Aelfgyva: The Mystery Woman of The Bayeux Tapestry Part Five

        

            We are getting closer to the end of this discussion, but I have by not finished it by a long shot. For those who have not read any of my earlier posts about this puzzling enigmatic woman, Aelfgyva, whose image is portrayed in the tapestry with a priest, we have been exploring her possible identity in an effort to ascertain who exactly she was. Furthermore, it is my aim to try and shed some light and interpret what or how she came to be sewn into this tragic tale about the story of Harold’s fateful trip to Normandy. After discounting the known candidates except for one, it would appear that the identity of this Aelfgyva is Aelfgifu of Northampton, as she was generally known according to one of the Anglo Saxon chronicles, in the early 11thc when she lived. She was a consort of Cnut, enjoined to him in the more danico tradition. Marrying her in this way meant that Cnut could take another, more politically convenient wife at a later date, as he did when he married Emma of Normandy, whose English name was also a Aelfgifu.

            Aelfgifu of Northampton was the daughter of Aelfhelm, a major ealdorman of Northumbria whose familial origins were from Mercia. His mother was a wealthy woman named Wulfrun and I have not been able to find a source for his father, perhaps his mother was of higher standing. Regardless of her grandfather’s status,   it was obvious that Aelfgifu came from a very important family. Her father was put to death by his enemy Eadric Streona and her younger brothers were blinded. All this was done with the connivance of King Aethelred. Aelfgifu may never have forgotten or forgiven this deed and it quite possibly could have shaped her personality from then on.

            Because of her father’s status in the north, Swein of Denmark may have sought an alliance with her kinsmen and father’s followers, taking advantage of the rift Aelfhelm’s death may have caused between them and Aethelred. So she was either loosely married or handfastened to his son Cnut.. This was not an unusual practice, some years later Harold Godwinson was to do the same with his longtime love, Edith Swanneck. Many years later her puts her aside and marries the daughter of Alfgar of Mercia, wife of Gruffydd of Wales in order to enlist the support of her brothers, Edwin and Morcar who were earls of the north. The Normans were to make much of this when their propaganda machine got their claws stuck into Harold. He was promulgated as an adulterer who liked women although he seems to have stayed faithful to Edith Swanneck throughout their time together. They  referred to her as being his mistress, although in legal terms she was considered his ‘wife’ and his children were treated as legitimate. However, perhaps she was not cast aside quite in the manner one would think, for legend alludes to her having been on the battlefield looking for his mutilated body at Senlac.  This may have meant that their relationship was still very much an entity at Harold’s death.

            Handfastened wives perhaps were not necessarily cast off when the man married politically and the evidence is inclined to show that like Harold may have done, Cnut kept his affections for Aelfgifu and did not wholly put her aside for Emma. In fact initially, he may have considered her with great respect, if not affection. She had given birth to two sons, Swein and Harald, named in respect for Cnut’s father and grandfather. When Swein was old enough, Cnut sent Aelfgifu with him as regent to rule for him in Norway around 1030. He may have done this to keep her out of the way of his relationship with Emma, though this is not founded in any source, but one can picture that the two women were serious rivals for Cnut’s affection and that they probably felt threatened by one another. On the other hand, Cnut may have simply been keeping the interests of the Northern thegns alive by continuing to honour her and the alliance with her family.  Emma may have had the upper hand, however, being the recognised queen. And it is natural to think that Emma, an astute woman that she was, would not have agreed to marry Cnut if her children by him would not have had precedence over Aelfgifu’s.

