De Gournay reported the seizure of King Edward to Rouen by the first available vessel. Everyone believed death was imminent, English and Norman. The Confessor lived on. His doctors fussed over him, Queen Edith Godwine hovered about the old man. Harold, the factual ruler, took ever opportunity to visit. Edward came out of his coma by November first. At least he had some lucid moments. Further tiny cerebral hemorrhages affected him throughout November and sent him back to oblivion.

Harold carried on in the king’s name which was no different than when the king was well. The Witan was also in attendance on the bed-ridden king. The Witan had no regular meeting place. They were expected at the king’s side when he called. They worried about succession. Running the country in a time of peace and a favorable trade balance was little trouble. The civil servants of the day could maintain control. Succession was a different matter. King Edward was without issue. At one time he set aside Queen Edith claiming the marriage had never been consummated.

“Lords of England,” Harold began, “We have an unprecedented problem if the king does not recover his senses. You realize it is up to us not only to advise the king, but also to chose his successor.. when he dies. This is a matter for great discussion and if possible, unanimous agreement; a huge responsibility, for a king has great powers for good and evil. We must consider four aspects:

First, a new king should be a man of proper character to rule with strength and justice.

Secondly, he should be of royal blood.

Thirdly, he should be English.

And Fourth, since we respect the king we should elect an heir he advises if his health at the time permits it.”*

Edwin of Mercia exclaimed, “Why?”

“Well, Edwin, it is the law! Everyone of these aspects are very important to an Englishman. Of course, number four is the least to consider in Edward’s present state.”

“All right. Who do we have to consider?” queried Gyrth, Harold’s brother.

“My Lords, if I may,” interjected the Archbishop of Canterbury, Stigand, “we have six possibilities for the throne. The best claim of succession rests with Edgar, the great grandson of King Ethelred. His character is above reproach. He is of the royal blood line and he is decidedly English. But…”

“But?” questioned Leofwine as he raised up to look Stigand in the eye.

“But, he is a child,” continued Stigand, “At fifteen years we could have proclaimed him king.”

“And?” asked Morcar who had already sold his soul to Harold.

“There are two foreign kings with a claim by their relationship to King Cnut. Swegn of Denmark is an ethical man, a warrior who repelled Harald Hardrada’s attempts at invasion for fifteen years. He has royal blood. But…”

“He’s not English!” completed Harold.

“Exactly!” approved Canterbury. “Harold Hardrada is a beserker, steeped in blood. He has no morals. His only saving grace is his fighting ability.”

“Let’s forget him. We don’t want a foreigner and a mental deficient.” Waltheof exclaimed.

“We also have the other foreigner.”

“Who?” said teen-age Morcar.

“William the Bastard of Normandy,” Harold supplied.

“What claim does he have for God’s sake?” Morcar continued.

“It has nothing to do with God, My Son. He claims a hereditary relationship by marriage. He swears Edward promised him the throne as early as 1052. In fact, he hasn’t seen Edward since. No one remembers any promise except William.”

* Howarth, 1066 The Year of Conquest, Penguin Books, 1977.

“Likely, King Edward complimented him, ‘With your bearing, you would make a statuesque King of England’”

“That’s possible.” Stigand replied. “But he is not English. He has no royal blood and I doubt his claim to Edward’s promise. If Edward had his choice he may have selected his favorite, Tostig.”

“But, that’s impossible,” countered Harold. “Tostig appears unbalanced, he is deposed, and he lives in exile. Not only that, our family carries no royal blood.”

“That leaves the only other consideration,” and Stigand opened his arms to Harold. “We are certain of this man’s character. We recognize his abilities to rule from his work as subregulus. He is English and I’m certain this group would elect him. But…”

And four or five chorused, “He has no royal blood!”

“Our way is certainly muddied and fraught with peril, a treacherous road to follow. We are contemplating an unnecessary until the king expires. He may recover.” placated Harold.

“I doubt that.” someone muttered.

“True, but we can’t cross London bridge until we get there. However, a firm decision must be made, so consider our options.”

Across the channel, William of Normandy was also having problems. News of Edward the Confessor’s seizure gave William the hope of succession, but after a month of steady hard driven war exercise, the army was beginning to slack off. William was pressing his officers, but by the time it reached the foot soldiers they tended to slough it off. They had practiced and practiced and now they wanted to play the game.

The knights played at war every day. They were caught in the rise of chivalry- a superfluity of conceited illiterate young men.* They fought, hunted and chased women. These rakes were the bane of the peasant and the weapons of the nobles. They added to the turmoil; instead of law, they were lawless. William had to close rein his knights.

William Fitz Osbern, Normandy’s accountant, was beside himself. The treasury was depleted. William’s forays into Anjou, Maine and Brittany, the arming and feeding of his troops, and the cost of the armada of ships left the cupboard bare.

“My Lord, we are without funds. You must raise taxes, decrease spending, sell off assets-- something to give us working capital!”

