The Sons of Godwine: Part Two of The Last Great Saxon Earls by Mercedes Rochelle

Emerging from the long shadow cast by his formidable father, Harold Godwineson showed himself to be a worthy successor to the Earldom of Wessex. In the following twelve years, he became the King’s most trusted advisor, practically taking the reins of government into his own hands. And on Edward the Confessor’s death, Harold Godwineson mounted the throne—the first king of England not of royal blood. Yet Harold was only a man, and his rise in fortune was not blameless. Like any person aspiring to power, he made choices he wasn’t particularly proud of. Unfortunately, those closest to him sometimes paid the price of his fame.

This is a story of Godwine’s family as told from the viewpoint of Harold and his younger brothers. Queen Editha, known for her Vita Ædwardi Regis, originally commissioned a work to memorialize the deeds of her family, but after the Conquest historians tell us she abandoned this project and concentrated on her husband, the less dangerous subject. In THE SONS OF GODWINE and FATAL RIVALRY, I am telling the story as it might have survived had she collected and passed on the memoirs of her tragic brothers.

This book is part two of The Last Great Saxon Earls series. Book one, GODWINE KINGMAKER, depicted the rise and fall of the first Earl of Wessex who came to power under Canute and rose to preeminence at the beginning of Edward the Confessor’s reign. Unfortunately, Godwine’s misguided efforts to champion his eldest son Swegn recoiled on the whole family, contributing to their outlawry and Queen Editha’s disgrace. Their exile only lasted one year and they returned victorious to London, though it was obvious that Harold’s career was just beginning as his father’s journey was coming to an end.

Harold’s siblings were all overshadowed by their famous brother; in their memoirs we see remarks tinged sometimes with admiration, sometimes with skepticism, and in Tostig’s case, with jealousy. We see a Harold who is ambitious, self-assured, sometimes egocentric, imperfect, yet heroic. His own story is all about Harold, but his brothers see things a little differently. Throughout, their observations are purely subjective, and witnessing events through their eyes gives us an insider’s perspective.

Harold was his mother’s favorite, confident enough to rise above petty sibling rivalry but Tostig, next in line, was not so lucky. Harold would have been surprised by Tostig’s vindictiveness, if he had ever given his brother a second thought. And that was the problem. Tostig’s love/hate relationship with Harold would eventually destroy everything they worked for, leaving the country open to foreign conquest. This subplot comes to a crisis in book three of the series, FATAL RIVALRY.

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Read Excerpt of Sons of Godwine by Mercedes Rochelle

TOSTIG REMEMBERS

I used to wonder why Harold and I didn’t get along when we were young; in fact, I wasted a lot of time worrying about it. After all, we had a common enemy in our brother Swegn. Swegn came first with our father, no matter what we did to gain his attention. Swegn, Swegn, Swegn. I got so tired of hearing his name all the time, I wanted to scream. It felt like I was always biting back on my anger, and there were times I didn’t know where to turn. 

Swegn knew he was protected, and you can be sure he took advantage of us. He’d steal my things, though in a clever way so I couldn’t prove it. Sometimes I would fight back when he insulted me, though he’d always run to father. “Don’t peck on Swegn” father would shout at me. “Stop bothering him.” And if I didn’t, I knew what would happen. A backhanded slap would follow, even if I was right and Swegn was wrong. 

And it seemed that Harold was always a witness, snickering behind his hand. That made it even worse. I was so mad at him for not standing behind me. It was as though he didn’t care how much I got scolded, just as long as it wasn’t him getting into trouble.

Oh, yes. Swegn was the favorite with our father—not Harold. But it never bothered Harold that father didn’t love him best, because he had mother to turn to. She showered him with attention, and ignored Swegn instead. Although I could tell that Harold was not quite satisfied with his place, he was a lot better off than the rest of us. It seems my parents were both alike in that way: they each favored one son, and one son only. So I naturally turned to Harold, and I can truly say I worshipped him—when I was young, that is. I followed him everywhere, trying to walk like him, talk like him, be like him. And where did it get me? Nowhere.

