The Chosen Queen Read online

  ‘Has King Griffin not been . . . kind to you?’

  ‘Kind?’ Gwyneth spat into the rushes. ‘Kindness is not a virtue we prize in Wales, Edyth. Griffin is strong and powerful and lusty.’

  ‘Lusty?’

  ‘Oh yes. That man gave me more fun between the sheets than Huw ever did.’

  ‘Gave?’

  ‘Gives. I may be older than you and less . . .’ her eyes wandered out of the great doors to the wanton sunset beyond, ‘ . . . less rosy, but Griffin wants me still.’

  ‘I doubt it not, my lady. I am but fourteen – a child yet.’

  Gwyneth grasped at her arm.

  ‘Then act like one or you will regret it. Men are easy to control, Lady Edyth, as long as you do not offer false promises. I shall show you, shall I?’

  ‘Show me . . . ?’ Edyth began but now the king was stepping into the hall and Gwyneth was whipping past to greet him.

  ‘My lord.’

  He bowed tightly.

  ‘Lady Gwyneth.’

  ‘You look well tonight, Sire, lusty.’

  She ran a slow finger down his tunic, curling up to him and blocking Edyth out.

  ‘As I recall, my lady,’ he responded instantly, ‘you like me best that way.’

  ‘Ripe for battle – yes.’

  Her hand crept lower and Edyth turned away. How could Gwyneth behave like this in front of everyone?

  ‘Then make sure you eat well,’ Griffin laughed, loud enough for all who chose to hear, ‘for you will need all your energy tonight. Shall we?’

  He offered her his arm and Gwyneth took it and sailed past Edyth with a mocking wink. All night she monopolised the king, engaging him with intimate conversation in sing-song Welsh and touching him with her clearly expert hands. By the time the minstrels were called, Griffin had pulled her onto his lap and was plainly in no mood for the dance floor. Indeed, barely was the first jig over before he leaped to his feet and, announcing to the entire hall that he had ‘a battle to fight with this lady’, departed the company, Gwyneth in triumphant tow.

  Edyth watched them go to raucous cheers and wondered what she was meant to feel. Jealousy – is that what Lady Gwyneth had intended? Because it wasn’t that. Pity came closer, with scorn hot on its heels. To be treated like that in front of everyone was shaming. There was no way any man would do that to her, be he the king of all Christendom. And yet, much of the joy had gone out of the evening and, with the habitual Welsh chill creeping back into the night air, people soon peeled off to their beds.

  Edyth was glad to go and burrowed down into the welcome warmth of her covers. Listening to the soft snuffles of her younger brothers either side, she tried to be grateful that King Griffin was not subjecting her to his lust. Yet her mind refused to shut down and kept snaking off to the bed, somewhere in this isolated palace, where, right at this moment, he was doing ‘battle’ with Lady Gwyneth. If his dancing was anything to go by it would be wild and rough and that thought sparked memories of Earl Torr in the woods. Edyth pulled her pillow over her head, trying to muffle out her damned curiosity but she knew, already, that she would sleep little tonight.

  She woke from an uneasy slumber next morning to find the bedchamber empty of all but Becca, sewing in the corner. Sunlight was slanting in through the cracks in the wooden window shutters and noises from beyond suggested that the men were already at their training. She leaped up and ran to look out onto the central courtyard below. The bedchamber she shared with Edwin and Morcar was on the second floor above the commander’s rooms and offered a fine view of the yard. The main palace buildings were positioned around four sides of a square, tighter in design than their English counterparts. This was presumably to create shelter from the bitter sea winds but Edyth liked the feeling of intimacy and privacy it created once within and today it looked magnificent.

  The sun was casting an already warm glow onto most of the rough central square so that many of the knights had thrown off their outer tunics and were fighting in their thin linen undershirts and trews. Edyth watched, entranced, as Griffin’s commander led them in a series of punishing drills, swords flashing in the sunlight and clanging alarmingly as they sparred in pairs.

