The Constant Queen (45 page)

Oslo, February 1066

‘K
ing Edward is dead!’

Elizaveta sat bolt upright in her bed as Harald burst into the chamber. He’d been up early again, conferring with his commander and boatbuilders, but she’d had no desire to leave the
warmth of her fur covers – until now.

‘King Edward?’ she stuttered.

‘Of England, yes. Dead. This month past and Harold Godwinson crowned king the very day of his funeral, with his new wife Edyth of Mercia as queen.’

‘The Welshman’s queen?’

‘The Welshman’s
widow
. Earl Harold took Griffin’s life and now it seems he has his wife too. They have moved fast and we were right that Edgar stood no
chance.’

Elizaveta jumped out of bed, grabbing her woollen robe for though the snows were melting early this year it was still icy cold.

‘How do you know?’ she demanded, grabbing Harald’s hands to stop him twitching about the chamber like a grasshopper at mating season.

‘Traders sailed into harbour late last night. They were begging an audience before I even broke my fast, desperate to be first with the news. Lord help us, Lily – this is
it.’

‘The time is ripe,’ she agreed slowly.

‘It is.’ Harald stilled. His hands squeezed hers. ‘It truly is. I promised you England, my sweet, remember? When I leaped onto the fire-ship to beg your hand I promised your
father I would take England for you. It was a madness then, a young man’s ambition and for a time it looked as if her throne would turn to your sister instead but now . . .’

He stuttered to a halt and Elizaveta stared up at him.

‘Now it is ours for the taking?’

‘Now it is ours for the taking,’ he agreed but his eyes had fixed on the rafters, or maybe somewhere beyond. She reached up and stroked his face, letting her fingers skim across his
Stikelstad scar.

‘You are afraid?’

‘Afraid?’ That pulled his eyes back to hers. ‘No, Lily, I am not afraid. I was just thinking of something Finn said to me after Nisa. He said, Lily, that ambition is a
disease.’

‘A disease? Hari, that’s fool’s talk.’

‘He said I had an infected soul.’

He looked tortured and she hated it.

‘Oh Hari,’ she said, ‘of course you do. No man could be king otherwise and we should thank God for it.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Who brought you up a warrior, Harald?’

‘Finn.’

‘Who taught you to fight? Who taught you courage and honour and
ambition
?’

‘Finn?’

‘It is why you loved him so. He is old, Hari, as his adopted king, Svein, is old.’

Svein had been a disappointment to her at the peace negotiations. He had formally declared that he had no interest in invading England himself but had also, sadly, shown no inclination to aid
Harald. He had at least, in return for Harald’s full acceptance of his kingship of Denmark, sworn to leave Norway’s borders unmolested during the proposed invasion but for intelligence
about the land of his birth he had insisted they must look elsewhere. Harald had been downhearted but Elizaveta had been busy. She’d written again to Agatha and the reply had been most
helpful.

‘Those pseudo-Danes are men who have forgotten how to be ambitious,’ she insisted now, ‘but you, Hari,
you
have not.’ He looked at her as if she had uncovered the
secrets of the ancient world and, for once, she blushed. ‘It is no great wisdom, just a simple truth.’

‘A truth I had forgotten, but you are right – it was Finn who showed me how to embrace the desire to fight and how to
use
it. He is the one who has changed, not I.’ He
kissed her. ‘What would I have done without you, Elizaveta?’

She smiled ruefully.

‘Married Tora and ruled Norway in peace and prosperity?’

He shook his head.

‘I think not. I have seawater in my veins, my sweet, and I would have itched to move on without you tumbling into boats to force me to it – but I would never have done it so well,
nor so happily. You will come to England with me?’

‘To fight?’

‘No! Though I warrant you’d scare a few Saxons, my love. You can rest in the Orkneys until I have secured victory and then I will send for you to be queen.’

‘In Westminster, where Agatha resides?’

‘Eventually. To York first though, I think, as our ancestors did – if I can find it.’

Harald looked lost at the thought and Elizaveta shook at his hands.

‘You
will
find it.’

‘How do you know?’

She drew in a breath; it was time to confess.

‘I have sent for someone. Or, rather, invited someone who will, I believe, be more amenable to working with you on this venture than Svein.’

‘Who? Oh God, Lily, who have you sent for?’

