The Challenges of a King

For my family…

Character List

Anglo-Saxon

Edward the Confessor King of England

Ealdgyth of Wessex Queen consort, Godwin’s daughter

Nobles

Godwin Earl of Wessex

Gytha Thorkelsdóttir Godwin’s wife

Sweyn Godwinson Earl of Herefordshire

Harold Godwinson Earl of East Anglia

Tostig Godwinson Son of Godwin

Gyrth Godwinson Son of Godwin

Leofwine Godwinson Son of Godwin

Wulfnorth Godwinson Son of Godwin

Gunhild Daughter of Godwin

Edyth Swanneck Harold’s wife

Clergy

Bishop Stigand Bishop of Elmham and Winchester

Spearhafoc Benedictine monk

Norman

William the Bastard Duke of Normandy

Alan the Red Lord of Richemont

Robert of Jumièges Bishop of London

Prologue

Normandy, AD 1038

Garnier of Falaise sat in the centre of the wooden hut at the rear of the tannery, carefully nursing the remains of the previous night’s fire. In his hand, he held a fistful of straw, feeding it into the glowing embers as he gently blew them back to life.

His wife, Cateline, and their two young boys lay fast asleep under the heavy sheepskin fleeces covering the sleeping pallet, a luxury he had shared only a few minutes earlier. But with the night only half gone, he had arisen to use the last of the firewood, determined to add whatever warmth he could to the bitterly cold hut.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Cateline quietly from the bed.

Garnier looked over and saw his wife peering at him in the light of the solitary candle.

‘I thought you were asleep,’ he said. ‘I am trying to rescue what is left of the fire.’

‘That’s the last of our firewood.’

‘It is, but I will take the boys to the forest later and gather more, so we may as well use what we have.’

‘I told you,’ said Cateline, ‘if we block all the holes between the lathes, this place will be far warmer.’

‘I know,’ sighed Garnier, turning back to the fire, ‘and I swear that I will do so as soon as I get a chance. Since the duke died, I have hardly had a moment to do what needs to be done.’ He leaned forward and resumed his gentle blowing.

‘It’s been almost three years,’ said his wife, as wisps of smoke started to rise upwards towards the roof. ‘We should be grateful we still have employment. Many have been left without a roof over their heads. At least we have an income, and our children do not starve.’

‘You are right,’ said Garnier, kneeling and feeding the tiny flames with kindling. ‘We have much to be grateful for.’

‘Leave the fire,’ said his wife, ‘and come back to bed. The night is only half done.’

Garnier sighed and sat back on his heels, but before he could stand up, someone tapped on the door. Cateline sat bolt upright and stared across the reed-covered floor at her husband.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘How am I supposed to know?’ asked Garnier, getting to his feet. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

He walked over and placed his ear against the door, jumping when the knock came again, this time accompanied by a voice.

‘Garnier of Falaise! My name is Alan of Brittany. Open this door, in the name of the duke.’

The tanner looked over at his wife, now out of bed with one of the fleeces wrapped around her shoulders.

‘Who’s Alan of Brittany?’ she whispered.

‘He was one of the duke’s trusted men,’ replied Garnier.

‘What do you think he wants?’

Before he could respond, the voice came again.

‘Garnier of Falaise, open this door immediately or I swear I will have you removed as tanner before this day is out.’

Garnier knew he had no option and unbarred the door. The man pushed past, pulling a young boy behind him. He turned around and shut the door, sliding across the wooden bar before turning to face the tanner.

‘My lord,’ said Garnier, ‘is everything well?’

‘It is not,’ replied the man. ‘I assume you are Garnier of Falaise?’

‘I am, my lord, and this is my wife.’

‘Good. I have heard you were a respected vassal of Duke Robert of Normandy prior to his death.’

‘Indeed I was, my lord, and it was my privilege to serve him. He was a great man.’

‘Aye, he was,’ said the man, ‘and these are dark days. But if we are to continue what he started, we are in dire need of your help.’

‘If I can help, I will,’ said the tanner, drawing himself up. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘We need you to hide this boy for a few nights. Lock your doors and do not venture out until I return three days hence. Can you do that?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Garnier, ‘but what about my work?’

