I Am the Chosen King by Helen Hollick Read Free Book Online

beneath the high dust and cobweb-draped rafters. The glistening drops of rain sizzled and hissed into the sulking flames below. This was a dismal place, Edward thought, a creaking, smoke-blackened, wind-battered, timber-built archaic old building. The palace of London—huh! He had never much liked it, nor even as a child when his father, Æthelred, had sat here in this very same royal chair. All those years ago he had regarded this Hall as cold and unwelcoming. A king’s palace? Peasant’s bothy more like! In Normandy the grand dukes built their fortified residences of stone. Stone that was hard to penetrate by wind and army. Stone that displayed strength and grandeur. And permanence. He would build in stone one day, when he could muster the funding. When his damned mother let go her clutch over the royal treasury.
    He dabbed at his nose with the edge of his cloak, certain he was beginning a head cold; his throat felt sore and dry, nose running and swollen, his temples throbbed. Mind, his head always ached whenever Emma was present.
    Glowering, Edward looked across at her, seated on her queen’s throne a few yards to his left, sited, at his ordering, as far along the dais as was possible. She sat erect, resplendent in her robes, precious jewels sparkling. The council of earls and nobles sat arrayed semicircular before the dais, most eyes not on him, but fixed on the figure of the Queen. He shifted, on this uncomfortable, hard-backed, hard-seated throne, shivering, pulling the cloak tighter around his chest, as the debate swirled around him. Each speaker disagreed with the last, the argument going fruitlessly round and round. Not one of them bothered to ask him, the King, for his opinion on the matter. All seemed to defer to his mother’s view, even those who usually disagreed with her as a matter of course—notably Siward and Leofric. Irritated at being ignored, Edward pouted. “I do not want Stigand to be appointed as bishop of East Anglia, Mother. He is of your choosing, not mine.”
    The talk faded as eyes and attention turned to the King. Emma exhaled slowly, holding hard to her patience. What did he know of the delicate task of appointing a new bishop? If the wrong man were to be put in the wrong place—God’s breath, such ineptitude could, overnight, deliver irretrievable power direct into the hands of Rome!
    “My Lord King,” she said, a thick mask of honey disguising her annoyance, “I do but use my years of acquired wisdom to advise you. Stigand is a talented and able cleric with an acute grasp of politics.” She smiled pleasantly at her son, though the expression was difficult to maintain. Her fingers itched to slap the peevish defiance from his sullen cheeks; to control her hands she curled her grip around the lioness-heads that formed the carved arms of her chair. Cnut had ordered it made for her, soon after their marriage. He had been a magnificent king, Cnut, strong in body, wise, determined yet open to well-constructed argument. Would England ever see his like again? Not in her son, that was for certain.
    “My Lord.” With a modest cough to attract attention, Godwine came to his feet. “This matter has now been discussed at great length. We all”—and he swept his hand around the semicircle of men—“agree that you require a man whose loyalty can be relied upon without question—”
    “Loyalty?” Edward interjected with a stab of petulant sarcasm. “To whom?”
    “Why”—Godwine spread his hands, innocently puzzled—“to you, Lord. You are the King. To you, and to England.”
    “Huh! To my mother, more like.” Edward muttered, slumping further into the cocoon of his cloak.
    Giving a small acknowledging bow, Earl Harold stood. Godwine granted him precedence by resuming his seat. Harold had grown in confidence since the Easter festivities, the responsibility of overseeing such a great earldom igniting his abilities. He took his duties seriously—although the lure of a comely woman