The Forever Queen (64 page)

“Well, then, there you are.” Cnut kissed the top of her head, her braided hair bare in this, their private chamber. She smelt of summer flowers.

Emma kicked him, not hard, but with a force to let him know he was an insufferable pragmatist.

He yelped, laughed, tipped her face to his, and kissed her on the lips. “I love you,” he said, meaning it. “Whatever I do, wherever I go, whoever curses me, I want you always to remember that.”

Emma drew away from him, wiping her long sleeve against her moist eyes. “And, no doubt, you said the exact same to her?”

Momentarily, Cnut frowned, pursed his lips. Her? Ælfgifu? How could he answer? Patronising? Placating? He decided to settle on the truth. “I do not love Ælfgifu. As you have often observed, she is a scheming, plotting, traitorous bitch. I go to her for one reason and one reason only…”

“To bed her!”

“No! To ensure her leash remains tight secured!” Cnut had kept his hands on Emma’s shoulders, brought her close to him again, held her. “If I were to allow Ælfgifu her freedom, she would have an army at my gateway faster than a hare breaks cover from hounds. She would take a suitable husband and fight me until the death for my crown for her sons.”

He shrugged, grinned. “Leaving aside the fact no one could better me in the first place, that is.” He put his mouth against Emma’s, kissed her, hard, with passionate wanting. “This way, for the sake of those sons, my first wife has to behave herself.”

“She will never get the crown for those brats!”

Cnut held his counsel. He had held virtually the same, but reversed, conversation with Ælfgifu about Emma.

A tug at his tunic hem. Cnut glanced down, found Harthacnut standing there, attempting to gain his attention. “Papa,” he demanded, lifting up the carved toy in his hand to show him, “Papa, you promised to play soldiers with me.”

“Not now, Harthacnut,” Emma answered briskly, moving away from Cnut and scooping the boy into her arms. “It is late, skat; you ought to be abed.”

“But Papa promised!”

“He did no such thing.”

“I hate you!” Furious at the attention his father had paid to his mother but not to him, Harthacnut smacked the wooden soldier into Emma’s face, catching her brow above her eye and drawing an impressive gush of blood.

Leofgifu grabbed the nearest thing to hand, the embroidery she had been working, and Cnut, snatching it from her, slapped it against the cut, held it there with firm pressure.

“Take the boy away,” he gruffly ordered. “As my wife says, he ought to be abed.” He ought to have his backside whipped raw. Kept his thought to himself; Emma would never have allowed it.

One of Emma’s maids came forward, but Harthacnut angrily kicked her shin.

“Now, none of that, young man!” Leofgifu commanded, grasping hold of his shoulders. “You have done damage already; do not make matters worse.”

Harthacnut tipped back his head and wailed. Leofgifu, oblivious to his shrieking, tucked him under her arm and bore him away.

Critically dabbing at the coagulating cut, Cnut observed, “He is getting too wilful, that boy; he will soon be needing a firmer hand.”

“He is bewildered,” Emma answered, going to the polished mirror to examine her reflection and tenderly investigate the wound for herself. “The immediate now is the only importance to a young child.” Why was she so lenient with Harthacnut? She was aware that she should be more strict with him, but he was a child, a little boy, and she had been offered nothing except the rigour of discipline through all her own childhood. Surely there was room for understanding of how he felt? For giving love, not censure? He would behave the better as he grew, as he realised the importance of self-discipline, honour, and respect.

“How can a child his age know right from wrong? He will learn. In time, he will learn.”

Cnut was not so certain, but let it pass. “As the immediate now is of importance to me also,” he said huskily as he stepped behind her, inspected the eyebrow, and satisfied himself that the bleeding had looked worse than it actually was. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumb running over the feel of her nipples beneath her gown. “Get you gone,” he growled to the servants, “I have private business with my wife.”

Emma thought of objecting to his lovemaking. She was not convinced about Ælfgifu, but why be churlish and permit that bitch to have all the intimate pleasure?

10 June 1023—Rochester

Things, to Cnut’s acute annoyance, had not gone to plan. London had been determined to hinder his ordered removal of such an auspicious man from their care, and although they had lost the fight, protestors jostled and harangued those who dared move the holy remains. More than one stinking egg had met its target and plastered the monks who had come from Canterbury to exhume the bones, but with the housecarls as escort, the belligerent crowd had done no more than jeer and throw what they could. London Bridge, however, had caused the greatest problem.

