The Forever Queen (39 page)

Why had Cnut not taken her in formal Christian marriage? For all these weeks now, he had been dedicated to God; why had he not sent for her to have their union Christian blessed and acknowledged as an inseparable marriage? Without the blessing of the Church, he could, at a whim, set her aside. Nor, unless their union was sanctified, could she be crowned as Queen. And that she wanted; oh, how she wanted it!

She might not especially like Cnut, but she very much liked what he was, and what he would soon be. She was also going to her husband’s side to ensure he did not flee to Denmark without her. If rumour were true, Cnut’s men were not eager for a war campaign; he could find himself in an untenable position. One that could only be solved by taking ship and running before the wind. And if Cnut chose to do so, then she was fully intent on running with him. Or, if he refused, to ensure a secure sanctuary until he returned.

He would return, that she did not doubt, for he had nowhere else. His brother, Harald, would now be proclaimed King of Denmark, and, while they respected each other, there was no love between them. There would not be room in Denmark for both of Swein’s sons, not when they equally cherished the adornment of a crown.

Nor did Ælfgifu have any intention of permitting Cnut to sail away without a memory of her firmly impressed on his mind and body. Particularly his body. This marriage had been made for convenience and political security; they had no love for each other, but when did love come into it? They shared a mutual heat of lust in bed, and that was enough. When Cnut was with her, alone and naked, he had no thought of being parted from her. Ælfgifu saw to that, as she would see to it that if he sailed away, he would be leaving a child planted within her. With God’s blessing, a second son.

May 1014—Sandwich

Cnut stood in the bow of his father’s ship, Sea Serpent, feeling the salt tang of the spray stinging his cheeks, the wind rummage through his hair and tug at his cloak. Like most men of his kind, he loved the sea, its freedom, its moods. He stood, firm-footed, feet wide-planted, arms folded with his fingers pressed beneath his armpits. But he was not appreciating the wind, or the spray, or the splendour of the ship. He was angry. By the wrath of all the gods, he was angry!

“Coast ahead, sir!” his captain called, dipping his head towards the murk of a misted shore. “Do you wish us all to put in, or just the ships with the hostages?” He waited, polite; no answer. “Sir?”

Turning his head, Cnut’s eyes flashed sparks of rage. “Put in. All of us. I intend to leave something for the shit-scum Lords of England to remember me by!”

How easily the English forgot their promises and their loyalties! What snivelling, cowardly whoresons they all were!

Cnut shifted his balance as the ship rolled. What had hurt, what had deeply punctured and stabbed into Cnut’s spleen was the added doubt from his own men. They were his father’s men, who had come as hired mercenaries to conquer England, men who had, at Swein’s death, shouted for him to be their new King. So why were they now so unwilling to fight?

Because not a single stinking turd in all England had backed him! Because every Ealdorman, Thegn, Lord, reeve, and peasant farmer had applauded Æthelred’s return and had said Cnut was too young, too inexperienced, and too naive to become King. Well, they would learn their mistake!

The ship was turning, the wind swinging to the steerboard as the sail flapped and the oarsmen sat alert, waiting for the order to run out the oars, the command to dip them into the water and pull. These men of the sea were brothers, they thought, lived, ate, slept, and fought as one mind. When a ship was running, alive beneath their skilled hands, they were as one man. Cnut loved them, but they were wrong in not supporting him. He was ready, he was able to step out of his father’s shadow and stand alone in the shine of the sun. He would have to prove it to them, then, wouldn’t he? Show he had the balls to do what a King must do.

“Set the hostages ashore,” Cnut ordered, as within the half of an hour the fleet of ships bobbed against the wharves of Sandwich harbour. The townsfolk had fled or had scuttled into hiding, Cnut did not care which, as long as they left him alone to complete what he had come for.

They had all sent hostages to Swein when he had commanded it; every one of the empty-balled, pig-wallowing English Ealdorman and high-ranking officials had complied. Every one of them had sent a son, grandson, brother, or nephew to ensure their loyalty and augment their oath to the King of Denmark, Norway, and England. And had considered the pledge void the minute Swein had died, but Cnut did not see it like that. The army had unanimously declared for their dead King’s son, and so should the noblemen have done. Had the Ealdormen bowed to him, his army would have found the courage to fight, but on their own…on their own they just wanted to go home.

