The Forever Queen (36 page)

The bedchamber was lit by several candles and lamps, a brazier had been restoked with charcoal, and a faint smell of sweet-scented herbs permeated the air. Athelstan lay in the centre of the bed, pale, thin, every bone of his face visible. His eyes were burning brighter than the flames of the fire, his skin, when Edmund touched it, as hot.

“It seems there is some vital part within me that is damaged,” Athelstan said, his breath croaking in his throat. Blood, Edmund noted, was flecked in his spittle. “I have made my confession to Alfwine.” Athelstan lifted his hand a few inches to indicate the chaplain lingering in the shadows. “But I would have you here while I dictate my will.”

“There is no need, brother!” Edmund answered quickly, frightened. “You are tired; a good night’s rest and you will soon be well again.”

Athelstan cut him short. “I am for God, Edmund. I beg you not to waste the short while I have left.”

Silent, Edmund sat, his hand clasped within Athelstan’s, tears trailing.

“I have spoken my words for a letter that is to go to Papa, begging his forgiveness for my impatience. I would have you, as my executor, take this letter to him when—if you are able. I can only trust that one day my last will may be legally ratified.”

Mouthing words that would not come, Edmund could only nod, listen as his beloved brother listed the estates and items he wished to pass on. First came Æthelred himself; then, as second beneficiary, Edmund. Fresh tears trickling when he heard his brother was to leave him his own great sword that had once been carried by King Offa.

“I do not want your sword,” he choked, “I want you, here, alive with me.”

“And I want you to be strong. I want you to take my sword and drive Swein from this land. With my death, you will be the next King. In my name, do your duty well. When Thegn Wulfnoth was outlawed”—Athelstan gasped, his breath in his chest tighter as if a hand were twisting into his lungs—“Papa gave his confiscated land to me. I wish to hand the freehold back to Godwine. The estate and Thegnship of Compton in Sussex is his.” He managed a weak half smile, his fingers gripping tighter onto his brother’s hand. “If it be in your power, see it is all done, Edmund, for the sake of my soul.”

He slept then, having willed his bequests to those who had served him with love and loyalty, and made his peace with God. A sleep that slid into the deeper darkness where pain and suffering ceases, and the light of God dazzles all else into insignificance.

3 February 1014—Gainsborough

Cnut returned from Northampton in a glow of triumph. His son had been born lusty and healthy, a fine lad with a full head of hair and lungs with the bellow of a bull. He had decided to leave his wife and child at her family home, for her own comfort and his independence. She was with her mother and brothers, settled on her mother’s own substantial estate, and wanted for nothing. If he was honest with himself, Ælfgifu had appeared relieved when he had suggested she stay. It was because of the child, of course; what woman, brought to recent birth, would want to be among the crowd of an army? Cnut did not like to think that maybe she was glad to be rid of him. That she had no more interest in him than he had in her. Arriving at Gainsborough, he was too astounded by his father’s orders to fly into a rage. “You are asking me to abandon Odin and Thor, and turn my face to Christianity?”

“No, I am not asking, I am telling. To be anointed as King over the English with the sacred and holy Chrism, I have renounced my heathenism and embraced the word of God. As will you.”

“I bloody well will not!”

“You bloody will, boy! I command it!”

Archbishop Wulfstan, seated at the far end of the hall, glanced up from the Gospel he was reading and frowned. Faith was not a thing to be undertaken at the command of another; it had to come from within the heart, and this cock-proud boy, who had witnessed and laughed at the martyrdom of Archbishop Alfheah, was not ready for God’s grace to be marked on his forehead.

“We have done well for ourselves thus far with taking heed of both Odin and Christ in equal measure.” Cnut’s remark was surly; he was almost pouting, like a child who was thwarted from getting his own way with pleading for a honeycomb or a sweet wafer. For good measure he added, “Your father took up this Christian religion; it did little for your benefit.”

“It did nothing for me because Harold Bluetooth, like myself, only half turned to God. I now realise you cannot combine the peace of Christ alongside the petty squabblings of our old gods. They are gone from us; they could not compete with the truth of Jesu Christ. They deserted us long ago when Christ defeated them and sent them into the shadow lands. They no longer exist.”

