“I bloody well will not!”
“You bloody will, boy! I command it!”
Archbishop Wulfstan, seated at the far end of the hall, glanced up from the Gospel he was reading and frowned. Faith was not a thing to be undertaken at the command of another; it had to come from within the heart, and this cock-proud boy, who had witnessed and laughed at the martyrdom of Archbishop Alfheah, was not ready for God’s grace to be marked on his forehead.
“We have done well for ourselves thus far with taking heed of both Odin and Christ in equal measure.” Cnut’s remark was surly; he was almost pouting, like a child who was thwarted from getting his own way with pleading for a honeycomb or a sweet wafer. For good measure he added, “Your father took up this Christian religion; it did little for your benefit.”
“It did nothing for me because Harold Bluetooth, like myself, only half turned to God. I now realise you cannot combine the peace of Christ alongside the petty squabblings of our old gods. They are gone from us; they could not compete with the truth of Jesu Christ. They deserted us long ago when Christ defeated them and sent them into the shadow lands. They no longer exist.”
Cnut laughed. “And just how did He manage that? By waving loaves and fishes at them?”
Wulfstan despised these Danes with their hairy faces and crude manners, their vindictive bloodlust and barbaric paganism. The political situation, like it or not, had changed, however, and if he was to find the path of redemption, it would be better to swim with the current rather than struggle against it. Add to that, Wulfstan, with his unswerving faith in God, was always the pragmatist.
If the day of judgement was coming, then this surely was it. Chaos had come into the world—yet they were all still alive. The sun rose, the moon set; babes were being conceived and born. There was no pox, no plague, no flood or fire. The world went on. There was only Swein Forkbeard instead of Æthelred, and the Archbishop had to concede, even if only in his private thoughts, there was more chance of survival with Swein as King than with Æthelred. If nothing else, it would put an end to the raiding and killing and the raising of silver to pay the geld.
Wulfstan believed in the event of the apocalypse as God’s punishment for all who had sinned, but he also believed that, by adequate and profound repentance, a final end could be averted, a new beginning made. Was not Sodom destroyed? The world flooded and the evils they spawned, cleansed? Both Lot and Noah had been warned and spared. He, Wulfstan Lupus, Archbishop of York, too, had been warned, and it was his duty to do God’s work by cleansing all that was foul from this good land. If guiding Swein Forkbeard to the love of God was the task he had to do to find salvation for the world, then so be it. The son was going to be more difficult, but Wulfstan never expected God’s work to be easy.
“Jesu fought the old gods with truth, love, and compassion,” he said sternly, setting his Bible aside. “Who has seen Thor or Odin? Who has listened to Balder? What have they done for the good of mankind? Men, real men, had walked with Jesus and listened to what he had to say. Listened and told others, and their words were written down and passed to us.” He stood straight and unafraid as he raised his arms to pray. “When the Saviour saw the crowds, He climbed up the mountain and His followers approached him. And He opened His mouth and taught them and said: ‘Blessed are the spiritually poor for theirs is the kingdom of the Heavens; blessed are the kind because they will possess the Earth; blessed are those who weep because they will be consoled; blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled; blessed are the pure-hearted because they will see God; blessed are those who endure persecution because the kingdom of Heaven is theirs; and blessed are you when they abuse you and persecute you and, lying, say every evil against you because of Me. Rejoice and be glad because reward is great in Heaven.’”
Cnut sniggered. “Fine words, but how do they apply to us? My father is a King; he would not last half a day if he followed your doctrine of peace.”
“Mayhap not, but when called to God he will last a lifetime in Heaven rather than endure eternity in Hell.”
“I am content with Valhalla. It was good enough for my ancestors. It will be good enough for me.”
“Valhalla, Cnut, is ended,” Swein snapped. “It has faded away, as the frost disappears with the coming of the sun. There is no Valhalla. Now, do as I say. My head is aching, and my stomach grumbles for food. The nobles of all England have sent their hostages into my hall, they have accepted me as their King, but that acceptance will last no more than a blink of an eye if I do not respect their land and customs. Come this Easter council, I must be crowned; for that I have committed myself to Christ, and so, boy, shall you.”
He made a dismissive gesture, turned to walk away. “I go to inspect my hounds. When I return, Cnut, I expect you to have reconsidered. All my household has followed my example, as shall you, your housecarls, and servants. You will publicly commit yourselves to God on the morrow. I order it.”
Cnut spun on his heel and stamped away, heading for the far end of the hall where the preparations for the evening meal were being made.
“Do not turn your back on me, boy!” Swein bellowed, hurrying after him. “You will not insult me, and you will obey me!”
Ignoring him, Cnut walked on. “You insult yourself,” he said, although not so loud that his father would hear.
Swein’s hand lingered over his dagger hilt, his fingers clenching and releasing. Finally, he let go of his held breath and swept out of the door into the rain. The air was cold; ice rimed the puddles and froze the breath. Four wooden steps led down from the hall, a manor house that had been offered to Swein by its owner, Thegn Sigeferth. Aware Sigeferth had no liking whatsoever for him, Swein had accepted the gesture for how it was intended, as a direct insult to Æthelred.