‘I will tell your seconds that you have fallen gravely ill and cannot attend. Your position will not be at risk.’

‘My lord,’ said Garnier, ‘I have to be able to go out, we need food and fuel for the fire.’

‘I will have my men bring you food and firewood after dark tonight. Until then, you will have to make do with what you have.’ He glanced towards the modest fire. ‘If anyone else asks you to open the door, tell them you have been struck down with illness and fear that death creeps towards you.’

‘Aye, my lord, but can I ask why?’

‘You may not. Suffice to say, it is a matter of life and death, and if you do as I say without consequence, you will be handsomely rewarded. Do I have your oath?’

‘Aye, my lord, you do,’ said the tanner.

‘Good. Now I must be gone. Do not let me down, Garnier of Falaise, the child’s life depends on it.’ Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the night, closing the door behind him.

Cateline ran across and bolted the door before turning to face her husband and the boy. The child was slight and no more than ten years old, but he was clearly healthy and wore a cloak of rich velvet.

‘What was all that about?’ she gasped, turning to face her husband. ‘What trouble have you got us into now?’

‘None of my own making,’ said Garnier, staring at the frightened boy. ‘It seems we have been caught up in the politics of the court.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Cateline. ‘Do you even know this boy?’

‘Aye, I do,’ said Garnier, looking over to his wife with a hint of fear in his eyes. ‘His name is William the Bastard, and he is the Duke of Normandy.’

Part One

Chapter One

Winchester, June, AD 1043

King Edward sat at a table in one of the antechambers in the rear of Winchester Cathedral. With him were several of his advisors, including Robert, the Abbot of Jumièges Abbey, near Rouen in Normandy.

The previous few weeks had been overwhelming; he had finally been crowned King of England after the death of his half-brother, King Harthacnut, almost a year earlier. Harthacnut had ruled England as regent since the death of Harold in AD 1040, on the agreement that, should he die, Edward would inherit the crown. Now, with all his predecessors finally gone, Edward’s time had come. At last, he had been acknowledged as the sole King of England.

For the next few hours, Edward signed off the mountain of decrees and treaties that had accumulated over the past few months, until eventually he sat back and held up his hand, causing all the chatter to stop.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘it has been a long day and I know there are many more such days to come, but it is time to put our business to one side. Please, gather your things and leave, we will reconvene at midday tomorrow.’

An air of relief rippled around the gathering. The arrangements for the coronation had taken weeks, and their normal business had piled up in the meantime. Now, at last, they could concentrate on their main roles, but were more than happy to end the day early. As they filed from the chamber, the king spoke out again.

‘Father Robert, Bishop Stigand, please remain. There is one more piece of business that I would like to discuss before you go.’

Robert of Jumièges stopped and turned to face the king. He enjoyed a favoured position with Edward, having served him and his family faithfully after they had fled England to escape the Danes over twenty-five years earlier. During that time, Edward lived in exile, until eventually he was summoned to Hursteshever by King Harthacnut and named heir to the crown by the thegns and barons of England. As soon as the succession was confirmed, Edward had summoned Robert from Normandy and installed him as his confidant and advisor.

Bishop Stigand also turned to rejoin the king at the end of the chamber.

‘Please, be seated,’ said the king. ‘It has been a long day and I’m sure your legs suffer for the effort.’

Two servants carried over chairs and all three men sat round a small table bearing wine and sweetmeats. One of the servants made to pour the wine but was waved away by the king.

‘You may leave us,’ he said. ‘We will manage from here.’

‘Your grace,’ said Robert as soon as they were alone. ‘May I take this opportunity of congratulating you on your kingship. It has been a long road, but you got here in the end. May God pave your way with honesty, justice and kindness.’

‘Thank you,’ said the king. ‘It has indeed been a long road. It has been over twenty-five years since I fled England as an exile, and for most of those you have been at my side, not only as a spiritual advisor but as a friend. This achievement is as much yours as mine.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ said Robert, ‘I am just blessed to serve.’

The king smiled and turned to the other man in the room.

‘Bishop Stigand,’ he said, ‘you have also had a huge part to play in this, and I offer you my gratitude. Without your intervention, especially at the meeting of the Witan in Hursteshever two years ago, my succession might not have been agreed.’