‘’Tis my gift to you, as you have given so many to me.’

Elizaveta looked over to the neck chain, strung carefully on a wooden hook at her bedside. It was devoid of all but the very first keys but rich still with charms – a jingle of memories
and promises.

‘Who is it?’ Harald asked, his voice hoarse. ‘Who have you asked?’

She looked up at him, half-smiled.

‘Lord Tostig Godwinson, once Earl of Northumbria and now, I am told, an exile and a seething mass of rage against his brother Harold – his brother who is now, it seems,
king.’

Harald swept her into his arms, crushing her against his broad chest and pulling her up under his chin so that his moon-hair tangled with her night-time locks.

‘I am not good at prayers, my sweet,’ he said, ‘but I thank God above every single day for giving you to me.’

Elizaveta reached her arms around his neck and kissed him.

‘He may not be any use,’ she warned, but Harald just grinned.

‘Oh, he will be,’ he said, kissing her back, ‘I shall see to that.’

Lord Tostig arrived a few days later. Elizaveta and Harald, warned his ships were coming by riders posted at the mouth of the Oslofjord, were on the jetties to watch him sail
in. He was a lean man, far slimmer than Harald and more than a head shorter, but he looked fighting fit and had hunger in his amber eyes and a fine sword at his belt and he leaped keenly from his
boat to land almost directly at their feet.

‘King Harald, Queen Elizaveta, I thank you for your welcome and hospitality.’ His voice was smooth and, even in Old Norse, held hardly a trace of an English accent.

‘Nay, do not thank us yet, Lord Tostig,’ Harald countered.

‘Torr, please – all my friends call me Torr.’

‘Torr, I see – how do you know, though, Torr, that we are your friends? How do you know that we will not take you prisoner?’

‘As my brother was taken prisoner by the Normans?’

Elizaveta felt Harald jump at this information and glanced at him, keen to know more, but Torr was watching them closely and Harald was never one to admit ignorance.

‘Your brother Harold, now King of England?’

‘The very same,’ Torr growled.

‘No longer prisoner then.’

‘No, sadly, though by taking the throne he has foresworn Duke William.’

‘Indeed,’ Harald agreed, as if already apprised of the situation, though Elizaveta could see the clouds flitting across his pale grey eyes as he battled to work it out.

‘Duke William has sworn vengeance,’ Torr was saying, falling into step with Harald or, rather, trying to do so, for Harald’s stride was long and he was forced to skip a little
to keep pace.

‘Duke William is a Norman,’ Harald said sharply. ‘I know his type well – brigands, scraping for a law to justify their aims whilst avoiding all its rules themselves. The
Lombards invited the Normans into Italy and ended up losing it to them. If they get so much as a fingergrip on a country, they do not let go until they have it by the throat.’

Torr nodded keenly.

‘Duke William says Harold swore to serve him as King of England. He means to invade.’

‘So I hear,’ Harald agreed again, though behind him Elizaveta noticed Ulf pulling men urgently aside – accidental spies would be sought in the taverns immediately for there was
always a merchant as eager to sell information as wares.

‘And you, Sire,’ Torr demanded suddenly, stopping dead before the steps up to the grand royal buildings, ‘do
you
mean to invade?’

Harald took his arm, guiding him on up, away from the eager ears of the bustling city.

‘I could if I wanted to, but is it worth my while?’

‘Oh yes,’ the English lord said instantly.

‘You think so? Worth
my
while, Lord Tostig – or worth yours?’

‘Worth yours of course, Sire – you would be king.’

‘If we won.’

‘Yes, but I hear, Harald Hardrada, that you always win.’

‘And I hear, Tostig Godwinson, that you were ousted by your own people. Why would they want you back?’

Torr’s hands twitched at a loose thread on his fine tunic.

‘Because,’ he offered, ‘I would bring them a king worthy to rule.’

Harald glanced back at Elizaveta.

‘They talk well, these Englishmen,’ he said lightly.

‘They do,’ she agreed, ‘but do they
fight
well?’

Torr was onto that like a weasel on a mouse.

‘Not as well as you, Sire, I am sure.’

Harald laughed.

‘You manage our tongue smoothly, Lord Torr.’

‘In Northumberland,’ Torr agreed hastily, ‘men speak a Norse akin to your own, Sire – they are, perhaps, more Norwegian than English.’

