Thomas who had been entrenched in his despair had been roused by his wife with love and passion. It reminded him that they were of the living, intent on the present and future. As the candle of life cast a steady light, the past was to become a collection of pleasant memories not a forerunner to death. They lay side by side sexually exhausted hugging their mate. Jo-Anne rolled over breast to chest and looked Thomas in the eyes.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, My Dear?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Jo-Anne, I love you more than you can imagine.”

“Thomas, It’s not that.”

“Pardonnez-moi. What?”

“Thomas, we are going to be parents.”

“What?”

“Oh, Thomas, you Goose. You are going to be a father.”

The room was filled with silence.

“Father?”

“Yes, Father! You didn’t think we could be intimate so often without results?”

“Father? You’re pregnant?”

“Yes, You Silly.”

Thomas was no longer tired. He bounced up in bed. He grabbed Jo-Anne by both shoulders. “Father!”

“Yes,” and she pointed to herself, “Mother!” she laughed.

“Jo-Anne!” and he nearly crushed his little wife in his brawny arms. He kissed her ardently. He sprang up again, he danced about the bed, and he stubbed his toe. “OUCH!” and he dove back into bed and mauled his soul mate. He kissed her repeatedly. There was no telling where this would end. Jo-Anne laughed. Thomas shouted.

“FATHER!” Who knows of this?”

“Just you, your mother, and I.”

“Mother knew or you told her?”

“Thomas, she knew almost before me.”
“I thought so. Mother hears things on the wind.” He squeezed his mate again and laughed with gusto. Before they knew it they were engaged in a gentle but passionate loving.

King Harold returned to the palace on foot surrounded by the common man. The Saxons cheered their King and he responded graciously under the watchful eyes of a troop of his house carls. He spoke to his subjects and they blessed him.

The palace staff were faced with a challenge. They had been subjected to a funeral and a coronation in one day. Regardless, it was the Day of Epiphany, a Christian Feast day. Harold, running on adrenaline, spoke to the castle valet, butler and chef.

“We have no choice in this matter, Gentlemen. We should be mourning the loss of a great king not celebrating my ascension to the throne. However, custom and circumstances demand a coronation feast. Besides, the Archbishop has reminded us that today is a Christian Feast day. We must prepare an unforgettable feast.”

“Yes, Sire.” they replied.

“Can your staff handle that?’ and he pointed his index finger at Edward’s butler.

“Yes, Sire.”

Then the chef came under scrutiny. “And what of your kitchen?”

“Sire, my staff is already at work. We have spitted a side of beef, two swine and numerous birds. We have gathered vegetables for roasting or boiling and fresh fruit and dried are ready for the table.”

The valet responded to Harold’s gaze. “Sire, the brewer has delivered barrels of beer and I have brought both red and white wine from the cellars. I believe we are all prepared.”

“That is the answer to a King’s problem. Have a competent staff to depend on. Thank you, Gentlemen. I leave it to you. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

“Very well, Sire.”

“Wolf, my butler, I would speak with the Witan. Have them assemble in the throne room punctually in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And Wolf, have Edith of the Swan Throat and our three boys accommodated in the palace. Have her bring, or select ladies-in-waiting and issue invitations for their presence at the palace.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Send my man to collect personal effects from my home. He’ll know what to bring for the present. We will list items later or as they become necessary.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“John,” and the valet sprang to attention, “Find me some kingly attire and pack off this regalia to the Abbey. It is the job of the Abbot to tend these materials. Have Edith Svannishals wait upon me. I value her judgment in clothes.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Go!”

“Yes, Sire”, and the men bustled off to do his bidding.

Harold collapsed in a chair. What a drain on his reserves. He made the same decisions as subregulus, but King Edward had always stood behind him. Now the weight of his decisions rested fully on his shoulders. He shucked his grand robe and tried to relax. Back came John followed by Edith.

Edith cooed, “ May I kiss the King?”

“You’d better.” Harold threatened in jest. It was more than a tender kiss, but John, a long time valet, didn’t notice. The two men with Edith’s urging selected hose, shirt and mantle. Harold set off the secondary crown and John and Edith assisted his dressing.

“Have you talked to Wolf?”

“No, My Dear, not yet.”

“He will talk to you about accommodation and your court of ladies.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“My dear Edith, duty calls. I must address the Witan.”

“Yes, Sire. Later?”

“I hope so,” he said with a knowing look and a reddening Edith replied,

“Sire!”

