Conqueror

VIII

He lay on a pallet shrouded in rich cloth, like a skeleton already, his skin stretched over his skull, his hair white and thin as frost. He was attended by his wife-Edith, sister of Harold. Their marriage had been an alliance forced on Edward by an over-mighty earl, but now, whatever their differences, Edith looked genuinely saddened as she held the hand of her dying husband.

Doctors fidgeted, and the air was full of the stink of their potions; but there were more priests than doctors, and monks droned a dreary psalm. And Harold Godwineson Earl of Wessex was here, hands clasped in prayer, face grave. Sihtric sidled up to his lord.

The King stirred, startling them all. He raised a hand and feebly beckoned.

Harold stepped forward, and Sihtric, rat-like, followed. Though they spoke in whispers, Orm made out what followed.

'Serve the Atheling,' whispered the King. 'Harold, do you hear?'

'Of course, but-'

'Edgar the Atheling is the true heir. In his veins flows the blood of Alfred.'

'It is up to the witan to decide who succeeds. Not me.'

Edward snorted softly. 'The witan will do what you tell them.'

'But it is a dangerous time for England. And the Atheling is a boy. It is not the time to have a boy on the throne. Make me regent until the Atheling is ready.'

'No.' That was Sihtric, daring to interrupt a dying king.

Godgifu gasped, and Orm held her back.

Flushed, the priest whispered to Harold, 'The throne is yours, lord. The prophecy says so. We have spoken of this before, and my studies since have shown me the truth. This is what you must see now. In the ninth stanza: "A fighting man takes/Noble elf-wise crown." Elf-wise – Alfred.'

Shocked, Orm suddenly saw it. Harold's standard was the Fighting Man; the crown Sihtric urged him to take belonged to a king descended from Alfred. He felt cold at the Menologium's precision – and at the idea that a document drafted centuries ago had been designed to intervene in this moment, right here, right now.

And Godgifu looked shocked too. Evidently her brother had not shared this new interpretation even with her.

'I have thought this through carefully, lord,' Sihtric urged. 'You must do this. England requires it. Providence demands it. You know I have openly admired your honourable intentions towards the succession of the Atheling. But it is not a question of honour or dishonour any longer. You have no choice.'

Harold turned on him, his broad, handsome face twisted. 'Damn you, priest. You're always here, aren't you? Always darkening my soul. Always ready to lead me one step further towards perdition.'

'Harold,' Edward whispered. 'Do you hover over me to steal my throne?'

'No-this priest – that is not my intention-'

'I kept the peace in our shores for twenty years. Well, England is for the furnace now. All my life I have been stifled by you Godwines. You are a better man than your father, but now in this extreme you show yourself to be no more than he was.'

'Sire-'

'Your father blinded and slew my brother. I pray you see your brothers die before you, Harold Godwineson. I pray you see them all die, before you are blinded, and die in your turn.'

Harold's face hardened. Sihtric, wisely, said nothing.

Edward's breath rattled in his throat, once, twice, three times. Then came a final exhalation, almost of relief, as if he were laying down a heavy load.

Harold straightened up. 'The King recognised the threat to England. He vouchsafed the throne, and the safety of his queen, my sister, to me.' He glared around the room. 'You all heard it.'

Of course nobody present had heard any such thing. But no one challenged Harold's cold fury. Even Edith, his sister, the King's widow, would not meet his eyes.