The Constant Queen (46 page)

‘I will tell you true, Sire,’ he said, ‘and then you can judge me as you see fit.’

Harald inclined his head and moved to his great seat, offering Ulf the one at his side but Torr none of his own. The English lord shuffled before him.

‘King Svein is my cousin on my mother’s side so he was a good choice for me, as you will surely recognise. He has no wish, however, to exert that claim in war, though I know not
why.’

‘He has lost a lot of ships recently,’ Harald said, fingering the hilt of his sword.

‘Of course. Yes, I see . . .’

‘And Duke William?’

‘Duke William is married to my wife’s cousin, Sire, so for her sake I spoke with him. He plans to attack. I have seen his shipyards and they are already very busy. His stud farms
too.’

‘He will take cavalry to England?’ Ulf asked, sitting forward.

‘It is the only way he knows to fight.’

‘Let’s hope, then, that they are seasick!’

Torr managed a weak smile but did not dare laugh at the jest.

‘He is gathering a formidable force, Sire,’ he said to Harald. ‘All his Norman nobles must contribute.’

‘But he has no use for an exiled English one?’

‘No, Sire.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maybe he lacks your wisdom.’

‘Maybe he fears
your
treachery.’

Elizaveta could almost see Torr’s slim legs shaking.

‘Do I look like a traitor to you, Sire?’ he asked Harald desperately.

‘You look like a peacock, Torr,’ Harald countered, his eyes on the now-loose thread at the base of his tunic. ‘My friend here, Count Ulf, doubts the wisdom of invading this
England of yours, though you are doing much to convince him there is little to fear from its men. So tell me, if you are so keen to prove your worth – how would a man best go about attacking
her?’

‘A man like yourself, Sire – a Northman? Why, he would sail his ships up the Ouse estuary to York and seize the city. He would establish a base there and take allegiance from the
local lords, many of whom have Norse blood still, and he would especially do that, Sire, if he had with him a captain who knew the names and dwelling places of all those lords. Half of England
would be secure within a week and from there such a man would march on Mercia where the ruling lord is young and nervous and once he had taken his allegiance also, he would attack
Westminster.’

‘You make it sound simple, Lord Torr, does he not, Ulf?’

Ulf merely grunted but Torr took an enthusiastic step forward.

‘It
is
simple, Sire, with the right leader and the right men and the right knowledge.’

Elizaveta’s heart turned. This man, despite his rich clothes and his blustering talk, was no fool and he knew his worth. But then, they knew it too.

‘So, Sire?’ Torr dared to ask.

Harald glanced at Ulf then back to his guest.

‘We are happy, Lord Torr, for your ships to join ours if I should decide to invade England. How many do you have?’

‘My captains are putting together a fleet in Flanders where Duke Baldwin, my wife’s father, is happy to play host to my force.’

‘But not so happy to invade with you?’

‘Flanders is a small duchy, Sire.’

‘As is Normandy.’

‘But Duke Baldwin knows his limits.’

Harald chuckled, nudged Ulf.

‘As Duke William does not,’ he said and his marshal smiled for the first time in the sticky conversation.

‘How many ships do your captains gather in Flanders?’ Ulf asked Torr.

‘Some thirty, my lord, and I plan to sail on the Isle of Wight, as my father did when he fought his glorious way back from exile in 1051. He gained much support on the south coast –
as will I.’

‘The south coast – your brother’s lands, yes?’

‘For now.’

‘Ah!’ Harald rose and strolled around Torr. ‘I do not think, Ulf, that Lord Torr wants to return to Northumbria, do you, Lord Torr? You have your eyes on the south?’

‘I would make it worth your while, Sire.’

‘Perhaps.’ Harald spun back to his seat, flinging himself carelessly into it. ‘Go, Torr – pick up your fleet and harry the south. If you collect more vessels, sail them
north and if we choose to sail too, we will join forces.’

‘We will?’ Torr looked as if he dared not quite believe it.

