The Forever Queen (89 page)

29 September 1040—Thorney Island

The Michaelmas calling of the Witan council at Thorney Island was to prove an acrimonious one. Argument had raged back and forth for most of the day.

“I brought this boy here with the intention of establishing a full army of support for his plight!” Siward growled his rage. For an hour now he had been pleading his case. For an entire hour, it seemed, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Edward appeared to be asleep.

On the fourteenth day of August, Macbeth of the Isles had slain Duncan of Scotland in battle and had taken upon himself the mantle of King of Scotia. Duncan’s young son, Malcolm Canmore, had been hurriedly brought south to seek the aid of England and sanctuary with Siward, his maternal uncle. Eadwulf of Bernicia had refused him hospitality on his flight south. Siward, seeing possible implications fortunate for England, had welcomed a kinsman; no matter that he was a child. To aid the boy in regaining his crown could place Scotland in England’s debt. Eadwulf had not wanted to become involved, and Harthacnut, to Siward’s intense annoyance, agreed.

“I have not the funding to pay my own armies for my own protection!” Harthacnut roared in final protest, his head aching, his patience wearing thin. “How do you expect me to finance the boy to fight for his throne?”

Realising the hopelessness of defeat, Siward spread his arms in surrender. “May I at least be granted permission for him to live within my household?”

“If you agree to fund his cost and keep, then ja, you may do as you wish.” At last, amicable agreement, although not one totally to Earl Siward’s satisfaction. It would have to do, however.

“To other matters,” Harthacnut announced, by his tone, matters that would not be favourably welcomed. “I brought with me to England a fleet of Danish ships. Soon I must return with them to ensure the security of Denmark. I cannot expect those men, who have served me well and who expect reward for their service, to remain empty-handed much longer.”

Rumbles of muttered talk. As ever, no one liked discussing the collecting and payment of taxes.

“We invited you to England. We did not invite your fleet…”

“Leofric, only a fool would walk in unarmed and with no army at his back.” Unconsciously, Harthacnut glanced at Edward, who had slid into a crumpled heap in his chair, his chin firm on his chest, mouth open, a light snore emanating from his nose. Only a fool would come seeking a crown with no army? Ja. A fool.

No one spoke outright, although the chamber again rumbled with mutters of indignation. It was no easy thing to speak out if you valued your head and your life.

“I wish to pay off my fleet and make my displeasure known to those who did not support me from the first when my father died. I shall therefore raise the money from those who did defy me.”

“You mean to tax the north but not Wessex?” Leofric barked, stamping to his feet. “ The proposal is outrageous. Godwine did defy you also!”

“No, he did not! He supported me until he could no longer remain in a tenable situation,” Harthacnut tossed back viciously. “It was you who aided Ælfgifu; you who incited rebellion against me.”

Leofric clenched his fists. He had been expecting punishment and retribution ever since Harthacnut landed at Sandwich. “With respect, you cannot lay blame entirely at my door!” Brave of Leofric to defend himself. “But if you are to do so, I request you do it with honour and not impose suffering on the peoples of my earldom who cannot pay any increase in taxation. I must take the burden of punishment, if there is to be punishment, upon my own shoulders.”

Harthacnut sat easy in his chair. “Then you are willing to hang?”

Leofric blanched but managed to nod.

“A noble gesture, but I cannot afford to lose my Earls,” Harthacnut said. “As with Godwine, Siward, and all others, I judge you to have acted in the best interest of England, Leofric. Misguided interest, but come the end, you saw the error of your decision. However, I must raise the funding to pay my men; therefore a tax must be gathered.”

He motioned for a cleric to read the royal declaration.

“Tax is to be assessed at eight marks to the rowlock, eight marks to be awarded to each crewman.” Amid the protested uproar, the man had to raise his voice almost to a shout.

“Sir! You brought two and sixty ships!”

“At sixty men to a ship, that is four hundred and eighty marks!”

“No, nigh on six hundred and forty—he brought the great dragon ships, do not forget!”

“Three hundred and twenty pounds of silver per ship—Christ God,” Leofric pleaded, appalled. “You request nigh on nineteen thousand pounds of silver from us!”