‘There were others involved, your grace; I was mainly the go-between.’

‘You do yourself an injustice,’ said the king. ‘My own people have reported that it was you and Godwin of Wessex who worked hard in the shadows to ensure I achieved the votes needed. I will not forget that.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ said Stigand. ‘May God bless your reign with long life and peaceful intent.’

Again, the king smiled before sitting back with a deep sigh.

‘So,’ he said, ‘we come to the reason I have asked you to remain here. First of all, I am well aware that Robert has only just arrived, so I have to ask – have you both met?’

‘Briefly, at the coronation,’ said Father Robert, looking over to the bishop. ‘But unfortunately there has been little time since. I am, however, aware that his grace is highly thought of and served four of your predecessors as a spiritual advisor.’

‘Oh, I think he served as far more than that,’ said the king. ‘But you are, of course, correct, and I intend he continues to play a large part in palace life.’

‘I look forward to working with you,’ said Robert, nodding towards the bishop.

‘And I, you,’ said Bishop Stigand, returning the nod.

‘So,’ said the king, ‘let’s get down to business. Despite finally being in possession of the crown, the fact that I have been in Normandy for the best part of twenty-five years is a burden that will be difficult to discard. Already I have heard mutterings about this having been a missed opportunity to crown a man born within these shores. We have to address the embers before they turn into a fire.’

‘Who says such things, your grace?’ asked Robert. ‘I will have them dealt with.’

‘The rumours are third-hand,’ said the king, ‘but truth be told, I can understand why some men see it this way. Besides, the last thing I want to do is start my reign by rounding up my doubters.’

‘A sensible approach,’ said Stigand. ‘For no matter what you do, the scrutiny the role brings means there will always be those who wish you ill. It is the nature of kingship.’

‘Indeed,’ said Edward. ‘So, bearing that in mind, I want to move quickly to build trust and alliances across England. I do have an army at my disposal, but should any ill will arise, especially in the early years, it will be no match for the forces of my earls.’

‘I do not believe it will come to that,’ said Stigand.

‘Perhaps not, but better to deal with it now while we enjoy peace.’

‘What would you do, my liege?’ asked Robert.

‘I think there is merit in binding at least one of the noble houses to the throne,’ said the king. ‘Create unbreakable ties to ensure no man dare rise against me.’

‘And how do you intend to do this?’

‘I am open to suggestion,’ said the king, ‘but I was thinking perhaps through marriage. Is there a suitable bride out there who would bind one of the houses of England to the throne?’

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Robert. ‘I will send messengers to Lords Siward and Leofric to see if there are any suitable candidates.’

‘Actually,’ said Stigand quickly, ‘there is no need to send anyone northwards when there is a perfect candidate but a few leagues from here.’

‘And who is that?’ asked the king.

‘The maiden, Gytha, daughter of Godwin of Wessex. She is fair of face and of perfect age for such a union. She is also untouched and as graceful as the purest swan.’

‘She sounds intriguing,’ said the king. ‘Perhaps you could arrange a meeting and, if she is agreeable, open negotiations with her father.’

‘No,’ interrupted Father Robert, his face lined with concern. ‘That won’t be possible.’

Both men turned to stare at him.

‘Why not?’ asked the king.

‘You know why not, your grace,’ said Robert. ‘Earl Godwin is responsible for the death of your brother. How could you create an alliance with someone who has spilt the blood of your own family?’

‘Earl Godwin denies all responsibility for Alfred’s murder,’ interjected Stigand, ‘and do not forget it was he who was instrumental in ensuring King Edward received the backing of the Witan. Besides, Godwin is by far the most powerful earl in England and the crown would be unassailable with his support.’

‘It goes against everything that is decent,’ snapped Robert, his face contorting in anger. He turned back to the king. ‘Choose one of the other earls, your grace, for even though I have been here only a short while, it is apparent to me that the Godwin family see themselves as above all other men in England. Some say Godwin even has eyes on the crown for himself.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ snapped Bishop Stigand. ‘He was first to support the king at the Witan. His loyalty is unquestionable.’

‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted the king, ‘you are men of the Church, so please act as such.’ He fell silent and looked between them both. ‘I understand your concerns, Father Robert,’ he said eventually, ‘and I promise I will make no rash decisions, but I think Bishop Stigand’s suggestion is certainly worth exploring. Let us meet this Gytha and take it from there. Agreed?’

‘I am yours to command, your grace,’ said Robert. ‘But I have to register my concerns.’

‘And you have done so,’ said the king. ‘Now, let us bring this long day to an end. Bishop Stigand, please make the necessary arrangements.’

‘As you wish, your grace,’ said the bishop.

‘Good,’ said the king, ‘you may leave.’

Both men stood and, after the slightest of bows, left the chamber, one excited at the possibility of one of the Godwin family marrying into royalty, the other seething at what had just happened.

Chapter Two

London, January, AD 1045

Godwin of Wessex rode his horse through the gates of Southwark Manor on the outskirts of London. Behind him came a hundred mounted huscarls, all experienced and trusted men permanently employed as bodyguards and enforcers. Towards the centre of the column a team of two horses pulled a covered cart, the waterproof leather richly decorated with woodland scenes.

As the rest of the riders headed towards the stable blocks, Godwin dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a servant before heading up the steps into the manor to be met by his marshal. Osmund had been at Southwark for several days, ensuring the manor was adequately protected from anyone foolish enough to try to do the Godwin family ill, and he had been waiting for the arrival of his lord for the past few hours.

‘Master Osmund,’ said Godwin, removing his riding gauntlets. ‘A good day to you. I assume the past days have been well spent?’

‘Indeed they have, my lord,’ said Osmund. ‘Your guests are well quartered and there is plenty of room for your huscarls. They will be billeted on the other side of the manor in the new barracks.’

‘What about stabling?’

‘Enough for now,’ said Osmund, ‘but with little spare. The place is secure, my lord, and I am confident you and your lady will sleep easy.’

‘You have done well,’ said Godwin. ‘During the celebrations, we will let another command the guard so you may sup at the second table.’

‘I am honoured, my lord,’ said the marshal with a bow.

Godwin looked around and, seeing the steward nearby, beckoned him over.

‘Cuthbert,’ he said, ‘it has been a while. How go my affairs in London?’

‘Everything you asked for in your letters has been carried out diligently,’ said the steward. ‘Lady Gytha has been particularly active in making sure the arrangements are more than suitable.’

‘I’m sure she has,’ laughed Godwin. ‘When it comes to organising celebrations, my wife is nothing if not enthusiastic.’

‘That she is, my lord,’ said the steward with a smile.

‘So, is my daughter here?’

‘She is, my lord; she arrived safely yesterday and is looking forward to seeing you. She said it has been several weeks since you last talked.’

‘Indeed it has,’ said Godwin. ‘I had some unpleasant business to attend to on the Welsh borders, but it is sorted now. Where is she?’

‘In her quarters in the west wing, my lord. Shall I send for her?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said the earl, slapping his hand on the steward’s shoulder. ‘I am sure you have enough to do.’

One of Godwin’s huscarls walked over and gave him a satchel.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘don’t forget this.’

‘As if I would,’ said the earl. ‘Thank you.’

He entered the building, leaving the steward to coordinate the unpacking of the carts. Once inside, he made his way into the west wing and headed up a wide staircase to the floor given over to his daughter. He knocked on the door and was shown in by one of the servants. Across the room, his daughter sat on the bed alongside his wife, Gytha.

‘Father!’ squealed Ealdgyth, catching sight of him. She ran across to embrace the earl.

Godwin placed the satchel on the floor just in time as the young woman threw herself into his arms.

‘Steady, girl,’ he laughed. ‘I can hardly breathe such is your strength.’

‘But it has been so long,’ said Ealdgyth, ‘I feared you might not make it in time.’

‘What, and miss my own daughter’s wedding? That was never going to happen. I would have fought every Welshman and Scotsman single-handedly if I had to.’

‘And undoubtedly emerge the victor against everyone foolish enough to stand in your way,’ said Ealdgyth. She paused and stared at her father for a few moments. His standing amongst the nobles of England grew ever stronger, and hardly a day went by that she did not hear someone extolling his virtues.

‘So,’ said Godwin, breaking the moment, ‘let me look at you.’ He held his daughter at arm’s length and looked her up and down. ‘Even more beautiful than I remember,’ he said eventually. ‘King Edward is a very lucky man.’

