The Forever Queen (53 page)

Thorkell, Earl of East Anglia, was in the nunnery courtyard. He bowed, his face grave, announced so all might hear, “The King has commanded brought to him the widow of the other King, Æthelred, so he might have her as Queen.”

Tempted to retort that Cnut could await her pleasure, Emma caught sight of the merriment in Leofgifu’s eyes and stifled a giggle of amusement.

Cnut greeted her with a smile as broad as the ocean. Taking her hands in his, he placed a kiss on her cheek. If this courtesy was a sham, an act put on for the benefit of his nobles and people, then it was performed well.

With the public part of the exchange of vows completed upon the steps of the New Minster, Cnut proudly led his wife inside to make their pledge in the sight of God. There was a second ceremony to perform also; for the glory of God and to acclaim the sanctity and happiness of their marriage, the happy couple were to present the minster with a fine and beautiful crucifix made of gold and silver, an exquisite and expensive marvel. Cnut was determined to start this particular journey on the right foot. And after darkness had fallen, and with the feasting of celebration under way, he lifted her and carried her to his King’s chamber, not permitting the usual ceremony of bedding to proceed.

“My wife is a woman who has borne children She has no virgin purity to prove, nor have I any manly prowess to parade before your prying eyes, so be gone! We would have our privacy, if you please.”

He set her down inside his chamber and, laughing companionably at those who had come clamouring behind, shut the door on them and, firmly bolting it, called out, “There is bride-ale aplenty to be compensating your disappointment!”

He stood looking at her. She had come to him as a Queen, dressed in the finest silks, with braiding of gold and silver thread. At her throat a ruby the size of her thumbnail hanging from a golden chain woven in intertwined links. She dripped jewels and wealth and superiority, and he could not believe his good fortune. She was seven years his senior, a crowned Queen, and she was everything Cnut had ever wanted. He was an anointed King, and with this woman as wife, no one, not one person in the entirety of England, could deny him his place on the throne or the crown on his head. He wanted to leap, punch the air with his fist, and shout out, “Ja!”

“Well,” Emma said after a few moments of awkward silence. “Are we to stand here the rest of the night staring at each other, or are we to find some other form of amusement? I could send for a chequered board and some gaming pieces if you wish, or would you prefer to play dice?” She smiled impishly, her face lighting into girlish amusement as her mouth quirked upwards at one corner. “Or I could suggest a book worth reading?”

He laughed a snort of mirth, appreciating the jest, said with honesty, “I would prefer to take you into that waiting bed.” He paused, chewed his lip, suddenly found his boots interesting. “But I confess I am as nervous as an innocent youth. I am, all of a sudden, aware you are so much more”—he paused, searched for the word he wanted—“important than am I.”

Emma felt deliciously happy. “Hardly that, sir, and I am, despite what you said to those barbarians who insisted on hammering on our door, feeling as nervous and naive as any virgin on her wedding night.” Her answer pleased him, for he stepped forward and, gently pulling her towards him, kissed her. His lovemaking was slow and tender, with careful concern for her comfort and enjoyment; his delight complete as she responded, with wonder at first, then desire, as she discovered, after all the disillusioned years of marriage, the intense pleasure intimate sex could bring to a woman.

December 1017—London

Emma lay dozing, content in the warmth of the bed. The heavy woollen curtaining, pulled close for privacy and to deter the worst draught, was not yet drawn aside, and she could hear Cnut’s body servant snoring from his pallet beside the door. Through a slight chink where the curtains did not quite meet, the room beyond this private world was a dim, colourless grey. Dawn was breaking and soon this luxury of idleness would be broken, too. She stretched lazily, like a she-cat purring in the heat of the kitchen cooking fire; beside her, Cnut stirred and slid his arm over the thickness of her pregnant waist. She was five months gone, another four until knowing whether she carried a son or daughter, the first pregnancy she was enjoying. Cnut treated her as special, a woman to be cosseted and fussed over. A novel experience and one she was making the most of.