“Thank you Gentlemen of England. We have two matters before us decreed in King Edward’s will. First, he insisted that his death be made public as soon as possible that the people may pray for his deliverance in spite of his sins. Related to this decree should be the news of my ascension to the throne. One goes with the other. There will be some complaints of impropriety or indecency for my crowning on the day of Edward’s funeral. What say you to this?”

Stigand and York had already discussed this. “Sire, as Archbishops of England we beg the right to make known this news. The knowledge will come from the pulpits of England. The priests will explain the need for coronation on a feast day and the uncertainty of waiting for Easter.”

dht

“Very good, Lord Stigand. It shall be so. When will it be done?” “Today is Wednesday, Sire. Our riders have three days to spread the message to the south. Mercia and Northrumbria will have the message for next week.”

“Very well, Archbishop.”

“Secondly, King Edward requested that any foreign advisors be treated in a regal English manner. They will be afforded safe conduct across the Channel with any assets they have accumulated in service of King Edward. OR. We may accept their oath of fealty, their dedication to my person and our country England. Thereby, they will be accepted as English citizens.”

“Sire,” brother Gyrth interjected, “ being close to London and King Edward’s court, I am familiar with most foreign principals. With Ulf of the house carls and two men we will see to this matter.”

“No doubt you can Gyrth, but I want no repeat of the Eustace of Boulogne problem of my father’s day. Let us not make this a policing investigation. We will send two men of the cloth with you. Stigand?”

“I will send two senior priests, Sire.”

“Thank you Gentlemen. Now we have three problems concerning my ascension.-----Tostig-----Harold Hardrada-----William of Normandy,” as he counted them off on his fingers. By your election you’ve made me King . By your election you’ve precipitated invasion and war. We have had many years of peace and they may now be over. Tostig, my brother, may seek vengeance. His exile has been a great burden to him. He left York with a fortune big enough to live well, but not big enough for a major incursion in England. He blames me for his problem and has sought help from Harald of Norway, maybe Swegn of Denmark, William of Normany and his father-in-law Duke of Boulogne.

Harald Hardrada is a frustrated beserker intent on England. He’d rather fight than eat.

William of Normandy made no bones about his desire for my crown. I spent a number of months in his clutches and only escaped with a fealty oath. He has been preparing . He has an arsenal . He has experienced forces. He has an armada of long boats. He has the temperament. He does not have widespread support. He has nothing to prove his claim to the throne. He does not have capable sailors. He hasn’t shown me much ability as a general as Conan of Brittany made a fool of him. But, we must guard against invasion in the south. I will have to call the fyrd when winter abates. We have two months for the news of my ascension to spread, two months of Lent where wars must not be fought, and two months of preparation for our enemy which makes June the optimum month for attack. Give notice to your people of a summer call to arms in defense of England. A select group from this assembly will make formal plans for our army.”

“Thank you. The cooks have prepared the Feast of Epiphany. Since it has been a full day of ceremony, come to the great hall at eight o’clock. We shall greet you there.”

Charles de Gournay faced with an oath of fealty felt his secret agent duty was over. When he was warned by Morcar of the impending expulsion, he gathered his belongings and searched out a vessel for the trip to Normandy. Along the Thames’ bank a heavily loaded merchant ship seemed to be in the last stages of making ready.

“Captain,” de Gournay shouted from the quay.

“Yes, My Lord?” a bearded sailor replied.

“Can I buy passage? There has been a death and I must return to Normandy.” He didn’t add that the death had been King Edward’s.

“I will make you a fair price, My Lord. But, I must warn you that the weather in January is seldom favorable.”

“I have no choice, Captain. Death waits for no man.”

“Nor the tide, young man. You must be aboard within the hour or we sail without you.”

“I will be here, Captain.”

True to his word de Gournay returned in forty-five minutes. He didn’t have much to bring except news. He was carrying important information to William of Normandy. “Edward was dead; Harold was

King!” Charles’ trunk was stowed aboard and lashed to the deck. Hands were already casting off, allowing the current of the Thames to carry them downstream. The helmsman on the oar knew the currents and with deft sweeps soon had them midstream. The captain called the crew to the oars to bring them into the Channel as the tide ebbed. The Channel would be challenge enough on January sixth without trying to buck the tide. Winter rains had swollen the river and made light work for the rowers, six to the side. The closer to the coast the higher the wind speed became. A frigid north wind whistled through the rushes of the Thames’ lowland. De Gournay wrapped himself in an old blanket and sat, teeth chattering, body shivering as they hit the breakers bearing down from the North Sea. The vessel lurched violently and so did Charles de Gournay’s stomach. Both were nearly overturned. The captain and the helmsman wrestled with the steering oar. They called on their oarsmen. They had to clear the headland before allowing the boat to turn south. A seventh wave roared down on them and passed over the ship. De Gournay hung on to a bollard with arms and legs. He took a piece of rope and tied himself down. The ship was groaning but gaining open water before, they hoped, another giant wave took them broadside.