‘You think?’

Harald waved his guest forward through the great doorway of the palace and leaned back to Elizaveta.

‘He seems an empty sort of man,’ he whispered.

‘Good,’ Elizaveta replied, ‘we can fill him with our own goals.’

Harald nodded but now Ulf was coming up – clearly the spies had been busy already – and she went after Torr to give them time to talk. The English lord was strolling around the hall,
ostensibly admiring the pillars, though Elizaveta noticed his long fingers picking again at the shining gold trim of his tunic.

‘You like our carvings?’ she asked, moving up at his side.

He snatched his fingers away from their fidgeting.

‘I do. They are very fine and these frescoes at the top are astounding – we have nothing like this in England.’

‘Nor much in Norway,’ Elizaveta told him. ‘The hall is Kievan in inspiration.’

‘Of course.’ Torr bowed. ‘You are from the land of the Rus, my lady. Perhaps that is where I should turn my sail if everyone is as beautiful as you.’

Elizaveta laughed.

‘Are you always this complimentary, Lord Torr?’

‘Only where praise is warranted.’

‘Or where you have need of something,’ Harald suggested, striding up to rejoin them, Ulf at his back.

Torr turned to them and his amber eyes narrowed a little.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, his voice harsher than before. ‘I am not here to pretend, Sire, neither am I here out of the goodness of my heart. Harold has stolen the throne of England
and I seek a partner to reclaim it.’

‘For yourself?’

‘I have no more royal blood than my brother.’

‘What then, do you want?’

Harald’s words echoed around the bright hall. He had set guards on the door to give them privacy and their little group was alone in the vast building. Torr flinched but stood his
ground.

‘An earldom.’

‘Northumbria?’ Ulf suggested. ‘That is what it is called, is it not, your earldom?’

‘It is, my lord marshal, or rather it was, but I do not . . .’

‘You lived in the north then?’

‘I did and it’s a godforsaken . . .’

‘In York?’

‘Further north even than that, in Durham, though I know York well and many of its lords too.’

‘The lords who threw you out?’ Harald asked.

‘Those, yes,’ Torr agreed, turning back to him, ‘and the other, older, quieter majority who let the youngsters have their day believing, as I believed, that the king and my
brother, who held the reins of power, would back me and I would be justly returned to office.’

‘But you were not?’

‘No. Harold pronounced me exile.’

‘Harsh.’

‘Very.’ Torr’s voice was almost a hiss now; it crept around the hall, low and venomous. ‘He had his eye on the throne already, Sire, and knew he needed any opposition
eliminated.’

‘Eliminated? I see. But why, Lord Torr, would you oppose your own brother?’

‘He is not a king, Sire, not as you are a king.’

‘I would have thought, though,’ Harald said casually to Ulf, ‘that having a brother as king would be to a man’s advantage?’

‘Perhaps,’ Torr said hastily, stepping between them, ‘but a man must be honourable.’

‘A man must, surely,’ Ulf suggested, ‘be loyal too?’

‘I
am
loyal – to my country.’

‘Why, then, would you wish a foreign king upon her?’

‘Because I believe King Harald would rule well.’

‘Do you?’ Harald flashed, his voice rising as he took a step forward. ‘Do you indeed, Lord Torr? In the same way as you believe Duke William would rule well, or Svein of
Denmark would rule well?’

‘No, Sire. No, I . . .’

‘Because you have visited them before you came here, have you not?’

Torr paled. Elizaveta looked to Ulf – so this had been his news.

‘I have,’ Torr was forced to admit, ‘and can bring you valuable intelligence of their plans.’

‘Intelligence?’ Harald looked down at Torr, then turned away to summon wine. ‘How do I know,’ he asked, his back to his guest, ‘that you are not simply here
collecting “intelligence” for
them
?’

Torr paled further and even Elizaveta, stood against a pillar, felt a little scared. This, then, was Harald Hardrada. He was an imposing man – an exciting one too. She moved to the side
door to take the hastily fetched wine from the servant and offer it to Harald herself.

‘Thank you, my sweet,’ he said, apparently all ease now, ‘and some for my guest if you will – he looks in need of refreshment.’

Sure enough, Torr took the goblet and drained it. She poured more, taking care not to meet his eye or offer him any reassurance, and after a couple more large sips he turned back to Harald.