Harthacnut was familiar with the added sums. “I do. That is the cost of disloyalty and betrayal, Leofric. Be thankful that is all I demand.” He rose, his face without expression. He had been used to getting his own way in Denmark and was not going to change the habit now. What did these men think? That he would turn a blind eye to their support of Harefoot and his whore mother? Ah, no, men had to learn where loyalty must lie!

Everyone else had to come to their feet; no one sat while the King stood. Edward was the last to rise, having entangled his mantle somehow between his legs. Emma glared at him impatiently.

“I declare council closed,” Harthacnut announced. “Business is done.”

***

Within the privacy of Harthacnut’s chamber, Emma tore off her wimple, throwing the flame-coloured linen to the floor in her rage. “How dare you decide such a high rate without consulting me!” she shouted, thumping the table before her with her clenched fist.

Edward hastily caught a wine-filled goblet before it rocked and fell.

“This could raise rebellion against you. And you are about to go to Denmark and leave me to gather up the shattered pieces? I had no idea you were such an idiot, boy!”

“Idiot, am I?” Harthacnut yelled back. “What would you have me do? Let my men loose on the countryside? Allow them off the tight rein I have kept them on, let them choose for themselves what they would like to carry home? A few women, maybe, or the riches from churches? Where shall I suggest they raid, eh, Edward? “

Edward attempted to bluster a diplomatic answer, but never managed to finish his sentence.

“I said nothing against raising a tax,” Emma snapped, “but not at that levy. It is a ridiculous proposal!”

“So first I am the idiot, now I am ridiculous? And you so wanted me to be King of this wretched country—have you so easily altered your mind?”

Emma gathered her breath to retaliate; the angry, churning words filled her mouth, but she swallowed them down, exhaled, sat, ordered Edward to pour them wine. “Whether I approve or not,” she said more reasonably, “is immaterial. What you have decreed must be obeyed. I suggest, however, you grant longer than the one month for the gathering. Certain areas have been sore hit by the rains this harvest season. If next spring’s sowing be as badly affected, we may face famine. The shires of Worcester and Leicester have been most hard-pressed.”

She had done her best, but her son, she belatedly realised, was a man forged of unbendable iron and stone. He could be just and lenient, but, like his father, could be as stubbornly determined. And he carried a streak of ruthlessness that, once his mind was set to it, would not be assuaged. As had Cnut.

As September crept into the autumn-coloured month of October, Harthacnut sailed for Denmark. He left behind the two men he most trusted, Thorstein and Feader, to collect the additional forfeiture of tax and to bring it, as soon as the winter storms abated, in his wake. If they did not come with the stipulated amount, he would return by Easter to take it by force. A threat not idly made.

October 1040—Saint Mary’s Church, Worcester

Set the tables here,” Thorstein directed officiously the moment he stalked into the church, the only place in the small town of Worcester suitable for the purpose of collecting taxes. “Put that one over there; they can enter at the main door, make their mark under Feader’s administration, pay their due here at my table, and leave through that side door.” As he gave the orders, Thorstein unpinned his cloak but left it hanging from his shoulders; it was cold in here.

“You!” He pointed to a man disappearing through the door at the rear that appeared to lead into the tower. “Fetch us lighted braziers.”

The man bowed meekly, hiding his expression. Aye, he would see these bastards were warmed right enough!

“So much for the threat of rebellion these peasants ranted on about.” Feader laughed as he perched his backside on the one already erected trestle and watched the men begin to unload the reams and piles of official documents. “They ran like frightened hares as soon as we rode into view!” He lifted one of the scrolls, the names of men who held freehold property in the Hundred of Worcester, glanced at it: Turbrand, coppersmith. Edmund, brother of Edwine, potter. Osbern Fairbrow, fuller. Bored, threw it aside. He so disliked tax gathering; it ought not be a housecarl’s duty. “Might be an idea to send for a barrel of ale,” he suggested. “A few pasties alongside it?”