For his part, Cnut could not understand her astonishment at his concern. A woman with child was in a delicate situation; she needed to be nurtured and cared for lest the unborn babe, his child, his son or daughter, be harmed. Emma had delayed telling him of her condition, not through any wish of secrecy or anxiety, but because of past experience. Cnut’s delight, when she finally summoned courage to admit she had missed a flux for two months, had astounded her. He had swept her into an embracing hug, twirled her around in his arms as if she were a little girl, sat her down, brought her wine, sweetmeats, asked what she needed, all the while bearing a grin that seemed sure to split his face in two. Æthelred had grunted and muttered about his personal inconvenience. Not once during her pregnancies had he asked about her health, how she and the babe fared. Goda had been four months born before he took interest in her. By contrast, Cnut asked almost every hour if she felt well.

She had thought Cnut to be asleep and was surprised when he said, with a yawn, his head tucked into her shoulder, “The child is awake, even if the rest of my court is abed. He kicks like a mule.”

“You should feel him from my side; there are some nights I get little sleep from his antics.”

“Then it is a girl, not a boy,” he prophesied. “Women can never remain still for more than a minute.”

Emma laughed at his absurdity. She hoped it was a boy, for a son would add to their union and put an end to some of the nastier comments spouted as gossip from evil tongues.

Cnut yawned again, snuggled closer, enjoying the lazy warmth as much as Emma. This marriage was going to be a success, despite his initial misgivings and the ugly rumour-mongering coming from Normandy. It was true he had explored the possibility of political alliance by marriage before the mortally wounded Edmund had died. True also that there were those in Normandy who called Emma “Jezebel” and “hussy,” those who deplored her audacity at not shutting herself away from the world in mourning for her first husband and for not seeking exile with her children. Emma was an intelligent, politically astute woman who had suffered mentally and physically under the slovenly attitude of Æthelred. Why should she mourn him? No one else in England did. That these foul rumours came from the direction of Cnut’s enemies was plain.

He lifted his head, placed a kiss on her lips. It was growing light outside; he ought to be up, getting dressed. So should she, for that matter. This was Christmas Day; there was Mass to attend and then the delight of the Yule festivities. He was looking forward to the day, for he was the King, and as King was entitled to enjoy himself to the fullest. Thrusting aside the curtaining, Cnut tossed a pillow at his sleeping servant, startling the poor man awake.

“Hie there, Torchil, stir your bones out of that blanket and get yourself busy. I am awake, and I want a piss and my break-fast.”

Emma rolled into the hollow where Cnut had been lying and closed her eyes. There was plenty of time until she need attend Mass. Until then, she would stay away from the prying eyes and slanderous tongue of the world, and sleep. Could she be any more content? When she thought back to those first, so unhappy months of marriage with Æthelred and compared them with these…compared? Could you compare an onion with an apple? A boar with a stag, or a dead twig with the beauty of a flower?

Godwine had never cared for the man, Leofwine, nor for his cocksure brood of pigheaded sons. Whether the dislike had originally come from his own contempt or had been inherited from his father’s opinion, Godwine did not know or care. The eldest son, Leofric, was near Godwine’s own age, and he was a loudmouthed braggart who, if he did not soon shut up, would find a fistful of knuckles rammed into his mouth. What Godwine found totally incredible was that Leofric should find anything to brag about. His father had been a minor Ealdorman of the Hwicce, the Welsh March lands from Gloucester-Shire to Worcester-Shire, but now, under Cnut’s reorganisation, was nothing more than a demoted under-Earl within the command of Eadric Streona. True, Leofric had been promoted to shire reeve of Worcester and had taken in marriage a most becoming Coventry girl of ten and five years old, but what was there in that to boast of? Ah, but then Leofric was the sort of man who even if he had a boil on his backside would crow about it. The new wife was only interesting in appearance. She was too pious in all else for Godwine’s liking.

“I reckon she kept her legs crossed even in the marriage bed,” he remarked to Erik of Northumbria, who laughed.

“Nay, lad, Godgiva is safe enough. Leofric is too mean-minded to give anything away, even his seed!”

“And what is it you find so amusing?” Eadric Streona said, walking past the two men and overhearing the last three words. The hall was crowded, stuffy, and hot, filled to capacity with Cnut’s nobles, their wives, sons, and daughters. Everyone had come to the Christmas court, for to miss it would imply the wrong impression, and no one wanted to antagonise Cnut.