‘Why not?’ Harald said casually. ‘You sail, I think, for vengeance.’

‘I do.’

‘I like that.’

‘And you, Sire – what do you sail for?’

Harald glanced at Elizaveta and smiled.

‘I sail –
if
I sail – for glory. Now come, you have travelled far, let us eat!’

He waved to his guards and they threw open the doors to admit the rest of the court, huddled outside, their gossiping breath a mist over their heads. Elizaveta stood back to watch Torr take a
seat at Harald’s side, looking dazed by his host’s sudden benevolence. She almost pitied him but he was a man with little left to lose and much to gain and if he could be useful to
Harald she was pleased.

‘Will he do?’ someone asked behind her and she turned to see Tora seating herself to her right.

‘He’ll do, I think, if Harald is careful.’

Tora sighed.

‘There is a lot for Harald to be careful of in this venture. It feels, Lily, as if there are wolves at every turn.’

‘Mayhap there are, but they all have their eyes on England, Tora, not on us.’

‘Until we
are
England.’

Elizaveta had no time to reply before Harald leaped between them, making them squeal and pull apart.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ their husband asked, laughing at their surprise.

‘Tora is worried for you,’ Elizaveta said, recovering herself.

‘Tora is good at that. Fret not, my dear – all will be well, I feel it. This Godwinson has a poor grasp on his stolen crown and I will not be beaten to it by some brigand Norman who
has to build his fleet from scratch. They are not wolves, Tora – yes, I heard you – but barnyard kittens.
I
am the wolf, remember?’

Elizaveta saw Tora’s eyes soften and felt a bitter stab of pain. Had he been Tora’s wolf? When? And how? And why did it still matter after all these years?

‘You are, Hari,’ Tora agreed quietly and suddenly Elizaveta wanted to snatch the shortened name out of her lips. Tora never used to call him that; maybe he was her wolf still?

‘Must I come, Hari?’ she was asking now. ‘Must I come to England?’

Elizaveta watched him smile at her.

‘No, Tora. I need you to stay here in Norway, please – if we go.’

‘You are not yet decided?’

‘We must see how the winds blow. I will need my sails full to attack England.’

Tora nodded.

‘You will take the boys?’

The boys –
their
boys, their fine young kings-to-be. Elizaveta dug her fingers into the arms of her chair and watched the Norwegian court turn around her and suddenly felt almost as
alone as Torr, sat nervously in the centre of them all.

‘Just Olaf,’ she heard Harald saying, as if from afar. ‘He will learn to be my heir in England. Magnus will turn twenty this year – he will stay and rule Norway in my
stead.’

‘And me?’

‘You, Tora, will rule Magnus. I trust you to hold Norway for me.’

It was too much. Elizaveta pushed back her chair and spun away. Tora was Harald’s wife after all, his partner in rule, and she – she was merely his bedsport, his passion, his
indulgence. Well, she would indulge him no more. Let him talk Norway with Tora and England with Torr, the man
she
had summoned though as like as not he had forgotten that already. Let him .
. .

‘Lily!’ She heard Harald’s voice but she would not stop; would not turn. She picked up her pace and gained the servant’s door at the rear of the hall. ‘Lily,
stop!’ She yanked the door open and two young servers, laden down with platters of goat-liver pâté, scuttled nervously back, clattering against each other. ‘Lily, please
stop.’ Despite their best efforts to get out of her way, the servers had held her up enough for him to gain her side. Harald grabbed at her arm and pulled her round to face him. ‘Why do
you run, Lily? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Why? Do you need me? Do you desire me, Hari? Do you fancy entering me here, against the kitchen wall to slake your lust after your manly sparring with Lord Torr?’

‘What? No. I mean – is that what you want?’

‘No!’

She jerked away and made for the street behind, wishing, for once, that she were out at one of Harald’s precious farmhouses and could escape into Norway’s endless pines.

‘Elizaveta, stop now!’

‘No,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Go back to Tora, Harald.’