  There was no rest for the king’s militia. Griffin had explained to her that Rhuddlan was ever under threat from possible invasions by rival Welsh factions or the barbaric Irish. Dublin remained closely linked to the roaming Vikings and with the voracious warrior Harald Hardrada on the Norwegian throne, the seas were more threat than protection. There were rumours the Scandinavian king had aspirations to be an Emperor of the North like the legendary King Cnut and Wales would be a useful back door into coveted England to help him achieve that goal. No one was fool enough to believe the locals would be spared on the way through so it was vital, Griffin had assured Edyth, that the men stayed sharp.

  Now she could see the intense concentration in everyone’s eyes as they wielded their blades – blunted training pieces but impressive all the same. She could see the way they bit down against the pain in their muscles and even, in those closest, the ripple of the muscle itself. It made her own body ache restlessly.

  ‘Yn olygfa bendigedig,’ her maid suggested shyly, coming over – a splendid sight.

  ‘Bendigedig,’ Edyth confirmed with a smile.

  ‘Gweld dy frawd?’ – see your brother?

  Edyth looked where the girl pointed and saw Brodie deep in training. He was working his blade with the same intensity as the rest and, as far as she could tell, he was doing well. She glanced at Becca and saw a misty look in her maid’s eyes.

  ‘Ydych chi’n hoffi fy mrawd?’ – do you like my brother?

  Becca flushed and shook her head fiercely, pointing instead to Brodie’s sparring partner, a young Welsh guard.

  ‘Pwy yw e?’ – who is he?

  ‘Lewys,’ she admitted, flushing even more deeply and adding a thickly accented, ‘dress?’ as she scuttled to Edyth’s gown chest.

  Edyth took the hint and dropped the subject.

  ‘I shall go riding,’ she said. ‘I shall go and see the sea - y môr.’

  Becca reached gratefully for her dark green everyday gown.

  ‘Gyda phwy?’ she asked – who with?

  Edyth frowned. It was a good question. Brodie was clearly busy and her father was also labouring his way through the drills. He’d found himself a white-haired opponent but still seemed to be struggling to keep pace. It was comical to watch here in the sunny palace yard but Edyth was uncomfortably aware that this was preparation for real battle where not just Alfgar’s dignity but his life would be on the line. He needed all the practice he could manage.

  ‘My mother maybe – fy mam?’

  Becca nodded encouragingly and so, her laces swiftly tied, Edyth drew in a deep breath and went through to the neighbouring chamber to find Meghan.

  ‘Morning, Mama.’

  Meghan looked up from her sewing.

  ‘Morning indeed. You are quite the slug-a-bed, Edyth.’

  ‘Can I help it if no one wakes me?’

  ‘No one wakes you?! Heavens, the noise the boys were making this morning would have woken your ancestors’ spirits.’

  ‘I had trouble getting to sleep last night.’

  ‘You did? Are you well?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you. Lacking exercise, I think. Would you ride out with me?’

  ‘Ride? Out?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Down to the coast perhaps. It is very pretty and . . .’

  ‘And very dangerous I am sure. Those cliffs are so steep. One false move and . . .’

  She plunged her hand downwards and slapped it violently onto the wooden floor. Edyth jumped but swiftly recovered herself.

  ‘We can stay away from the cliffs, Mama. Oh, do say you’ll come. It’s so boring inside.’

  ‘Where’s your sewing?’

  Edyth rolled her eyes. ‘You can sew when it’s raining,’ she pointed out. ‘And it do
es that often enough for anyone here.’

  ‘That much is true.’ Meghan sighed heavily. ‘Oh Edie, I do so want to go home. I miss the markets, I miss the company, I miss the court. Heavens, I even miss your grandmother!’

  She looked so small suddenly, hunched over her tapestry, that Edyth darted forward and kissed her.

  ‘And we will, Mama – soon. The men are preparing to ride forth any day now.’

  ‘To fight?’

  ‘If they must, yes.’

  ‘Alfgar with them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Brodie too. My little Brodie.’

  Edyth patted Meghan’s knee helplessly.

  ‘He’s not so little now, Mama. Have you seen him out there with his sword?’

  ‘No. I have not seen him and nor do I wish to. I cannot bear to send him to war.’

  ‘But Father must fight to regain his earldom so you can go home.’

  Meghan stabbed unhappily at her tapestry as if she would draw blood from the poor fabric.

