The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans

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      ‘I have the favour of the witan as Subregulus … no more. Edward may select his successor, and I have little hope it could be a son of Godwin.’

      ‘The witan will not accept his choice unless it be you Lord,’ insisted Olwin, but Harold seemed to withdraw into silence, and a mood came over the hall. I found myself staring once more at Valla – my ‘wife’ – and admiring her beauty, which seemed so more pronounced with combed hair and dressed in a fine gown.

      A skald who had been plucking on a harp for some time now raised his voice to sing sweetly in a strange tongue. The words I knew not but the music seemed to paint pictures in my drunken head of mountains and mist-filled valleys in a far land untouched by men. Valla came from such a land – from the empty marshes on the far edges of my forest – and I pondered her words again: that the man she truly married must be worthy of her. Well, if being a thegn wasn’t worthy of her, what chance did I have? A vague resentment grew in me but also a bubbling lust. Until I’d been promised to the church and encouraged to chastity, the drabs and wenches of my father’s hall had been mine to use as I took the fancy, so why not Valla? And she was my ‘wife’ after all.

      The skald’s song had moved on and was now louder and more urgent. He was singing in our normal tongue of Harold and his deeds and the men became loud again – cheering the exploits of their Lord, until Harold – seemingly embarrassed by the praise – bid the skald peace and the conversation returned to its former raucous din.

      Not only did I feel taller, the ale made me feel older and wiser amid the councils of the great and I turned to Tostig to ask a man’s question, ‘You mentioned before that your father was the true power behind the throne?’

      Tostig eyed me keenly for a moment, then shook his head.

      ‘Our father, the Earl Godwin, has been dead these seven summers … but his time is at hand.’

      ‘His time,’ I echoed, feeling drunk and stupid once again.

      Tostig glanced quickly over his shoulder to check who was listening to our conversation and spoke in a lower voice, ‘You have sworn your vengeance on Malgard, have you not?’

      ‘Yes Lord.’

      ‘I too have sworn revenge … although Harold will not. He prefers peace to his own advancement. But I would have weregeld for our father, our exiled brothers … and our sister. The kingdom.’

      ‘You’ve sworn vengeance on Edward?’

      Tostig stared at me and I felt a tremor of what it would be like to have him as an enemy – almost certainly fatal.

      ‘Edward banished our father Godwin,’ he snarled, revealing somewhat of the angry passion he normally kept in reserve. ‘ … sent us from Inglalond. But we returned … stronger than ever … and made Edward take back our sister whom he had married but abandoned to a convent.’

      Tostig poured more ale, for himself and for me, and continued, getting angrier and louder, ‘Long has he abandoned her. He comes not in her chamber and she is childless … thus is his revenge on the house of Godwin. There is no heir.’

      ‘But now Edward grows old,’ said Olwin, alerted to the conversation by Tostig’s anger. ‘All Inglalond looks to Harold for the safety of the realm. Edward must name him.’

      ‘All Inglalond perhaps,’ said Tostig, ‘but there are others beyond this island who have their own designs. The aetheling Edgar for one … Hardrada for another … and even the Bastard of Normandy has been heard to claim that Edward promised him the succession.’

      ‘The Bastard of Normandy?’ I asked.

      ‘Duke William,’ said Olwin. ‘He rules the western duchy of the Franks.’

      ‘But he is far away,’ sneered Tostig, ‘and has no friends here, save the king.’

      ‘He has another friend,’ said Harold, also joining the conversation. ‘Duke William is a good man … a strong man. I admire him … from an ignoble beginning he has grown wise and strong in war.’

      ‘Beginnings,’ muttered Tostig. ‘No family begins noble. It is endings that fill the pages of history books.’

      ‘To happy endings!’ I slurred, raising my cup, and Harold smiled.

      ‘I trust we will all make good ends and be remembered,’ he said, ‘but speaking of endings, I must leave this feast and bid you all good evening. It was good to meet you Brand … you mean to go to Lundene?’

      ‘Yes Lord. I must see the king before Malgard learns I yet live, ere he do further evil.’

      ‘Then travel with us … for to Lundene we go ourselves, in the morning.’

      He rose, as yet another drunken wave coursed through me – somehow making me feel strong and invincible. Valla had left some time earlier – affecting the manners of the Lady Swanneshals she had curtseyed to Harold (and to me, to my great amusement) – and now I was filled with the hot burning lust of youth as I drunkenly contemplated my ‘wife’ waiting in my chamber.

      We all staggered to our feet as Harold left the room, and I resolved immediately to test Valla’s resistance to my husbandly affection. ‘Give her one from me!’ shouted Tostig as I followed the chamberlain’s candle, my shoulders bouncing off the walls of the corridor behind his rounded shadow. He paused at a door and stepped back to allow me access.

      Taking a candle from the chamberlain, I strode into the room feeling ten feet tall and very confident that my wife must do as I bade her – bog-witch or no.

      The green gown lay discarded on the floor and my pulse quickened at the sight of it, but as I raised the candle I perceived the bed was empty.

      ‘Valla,’ I whispered hoarsely, my mind filling with lustful images. ‘Where are you?’

      The silence of the room finally convinced me that I was alone, and I moved towards the shuttered windows which were wide open, allowing a cool breeze despite the time of year. Then I noted that a stool had been placed beneath the window. Surely she hadn’t gone outside.

      I placed the candle in an embrasure by the bed and peered out the window, the breeze in my face inspiring a fresh wave of drunkenness as I peered into the moonlit courtyard.

      ‘Valla!’ I called in a loud whisper, but there was no response. The yards were silent except for the noises coming faintly from the town beyond the gate and the night-speech of crickets and other small and nameless creatures.

      The lust I had felt so strongly only moments before had completely passed. I was very drunk, very tired and tempted by the large bed, but I was horrified at the prospect of having to explain an absent wife in the morning, so I clambered out the window and resolved to find her.

      I dropped to the ground, landing on my slippered feet but toppling forward into dry mud which caked the knees of my fine stockings.

      ‘Fuck!’ I shout/whispered, brushing at my knees in anger – getting mud on my hands. Looking along the wing of the large house, only my shutters were open, so it would be simple enough to find the room again – but in my drunken state it would be an awkward climb back to the window, about six feet from the ground.

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