Turned out in hundreds to watch the unique spectacle of a woman being burnt alive—it had been an interesting show, the woman cursing Cnut until the thick smoke had enveloped her, and even then her shrieks had continued for some good while—the crowds had elected to remain and pay respect to the coffin as it passed by. But the solemn entourage found the bridge blocked by so many crowding the roadway, making headway impossible. Furious, unsure whether the ploy had been a deliberate ruse or mere coincidence, Cnut had commandeered a ship of his fleet, moored on the downriver side of the bridge, to sail the coffin across to the Southwark side, there to continue its holy progress, accompanied by prayer and song, to Rochester. On the evening of the tenth day of June, Emma, with her children, joined her husband to be ready, on the morrow, to accompany the procession those few final miles to Canterbury.

“Are you asleep?”

Emma roused, relaxed, drowsing, her body glowing from the aftermath of pleasure. The King’s quarters were cramped here at Rochester, but sufficient, particularly as far as his bed was concerned. “Not quite,” Emma mumbled.

“I have chosen my new Earl and Archbishop.”

Half asleep. “Oh? That’s nice.”

“I thought you would like to know before I inform council. My choice in both will be loudly obstructed by Ælfgifu.”

“Oh?” Emma propped herself on her elbow, her loose hair tumbling across her shoulders and breasts. She scrutinised his face in the dim light that filtered through a few narrow chinks in the bed curtains.

“Christ Church is in full support of my decision,” he said into the semidarkness, his fingers stroking the smooth roundness of her shoulder. “But then,” he added with a shrug that Emma felt rather than saw, “they owe me a favour for my consenting to return their Archbishop’s bones.”

A lopsided grin spread over Emma’s lips. “So Canterbury will not gainsay your choice for York?”

“No. Alfric Puttoc is sincerely approved.”

“Puttoc? Alfric the Hawk?” Emma spluttered, fully awake now and sitting up. “But he is a Bernician priest, a firm supporter of Uhtred. Was it not Puttoc who condemned Ælfgifu’s father and approved Æthelred’s blinding of his sons—despite his being a kinsman of the family?”

“Ja, it was Puttoc.”

Emma puffed her cheeks, ran her hand through her hair. Ælfgifu could very well do more than protest!

Cnut touched his lips lightly into the hollow of her neck. “Elskede, there is more.”

“More?” Emma said languidly, tipping her head. Mmm, she wanted more.

“I am appointing Uhtred’s son Ealdred as Earl. He has proved his worth serving as an under-Earl of Bernicia beneath Erik. He has earned the whole glittering jewel for himself.”

She had been sinking into the delight of his caressing hand, sat bolt upright, pushing his hand away from where it had dropped to her breast. “Guds skyld, Cnut! He killed Thurbrand; you could be stirring that bitch to rebellion!”

Cnut chuckled and pulled her down beneath the furs, his hands straying over the curves of her body. “That is my intention. I am doing what you have wanted me to do. Giving her the opportunity to speak out against me or forever remain silent.”

“And if she denounces you? Will you hang her?” Emma asked challengingly, again pushing his hands away. Remained unconvinced when, between kisses, Cnut nodded.

When not annoyed with him, she enjoyed the pleasure of his lovemaking, but at this moment her responses were slow, dull-witted, for her mind was many miles to the north. In Northampton. Oh, Emma was in no doubt Cnut had told her of only half of his intentions, that this ecstasy he was inducing in her body was to distract her from discovering all he had not told.

Through her numerous kindred—there were so damned many of them—Ælfgifu had been steadily and, as she assumed, secretively cultivating a hold on northern power, a bribe here, a favour given or called in there. She thought herself secure, subtly manoeuvring herself into domination, forming friendships and alliances, binding those of influence to her side; ready, waiting, to make her move if—when—anything happened to Cnut. Emma almost laughed aloud, skilfully changed the sound to a pretended gasp of aroused delight. With these appointments, the bitch would lose all she had so carefully built, as if the whole of it had been made of sand, washed away with one sweep of an incoming tide. She would lose everything but her small domain of Northampton, and that Emma could easily ensnare if need be.

