The Forever Queen (42 page)

“Ja, and he has a son capable of taking over from him.”

“What? Edward? He is a ten-year-old!”

Cnut laughed again, realising Hakkon was teasing him. “No, I meant the other son, Alfred,” he baited in turn.

“Well, I suggest you stop thinking of boys and set your mind to fishing, else you are likely to go hungry to bed tonight.”

Grinning, Cnut rethreaded a line, hook, and bait onto his pole. Confessed, “It was not of the English boys I was thinking but my own—unless he has arrived as a she.”

Hakkon stared, content, at the gentle swell on the water, looked out at the wonder that was this coastline of Norway, drowsy beneath the summer sun. Ragnhild had been about women’s work this day. Cnut, pacing the hall, banned from the women’s chamber, had begun to grate on everyone’s nerves, hence Hakkon’s suggestion of fishing. Someone would come to the shore, attract their attention when it was suitable for them to return. Unless night came before the child, which, with a first babe, was more than possible.

“I would not mind a daughter,” Cnut mused. “I have two sons in England, although the one I have seen was a scrawny thing. He reminded me of a newborn rat.”

“You tread on a young rat if you find one; hardly a suitable comparison, Cnut.”

His line sinking, Cnut began to haul it in, cursed, as with a snap this also broke, the fish darting away. “With children, how do you know which are to grow into rats or cherubs? Which ones do you stamp on with your boots?”

“Children? Huh, looking at my cousins and the monsters that run around my father’s hall, I would say all of them are vermin! Hello? Is this someone calling our attention?” He peered across at the shore, saw a man standing, frantically waving. Hakkon pulled in his line and began to row. “We are wanted.”

Cnut was out of the boat and plunging through the water before Hakkon had opportunity to beach it. The young man on the shore he did not recognise, but from the banner he carried, he was one of Harald’s men.

“There is news from Denmark?” Cnut panted as he waded ashore, oblivious to the cold water on his legs. “Is there any word from Lord Erik’s hall? Has the babe come?”

The messenger looked puzzled. “Babe, my Lord? I know nothing of a babe; I bring news direct from King Harald.”

“My brother is well? There is nothing amiss?” Cnut was on dry land, out of breath from excitement as much as the hurrying. “Did they not ask you to bring me word of how my wife fares?”

“No, Lord, the news I bring is of far more importance.”

Folding his arms, Cnut frowned. The lad was not far past puberty, too young to have the birth of a child as a priority. Good-humoured, he said, “Tell me, then, what can be more important than the coming of my son?”

“Thorkell the Tall is harboured at Roskilde. He has come to Denmark with nine ships and crew to join with you against Æthelred. Your brother sends word that he grants permission for him to do so.”

Cnut was stunned. “Is this a jest? Thorkell? The man who turned traitor against my father?”

“Ja, Thorkell. He has abandoned Æthelred as a man who breaks his promise and murders those of his own. He says the English King has no honour, his blood is nothing more than piss, and his given word is shit.”

With the boat pulled above the tide line, the three men began to walk towards the complex of buildings of Jarl Erik’s homestead.

“So what has happened to make Thorkell so suddenly change his mind?” Hakkon wanted to know.

The messenger, finding he had to jog to keep up alongside the two older men, explained, “This is what I have been told to tell you, by the lips of Thorkell himself: ‘Now that you, my Lord Cnut, have adopted the ways of a Christian, I am willing to serve you. If you do not want me, I will understand and go in peace with my ships to seek employment elsewhere. I will no longer support a man who has ordered my brother murdered and a corps of the finest Danish soldiers butchered, on an imagined charge of treason.’”

Appalled, Cnut slammed to a halt. “Hemming is dead?”

“Ja, or so Thorkell says.”

“By Thor’s Hammer,” Hakkon exclaimed, “if we care to wait long enough, Æthelred will kill off all his followers for us!”

“Will you have him, sir?” the messenger asked, anxious that his hard journey would not be wasted. “Will you let Thorkell join you?”

Cnut clamped his hand on the lad’s shoulder, confirmed that ja, he would. “But first I have my child to greet and my wife to kiss. Then we will celebrate! We will lift the roof and sing songs of victory.” He did not add that he had silently noted the insult his brother had tossed at him. So he gives me permission to unite with Thorkell, does he? We will see who will be giving permission in a month or two!