One might have been forgiven for intuitively assuming that the nature of Aelfgifu of Northampton’s character was somewhat harsh when some four years later she and Swein had to flee Norway for her apparent heavy-handed rule. The Norwegians rebelled against her heavy taxation and it seemed, preferred Magnus I as ruler to Cnut’s harridan. Her son, young Swein, was to die in Denmark shortly after.  In the Norwegian Ágrip  Aelfgifu is mentioned by the Skald Sigvatr, a contemporary of her’s:        

Ælfgyfu’s time

long will the young man remember,

when they at home ate ox’s food,

and like the goats, ate rind

 She may have died sometime around 1040. Nothing much was heard of her after this. The story about her deception of Cnut is strangely alluded to in the Anglo Saxon chronicle, Abingdon edition (C) where it is mentioned:  “And Harold, who said that he was the son of Cnut – although it was not true-..” This appears to be referring to the story about Aelfgifu’s sons not being Cnut’s, or indeed not even Aelfgifu’s.  In my search for the truth, I have discovered that the Encomium Emmae Reginae makes the allegation that Harold was really the son of a servant girl smuggled into Aelfgifu’s bed chamber and passed off as Cnut’s son.  John of Worcester elaborates further and tells us that Cnut’s sons by Aelfgifu were not his or hers even. That Aelfgifu, desperate to have a son, ordered that a new born son of a priest’s concubine be presented to Cnut as his own son by her. This was the child called Swein. Harold, he states, was the son of a workman, like the one seen in the border underneath Aelfgyva’s scene in the tapestry (Bridgeford 2002). Bard McNulty (1980) first drew the patrons of the Tapestry to the theory that this was Aelfgifu of Northampton. Bard McNulty also theorizes that William and Harold had a discussion in the previous scene whereby Harold reassures William that the English will not call upon Harald of Norway to become King when Edward dies. I have already rejected this theory because apart from her connection with Norway where Harald Hardrada invades England from in 1066, her connection to Harald Hardrada is neither tenuous nor existent.

            What I do, however agree with is Bard McNulty’s idea that the Aelfgyva scene is  not meant to be read as what is happening after the scene before it, rather that it represents what they were discussing, an issue involving a priest and Aelfgyva. So, if they were not discussing Harald Hardrada, then what were they discussing about Aelfgyva and the priest? And what had it to do with the tapestry and Harold’s time in Normandy?

            Look forward to the final conclusion in Part Six where I will explain what my theory is.

Aelfgyva The Mystery Woman of the Bayeux Tapestry: Part Four

The woman in the Bayeux Tapestry called Aelfgyva has given commentators trouble for centuries. As we have seen in my earlier parts, there have been plenty of Aelfgyva’s mentioned in the 11thc but none that quite fit the bill as much as Aelfgifu  of Northampton. We have discounted Emma/Aelfgifu and also that Earl Harold had any daughter or sister of that name. I have also set aside the idea that she may have been a child of William’, whom he offered to Harold as a wife in return for an alliance. Aelfgyva was a purely English name and although it may have been a possibility, it was not likely to have been given to a Norman woman; it was thought that Norman’s had no liking for English names. So why then, am I going with Aelfgifu of Northampton, King cnut’s first wife? What is it about this Aelfgifu that draws me to believe the woman they are referring to is her?

Aelfgifu was reported by Florence of Worcester as passing off the bastard child of a priest as Cnut’s son after failing to provide an heir of her own. This child was Swein. Later Worcester states that she passed off another ‘son’ Harold Harefoot who was reputed to have been a child of a mere workman or a shoe maker. Interestingly, if we look once again at the image of Aefgyva and the priest, we see that in the lower border a naked figure of a man with a large member is mimicking the stance and gesture of the priest. There is also another image of a naked workman.  The priest who touches her face is either fondling or as some might say slapping her face. The scene is also iconographic, which means it is supposed to be a representation of what perhaps, William and Harold may be discussing. Unlike the other scenes in the tapestry, this one is not to be viewed as part of the story but more as an illusion of some sexual scandal. Interpreting  the face fondling/slapping aspect is a bone of contention, however. At first I favoured the idea that the priest was slapping her but upon further research I came across some intriguing suggestions that were submitted by J Bard McNulty in the Lady Aelfgyva in The Bayeux Tapestry (1980).