Perhaps it would be wise to start laying the traps now? Reward Ealdred, grant him favour; be attentive to the new Archbishop, fund his charities, finance the building of a few churches. Offer her undivided attention. What was stronger, more exhilarating? The climax Cnut brought her to or the delight of triumph over Ælfgifu?

August 1023—Bosham

When Cnut was busy, as more often than not he was, Emma passed the day in Gytha’s company, for her own friendship and that of the children. They were the family that Emma had always wanted, the laughter, the enthusiasm, the love that she had been denied by the austerity of her rigid upbringing. Gytha was a natural mother, love pouring from her spirit as easily as milk came from her breast—she fed her own children, would have nothing of a wet nurse. “They are my childer—I bore them, I will suckle them.”

Swegn, in his third year, was weaned and a terror; Harold, two years the younger, still in demand for his mother’s teat. Godwine humoured her, guessing the inclination would wear thin once several more infants came along. He would jest proudly, “She is happy with sleepless nights with only the two of them; you wait ’til we have our own home-bred army to feed! We will be employing wet nurses by the score then!”

“If you are thinking on producing that many children, husband,” Gytha would quip back at him, “then you can go sire them with someone else to labour through birth! I am not a brood mare!” And they would smile at each other secretly, knowing she wanted as many children as it took to fill the house place to the rafters with laughter.

“Cnut works too hard,” Emma said, thinking aloud, as she held the naked babe, Harold, above the stream, bobbing his toes in and out of the sparkle of cold water, making him gurgle and chuckle with delight. She shrugged her shoulders at Gytha, sitting on the bank, keeping a watchful eye on the others, playing in one of the wider, shallower pools. “He hates the thought of sitting still, always has to be occupied, doing something. He gives me a headache with all that energy of his.”

“I think men are only truly happy when either planning a battle or lying flaccid and spent in a woman’s bed,” Gytha answered brightly.

Emma laughed and, holding Harold high, stepped out of the stream. “One and the same thing to some men!” She passed the child to his mother and, releasing her gown from where she had hitched it through her girdle, sat on the spread blanket, began drying her wet feet with a corner of it.

“Harthacnut!” she called, looking towards the children, “do not splash so. Swegn’s smaller than you; he does not care for water in his eyes.” If her son heard her gentle admonishment, he paid no heed.

Pulling her hose and boots on, Emma said, “We have had word that Thorkell is willing to talk peace.”

“Word with truth behind it, or wild rumour?”

“I think the truth. Cnut is planning to sail for Denmark again come the autumn, to over-winter in Roskilde.”

Gytha settled Harold more comfortably in her arms. He was a good baby, easy to nurse, to amuse, quick to settle into sleep. Swegn, her firstborn, was an entirely different barrel of salted fish. What a lad for temper! Even his mother, who doted on him, admitted she would be wary of meeting him in the dark once he became a man grown.

“I will never understand Thorkell’s thinking,” she said, rocking the baby in her arms. “He had an exalted position, second in command to Cnut, had the world at his feet, yet he tossed it all into the midden—and for what? To come crawling on his belly, seeking forgiveness?”

There came a cry of rage from the stream, a sudden flurry of a squabble. Leofgifu thrust aside her spinning and hurried to her feet to separate the two furious boys, Harthacnut and Swegn, both of them haggling fiercely over the ownership of a toy boat. As fast as it had arisen the storm subsided, the two, at Leofgifu’s insistence, sullenly agreeing to share. All the same, Harthacnut deliberately splashed Swegn again by bringing his palm down fast into the water. Swegn cried; Harthacnut laughed.

“I am telling you, boy!” Emma threatened, “Stop splashing! If I need remind you once more, you will be away inside until you can learn to behave yourself.” To Gytha, resuming their conversation, said, “The doing was all Wulfhilde’s; hers was the insistence behind the trying for more. Like her father, she always was a self-centred madam.”

“So her death at Easter past may explain Thorkell’s change of heart?”

“I would assume so. If he has any sense, he will lay the blame squarely at her feet and plead insanity through beguiled lust! Oh, for Heaven’s sake, boy!” Emma scrambled up, strode to the stream, and hauled Harthacnut, kicking and yelling, from the water. “What did I say to you?” she slapped his leg. “How dare you disobey me?”