‘I still can’t get used to being called Ealdgyth,’ said his daughter. ‘Why can’t I be called by the name afforded me by you and Mother? Gytha is such a beautiful name.’

‘A small price to pay to become the Queen of England,’ said her mother, walking over from the bed. ‘Behind closed doors, you will still be the same daughter we watched grow up into such a beautiful young lady.’

Gytha turned to her husband. ‘Come, join us. Cuthbert has furnished us with the most beautiful wine and sweetmeats for our reunion.’ She led the way over to a table where two empty goblets stood on a gilded tray.

‘We need another,’ said Ealdgyth turning to one of the servants.

‘Wait,’ said Gytha, picking up the satchel. ‘That won’t be necessary. In fact, please take them away.’

‘Mother?’ said Ealdgyth, as the servant removed the tray. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Your father has the answer to that,’ said Gytha before giving the satchel back to her husband. ‘Here, they should come from you.’

Godwin took the bag and retrieved a beautifully wrapped package from inside.

‘This is for you,’ he said, handing it over to his daughter.

‘What is it?’ asked Ealdgyth.

‘A small token from your mother and me. Something for you to remember us by in the quiet moments when you miss your family, however brief and infrequent I hope them to be.’

Ealdgyth smiled and sat at the table to open the gift. As the silk wraps fell away, her mouth fell agape at the sight before her – one of the most beautiful goblets she had ever seen. The base was painted in vibrant colours and showed a stag bowing to a crowned young woman. Around the top half of the goblet, intricate designs of gold wove themselves amongst precious stones set carefully into the rim.

She unwrapped the rest of the package to see two similar goblets depicting the same character, though in different scenes. One had an eagle perched on her arm, while the other showed a host of multicoloured fish leaping from a lake while the woman looked on from beneath a great oak.

‘These are astonishing,’ she gasped, looking up. ‘Is the woman supposed to be me?’

‘It is,’ said Godwin. ‘A reminder that the kingdom of God is not limited to that of mankind but of all the creatures that walk, swim and fly under the sun.’

‘They are truly beautiful,’ said Ealdgyth. ‘I am sure the king will be taken aback by such beauty.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Godwin, ‘but remember they are for you and you alone.’

‘For me?’ she asked. ‘But I do not understand. If they are for me, why are there three? Surely I would need only one.’

‘Because they are to remind you of us and are to be used only when we three are together,’ said Gytha, arranging the goblets side by side on the table. ‘If you please, my lord,’ she said after pouring the wine, ‘I would like to be the first to toast our daughter.’

Godwin smiled and picked up one of the goblets.

‘To Ealdgyth of Wessex,’ said Gytha, ‘beloved sister to her siblings and daughter to the proudest parents in Christendom. May you be showered with God’s blessings and never forget those who love you the most.’

All three clinked the golden goblets together and sipped at the wine. For the next few minutes, they chatted excitedly about the forthcoming wedding until someone interrupted them with a knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ called Godwin.

A servant came in and walked over to the earl to whisper in his ear.

‘Excellent news,’ he said. ‘We will be down shortly.’

The servant left, and Godwin turned back to join his wife and daughter. ‘There is another gift,’ he said, picking up his drink. ‘One even more precious than the gold you now hold in your hands.’

‘What could possibly be more precious than these?’ asked Ealdgyth.

‘How about the presence of someone you value more than life itself?’

Ealdgyth stared as the implication sank in. Tears welled in her eyes, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry of joy.

‘Is she here?’ she whispered, hardly daring to hope.

‘She is,’ said Godwin, ‘and she’s waiting in the chapel. Go, we will join you shortly.’

Ealdgyth threw her arms around her parents.

‘I love you both so much,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for everything.’

She turned away and ran from the room, leaving her smiling parents staring after her.

‘Do you think she is going to be happy?’ asked Gytha eventually.

‘I hope so,’ said Godwin, ‘she deserves it.’ He held up his goblet and turned to his wife. ‘To the future Queen of England.’

‘The Queen of England,’ repeated Gytha, lifting her own drink. ‘May her reign be blessed with love, happiness, and the sound of little children.’