Edward Freeman (1869) suggests that the woman they are discussing was a woman at the duke’s palace. I would disagree. As we have explored before, there could not have possibly been a woman with this name in Normandy at this time.

Then, if we accept that the woman referred to in the tapestry must be Aelfgifu of Northampton, we have to ponder upon why on earth Harold and William would be discussing her at this stage of the story. Aelfgifu would have been long dead at the time of this meeting (around autumn of 1064). But let us not discount her, for she was, like her counterpart and rival Emma of Normandy, a formidable woman. Unfortunately, she was perhaps not as tactful or astute as Emma.

Aelfgifu was Cnut’s first wife, most likely he married her in the more-danico fashion rather than officially as he was later able to marry Emma. It was quite customary in those times for nobles to ‘handfast’ themselves to a woman so they could at a later time marry for political reasons as Harold Godwinson did with Aldith of Mercia. The Norman propaganda machine was to later make much of Harold’s relationship with Edith Swanneck, referring to her as his mistress rather than his wife, but under English law, she was just as entitled to the same considerations as an official wife was and her children would not have been viewed as ‘bastards’ or illegitimate and had the same entitlements as legal offspring would have.

Cnut must have valued Aelfgifu and her children by him, for he sent her and Swein to rule Norway for him and as Swein was a mere child at the time, she was to act as regent. But she was unpopular with the Norwegians, her rule being ruthless and harsh and so she and Swein were driven out after some years and Olaf’s son Magnus the Good replaced Swein as King of Norway. One would imagine that Cnut’s feelings toward Aelfgifu if Northampton would have changed after she lost Norway for him.                  

          Noble women of the period

Eventually, Magnus would make a treaty with Cnut’s son by Emma, Harthacnut that would become the basis for Harald Hardrada’s claim to the English throne in 1066. Harthacnut and Magnus of Norway made an oath to each other that should one of them die, the other would inherit their kingdoms should they die without issue. Although Magnus claimed his right to England, he never pursued it beyond a threat after Harthacnut died. When Harald Hardrada succeeded to the kingdom after his nephew Magnus died, he claimed that Magnus’ and Harthacnut’s oath should still stand and egged on by Tostig, Harold Godwinson’s brother, he planned his fateful invasion of England.

But if the stories that had been circulating about Aelfgifu’s deception of Cnut were to be believed as truthful by the general consensus, the two men, Harold and William, should they be discussing all claims to the throne, would have both agreed that Harald’s claim should be dismissed. McNulty’s suggestion is that Harold was reassuring William that the English had discounted Hardrada’s claim, a decision that they both agreed about and happily they both ride off to campaign in Brittany.

Sounds plausible? No it doesn’t. Because what had Aelfgifu’s  indiscretion got to do with Hardrada’s claim to the throne? After all, she was not mother to Harthacnut who had made the oath with Magnus and she is definitely not the Aelfgyva depicted in the tapestry. Just when I think I am there, another ‘but’ pops up!

In the words of the great man Sir Walter Scott, “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive”. More in the next part of this amazing mystery.

                                                            Emma and her sons by Ethelred

Synopsis to Sons of the Wolf

1054, pious King Edward sits on the throne, spending his days hunting, sleeping and praying, leaving the security and administration of his kingdom to his much more capable brother-in-law Harold Godwinson, the powerful Earl of Wessex. Against this backdrop we meet Wulfhere, a Sussex thegn who, as the sun sets over the wild forest of Andredesweald, is returning home victoriously from a great battle in the north. Holding his lands directly from the King, his position demands loyalty to Edward himself, but Wulfhere is duty-bound to also serve Harold, a bond forged within Wulfhere’s family heritage and borne of the ancient Teutonic ideology of honour and loyalty.