  ‘Why can he not just go and talk to the king – say sorry?’

  Edyth thought of Svana’s letter, hidden beneath her bed. ‘If you father would prostrate himself . . .’ Is that what her mother was suggesting too? It would never happen.

  ‘Men need to fight,’ she said, ‘or they grow bored, like I am bored. Oh, do come riding, Mama – it will make you feel so much better.’

  Meghan, however, shook her head stubbornly.

  ‘I’m not going out there. I’m not going near that vicious sea. I don’t like it.’

  Edyth edged to the window. Still beautiful.

  ‘Well I do,’ she said, ‘so I shall go.’

  ‘Not alone.’

  ‘But you will not come.’

  ‘Not alone,’ Meghan repeated. ‘Who knows what brigands live abroad? Find someone to accompany you or you must not go at all.’

  Edyth gave up.

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ she agreed as meekly as she could manage and then fled the chamber.

  Her body felt restless and wild and she knew that on this glorious morning she would rather climb the terrifying Eryri mountains than stay cooped up in the bower. Somehow, somewhere, she had to find someone to ride out with her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Skirts bunched in her hands to free up her impatient legs, Edyth made for the stables on the far side of the courtyard. As she edged round the training men to reach the entrance, she spotted Edwin and Morcar, wooden swords clutched tight in their little hands.

  ‘Going to battle?’ she teased them as she passed.

  ‘Yes,’ Edwin retorted fiercely and Morcar chopped out at her leg with his miniature weapon.

  ‘May God be with you then, brave warriors,’ Edyth laughed, dodging the blow, and ducking into the stables.

  It was quieter inside the long low building with just the soft breathing of the many horses in the stalls along either side. Most of them were the stocky Welsh cobs who, the king had told her, were hardy, fast and skilled at negotiating the hilly terrain of the black mountains. He’d taken her to the door of the great hall one night to look out across the silvery sky to the dark jagged teeth against the horizon, revelling in her fear of them.

  ‘Why black mountains?’ she’d dared to ask.

  ‘Because your fate has to be black to lead you in there,’ he’d shot back then chuckled at the look on her face. ‘Not really, Edyth. The Eryri – the Highlands – are beautiful and are simply called black after the dark stone at their heart. They are the safest place in the world if you know them well, for no foreign enemy would follow you up their craggy sides.’

  Edyth hadn’t been much cheered by this glowing testimony and felt little compulsion to see them any closer, but she liked the horses with their broad backs and sturdy feet and now she murmured to them as she passed, searching for a groom she could persuade out on a trek. There seemed, however, to be no one about and she reached her own mare at the far end without seeing a soul. Leaning over the stall, she stroked the bay’s neck tenderly, though she couldn’t help noticing that she looked a delicate thing beside her Welsh counterparts. Small too. Edyth could swear she’d not been able to see over her fine back before arriving in Wales three months ago.

  ‘It seems you have outgrown your pony.’

  The deep voice echoed her own thoughts so perfectly it was as if God had spoken, but when Edyth spun round it was the king she saw stood before her. Where had he come from? And so silently? She dropped into a curtsey but he caught at both her hands and pulled her straight back up.

  ‘This isn’t England, Edyth – we don’t waste time with niceties here. Besides, you are far prettier stood tall.’

  He had not let go of her hands and Edyth felt her heart start to pound. With no one else in the stable, she was alone with the king.

  ‘As you wish, Sire,’ she managed.

  He smiled.

  ‘Oh, I can think of far nicer ways I’d wish to see you, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, but I can bide my time.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You must not be afraid.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘I see your heart beating – here.’ He touched her neck where the blood pulsed. ‘And here.’ Now he traced his finger downwards across her breast, pressing just hard enough to leave a trail of fire across her skin. She flinched.

  ‘I trust you won your battle last night,’ she flung at him.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered, unabashed. ‘I always win my battles.’

  ‘That is good if you are to ride forth with my father.’

  ‘I am. When his band of mercenaries arrives we will go but fret not, Edyth, I will bring him to victory and then I may just have to claim a prize.’

  He had stepped closer again and she was aware of his body all but surrounding her own. She forced her shoulders back.