His purge of those who seemed likely to oppose him had been thorough and complete. Anyone who had said a word against him, refused to pay his demand of taxes or obey his law, had been efficiently dealt with. No dissenters now existed in England; at least, none who would dare speak aloud their discontent. The lucky ones had escaped with having their ears or hands removed, the not so fortunate had been hanged. Harsh judgement, but Cnut could not afford to be seen as a weak King.

The query on everyone’s lips was how Eadric Streona had managed to outflank punishment. If anyone should pay for rebellion and disloyalty, it should be the Earl of Mercia.

“We were admiring the merits of Leofric’s wife,” Erik said, resenting the interruption. “I understand she is opposed to the burden of taxation her husband is having to acquire from the people of Coventry. She has become a champion of the poor man’s cause.”

“She could champion my cause any day!” Godwine chuckled, drawing the lady’s shapely figure in the air with his hands. “I would willingly pay my taxes if I could inspect her merits for myself!”

“Or weigh them,” Erik answered, his humour returning as he gestured as if his hands were cupping large, ample, breasts.

“If I were Leofric,” Eadric tossed at them as he began to walk away, “I would have you whipped naked through the streets for your crude insults.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” Godwine guffawed, slapping his hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Those merits of hers paraded naked through the streets!”

“With a quick feel for every man who paid a penny of tax.”

“You are disgusting. The both of you,” Eadric answered.

The amusement gone, Godwine jeered back, “That we might be, but we are loyal to our King. I am not a man who changes side mid-battle.” The exchange had shifted balance from lighthearted humour to something more destructive and sinister.

“I did not see you aiding Cnut at Ashingdon, Godwine. I am astonished you have the gall to show your face here at court. I would have you hanged, if judgement were left to my decision.”

“The King recognises a good, loyal, man when he sees one,” Erik countered on Godwine’s behalf, taking a menacing step towards Eadric.

“Then Cnut is an ass.”

A hush had fallen, attention drawn to the rising voices and the passionate exchange. Strange how in a hall such as this, with its high-raftered roof, its wide-spaced walls, and the mill of people within, words could echo and carry to the ears of a King.

“Is that your considered opinion, Eadric Streona?” Cnut asked through the sudden fall of breath-held silence, “or a general observation?”

Eadric blanched, bowed, sweeping a reverence almost to the floor. “My Lord, you heard a comment out of context; it is not what you think.”

“Please explain. How should I think of it?” Cnut walked slowly down the hall towards Streona, his nobles and their women opening before him like the Red Sea parting for Moses.

Eadric backed away a pace as Cnut came close, his hands held wide, placatingly. “I am loyal to you, my Lord. Leofric here will vouch for me. I have explained my conduct at Ashingdon. I was coerced into joining with Edmund, but I had no intention of doing his dirty work. As soon as I could, I quit the field, leaving the way open for your victory. If it were not for me, who knows how that day might have gone?”

“Ja,” Cnut answered, “who knows? Maybe a King who had been lawfully anointed and crowned in the sight of God would not have been betrayed by scum such as you. What honour was there in that winning for me, eh, Eadric? Can I ever reflect on that battle and not feel the red heat of shame?”

“You were pleased enough with the outcome at the time!” Ah, that proud temper of Eadric Streona’s. He never was capable of controlling it.

He held his breath, released it, thought Cnut had ignored the careless remark, for he had started to walk back towards the dais.

“Where are my taxes?” he suddenly barked, wheeling around to point a finger accusingly at Streona. “Why have you not paid them? It is Christmas, and I asked for full settlement by Christmas.”

Eadric spread both hands wide, spluttering incredulity. “But no one else has paid, my Lord! Everyone has asked for an extension until Easter, and extension you have granted.”

“I do not recall you asking, though,” Cnut snapped. “I want payment, now.”

“But I have not got it! I would have to pay out of my own coffers; I would lose all I have!”

Men were shuffling uneasily, women clinging to their husbands’ or fathers’ arms, fingers over mouths to keep the fear tucked in. Few cared for Streona, but did he deserve such public humiliation? No one was prepared to speak for him, however.