Unaware of Cnut’s hidden anger, Hakkon laughed. “And make up a few songs we do not yet know, eh?”

Another was waiting at the doorway of the Jarl’s hall. The midwife. Cnut saw her face, the tears in her eyes and all joy of feasting scuttled from his heart like a stone skidding on a surface of ice.

The child had been born, a healthy daughter, the woman said, but the mother had begun to bleed. There was nothing to be done to save her.

As evening fell, the evening that in these northern lands never faded beyond the purple blueness of dusk, Cnut stood alone by the shore, alone but for the tiny bundle wrapped warm in lambswool in his tight-held arms. She was beautiful, this little girl. Fair hair, wide blue eyes that stared, bemused, up into his, a rosebud mouth. She had made no cry beyond a whimper for her milk. Ragnhilda, Cnut called her. An angel from God, the image of her mother, the pride of her father.

At the water’s edge, where only God and the sky could look upon him, Cnut stood with the child cradled in his arms, rocking her to sleep, and wept, for the both of them, their tears of grief.

October 1015—Leicester

AEthelred was ill, and Cnut’s ships were prowling the south coast like hungry wolves waiting for the kill, but Edmund was not in a position to do anything about either. Not on his own.

Welcomed in the Mid Lands for rescuing Ealdgyth, their marriage had soon become an ideal match, proven by the child she carried, due in late December. But the support of the seven boroughs was not enough to fight for a kingdom. King Alfred had inaugurated the building of burghs during his time to stem the incoming tide of Danes. Designed as permanent, defendable places, each had expanded into larger boroughs, taking their names from the original defended place: Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Lincoln. One day Æthelred planned to promote them into the higher status of shire, to bring him more profitable taxation. But Edmund wanted to make use of the boroughs as Alfred had intended—as military places. While he could not go south to face Cnut, he could prepare to protect the men who had declared for him after Æthelred’s wanton destruction and lust-taking of revenge against those who had not supported the King.

In wisdom, Edmund was determined to rebuild morale. Each fyrdsman was reequipped with helmet, shield, byrnie, and weapons. The war horns were polished, the horses fed grain and newly shod. When Cnut came, Edmund would be ready for him—and he would come now that Æthelred had taken to his bed with a bowel flux.

All Edmund needed was to consolidate the North, but Northumbria and the boroughs would not be enough when it came to a fight. He also needed Mercia, and that meant dealing with Eadric Streona.

In appearance Leicester was no different from any other Saxon town, the usual huddle of houses, rubbish strewn in the streets, and an overall permeating stink. Edmund had suggested he meet with Streona under the auspices of the Abbot at the abbey. He would rather slit the man’s throat and be done with it, but a King’s son who wanted to step into his father’s boots the moment they became empty could not have the luxury of personal feelings. Not unless your name was Æthelred and you had already intentionally alienated half your kingdom.

“We must unite as friends,” Edmund began, pouring wine for Streona. “We are, after all, kinsmen; your wife is my sister.”

The two men were alone in the Abbot’s private chamber, a quiet room that caught the last burst of evening sunlight through the window slits.

Eadric scratched at his nose. “What is in it for me?”

Edmund retained the congenial smile that he had set on his face. “England’s deliverance from Cnut’s raiding. A return to the justice of law. An end to crime, robbery, murder, and rape.”

Raising his hand, Eadric stopped Edmund there. “No, lad, I said, ‘What is in it for me?’ I do not care an owl’s hoot for England. I am interested only in personal profit.”

Angry, Edmund dropped the amiable pretence. “The tax of one penny for every three paid? The right to purchase forfeiture land at a reduction of its value; to sell men, women, and children into slavery because they cannot meet your excessive demands? Is that what you are talking about? You do not care who rules England, do you?”

“I do not care whom I serve, no,” Eadric stated bluntly. “As long as the service is worth my while.”

“So you have become a mercenary?”

Eadric rested his right elbow on the chair arm, half slouched, legs spread out in front of him. “You do not approve?”

“No, I do not approve. A mercenary has no soul or honour.”

“Who taught you that way of thinking? Nay, lad, a mercenary is a man who bargains hard to get the best deal he can.”