  ‘Prize, Sire? From the Lady Gwyneth perhaps?’

  His eyes sparkled knowingly but all he said was: ‘No, not from her.’

  He reached up and took hold of Edyth’s long blonde plait. Lifting it, he curled it slowly, sinuously around his fingers then, leaning in, he whispered a kiss across her neck. The movement took her by surprise and she had no time to be shocked. A moan escaped her lips and she felt his grip on her hair tighten but then, with a soft sigh, he released her.

  ‘Now, what shall we do about this pony?’

  ‘Sire?’ Edyth stuttered, thrown.

  ‘You are grown too big for her, sweet as she is. You need a woman’s mount now.’ He grinned and grabbed her hand. ‘Come. I have just the thing.’

  He set off down the stables and Edyth, her body still spinning from his touch, had to trot to keep up. Then, just as swiftly, he stopped before a stall and she ran into him.

  ‘Steady now.’ He caught her slim waist. ‘See here.’

  He pointed into the stall and Edyth stepped up to look over the wooden gate at the most beautiful mare she had ever seen. Pure black, save for a white blaze down her nose, she had some of the muscular build of the Welsh cobs but was far finer-boned.

  ‘She’s a cross-breed,’ Griffin told her. ‘I put a pretty English mare to stud with my own Welsh stallion and this beauty is the result. She’s yours.’

  ‘Oh no, Sire. I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift.’

  ‘Do you defy me, Edyth?’

  ‘No. Oh no, Sire, I’m sorry. I just . . .’ She dared to look up and saw he was smiling. She took a deep breath. ‘I simply mean that she is too good for me.’

  ‘Ah, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, nothing is too good for you. Learn that and you will do well in life. Now, let’s saddle her up for you.’

  He clapped loudly and a stablehand came running. Edyth could only watch in disbelief as the mare was fitted with an exquisite leather saddle and led out of her stall. She eyed her nervously.

  ‘You ride well?’ Griffin questioned.

  Edyth’s head shot up.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I thought as much. Go on – mount. She’s broken in and she’s a bi
ddable thing if you show her you’re boss.’

  Edyth put her foot in the stirrup. The stablehand rushed to assist but it was the king who gripped her ankle and steadied her as she mounted. The mare skittered but instinctively Edyth grasped the reins and she stilled.

  ‘She likes you,’ Griffin said.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Môrgwynt. It means . . .’

  ‘Sea wind.’

  ‘It does.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘You are learning Welsh, Edyth. Why?’

  ‘For you,’ she answered instinctively.

  ‘For me?’ For the briefest moment Edyth thought she saw the hint of a blush creep up the king’s neck but he swiftly collected himself. ‘I am glad to hear it. Well, off you go then – she’s yours to ride.’

  Edyth shifted awkwardly on Môrgwynt’s back.

  ‘My mother will not let me ride alone, Sire,’ she admitted.

  ‘Of course not. You are – as I think I have mentioned already – too great a prize to be put at risk on these wild cliffs. I shall ride with you.’

  ‘You? I mean, you, Sire?’

  Môrgwynt was picking up her hooves, eager to stretch her long legs, and Edyth felt her strength and longed to test it but with the king? Alone?

  ‘You think I am the risk?’ Griffin suggested, clicking his fingers to have his own stallion brought forth. ‘You think you will be in danger with the Red Devil? Oh yes, I know they call me that, Edyth. I know everything, including that you are right to be concerned, but I can control myself – for now. Come, let’s ride!’

  It was a glorious morning. The king’s guards let them out of the small back gates that led directly onto a track towards the sea and Môrgwynt flew over the rough turf, as keen to ride free as Edyth. She was quick and responsive and by the time they reached the coast Edyth had the mastery of her.

  ‘You were made for each other,’ Griffin said as they pulled up at the cliff’s edge.

  ‘Indeed, I feel as if I have been riding her for years,’ Edyth agreed eagerly, the joy of the ride loosening her tongue.

  ‘And will for many to come, I hope.’

  ‘I . . .’ Edyth stuttered foolishly, the idea of a future beyond this strange time of exile catching like a loomhook on her tongue.