The Chosen Queen by Joanna Courtney Page A

in the world. She is called Môrgwynt which means sea wind and some days it seems as
     if she is, indeed, at one with the air. I ride her whenever I can persuade a companion out with me which, with the men gone, is not nearly often enough.
    I pray this wretched battle will soon be over and peace concluded and that I will, one day, see you to talk over all that has happened here in Wales.
    With very best wishes and love,
    Edyth
    Svana looked over the letter twice until, to her horror, a tear plopped onto it, sending the ink scudding wildly across the vellum. What on earth was she crying for? It must be
the new child stirring in her womb. She put her hand to her stomach and felt it pushing against her.
    ‘Hello in there, trouble,’ she whispered.
    This babe felt different from the last three. Perhaps it was because she was older but it was making her so tired and so wretchedly sick. She had tried all the remedies she knew – mint,
lavender, thyme and even an infusion of very expensive oriental ginger – but to no avail. She’d even agreed to join Harold, entertaining the court at his favourite manor of Bosham in
his Wessex heartlands, in the hope that the sea air would aid her nausea. The sniping and gossiping in the ladies’ bower, however, counteracted any health benefits nature offered.
    ‘Just settle down, will you,’ she pleaded softly and felt a small but determined kick in response.
    A girl – it had to be. She stiffed the thought swiftly, not daring to give it room to breathe in case it was not so. She longed for a daughter but until she was so blessed she
couldn’t suppress a tender, almost maternal feeling for Edyth, and the careful lines of the girl’s letter worried her.
    ‘Why has the king gifted her a horse?’ she asked her bump but no answer was forthcoming, save the stirrings of Svana’s own common sense.
    Why did men ever gift women anything? Even dear Harold, who brought her presents mainly to see the happiness on her face when she unwrapped them, definitely enjoyed the earthier expressions of
gratitude once the lights were blown out. She grimaced at herself. Perhaps she was growing cynical with age? Perhaps the Welsh king just liked displaying his wealth? Perhaps he was courting Alfgar,
not Edyth, with his gift? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . . Svana sighed.
    ‘Heavens, my love, not weeping again?’
    She looked up to see Harold ducking into their plush chamber and brushed the tears hastily away.
    ‘It’s Edyth, poor girl.’ She waved the letter. ‘Heaven knows how long this has taken to find me down here; it’s dated over a month ago.’
    ‘How does she fare?’
    ‘Well, she says. Bored of ladies’ company but I don’t blame her for that.’
    Harold laughed.
    ‘Well, my love, you will be glad to know that I can release you back to your lands.’
    ‘Oh no, Harold. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I am quite happy here with you.’
    ‘When you are with me, yes, but I know the rest is a trial and I love you for it. In truth, though, the court will be moving on in a day or two.’
    ‘It will? Why, Harry? What’s happened?’
    ‘It’s to do with your young correspondent or, rather, her father.’
    ‘Oh no. Don’t tell me you have to ride out to war?’ He looked to the ground, so like one of the boys caught doing mischief that for a moment Svana wanted to laugh, but this
mischief was deadly serious. ‘Why you? I thought Earl Ralf was leading the defences in the west?’
    ‘He was.’
    ‘He’s dead?’
    ‘No, no. He’s well enough. A little red-faced perhaps.’ Harold sank onto a stool beside Svana and took her hands. ‘As you know, Alfgar and Griffin have been besieging
Hereford. All Ralf needed to do was to hold out for a few more weeks and winter would have driven them to sue for peace but, oh no – the impatient fool decided to meet them in the field. Not
only that but he took his men out as cavalry.’
    ‘Cavalry? Into battle?’
    Harold