“A cynical and selfish philosophy.”

“Possibly, but it has served me well all these years.”

Edmund managed to control his rising temper. “Cnut is devastating the southern coast. I do not intend to make the same mistake as my father and sit whistling in the wind in the hope he may soon grow bored and sail away.”

Frowning, Eadric studied the man before him. He saw a younger version of Æthelred, the same nose, eyes, mouth. The chin was a little more pointed; he was taller, broader, perhaps—more confident, certainly. Then, abruptly, he changed his mind. This lad was nothing like his father. He had his grandmother’s character, her guile, temper, and decisive independence. Unlike his father, Edmund was not a fool.

“You are serious about fighting Cnut?” he asked.

“I am serious about fighting Cnut.”

Throwing his hands in the air, Eadric guffawed in laughter. “Whatever for? We allow him to burn a handful of peasant bothies, steal some cattle, and carry off a few women; then we pay him to go away, and we get on with our lives. Why stir a hornets’ nest when you can leave well alone?”

Quietly, looking down at his hands, Edmund answered, “Is that the advice you gave my father?”

“It was good advice.”

Edmund had run the length of his patience. He stood, marched to the door, and flung it wide. “It was bad advice.”

Unperturbed, Eadric fastened his cloak and strolled to the door. “Wars cost money, money that can be better spent in buying peace.”

“You buy your peace. I intend to fight for mine.”

Opening the door, Eadric was no longer indulgent, “You forget, boy. You are not yet King. You run close to treason.”

“I am Ætheling; I act for my father.”

Dipping his head in farewell, Eadric called for his horse. “My congratulations. My assessment was wrong. You are as much the fool as he is.”

February 1016—Thorney Island

Penned into the misery of Thorney Island during a dreary winter, Emma greeted her visitor with excessive warmth. Godwine found himself blushing as she held him to her in an enthusiastic embrace and kissed both his cheeks in welcome. Gods, but how he wanted to kiss her back, and not in the chaste way she had kissed him!

“What brings you to London? News? Not bad news? No, I see from your face it is not, although equally, I think you do not bring good news? Come, sit, let me pour you ale.” Emma was talking too fast. Was she going mad in this winter Hell-hole of a place? There was nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see or converse with.

“I have come with a message for the King, but I am told he is sleeping. I was sent, instead, to you.” Godwine grinned. “I do not object to the diversion!”

“My husband sees no one before mid-afternoon.” Emma laughed, a false sound. “Not even me.” Especially me, she thought. “He claims I am too much the bully, for I order him to wash and get out of bed.”

“He is no better, then?”

Emma shrugged. What constituted better? The stomach cramps and pains had ceased towards the end of October, but Æthelred had not quit his bed. His natural functions appeared normal; he ate well, drank even better. Wept and mithered and called for his priest throughout the day or night.

For almost fourteen years Emma had been his wife, and during that long period he had rarely spoken a kind word to her, and yet now he expected her to love and comfort him. Well, she would not! Let him suffer, let him reflect on all the cruelties he had inflicted on her and others. He could go to Hell. And the quicker, the better.

Godwine altered tack. “How are the children?”

“Edward prays. Morning, noon, and night, he prays for his father’s soul. Alfred, the more practical, has worked out the items he wants his father to leave him in his will, and as for Goda, my pretty angel, she is learning her lessons with enthusiasm at Wilton. They are turning her into a presentable young lady, so I understand. I do not envy them the task.” She smiled, proud of her daughter. “All I knew of her was constant squabbling, bruised knees, and a determination to do everything better than her brothers!” She meant none of it. Emma missed her daughter since her going away to be educated at the nunnery, but it had to be. Goda would become a woman and then a wife.

“So,” she said, turning the subject away from one she did not care to think upon, “how does Edmund’s war go?”

“You heard that Streona went to Cnut with forty ships?”

Yes. She had heard.

“Wessex has fallen to the Danes, and the shires of Gloucester and Hereford, and, of course, Bedford and Buckingham, which are already Streona’s, so Edmund’s lands fall direct in the traitorous bastard’s path.”

“I hear the English fyrds are calling Edmund ‘Ironside’ for his strength of courage. It is a fitting title for a fine young man.”