Wulfhere is a man with the strength and courage of a bear, a warrior whose loyalty to his lord and king is unquestionable. He is also a man who holds his family dear and would do anything to protect them. So when Harold demands that he wed his daughter to the son of Helghi, his sworn enemy, Wulfhere has to find a way to save his daughter from a life of certain misery as the daughter-in-law of the cruel and resentful Helghi, without comprising his honour and loyalty to his lord, Harold.

On Battle fields he fights for his life, but the enemy is to be found closer to home, a far sinister and shadowy enemy than he can ever know...

Sons of the Wolf is a snap shot of medieval life and politics as the events that lead to the downfall of Anglo-Saxon England play out, immersing the reader in the tapestry of life as it was before the Domesday Book. With depictions of everyday life experienced through the minds of the people of the times; of feasts in the Great Halls to battles fought in the countryside, it cannot help but enlighten, educate and entertain.

A little taster from the Novel: Sons of the Wolf

Wulfhere couldn’t stand it any longer. His mind roared: why do they not give the order? They must either charge forward to meet the onslaught, or retreat. He heard neither command. His heels gently nudged his horse’s flanks and Hwitegaast dutifully cantered over to the Norman section behind the lines.

He called over to Ralph as he neared their position. “My Lord, we must attack or retreat! We are like sitting ducks! If we stand here any longer we will be cut down. Give the order!” Wulfhere pleaded. He smelt the fear and saw the confusion on the Earl’s sweating quivering features. My God, the man’s a coward! Wulfhere thought in dismay.

Ralph’s companions joined him and Wulfhere noted the anxiety in their faces.

“If we are going to fight, you must give the order to charge, Lord,” Fitzscrob urged and Malet echoed him.

Wulfhere saw to his relief that Ralph nodded, albeit without urgency, as if the fear had dulled his senses. He pulled on Hwitegaast’s reins and he returned to his position.

 

“Foreweard hilderæs! Forward charge!” Wulfhere yelled and his unit sped forth, their voices raised loudly in a thundering war cry as they spurred their horses into a gallop. The earth pounded beneath their beasts’ hooves as they dug their stirrups into the horses’ flanks to make them go faster. The Welsh bowmen sent over a volley of arrows and the commands of the Norse leaders followed as their men obeyed with precise discipline, to halt and gather to form a great shieldwall, knowing that the horses would baulk at their man-made blockade.

About a hundred bowmen from the enemy front ranks fired their arrows. Wulfhere was disheartened as some of his fellow soldiers were felled by them, leaving the horses to scatter riderless in confused panic. Wulfhere expected Ralph’s men to be engaging the bowmen in the centre, mowing them down with their javelins and sword strikes, but where the hell were they? Suddenly something did not feel right.

“Wulfhere!” He heard Esegar’s anguished voice calling him. “The Earl and his huscarles are leaving the field, Lord!”

Wulfhere swivelled and turned his head to his right. He reeled with shock and disbelief as Ralph and Malet were running from the field, the Normans and French in tow like fleeing vermin. The right flank, too, had gone and he saw that Gruffydd’s rearguard was charging after the soldiers in flight.

“What are they doing, sir?” Esegar asked, baffled.

Wulfhere’s voice was pitched at an angry growl. “Saving their fucking Norman skins...leaving the rest of us to the wolves to die like sheep!”

Even before a single spear was thrown, the craven Normans had fled, leaving the Earl’s ‘great’ army of mounted men at the mercy of the crushing enemy.

Wulfhere looked across the mud-churned field and gasped as the fleeing Englisc were struck down by javelins and arrows. The horses did not escape the vicious attack either. Their distressed whinnies fused with the howling of wounded men so that the noise became like the sound of hell on earth. In the pandemonium, the horses took flight in all directions, running into each other and throwing off their riders. The warriors were cut to ribbons as they lay helplessly on the ground. Whooping filled the air as the Wéalas leapt upon them with great savagery, slitting their throats and hacking at them in a frenzy of bloodlust.

