King Hereafter

by Dorothy Dunnett

  In the darkness, Thorkel’s eyes glittered, and then he turned away. ‘And not before time,’ he said. ‘The King in Caithness is all very well, but who will look to the farms if the lot of you are playing pirates all summer? Homage for Cumbria?’

  ‘Think about it,’ Thorfinn said, making it brisk, and turned to the hall. What waited for him there was the innermost part of his life, without which the rest could not go on. She had been afraid, and he must still her fears; and also conceal from her that his fears had been greater yet; and still were.

  FIVE

  N THE FIRST day of Easter, it being judged that no invasion from Norway was imminent, Edward son of Aethelred was officially crowned King of England at Winchester by the Archbishop Eadsige of Canterbury and, before all the people, was duly instructed as to his duties as King and his responsibilities to his new nation.

  The ceremony was not a success, and neither was the banquet afterwards, at which the King’s mother found herself seated staring across two tables at the young King of Alba, who had the good sense to stare woodenly back, He was sitting, she saw, next to his wife’s cousin the new Earl of Northumbria, a well-intentioned and calamitous provision by Edward’s well-intentioned and calamitous seneschal, whom she must get rid of forthwith.

  Three seats along from her, she could hear the King her own son forgetting Anglo-Saxon names, as he had been forgetting them for a year now. So much for last night’s session with herself and Aelfwin, trying to teach him, yet again, the names of his English courtmen from outside London and Gloucester and Winchester. Sitting there in the church, you could sense the derision as the Archbishop ranted on about Christian succession, and not only because the old man was making a mess of it, either. Anyone who had been with Edward or knew of Edward during all those years at Rouen must be perfectly well aware that in forty years he had never managed to father a child, despite every encouragement; and all the doctors had done for him, it seemed, was convince him that he now knew more about healing than they did.

  Her younger son Alfred had been popular, but she had known from the day she left him in Normandy, thirty years since, that Edward was stupid, with the stupid man’s timidity that occasionally—very occasionally—could burst into hysterical action. She had always prayed that Edward would never have to be brought in to fill Canute’s shoes. She could control Edward. But she couldn’t lead armies, and since he couldn’t either, the power was going to lie with those who did.

  Godwin, Leofric, and Siward. She could see them from where she was sitting, in their embroidered robes and gold belts, their thick rings glowing with colour in the candlelight.

  Leofric of Mercia, whose brat Alfgar was a grown man now, and as sharp and energetic and ambitious as his father, you could be sure, as well as possessing a mother who clearly meddled with some Breton arts she had better leave alone, since her looks had never changed in twenty years. And there was energy there as well, the kind of special edge that these Breton-Caux marriages brought, like the Norse-Irish ones she had come across. Leofric and his son would take some watching.

  Then Godwin of Wessex. One could say it like that, as if he were merely another powerful earl, and not one of her oldest and once dearest friends, who had fought side by side with Canute and had—almost certainly—brought about the death of her son Alfred. Godwin she no longer could trust, nor feel near to, although the past lay there and could not be ignored. Nor could those links with the past that might promise trouble in future. Godwin and Canute’s sister had married sister and brother. Godwin’s wife was aunt to Svein, whom her son Hardecanute had put in charge of Denmark, and whom Magnús of Norway had just succeeded—for the moment—in pushing out.

  Now England was under a Saxon King, Denmark was no longer the motherland. If Godwin were to be disappointed with the new England, he and his sons did not have far to seek for a different ally.

  And, lastly, Siward, sitting next to the boy from Orkney who had once been Canute’s housecarl, and about whom she must do something as soon as the meal finished. Siward, who had taken the hint and promptly slaughtered his wife’s uncle Eadulf, whose empire-building in the north had been too blatant for comfort. She remembered suggesting it to her other son, her dear son, and he at least had seen the implications at once. You wouldn’t mind an alliance between Siward and this new Macbeth?

  He had been her dear son, but he was young, and he didn’t know northmen as she did. She had known that the Orkney boy would never take Siward into partnership, and she had been proved right. And now, her agents said, the fellow Siward had raided deep into Alba and got hold of two of his three nephews, Duncan’s sons.

