimly.
Freyda gave no reply. She refused to hang her head in shame, for she had done nothing wrong. She wanted to scream at them that she would see him whatever they made her do and that it would be futile for them to order her not to. But she had seen her father’s anger explode like never before and was not certain that she wanted to see the whiteness of his fury again so soon.
“Do you understand?” he repeated. There was an ominous threat in his voice. “I have never beaten you before, daughter, but I can assure you that I will not baulk at giving you the whipping you deserve, if you ever defy me again!”
Freyda looked toward her mother, who had resumed her sitting position. Her expression was approving and smug. She is loving every minute of it, she thought, narrowing her eyes at her.
“Your father has spoken Freyda,” Ealdgytha said and gave her daughter a look of disdain in return. “There are to be no more secret meetings with this man.”
Freyda retorted passively with her feline stare. She nodded and made an obeisance. With a toss of her head, she left the hall, her face burning with her own quiet rage and her mind already scheming.