Ealdgyth ran across the courtyard and into the manor’s private chapel. The plain stone building was sparsely furnished with only a few benches, but at the far end, a beautiful crucifix adorned the wall. Beneath the cross knelt two women with their backs to the door, both in the grey habits of nuns. Ealdgyth suddenly remembered where she was and, despite her excitement, knelt on one of the many velvet cushions before making the sign of the cross and getting back to her feet. She walked quickly to stand just behind the women but, seeing they were still deep in prayer, waited in silence.

Finally, the two nuns stood up, and after making the sign of the cross, turned to face Ealdgyth. One was advancing in years, her face crisscrossed with the lines of age and wisdom, while the other was one of the most beautiful young women Ealdgyth had ever seen.

‘Gunhild,’ gasped Ealdgyth, ‘you look radiant!’ She held out her arms, and after glancing at the older nun for permission, Gunhild ran into her sister’s embrace.

‘Gytha,’ said Gunhild, ‘it is so good to see you again. My heart feels like it is about to burst!’

‘I think mine has already done so,’ replied her sister. ‘It has been far too long, I am so happy you were allowed to come.’

‘How could we not allow her to witness her sister’s marriage to the king?’ said the older nun with a smile. ‘We are tutors, not monsters.’

‘This is Sister Margaret,’ said Gunhild, releasing her sister. ‘She is my teacher and my chaperone. Sister Margaret, this is Gytha Godwinson, my beautiful older sister.’

‘It is good to meet you at last, Lady Gytha,’ said the nun. ‘Gunhild has not stopped talking about you since we left the convent.’

‘She always was a chatterbox,’ said Ealdgyth, ‘but I must inform you both that henceforth I am to be known as Ealdgyth.’

‘Why in God’s name would you do that?’ asked Gunhild.

‘Child, do not take the Lord’s name in vain,’ chastised the older nun.

‘My apologies, sister,’ said Gunhild, ‘I was taken by surprise.’

‘I am not sure,’ said Ealdgyth, ‘I believe it was a request from the king himself. But enough of such trivial matters, we have so much to talk about and so little time until the wedding. Come, I will show you my room and then find out where you are to sleep.’

Chapter Three

London, January, AD 1045

Earl Godwin of Wessex sat at the centre of the table alongside his wife, Gytha Thorkelsdóttir. To his right sat his sons Harold, Tostig and Gyrth, with an empty seat for Sweyn, who was late for the gathering. At the other end of the table with Gytha sat their daughters, Ealdgyth and Gunhild, alongside another son, Leofwine, and their youngest child Wulfnorth, a boy of just eight years old. The family was almost complete for the first time in years, with only Ælfgifu missing. Ælfgifu, their youngest daughter, had been sent to Wilton Abbey for her education and had been unable to join Gunhild on the journey to Southwark as she was unwell.

Throughout the hall, Godwin’s extended family and huscarls shared another four tables, each seated in a strict pecking order. The earl looked around with quiet satisfaction. Over the past few years, especially since the coronation of Edward, his family had become one of the most powerful families in England, if not the most. In addition, his daughter would soon be queen, a position that would give their family even more power.

‘Godwin,’ said his wife, ‘Sweyn is obviously not coming. We should begin.’

‘He promised me he would be here,’ said the earl. ‘We will give him a few more minutes.’

No sooner had he spoken when the lower doors opened and their eldest son strode in, still wearing his riding cloak.

‘He’s here,’ said Gytha, with a smile. ‘Thank the Lord.’ She stood up and walked around the table, accompanied by Ealdgyth.

‘Sweyn,’ she said, embracing her son. ‘We had almost given up on you.’

‘As if I would miss my sister’s celebration,’ said Sweyn, turning to embrace Ealdgyth. ‘Even if I were dead, I would have crossed the country, dragging my coffin behind me.’

‘That’s awful,’ laughed Ealdgyth. ‘But coffin or not, we have saved you a seat at Father’s right hand, as befits your position of eldest son.’

‘And favourite brother,’ said Sweyn with mock sincerity. ‘Let us not forget that.’

‘Of course,’ said Ealdgyth. ‘Come, I am impatient to get started.’

She took Sweyn’s hand and led him to his seat before