‘Back to Tora?’ She heard him chuckle, low and teasing. ‘You are jealous, Lily?’

‘No. I have just finally worked out my place.’

‘Which is?’

Harald caught her up and pinned her to the wooden fencing of the nearest plot. She let herself go limp in his grasp.

‘Just this,’ she said.

‘Oh my Lilyveta, you . . .’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Why not? Lily, please – I don’t understand.’

‘Tora holds Norway for you, yes?’

Harald looked even more confused.

‘Yes, as she did before. As . . .’

‘And I, Harald – what do
I
hold for you? Nothing! I am a foreigner still in your beloved Norway. I have given you no noble connections and no sons and now even your treasure
has almost run out. So tell me, Harald Hardrada, ruler – hero – what do
I
hold for you?’

‘Can you really not see it?’

His voice was low and she looked up at him, at the scar his first battle had drawn across his gorgeous face, still raw even now that life had carved more lines into the corners of his eyes and
round his mouth. It was a rougher face than it had been when first he’d asked for her hand but so, so dear to her, for whatever that was worth.

‘Let me go, Hari,’ she whispered.

‘Never,’ he said. ‘Do you know what you hold for me, Elizaveta of Kiev? You hold my heart and if that were to stop beating – as without you it surely would – all
else would be nought.’

‘Your heart?’ she echoed weakly, her own quavering in her chest.

‘’Tis a foolish thing, perhaps, for a king, but true. I told you once, Lily – Tora gives me sons but you give me the world. It is as true as ever. I cannot take England without
you, my sweet –
will not
take England without you.’

Elizaveta felt herself swelling ridiculously, growing like a flower unfurling to the dawn. She held his heart and maybe that was a foolish thing, too, for a queen to draw strength from but draw
it she did.

‘You need not take England without me, Hari, because I will be your constant queen – there with you; there
for
you.’

He kissed her long and deep, pressing her against the fence, and she clung to him, kissing him back as if she were sixteen again and it was the first time their lips had met.

‘And now . . . ?’ he said, his voice light as he finally released her.

‘Dinner?’ Elizaveta suggested weakly.

‘Dinner, yes, but first I think you said something about entering you against the kitchen wall?’

‘Hari!’

He swept an arm around her waist, leading her back to the hall.

‘Maybe later,’ he said, kissing her again.

‘Maybe,’ she countered, ‘they have fine kitchen walls in England?’

‘Is that a dare?’ he asked, his voice low as he opened the door and the noise of the court rushed out to them. ‘My first act as their new king?’

‘A dare,’ she agreed, straightening her dress as he ushered her through and smiling back as she swept past, ‘and a promise.’

Oslo, April 1066

‘U
lf?’

Harald approached the bed as softly as he could, though his big feet caught in the herb-strewn rushes on the chamber floor, making him stumble.

‘It’s all right, Hari,’ came his old friend’s gruff voice, ‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘And not like to be,’ Harald told him firmly.

Ulf just smiled at him, a soft, wistful smile.

‘Don’t do that,’ Harald said.

‘Do what?’

‘Smile like that, all serene. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Neither does lying about in bed.’

‘That’s true.’ Harald glanced around him. Ulf had been sickly for weeks, refusing to eat and griping like a wounded cub, but seeing him here, lost in his covers, was enough to
turn Harald’s stomach too. ‘What are you lounging around for?’ he asked, as lightly as he could. ‘I need my marshal at my side.’

Ulf looked away.

‘I think, my friend,’ he said into his pillows, ‘that you had best find a new marshal.’

‘No!’ Harald sank onto the stool at Ulf’s bedside and laid a hand on his arm, still big and strong but incongruous against the linen sheets. ‘You will be well
soon.’

Ulf turned his face back round and up close Harald could see how thin and lined it had become.

‘I have ever, Hari, have I not, been straight with you?’

‘Too straight at times. I remember you asking me how much more of my hard-won treasure I intended to pour into a tankard and out of – what was it? – “my own foul
bowels” before we could leave Novgorod for Norway.’