“You filled your belly not more than an hour since, man! You worm-riddled or something?” Thorstein tossed at him with a laugh. He, too, had been scornful of the rumours that the peasants of Worcester were intending to refuse to pay their tax. It was early in the day yet; there could come trouble, but beyond sullen glances as they had ridden in, nothing had seemed untoward. All the same, he would be pleased to get the job done and be away. He pulled a chair towards the table, sat, and started to sort the papers he would need.

Behind him, the door to the tower was flung open with a crash that echoed throughout the church.

“What the raven…?”

Men rushed in, weapons drawn; Thorstein drew his sword, heard Feader shout a warning, turned to parry the thrust of a hunting spear as four solid-built farming men came at him.

There were more behind him, to the side, ahead. The church filled with angry men intent on spilling blood—and not paying a penny farthing in taxation. Feader was bellowing rage as he swung his axe, the group of eight men with him fighting as hard and desperately, their breathing sharp in their chests, hearts hammering, sweat wet on their palms, throats dry. Concentrating on staying alive. Blood ran, the nave of Saint Mary thick with it.

Feader went down, his arm severed, bright blood pumping from the artery. Then Thorstein, fighting to the end, though his stomach was pierced through. They struck his head off from behind.

The carnage was intense, quickly over, and savagely done. The men of Worcester had said they would not pay any damned taxes, and they were men of their word.

What would happen next no one knew, but they were prepared to wait and find out; prepared, too, to fight again if necessary.

March 1041—Winchester

Edward was playing at threading cat’s cradles around his fingers with a knotted lace, a game he had enjoyed since childhood. He hummed a hymn to himself as he twisted his lean fingers in and out of the braid, pausing occasionally to suck his cheek in concentration.

Emma was reading the book she had commissioned. Her Encomium, the justification of her life and that of Harthacnut. She was impressed with the result, a delicate balance of prose, intertwined with the right amount of fact and detail. He had been clever, her chosen author, the monk and scholar Bovo of Saint Bertin’s in Flanders, for he had managed to gloss over the facts that she had not wanted included. Despite the mention of her first two sons, Æthelred was not referred to. Nor were Cnut’s indiscretions against the English. He was made to appear the hero, the benign Christian conqueror who had saved England from the wrath of God, the politician, not the feared warrior.

She particularly admired the desperate scene of Alfred’s arrest and murder, the letter, the one she had sent to Edward summoning him to Winchester, was posed as a forgery. More than ever, the account of Cnut’s death was essential, for Harthacnut, far away in Denmark, was daily becoming more unpopular. Barely anyone had spoken out and condemned that bloody and wicked murder in Worcester; few blamed the murderers; many quietly admired them. What Harthacnut would say and do about it when he returned was anyone’s guess. He was expected within the week, sooner if the winds were favourable.

The frontispiece for the Encomium was particularly charming: a drawing, skilfully penned, showing her enthroned with Harthacnut, Edward standing beside her, Bovo kneeling at her feet presenting her with his work. She intended to recommend Bovo to Saint Bertin’s as an ideal candidate for their new Abbot. He deserved her patronage.

“Bother!” Edward dropped the link, and the pattern twined through his fingers fell apart.

He had had read the book but had refused to comment. Secretly he was thrilled at being one of the central characters, but he harboured a grudge against his mother for her friendship with Godwine. Edward had wanted the man stripped of his title for his part in Alfred’s death; Emma had refused to do so. If anything, Godwine appeared on the pages to be as much the victim as Alfred, and knowing how many of the passages were blatant lies, how could he believe otherwise of that particular part?

“Do you think I might have a book made about my life?” he asked, liking the idea as he said it.

Emma did not look up from her reading. “I doubt it,” she said.

Edward pouted and wandered to the far side of the room, to where Edith, Godwine’s twelve-year-old daughter, was playing tæfl with her elder brother, Harold. Edward’s objection to Godwine did not extend to the family. Harold he admired; Edith was amusing.

To Harold’s annoyance she was winning again. She would be returning to Wilton soon after Easter, and Emma had taken it upon herself to welcome the girl into her household for these few interim weeks of the Holy Festival.

Making her next move, Edith placed her piece and won the game. She smiled brightly at Emma. “I think it is a beautiful book, madam; there are passages that made my heart beat with fear and others where I wept.”

Wishing he had thought to say that, Edward scowled.