  The Orkney King might have no pretensions to Northumbria. But, with Thorfinn-Macbeth killed or rejected by Alba, there was no doubt now who would have the pickings of Alba in the future, as the mother’s good-brother of two helpless children. And Edward’s fool of a seneschal had placed the two men side by side at the banquet table.

  She must certainly do something about that, and tonight. For, given Alba, this gross Norwegian Earl would be stronger than either Godwin or Leofric, and that would be bad. For only by keeping these three great Earls equal, and equally at each other’s throats, was she going to be able to push Edward the way he should go.

  The King of England’s musicians, who were experiencing the same language difficulty as the King of England, had trailed to a halt, and had been followed by the King of England’s tumblers, whose antics at least were understood by all his subjects. In the reduced din that followed, the King of Alba opened tranquil conversation, in his subterranean voice, with the Earl of Northumbria sitting next to him.

  ‘I am sure we are intended to speak to each other. Did they know you were here, I am certain Thorkel Fóstri and my wife your cousin would send loving greetings to you and your family. How are the boys?’

  All the men of Thore Hund’s line grew to a great size. Beside Earl Siward’s father, the Lapps with their furs had looked like squirrels, and beside Earl Siward even the man they now called Macbeth, King of Alba, had no advantage of height and was half the other man’s width. The bullock Kalv Arnason’s nephew had grown into the bull, rough-haired, rough-bearded, and quick in temper, who was now ruler over half the north of England, as well as the great merchant-city of York.

  So, although Siward was Earl to the other man’s King, the difference in rank did not concern him. Siward was pure-bred Norwegian: the son of a rich man who with his own hands had brought down a king—as could his son if he chose. And this King was a half-bred fifth son, born to an island colony, and nearly ten years younger than himself.

  Siward took his time about turning his shoulder and answered when he was ready. ‘The boys? Osbern is young yet, but as good with his sword as he needs to be. My other child is Ranveig, a girl.’

  ‘I am sure her husband, when you pick him, will be a fortunate man,’ the King said. ‘I was referring, however, to the nephews we have in common and you have in fact. How are Malcolm and Donald?’

  The cliff of Siward’s brow lifted. ‘Duncan’s sons?’

  ‘Duncan’s sons,’ affirmed the King. ‘By all means, let us leave the subject if it makes you uneasy. I merely wished to enquire after their health. I am really quite relieved that you felt you could support them. I had rather, on the whole, that they sickened and died while under your roof than while under mine. The monks tell me the younger one takes to his bed every time he eats fish. You will have noticed.’

  ‘I have no knowledge of King Duncan’s sons,’ Siward said. ‘I am sure, however, your late brother would be as surprised as am I to see you so eager to kneel with your tribute. As I remember, Canute had to take an army north before Duncan or his grandfather would produce one vat of mead or a barrel of butter for Cumbria.’

  ‘If you are thinking of some flamboyant gesture of defiance for Northumbria,’ the King said, ‘I don’t really recommend it. Canute and his army gave Duncan and my grandfather such a fright that they had to summon me and invoke
the King of Norway to save their skins, and you can’t do either. That is, if you summoned me, I’m afraid I wouldn’t come; and you can’t really invoke the King of Norway since your father and Kalv killed his father. How, incidentally, are you proposing to reconcile the honest traders of York to the fact that your progenitor slaughtered a saint? You’ll have to build a church to St Olaf.’

  It was already half-built. The fellow knew it. ‘Perhaps,’ said Siward. ‘These matters take money. If I set out like my forefathers and killed poor Christians and sank trading-ships, no doubt I could outfit my followers in silk tunics and gold-hilted weapons, and even pay all my tribute in silver; but these are not the ways of the White Christ.’

  In the beaked, solemn face, the eyes stood like bronze pennies, and moved, scanning his face. ‘Now I must give you some news that will strengthen your faith,’ said the fellow from Orkney. ‘The gold-hilted weapons you see, and the tribute in silver that King Edward was pleased to accept from me came from no other source than the White Christ himself. The White Christ at Dunkeld. The White Christ and, of course, my lord Crinan, the Abbot whose care had amassed it. You would have been surprised at the amount,’ said the King, ‘had you called for the boys a little sooner. But, of course, they were expensive to feed. Especially since one cannot eat fish. Someone wishes to call your attention.’