All this happened within seconds but, as Wulfhere plundered his mind for what to do next, it seemed to him that an age had gone by. He fought with his instincts to run and save his skin like Ralph and, twisting his head back round, he sees that the men of his left flank have no choice but to fight as the Norse break their ranks and charge into the horsemen, using their deadly spears and great axes to hack at them with terrible ferocity. Wulfhere’s eyes captured some of his army fleeing the battle. His heightened sense of fear set off the mechanism needed for survival: adrenalin. The overwhelming rush of blood and energy stormed through to his head. He wanted to run also, but his pride and anger at this debacle that Ralph had created would not allow it. Cowardice may have won the day for Ralph but, for Wulfhere, death in battle was preferable. He would sooner die than sully his name with the infamy of leaving his men to perish without him. His mind inadvertently took him to Dunsinane and the memory ignited his anger as he visualised the terrible carnage of that battle.

Clearing his throat, he spat phlegm from a dry mouth before shouting, “Stand your ground! Do not flee! Are we cowards like the bastards who have left us to die? Retreat back unto me!”

He rode amongst the chaos, roaring and screaming until his throat was hoarse. He derided those who tried to leave for being cowardly, calling them scum, worse than the droppings expelled from a dog’s arse! Men began to heed his call to rally. They were disengaging from the mêlée to regroup the lines, swinging their horses’ heads round and galloping back to gather around him.

The survivors of the left cavalry flank were organised once more, thanks to Wulfhere. Those whose mounts had been killed from under them ran back on foot, or took charge of the horses that had lost their riders. He searched for Esegar briefly, thought he saw him somewhere and was relieved. He heard the bellowing of the Norse infantry as they too were regrouping their lines and the ground shook with the thundering of Gruffydd and Alfgar’s troops as they pursued the fleeing Englisc into the distance. Wulfhere felt as if he was under water and gazed up at the ravens circling in the sky above them, already waiting to swoop on the dead carcasses. Not yet, you dark devils, I am not ready for you yet!

Wulfhere stared at the faces of the snarling enemy. They were banging their weapons against their shields, chanting and calling out insults to them. Some of them were emulating horses by pretending to gallop up and down the field, accompanying their inane stupidity with neighing and whinnying. Their companions found this highly amusing. Wulfhere did not. They were heavily outnumbered and he was appalled. If he had to give his carcass up to the scavengers of the battlefield, he would die like a true warrior, valiantly, as they did in the old days.

He gave the order to charge; he knew his men were looking to him for his leadership. It filled him with both fear and excitement, but there was no time to think on that now as he charged ahead of his lines into the cordon of Norsemen who ran head-on into them like mad braying fools, some of whom wear the bearskins of the infamous Berserkers.

His sword arm swept down at the contorted faces of the Wykinga warriors, but for every man he felled, another took their place. He cut and slashed at them with animal-like ferocity, his kite-shaped shield in his other grasp battered at any would-be assassins on his left side. A warrior on the right of him took a blow from him across his neck and shoulder and the man’s blood splattered Wulfhere across his face. He tasted the iron in it as it seeped into his mouth. The man staggered and clasped a hand over the wound as thick blood poured through his fingers. Wulfhere lost him as Hwitegaast lunged sideways with the impact. Another snarling Wykinga came at him with a great axe. Wulfhere saw him aim for Hwitegaast’s neck. Anger and panic filled his very being. No, I am not going to let you kill my horse! his mind screamed. He shortened the reins, pulled them and Hwitegaast reared away from the axe’s deadly blade. He swung his sword arm downwards to smash into his assailant as he sidled his mount. The impact felled the axeman instantly and the man lost his grip on the handle of his weapon, rendering him useless for another assault.