Cnut laughed. “And just how did He manage that? By waving loaves and fishes at them?”

Wulfstan despised these Danes with their hairy faces and crude manners, their vindictive bloodlust and barbaric paganism. The political situation, like it or not, had changed, however, and if he was to find the path of redemption, it would be better to swim with the current rather than struggle against it. Add to that, Wulfstan, with his unswerving faith in God, was always the pragmatist.

If the day of judgement was coming, then this surely was it. Chaos had come into the world—yet they were all still alive. The sun rose, the moon set; babes were being conceived and born. There was no pox, no plague, no flood or fire. The world went on. There was only Swein Forkbeard instead of Æthelred, and the Archbishop had to concede, even if only in his private thoughts, there was more chance of survival with Swein as King than with Æthelred. If nothing else, it would put an end to the raiding and killing and the raising of silver to pay the geld.

Wulfstan believed in the event of the apocalypse as God’s punishment for all who had sinned, but he also believed that, by adequate and profound repentance, a final end could be averted, a new beginning made. Was not Sodom destroyed? The world flooded and the evils they spawned, cleansed? Both Lot and Noah had been warned and spared. He, Wulfstan Lupus, Archbishop of York, too, had been warned, and it was his duty to do God’s work by cleansing all that was foul from this good land. If guiding Swein Forkbeard to the love of God was the task he had to do to find salvation for the world, then so be it. The son was going to be more difficult, but Wulfstan never expected God’s work to be easy.

“Jesu fought the old gods with truth, love, and compassion,” he said sternly, setting his Bible aside. “Who has seen Thor or Odin? Who has listened to Balder? What have they done for the good of mankind? Men, real men, had walked with Jesus and listened to what he had to say. Listened and told others, and their words were written down and passed to us.” He stood straight and unafraid as he raised his arms to pray. “When the Saviour saw the crowds, He climbed up the mountain and His followers approached him. And He opened His mouth and taught them and said: ‘Blessed are the spiritually poor for theirs is the kingdom of the Heavens; blessed are the kind because they will possess the Earth; blessed are those who weep because they will be consoled; blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled; blessed are the pure-hearted because they will see God; blessed are those who endure persecution because the kingdom of Heaven is theirs; and blessed are you when they abuse you and persecute you and, lying, say every evil against you because of Me. Rejoice and be glad because reward is great in Heaven.’”

Cnut sniggered. “Fine words, but how do they apply to us? My father is a King; he would not last half a day if he followed your doctrine of peace.”

“Mayhap not, but when called to God he will last a lifetime in Heaven rather than endure eternity in Hell.”

“I am content with Valhalla. It was good enough for my ancestors. It will be good enough for me.”

“Valhalla, Cnut, is ended,” Swein snapped. “It has faded away, as the frost disappears with the coming of the sun. There is no Valhalla. Now, do as I say. My head is aching, and my stomach grumbles for food. The nobles of all England have sent their hostages into my hall, they have accepted me as their King, but that acceptance will last no more than a blink of an eye if I do not respect their land and customs. Come this Easter council, I must be crowned; for that I have committed myself to Christ, and so, boy, shall you.”

He made a dismissive gesture, turned to walk away. “I go to inspect my hounds. When I return, Cnut, I expect you to have reconsidered. All my household has followed my example, as shall you, your housecarls, and servants. You will publicly commit yourselves to God on the morrow. I order it.”

Cnut spun on his heel and stamped away, heading for the far end of the hall where the preparations for the evening meal were being made.

“Do not turn your back on me, boy!” Swein bellowed, hurrying after him. “You will not insult me, and you will obey me!”

Ignoring him, Cnut walked on. “You insult yourself,” he said, although not so loud that his father would hear.

Swein’s hand lingered over his dagger hilt, his fingers clenching and releasing. Finally, he let go of his held breath and swept out of the door into the rain. The air was cold; ice rimed the puddles and froze the breath. Four wooden steps led down from the hall, a manor house that had been offered to Swein by its owner, Thegn Sigeferth. Aware Sigeferth had no liking whatsoever for him, Swein had accepted the gesture for how it was intended, as a direct insult to Æthelred.