“It can’t be as bad as that, Secretary.”

“MY Lord, we hardly have enough to supply the castle with food!”

“Well, Count William, what do you suggest?”

“The biggest drain has been the longboats. We should tax the counts.”

“And?”

“Every subject lord should buy two boats of the fleet.”

“That will be a hard sell, Secretary. Many of my subjects are landlocked, far from the sea, particularly in Maine. Secondly, our coastline is not conducive to good sailing. In a word, we lack harbors.”

“Yes, My Lord. However, they are obliged to supply you with men and weapons for war. Ships are weapons.”

“All right,” agreed Duke William, “Collect fifty gold marks per ship.”

“That may be a little steep ,Duke William.”

“Yes, it may. Do it!”

“Yes, My Lord,” and the tax man left collection box in hand.

The conqueror might have to rave and threaten, but he would get his money.

* Howarth, 1066, The Year of the Conquest, Penguin Books, 1977.

Sir William Trivett was a major addition to chivalry which took up a large portion of his time. He loved to fight and he was good at it. He loved to hunt and he had done that since childhood. He loved the ladies and he had always been successful with them. Only Sir Rupert’s Elizabeth had been able to keep Will at arm’s length which only intrigued him more. He was bent on the conquest of Elizabeth and she was equal to the attack he mounted, and the task of controlling him. It amused Sir Thomas and Jo-Anne immensely and they contrived to throw the two love antagonists together at every opportunity. When they settled in their new home, Jo-Anne wished to entertain their wedding attendants. Elizabeth and Will both accepted the invitation and came to Trivett cottage. Jo-Anne, like her mother, prepared a sumptuous meal. The two girls had plenty of time to discover the treasures of the manor house. A cottage with running water was an unheard of blessing. The fireplace irons and the hot water fireplace tank were considerations that Elizabeth had never seen before. As ash depository, Elizabeth would have one of those. Two tiny glass windows were a treasure from Duke William. The girls gushed and cooed over the trove.

“You have a gold mine here, Jo-Anne.”

“We are very happy, Elizabeth,” and at that moment they both discerned the pounding of horses’ hooves and briefly Easy Walker and another charger blurred the window as they race by in the direction of the barn.

“Well, les garcons have arrived.” And the two young ladies set about the task of laying the table.

Will and Thomas, siblings in competition, had been racing. The horses must be tended, cooled, watered and fed before the men got their own supper. Jo-Anne would demand their cleanliness and Thomas could show off the new fireplace water tank. Eventually they were ready. From somewhere Will produced a red rosebud. It surprised Thomas when the chivalrous Will presented it to Elizabeth.

“A rosebud for Rupert’s Rose of Rouen.”

“Oh, thank you Will! But don’t wait like a drone bee expecting the opening of this rosebud.”

Jo-Anne laughed aloud, Thomas grinned, but Will looked shocked.

“Elizabeth!” he cried.

“I’m just warning you, Will. I’m not one of your maids in the palace.”

“Elizabeth, you’d think I asked you to lie with me,” as his eyebrows raised.

“I’ll lie with you, Will.” Will grinned and Elizabeth continued. “On the way over here I slew a huge fire-breathing dragon—and he wanted me to go to bed with him too. How’s that for a lie, Will?”

“Elizabeth, you have the wrong idea about me. I am your enchanted slave. Here.”, and he selected from the table. “Have one of Mrs. Trivett’s sweet buns.”, and he profferred the bun for her to bite.

“You be careful, Will. If you make one false move, I’ll slice your sweet buns and it won’t be for butter.”, and she twirled a little blade she had some how secreted on her person.

Thomas and Jo-Anne were either smiling smugly or snickering silently. They had never seen Will put down so. In the verbal fencing between Will and Elizabeth, Will was unarmed. It raised two questions: Had he met his match?; Would it ever be a match?. After the joust they settled in for Jo-Anne’s feast

Thomas had never been as involved as Will. After the war in Maine he had searched his psyche seriously. Although he was a proficient fighter, he did not have the killer instinct. His mother had raised a moral man who worshipped life and his fellow man. Thomas gloried in work, with great delight in accomplishment with his hands. ‘Maybe,’ he told himself, ‘I’m just a glorified peasant’

After his training sessions in or near the castle, Thomas returned to his land. He and his peasants cleared stones and stumps. He was not above the work; he relished in it. He was creating an estate to be proud of.

The love of his life was just as diligent. She was turning their humble home into a manor. There was always a new addition when Thomas arrived home, from a new wooden ladle to the fireplace hot water heater. There were laces, threads, weaving and clothes. There were meats , fishes, vegetables, fruits

and honey. There was love, companionship, togetherness, care, tenderness, unity and passion. Thomas and Jo-Anne explored. They delved into character, mind, heart, and soul not only of their mate, but also of themselves. They saw their reflection in the eyes of each other and they delved the depths of their lover and themselves, and were often surprised by what they found. They worked together; they played together; they loved together.