  It was as well, because Siward could feel his fists clenching. The messenger was the King’s new chaplain, Hermann, from Mons in Hainault, whose accent at least could be followed. While he was listening, Edward of England got up, as a signal that the banquet was at an end, and so Thorfinn was saved as well from returning to the foolish conversation he had been trapped into. Siward walked away from the boards without troubling to look back at his cousin’s husband.

  The chaplain Hermann watched him go, and then, lifting his chin, caught King Macbeth’s attention and delivered his other and very different message.

  The King of Alba had been given a hall for himself and his retinue just off the market-place, and it was there that Earl Siward of Northumbria sought him an hour after that, striking the door with his fist until the King’s steward opened it, so that he could see within the nobles from Alba he had been speaking of, with their gold-hilted swords and silk tunics, looking up from their dice and their laughter.

  Behind Siward were a dozen of his own men with their swords, and he was too angry to care about lowering his voice.

  ‘My lord King is not here,’ said the steward, and opened the door wider so that this could be seen. ‘I do not know my lord’s whereabouts, but no doubt he will sleep here. Perhaps the Earl and his men wish to enter and wait?’

  Even one glance through the door showed that Thorfinn had more men here than he had. And the noise in the road behind him and the glint of royal badges reminded him that he was in the King’s Winchester and disturbing the peace.

  He left. To Ligulf, when he got back to the pavilion they shared, he said, ‘I told you what he said at table. He is behind it. I know he is behind it.’

  To Ligulf, his dark and powerful brother-in-law who held Bamburgh castle, the matter was as important as it was to Siward, and he was short of patience. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘You saw King Edward? What did he want?’

  Siward’s strong teeth showed among the thick, springing whiskers. ‘Custody of Duncan’s two boys,’ he said. ‘Just that. He thinks it more suitable that the boys should be given a courtly rearing. He considered handing them to their grandfather, but my lord Crinan is not now of an age to take kindly to the training of young children, and the King, of his generosity, was therefore willing to undertake this burden himself.’ Spray fell from his words.

  Ligulf watched him. ‘You told him that Donald was in Ireland?’

  ‘He accepted that. He may have suspected it. He wants Malcolm forthwith.’

  ‘Will you send him?’

  ‘Do you want me to defy him? The King? He has only to ask Godwin or Leofric and we are dead or exiled, the lot of us.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so we have lost Malcolm. But we still have access to Donald,’ said Siward. ‘And when Rognvald and Magnús of Norway move in to tear Thorfinn to pieces, this Norman fool of a King will see that he picked the wrong man to favour today.’

  From the banqueting-hall, the priest Hermann led the tall King of Alba through the crowds to the lavish guest-quarters that bore the banner of Mercia.

  Of design, Leofric of Mercia himself was not there: a wise precaution in any family having dealings with Emma the Queen Mother. Instead, waiting for them was Godiva his wife and his son Alfgar, now a tough and sinewy thirty-year-old with watchful eyes as well as a hearty laugh and a strong grip of welcome. Godiva said, ‘Thorfinn!’ and then changed it. ‘No, Macbeth. We must remember. We are in the invisible presence of the Lady Emma, who did not think it wise to meet you herself at this juncture. You are to talk instead with Master Hermann here, and with the Archbishop. I think you know each other.’

  From his cushioned seat at the back of the small room, Juhel, Archbishop of Dol, rose and came forward briskly, and his bright eyes observed many things.

  The Mercians made way for him. The association between them and this King from the north was of old standing and ran deep, the Lady Emma thought. The Mercians would learn of these discussions anyway. To allow them to observe and to share merely made a virtue of necessity.

  Archbishop Juhel gave his hand to the King, and saw the other man’s eyes glance at his broken nose, which was as good as a badge and would remind him of the last time they had met, at King Duncan’s enthronement, when he was not yet Archbishop.