The grandson of the Ealdorman of Lindsey was brought before Cnut, eight years old, an innocent. Most of them were children. Children were more expendable than adults; children were not expected to be hurt if agreements were broken.

These children would.

Cnut looked at the boy dispassionately. The boy looked back, his head tilted upwards to see the tall, fair-haired, bearded man standing before him.

“Tell your father,” Cnut said, “and tell him to tell Æthelred, that what I do is both a warning and a promise. Tell him I will be back. Very soon.” He studied the wary huddle of boys his men were bringing ashore. The eldest was a son of the cowardly Ealdorman Ælfric of East Wessex, eighteen.

To his personal bodyguard, men who would never, on pain of death, disobey his given command, he said, “For each and every one of them, slit their noses and remove their ears, balls, and hands, then return to the ships. Leave them for their miserable fellow countrymen to find. I will have promises remembered and honoured, or the consequence paid.”

February 1015—Hlaðir, Norway

The stars speckled the black sky as if a sack of jewels had been torn open and spilt. The night was crisp with snow on the ground, the air sharp, sound carrying for miles across the sleeping winter landscape. From somewhere in the snowbound forests a wolf howled, answered from a mile off by its mate.

The sweat on his naked skin rapidly cooling, Cnut pulled the bed furs up around his ears. He eased his wife, Ragnhild Sveinssdaughter, closer, enjoying the delicious sensation of her smooth, warm body. Their lovemaking had been careful, for the child within her was almost five months grown, a distinct bulge in her belly. Five months? Their marriage seemed no more than five weeks! Drowsing into the comfort of the bed, her head heavy on his chest, Cnut allowed his mind to wander, thinking back, planning ahead.

In the balmy days of warm summer he had witnessed his brother, Harald, inaugurated as King, outwardly rejoicing for his acclaim, and as reward had received permission to raise an army to try again for England. An easy gesture for Harald to give, for with his younger brother away fighting wars elsewhere, Denmark and his crown were secure. If Cnut wanted a crown, then he would need to find an empty one for himself. Cnut’s problem, however, had manifested itself there at the coronation. Every Jarl he approached, smiled, patted his shoulder, wished him good fortune, and said the same thing: “Ask me again when you are older. I will not fight behind a green-stick lad.”

Cnut could almost hear Æthelred laughing. And then Erik Håkonsson of Hlaðir had come forward. He, too, had rested his hand on Cnut’s shoulder, but unlike the others, his touch had not been patronising. “Come with me to Hlaðir. You have nothing to gain by staying here, eclipsed by your brother’s light.”

He had been grateful to the older man, for his help and for his niece. Jarl Erik was one of the most respected warrior Lords and was placed among the highest-ranking noblemen of all Denmark and Norway combined. For more than thirty years he had been fighting and winning battles. It had been Erik who had ushered Cnut through childhood and early youth, Erik who had accompanied Cnut to England, had been there at that dreadful slaying of the old holy man. Like Thorkell, that sickening episode had turned Erik to the full acceptance of Christianity, but unlike Thorkell, Erik had remained loyal to his King, to Swein—and to his youngest son.

For the matter of a crowning, the Jarls and anyone else of importance had come with their families to witness the occasion, the women especially pleased to have reason for the wearing of new gowns and the opportunity to display the wealth of jewellery their husbands lavished on them. With Ragnhild Sveinssdaughter, Erik’s niece, Cnut had fallen in love immediately. At first he had wondered whether Jarl Erik’s offer of support had been intended as a jest, had felt ashamed of his suspicion when, leaving Harald’s court for the sea journey to the western coast of Norway, Erik had admitted his reasons and they contained nothing but genuine friendship.

“I felt pained to see you brushed aside so out of hand, lad. Those fools cannot see the sea for the waves. You have more inside you, of courage, determination, and strength, than ever your brother has. Christ may show me I am wrong, but I believe you to be the best of the two. It is not your fault, but the slowness of time, that makes you young and untried.”

Standing alongside Erik on the wind-blown deck, Cnut had felt the pride burst within him, had not dared to hope for more, but more had come.

Ragnhild stirred, mumbled in her sleep, the bulge of her belly jamming into his side. Cnut smiled into the darkness as he felt the babe kick.