Turning his head, Swein shouted, “You will regret opposing me, Cnut. Mark my word, you will regret it.” He had climbed and descended those steps so many times since occupying the hall. His feet knew that the second step down had a worn hollow where so many had trod, that it needed replacing. He was looking back over his shoulder, glowering at his son. For all their differences he was a good lad, had a good head on his shoulders. Saw sense. Usually.

Swein set his foot down onto the second step, did not see the ice. His boot skidded, he fell, his arms going out, a sharp cry of surprise whooshing from his mouth. The ground, when his head hit it, was rock hard. He lay still, unmoving, blood beginning to trickle from his open mouth and his ears, as a last breath sighed from his emptying lungs.

February 1014—Rouen, Normandy

Où est Eduard?” Emma was annoyed, more than she had been these last two frustrating months. Exile did not agree with Emma. It was humiliating. They were not impoverished, for there had been ample time to load the treasury aboard Thorkell’s ships and to get away from London with adequate personal items to ensure a life of comfort. And Richard had been magnanimous with his generous welcome, down to giving them their own residence here in Rouen, a magnanimity that was spoilt by his triumphant gloating. The shame of exile was bad enough on its own without her brother’s crowing. The one saving grace for Emma: her mother was no longer alive to witness her mortification.

She repeated her question. “Where is your brother?”

Alfred was engrossed in smoothing an ash branch for the haft of a boy-sized spear he was making with Leofstan, his sister, Goda, helping by intently watching, fascinated by the thin, slivered coils of papery wood descending to the floor like snow.

Emma was short of temper and patience. Why could Edward never do as he was told? Always slinking off somewhere, sullen with his answers whenever she spoke to him, always scowling. God’s breath, had she bred a mule head? Was he not, indeed, Æthelred’s son? But then Alfred and Goda were also Æthelred’s, and they were not as dense as a tangled brier thicket.

His tongue poking through his lips in concentration, the seven-year-old Alfred did not look up. “Where he always is, Mama. In church.”

Emma exhaled an irritated breath. On occasion she wondered why she was bothering with this effort to get them all back to England. Æthelred spent most of his days and nights wringing his hands and wailing loudly for the loss of his crown but doing absolutely nothing to retrieve it. Edward, it appeared, preferred the company of monks, while Alfred was enjoying playing soldiers with the captain of her cnights. And Goda, ah, Goda was an angelic child who could find contentment wherever she was. The sort of child who would make anyone a suitable, dutiful wife. She sighed again; at least for Alfred that was a positive sign, playing would one day turn into reality. But not if Emma followed her husband’s example of sitting on his backside when there was so much to be doing! Gathering ships, arms, and armour—armies. Petitioning the Pope for a public condemnation of Swein Forkbeard; bargaining with men like Count Baldwin of Flanders and the German emperor for aid. To return to England they needed planning, determination, and support. None of which, so far, had been forthcoming because of Æthelred’s abject moroseness.

This morning had brought wonderful news and a leap of hope that would end this waking nightmare of enforced exile. And now, when he was desperately needed, Edward was missing. Stupid, stupid boy!

***

Edward was fascinated by the abbey of Saint Ouen. As often as he could, he would listen to the chanted singing of the monks and was learning the services, down to the last detail, with only Matins and Compline outside his experience, for they were at the beginning and end of the day and beyond his ability to attend. Lauds and Prime, at sunrise, he had managed on several occasions by rising at dawn and pretending to go down to the kitchens in search of something to break his fast. Although sometimes his ruse meant going without anything to eat. He did not mind that; he thought of it as a sacrifice for God.

The service had finished, and, reluctantly, Edward waited for the monks to begin filing out of the church, knowing he would have to return home. There had been uproar earlier, with everyone flying into a panic because Godwine Wulfnothsson had arrived from England saying something about an envoy coming. Papa, after listening to what Godwine had to say, had fallen to his knees and wept, something Edward found to be acutely embarrassing. Papa often wept since they had come to Normandy; his shoulders would slump forward and begin to shake, then great sobs would burst from his mouth along with saliva and spittle.