I think he saw my behavior as competition, which it wasn’t, really, at all. I was just imitating him; I thought he was godlike. His physical perfection was as natural as his easy manner. He had splendid arms and shoulders, sinewy legs, and not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. He was never nervous, never at a loss for words. But what I remember most was that Harold was so clever with his hands…so strong. He could do anything he wanted, anything at all. Everything came easy to Harold, not like me. I had to struggle to keep up with him. I was always having trouble expressing myself, and I’d just get frustrated and angry, especially when he laughed at me. 

So when he should have appreciated my efforts, instead he did his best to defeat me. He laughed at my clumsy attempts at writing; I was no good at it, and I knew it. He made fun of my speech, my eating habits, my poor archery skills. And when I lashed out at him in anger, Harold beat me into the ground, just for fun. 

Ah, yes. Harold taught me not to admire him. So instead, I decided to best him. I trained in secret, learning how to use my fists, then my sword. Afterwards, when he least expected it, I would attack him, trying to get on top. But I could never win with Harold; he would use some trick or other to get under my defenses, then straddle me on the floor, leering down at me with those perfectly straight teeth. I hated him. I think I wanted to kill him.

So instead of joining together and teaching Swegn a lesson, we spent most of our time fighting with each other. It became a challenge, even a pleasure, to see how I could sting him. Oh, he was quick, all right, but now and then I managed to sneak something past him, catch him making a mistake. Then I would exploit my advantage for all it was worth. I never felt guilty about it, because he deserved everything he got.

It was Harold’s vanity that usually brought him trouble. Mother made him so full of himself, he thought he could do no wrong. So he usually opened his big mouth, interrupting our parents when he wasn’t spoken to, or saying something clay-brained just to hear himself talk. This usually got an unpleasant reaction out of father, who I don’t think really liked him very much.

I remember the time my father came home after King Canute died. His face was so changed I hardly recognized him. We always knew father loved the king, but I never realized how much until then. It was as if he had lost a brother. Well, a brother he loved. For a couple of days we tiptoed around the house, trying not to make too much noise; but Harold, outspoken as ever, thought he had the right to intrude on our father’s grief.

“I don’t understand, father,” he said. “You always said that the Saxons should have a say in their own government. Now that the king is dead, isn’t this our chance to take what is due us?” 

My father raised his head from his hands, looking at Harold so angrily even my brother stepped back a pace. “Get away from me,” he warned. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Even then, Harold didn’t have the sense to stop. “But Canute was an invader; he imposed Danish rule on the Saxons.”

Father leaped to his feet, eyes flashing. He even knocked the bench over, so violent was his reaction. “He is more Saxon than most of us,” he almost shouted, but his voice broke instead. “In his heart. He loved our country! Why do you think he spent all his time here? Now get out, both of you, and leave me alone!” 

There you are. Once again, I got into trouble because of Harold’s insolence. But this was the first time our father ever told us to go away. I was so angry I took extra revenge, goading Harold until he burst into tears. This shocked me into silence; never had I seen my brother cry. He didn’t have the strength to strike back; he just sat down on the floor and bawled like a baby. We were just boys then, remember. 

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I felt sorry for him, almost as if it was a shame to see him lose his confidence. But when I apologized and put my arms around him, he shrugged me off like I was his worst enemy. That was it. That was the last time I ever felt any concern about his feelings. 

About Mercedes Rochelle

Born in St. Louis MO with a degree from University of Missouri, Mercedes Rochelle learned about living history as a re-enactor and has been enamored with historical fiction ever since. A move to New York to do research and two careers ensued, but writing fiction remains her primary vocation. She lives in Sergeantsville, NJ with her husband in a log home they had built themselves.

For more information visit Mercedes Rochelle’s website and blog. You can also follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

Giveaway of Sons of Godwine by Mercedes Rochelle

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Tour Schedule for Sons of Godwine by Mercedes Rochelle

Monday, April 18
Guest Post & Giveaway at Let Them Read Books

Wednesday, April 20
Guest Post at Just One More Chapter

Friday, April 22
Excerpt & Giveaway at Queen of All She Reads

Sunday, April 24
Excerpt & Giveaway at Teddy Rose Book Reviews Plus More

Monday, April 25
Review at Book Nerd

Wednesday, May 4
Excerpt at Layered Pages

Thursday, May 5
Review at Impressions In Ink

Friday, May 13
Interview at Passages to the Past