  Now, Juhel de Fougères made the right responses, not forgetting to ask after his young compatriot Sulien. They sat talking. Alfgar and his handsome mother spoke occasionally, but were mostly silent. Hermann, whom the Archbishop knew very well, was taking a polite share in the exchange, but was also watching and judging.

  Feeling his way, slowly, to the business of the evening, the Archbishop watched and judged also.

  ‘He is of your own age,’ the Lady Emma had said. ‘And has spent most of his life in the north. But do not underestimate him.’

  Himself, Archbishop Juhel did not underestimate the Queen Mother either. Everyone dealing with trade and with money in Bruges and Arras and Rouen, in Mont St Michel and Tours, in Chaourse Flanders or Cahors Aquitaine, to the Count of which Emma sent, every year, some expensive trifle—everyone knew about Emma, widow of two Kings of England. And now, with Norman mercenaries becoming Norman dukes in Italy, everyone had a cousin or two where it mattered in Lombardy, and the network was becoming complete.

  Nowadays, money was something all men had need of. The church required it, to pay armies to push the Saracens back in the Mediterranean; to fight off the heathenish tribes of the Baltic; to establish churches and send her missions abroad. Kings required it, to bribe their enemies and to pay their friends for services rendered where land was wanting or inappropriate; to hire fleets with, and foreign fighting-men; to buy the luxuries that their status demanded.

  And since not every country could make money or, having made it, could protect the place where it was kept, a trade in money was always there: money that did not go rotten or stink or require great ships to carry it backwards and forwards, or fail altogether if the weather was bad or some tribe of ignorant savages wiped out the seed and the growers. Money which grew of its own accord: in Exeter, in Alston, in the Hertz mountains where the Emperor Henry had made his new palace.

  Money, which was power, which was the wheel upon which ran Emma the Queen Mother’s heart.

  Ten years ago, hiring himself and his ships, Thorfinn of Orkney had wanted adventure perhaps as much as money, if not more. He had his household to pay, and those men who, building his ships, had to raise their crops and herd their beasts using serf-labour. Now, as Macbeth of Alba, it would seem that riches lay to his hand within his new provinces and he had no call to look further to England or further south over
the sea.

  He, Juhel, had said so to the Old Lady. And Emma had replied, over the coif-draped shelf of her bosom, with her jewelled stick quivering close to her hand against the carved arm of her chair-throne: ‘Rubbish. He can expect grain from Caithness and timber and salmon from Moray, but his new lands are Irish and primitive, and those regions that are not are either dangerous to tamper with yet, such as Lothian, or require money to guard them, such as Dunkeld and Cumbria. He is living off Crinan’s money now, and I doubt if Crinan will complain: they need each other. But he has to protect old King Malcolm’s realm and his own with nothing like old King Malcolm’s resources.’

  He remembered demurring at that, which was always a mistake with the Lady. ‘But you depended on Malcolm of Alba to hold Cumbria for you? He must have had men to fight for him—the same men his grandson Thorfinn now possesses?’

  ‘He had Leinstermen to fight for him,’ the Lady had pointed out with impatience. ‘You ought to know that, at least. Leinstermen, the present King’s enemies. And Crinan his daughter’s husband to keep the rest of Cumbria quiet. The Alban kings have always had to use landless Irish or northmen to fight with. What else have they? The land provides for nothing but small families of mixed Pictish and Irish and Brittonic blood, crowding together the better to scrape a living from their herding and hunting and grain-patches.

  ‘They survive. They will even rise now and then: they burned Dunkeld when the King’s daughter died. But that is rare, as it is rare in the north. The household leaders will hand over tribute and sit in the council of their tuaths and bring home a gold arm-band or a roll of fine wool now and then for their wives, but it is the lord and his kindred who order the provinces and hold the wealth in their hands.

  ‘So the Earls of Orkney and Caithness have always ruled. So this one will rule in Alba. And so he will need money and fighting-men. And if he can’t get fighting-men, or if the Viking spirit is not what it was—for there is nothing like kingship,’ had said Emma, ‘for making a man look to his name instead of his weapons—then he is going to have to buy peace; and peace is the most expensive commodity of all.