Wulfhere sensed the chaos around him as the men of the mounted unit courageously fend off Alfgar’s crazed mercenaries. Some of the enemy were trampled under hooves, as they tried to unhorse the Englisc, slipping in the mire of blood and entrails that lay on the ground. His vision is filled with unlucky riders, whose horses succumb to the vicious blades of the Norse axes. Their weapons slice into the necks of the horses, almost decapitating them, sending out great jets of scarlet. Their masters were also cut down and the stench of blood and bodily fluids swirled in Wulfhere’s nostrils.  Men were roaring or screaming and the clash of steel rang in his ears. His own dread was glowing hot through his veins, spurring him on with the determination that he would not die without a good fight.

A great collective cry of voices burst through the chaos as about one hundred or so foot soldiers, men of the local fyrd, ran into the havoc, snarling like angry wolves and yelling a rallying call, “Hereford! Hereford!”

Wulfhere’s heart leapt with hope, even though he knew they are still vastly outnumbered. Spotting the exposed flesh of a man occupied in a fight with one of the Englisc foot soldiers, he swung his faithful sword, Hildbana. Wulfhere grunted with the impact, satisfied that it had met its mark as his blade sank into the man’s exposed neck. His victim’s head bent forward and the wound at the top of his spine gaped, showing the white of a broken vertebrae. Blood pumped slowly out onto his mail as he fell to his knees. Dropping his sword, his hands went to the back of his neck. Wulfhere manoeuvred his mount closer to the fallen man so that he can strike him once more. Hildbana thundered down, but his aim was not good and he caught the man’s helmet, thrusting him forward to the ground. Another warrior rode over him unintentionally, the animal’s hooves stamping on head and limbs indiscriminately. There was no more Wulfhere could do to him and he turned to his right just as an axe bit deeply into the horse next to him. The beautiful creature sank onto its front, blood spurting out from the wound and over Wulfhere so that he was covered in a fountain of scarlet droplets. Wulfhere instantly recognised the stallion that he had sold to Ralph and a lump formed in his throat. Its rider screamed and hit the ground as the horse collapsed. The unfortunate rider was then met with a spear to his back, skewering him like a spitted wild boar. Hwitegaast reared and whinnied, a haunting eerie sound as if he recognised the offspring that he had brought forth from his own loins.

As Wulfhere struggled to steady his distressed mount, he wondered if there was any point in carrying on. Men were dying around him. He felt like a dead man already. His eyes flashed round him. Horses were being cut from beneath their riders and he was angry. Men dying was one thing but, Christ on the Cross, not the horses...

He slid from Hwitegaast and smacked his rump hard until his bewildered mount took off, but not before giving his master a questioning look as if Wulfhere was abandoning him. A blow barged into Wulfhere’s shoulder. Thankfully his shield took the brunt of it. He reeled round, swinging his shield from his back and lifted his sword to defend himself, hardly noticing as his assailant’s sword slashed into his leg, close to where previously he had been hit by an arrow.

The man before him was, like him, drenched in blood. Wulfhere raised his shield to parry the sword blow that descended upon him. He was filled with a terrible fury and retaliated with his sword, swinging it upwards and catching the man’s own shield with such a force it knocked him back a few paces. His rage gathered momentum and Wulfhere hacked at the man before he could recover, his sword blows bashing his shield aside, creating an opening for him to deliver a slash across the man’s gut, knocking the Norseman off his feet. He pinned him with his foot and thrust his sword tip into the man’s throat as the enemy lay prone in the morass of mud and guts beneath him. The man’s eyes stared up at him, glasslike and questioning as red spittle frothed from his mouth and trickled into his beard. Wulfhere wasted no time, sensing danger to his rear, he whirled around to ward off a blow from some other warrior. Suddenly he was surrounded and had to fight them off like a madman. His fury continued to enrage him and he battled on, hardly realising he was injured until he began to weaken. Legs buckling underneath him, he dropped into the bloody slough and covered himself with his shield, waiting for the end. He knew his life was over.

 

 

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.

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.”          

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.