“Hard a’ starboard” Charles heard above the wind and water. “Hoist the storm sail” A tiny bit of cloth was run up the single mast and the vessel ran before the gale. The wave crests chased them south along the English coast. The curved stern split the waves and thrust them above the huge rollers. Once the vessel was committed to the salt water there was no stopping her. The men made her hug the coastline and eventually the chalk cliffs offered some respite from the gale. They race past the heights of Dover and in short order were out of sight of land. Between great upheavals of his stomach and uncontrollable shivering Charles recounted numerous Hail Marys and Our Fathers. As dark descended so did the wind’s force. It was going down with the sun. The captain with North Star apparent, swung towards France for a run down the coast. The passenger huddled amongst the freight in his drying clothes and brushed away a few errant snowflakes carried on the north wind.

Without further troublesome incident the vessel squeezed over the bar at the mouth of the Dives River. The bank was lined with dragon long boats that surprised de Gournay.

“What’s all this?” he questioned expansively with a sweep of his arm.

A crewman shrugged. “Who knows? Normandy has been piling these boats up.”

The captain dropped anchor in the safety of the river and arranged his passenger’s departure. Coins changed hands before a small vessel took a dispirited de Gournay and a water washed trunk ashore. He stowed the trunk and contacted a local lieutenant for a horse. Dried out and fed at a local inn, he made for Robert de Mortain to report. Robert, because of the war games was close to Rouen. As a change of pace, the men of the court were readying themselves for a hunt when de Gournay thrust himself upon them.

“Bon Jour, My Lords. I have news for Count Robert.”

“For me alone?”

“No, my Commander, for all.”

“Go ahead then.”

“My Lord, King Edward of England is dead: Harold, Godwine’s son, is raised to the kingdom.”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed de Mortain.

All looked to Duke William. He said nothing. His scowl deepened. He played absently with his clothing. Not a word was spoken He left the assemblage and was seen striding into the palace.

“What now?” queried Roger de Montgomery.

“I’ll talk to him,” and William fitz Osbern followed in his patron’s footsteps. He found Duke William in much the same state as William had been in after the debacle of his invasion in Maine. William sat head in his hands, elbows on knees, with a cloak over his face.

“Well My Lord, are you going into a childish pout?”

“What?”

“Sulking wont help. It is time for positive action. You knew many things were against you becoming King of England, but most important, you were not English.”
“Are you talking to me!”

“Yes, My Lord, as your friend and advisor.”

“I should kill you!”

“No, My Lord, you and I must make plans to recover the assets you have squandered to obtain the English crown.”

Three men, three new items, three emotional responses, three actions taken, made January, 1066 an important month.

Thomas was planning. In his elation and wonder there were plans to be made. He couldn’t have his heir burdened with a stump farm. Thomas would have to make a greater effort to turn his land into an estate. He would have to plan an addition to a new home. He would need more furniture. He would need more help. Jo-Anne would need more help. He would need more money.

Harold was planning. In his worry there were plans to be made. He was familiar with the Norman war machine so their tactics were not a threat. The southern coast of England and its extensive beaches was. Could he afford to allow the Normans a beachhead? His counterattack must be swift and certain throwing the invaders back into the English Channel. This was not going to be a Viking hornet buzzing about his head. This was a swarm of Norman bees seeking a new home. He might swat down a boat of Viking raiders, but an armada of Normans would have to be smoked out. With a hundred miles of beach to defend mobility would be the key.

William was planning. In his despair he was almost willing to withdraw his claim to the throne. He could not afford to lose face in a volatile chivalry driven war-like state. He was surrounded by miles of hostile land and weakness invited attack. Sir Rupert had not had successful forays into France or Italy to enlist forces for the invasion. Roger de Montgomery was meeting strong opposition from even the Norman counts let alone Anjou and Maine. Could William get Church support? Odo, bishop and brother, was doing his best, but unruly knights from every castle were arousing the clergy and these lawless fellows must be reined in. What could he do?