When they blew out the last candle the couple united in tenderness. They knew every mole and every vein of the others skin. Under the covers their soothing hands stroked away the cares and stress of the day. A gentle massage worked their aches, physical and mental, from their relaxed bodies. It was a time of sympathy and empathy and understanding. Their hugs were a caress; even in arousal they were tender. Their kisses a union- a connection of like souls. It was difficult, as two at the height of sexual awareness lay together to not be aroused. They found each others pleasure spots that opened their bodies to each other. The foreplay they engaged in had them arching their bodies, reaching for satisfaction. And, when both were panting in excitement they united. Ever so slowly they tantalized the other and then began reaching and straining for more until one felt the rising pressure too strong and decorum was cast aside. Speed and ferocity increased until both gasped or cried at a climax of love. Once in a while they were too tired from work on their estate and just drifted off to sleep in each others arms.

They were never far from their parents. Jo-Anne saw her mother at least every other day. Thomas saw Sir Richard every day at the castle. It was a little farther to the Trivett vineyard, but they visited weekly. Mary, Thomas’ mother, was growing old gracefully. She kept her youthful body and her gorgeous face. It wrinkled, but remained undamaged. Her hair silvered and her hard working hands gnarled with arthritis, but she was still a beauty. Age had not been so kind to Thomas Senior, five years older than his wife. He was ancient for a man in 1065. He had passed his seventieth year. His hair had thinned further and he was tempted to shave it all, but he had lost interest. His ample paunch was disappearing. He ate poorly. He often had to sit and clutch at his chest. Thomas Junior did not notice his father’s decline or distress, but Jo-Anne was aware. She and her mother-in-law conversed despite their age difference. Mary and Jo-Anne talked as peers because of Jo-Anne’s intelligence and Mary’s character. Mary was beside herself with worry about her husband of fifty years. She recognized the angina chest pains and fed him heart ease and the heart berry. The stomach disorder and the loss of weight she thought related. She did her best to present a wholesome diet, but the old man was sliding away. Jo-Anne sympathized with Mary and supported her. The two women had Thomas Junior take over the fletcher’s guild. Thomas was not a fletcher ,but Senior’s underlings now did a better job than their director. It was another job in a busy schedule for Thomas, but it added to the young couple’s coffers and relieved their debts. Thomas the elder never complained. His pain was very real. Even young Thomas finally could not miss his father’s distress.

“Father, you don’t look well. I think you should see a doctor.”

“Marde! What could a doctor do? Thomas, I’ve outlived all my companions The friends of my youth are now housed in a wooden box with a grass roof in the churchyard. I’m on the downhill slope and the way is slippery with dew. I thought I would go five years ago when you joined Duke William. I’ve hung around to see you knighted and married. I think the last of the sand is rushing through the hourglass. Doctor! Marde! I’ll soon need Father Francis.”

Thomas was sick with worry about the old man, but was wise enough to leave his father alone. Thomas visited Duke William’s doctor to see if he couldn’t relieve his father’s pain. “Doctor, my aged father must be dying. He is getting thinner and thinner. He used to be rotund; now he is wasting away. He won’t eat—not even his favorites that mother has fed him for years.”

“Young, Sir Knight, I can’t diagnose by proxy. I must see the patient.”, he replied with a shoulder shrug.

“Doctor, I’ve pleaded with him to see you. His answer is, ‘Doctor? I need Father Francis!’. Is there any medicine that may help?”, he begged.

“Thomas, I really should see the patient.”

“Doctor, please, just give me something for his digestion and his pain.”

“Pain?” and the doctor raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, he often clutches his chest.”

“Aha, a heart malady too. All right , Thomas I have a couple of things that will give him some relief.” The doctor brought down two sealed containers from a shelf. Thomas looked hopeful The doctor opened the vial and shook some of the contents into a leather bag.

“This,” he said, in presentation, “ is wormwood or absinthe. Many people use it to make a tea, but it is bitter. Others mix it with alcohol, wine or its distillation which makes it more palatable. It is for stomach and intestinal disorders , but dosage is all important. Large quantities of wormwood are toxic. Only this much in alcohol,” and he showed Thomas the tiny amount in his palm.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Now, the other,” as he opened the vial, “is an ancient pain killer derived from poppies. The Romans had it a thousand years ago. It has no curative powers, but it clouds the mind in pain. The ancients used to inhale its smoke; I think you could mix it with alcohol to be ingested.”

“What is it, Doctor?”

“Opium. Be careful of the dosage and only use it when the pain becomes unbearable. This is one dose in alcohol,” and again he presented Thomas a tiny amount on a spoon. “ Thomas,” he consoled as he laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder, “from your description of your father’s symptoms it is obvious he is dying. While these drugs will not cure him, they may relieve his discomfort. You must face this truth.”

The young giant was reduced to childhood as he choked back tears. “Thank you, Doctor.”

When Thomas worried, Jo-Anne hugged him.