She was his true-taken wife, the marriage blessed in God’s sight in a Christian church—how Cnut now blessed his father’s foresight in insisting on his commitment to God! Would Erik have been so eager to help had he not been embraced by Christ? Would Ragnhild have accepted his asking of marriage? Cnut shied away from the questions, fearing the answers. The small matter of Ælfgifu in England he shrugged aside more easily. She had known she was no more than a concubine wife, was only important as the mother of his son—sons—she had birthed another, Harold, named in honour of the new King of Denmark. Cnut frowned into the darkness. Ælfgifu was not going to take his rejection of her lightly; she was a shrew of a woman, determined and vindictive; everything about her was harsh and hard, as if she were made of wood with sharp edges and no soft, warm centre. Her temper was short and shrill, her eyes small and glaring. She demanded rather than asked, shouted rather than talked. Even her lovemaking was violent, her nails scratching his flesh, her wanting urgent, insistent. There was nothing tender about Ælfgifu. All she wanted was vengeance for her father’s death and her brothers’ blinding, and she did not care how she achieved it or who might suffer in her wake.

“I will help you, Cnut Sweinsson,” Erik had announced on that voyage. “When the time is ready, I will come with you to England and fight for you to wear Æthelred’s crown!”

“And why would you be doing that, Erik Håkonsson?”

“I owed much to your father; alas, it was never in my power to repay him. At last I can settle my debt; aside, I have no liking for Æthelred’s counsel.”

In the spring, when the snow thawed and the ice on the fjords had melted, the men would come. Cnut did not mind that they would not be coming for his sake but for Erik’s. What did it matter who blew the war horn, as long as ears heard and men responded? And, for now, he had these few precious months with his beautiful love, Ragnhild.

March 1015—Woodstock

The hope for kept promises died at the Easter council, along with two men. Where was Æthelred’s reform of unjust laws? His willingness to put right the wrongs, the compassion, and forgiveness for those who had only attempted to pursue the cause of peace? Even Archbishop Wulfstan’s passionate and charged Sermon of the Wolf, a preached tirade against injustice, lawlessness, and general wickedness, had made no effect in calming Æthelred’s rage or the people’s fear. England suffered and her noblemen began to realise they had allowed a wolf into the fold in the guise of a corrupt and inept man who happened to wear the privilege of a crown.

Emma had her own opinion. “The absolute power of a King is given by God to be used wisely. Unfortunately, most who have been awarded this power are surrounded by those who profess themselves to be friends. They flutter like moths to a flame, drawn by greed to the light. Some fly too close and get their wings burnt; others, the majority, hover always just out of danger, so they gain all and risk nothing, but their presence eclipses the light and darkens it until it is of no practical use.” Exasperated from the tiring day, she was speaking her mind to Edmund in the privacy of her bedchamber at Woodstock.

She had always liked Edmund, who had the dedication, but not the stubborn single-mindedness, of his elder brother. Edmund was easygoing, quick to smile, willing to listen to alternative views, but now that he was man-grown, he also had that essential formidability of one who would not tolerate being crossed. He was loyal to his friends and took his duty to the kingdom seriously, qualities Emma admired and respected. Similarly, Edmund respected Emma; he always had. Only his love for Athelstan, by necessity, had taken precedence over his personal judgement.

Emma, like Edmund, chose her friends from those she could trust beyond question. There were few of them: Wulfstan and her personal priest; Wymarc, who had dedicated herself to caring for the children; and, above them, Leofgifu, her beloved companion, and Leofstan, captain of her cnights—and Edmund. Edmund was more than a friend, for he was also an ally. He shared the same hope as Emma and travelled the same road, his hands easy on the reins, pacing at a steady walk, but constantly alert for ambush or unseen difficulties, which he was capable of combating with precision.

“It is a sorry fact,” she continued, “that wealthy and powerful men possess a driving need to acquire more of what they have already got. Corruption in a man is an insidious disease, akin to the cock pox.” She laughed cynically. “It spreads unseen and unchecked. If chaste, without cheating or seeking extra illicit favours, he remains clean and uncontaminated, but once his pizzle has been dipped into the wrong pot, the fire takes hold and consumes him from the inside out.”