Turning his head, Swein shouted, “You will regret opposing me, Cnut. Mark my word, you will regret it.” He had climbed and descended those steps so many times since occupying the hall. His feet knew that the second step down had a worn hollow where so many had trod, that it needed replacing. He was looking back over his shoulder, glowering at his son. For all their differences he was a good lad, had a good head on his shoulders. Saw sense. Usually.
Swein set his foot down onto the second step, did not see the ice. His boot skidded, he fell, his arms going out, a sharp cry of surprise whooshing from his mouth. The ground, when his head hit it, was rock hard. He lay still, unmoving, blood beginning to trickle from his open mouth and his ears, as a last breath sighed from his emptying lungs.
4
February 1014—Rouen, Normandy
Où est Eduard?” Emma was annoyed, more than she had been these last two frustrating months. Exile did not agree with Emma. It was humiliating. They were not impoverished, for there had been ample time to load the treasury aboard Thorkell’s ships and to get away from London with adequate personal items to ensure a life of comfort. And Richard had been magnanimous with his generous welcome, down to giving them their own residence here in Rouen, a magnanimity that was spoilt by his triumphant gloating. The shame of exile was bad enough on its own without her brother’s crowing. The one saving grace for Emma: her mother was no longer alive to witness her mortification.
She repeated her question. “Where is your brother?”
Alfred was engrossed in smoothing an ash branch for the haft of a boy-sized spear he was making with Leofstan, his sister, Goda, helping by intently watching, fascinated by the thin, slivered coils of papery wood descending to the floor like snow.
Emma was short of temper and patience. Why could Edward never do as he was told? Always slinking off somewhere, sullen with his answers whenever she spoke to him, always scowling. God’s breath, had she bred a mule head? Was he not, indeed, Æthelred’s son? But then Alfred and Goda were also Æthelred’s, and they were not as dense as a tangled brier thicket.
His tongue poking through his lips in concentration, the seven-year-old Alfred did not look up. “Where he always
is, Mama. In church.”
Emma exhaled an irritated breath. On occasion she wondered why she was bothering with this effort to get them all back to England. Æthelred spent most of his days and nights wringing his hands and wailing loudly for the loss of his crown but doing absolutely nothing to retrieve it. Edward, it appeared, preferred the company of monks, while Alfred was enjoying playing soldiers with the captain of her cnights. And Goda, ah, Goda was an angelic child who could find contentment wherever she was. The sort of child who would make anyone a suitable, dutiful wife. She sighed again; at least for Alfred that was a positive sign, playing would one day turn into reality. But not if Emma followed her husband’s example of sitting on his backside when there was so much to be doing! Gathering ships, arms, and armour—armies. Petitioning the Pope for a public condemnation of Swein Forkbeard; bargaining with men like Count Baldwin of Flanders and the German emperor for aid. To return to England they needed planning, determination, and support. None of which, so far, had been forthcoming because of Æthelred’s abject moroseness.
This morning had brought wonderful news and a leap of hope that would end this waking nightmare of enforced exile. And now, when he was desperately needed, Edward was missing. Stupid, stupid boy!
***
Edward was fascinated by the abbey of Saint Ouen. As often as he could, he would listen to the chanted singing of the monks and was learning the services, down to the last detail, with only Matins and Compline outside his experience, for they were at the beginning and end of the day and beyond his ability to attend. Lauds and Prime, at sunrise, he had managed on several occasions by rising at dawn and pretending to go down to the kitchens in search of something to break his fast. Although sometimes his ruse meant going without anything to eat. He did not mind that; he thought of it as a sacrifice for God.
The service had finished, and, reluctantly, Edward waited for the monks to begin filing out of the church, knowing he would have to return home. There had been uproar earlier, with everyone flying into a panic because Godwine Wulfnothsson had arrived from England saying something about an envoy coming. Papa, after listening to what Godwine had to say, had fallen to his knees and wept, something Edward found to be acutely embarrassing. Papa often wept since they had come to Normandy; his shoulders would slump forward and begin to shake, then great sobs would burst from his mouth along with saliva and spittle.
He could not understand why Papa sobbed so often here, within the safe security of Rouen. So he was no longer a King of England; what did that matter? He had never seemed to enjoy being King, had complained at the expectation put upon him, that sitting in a court of ruling was a waste of effort, that no one appreciated what he did or listened to what he had to say. Edward thought his father would have enjoyed being here in Normandy; the hunting was excellent, the living accommodation superior, the climate drier. To his mind he would prefer to stay in Normandy forever.
No one quite knew what to do when Æthelred cried—Mother always left the room, her mouth set in a firm, thin line, and if Edward found himself to be in her path, she would shout at him. He soon learnt to be out of her way whenever his father was sobbing.
His mother. Another advantage to being here in Normandy; he saw very little of her. She was too busy writing letters, or interviewing messengers, or arguing with Papa. She rarely noticed her eldest son, which was highly acceptable to Edward.
A servant hurried in through the open church door and spoke in a muted whisper to one of the monks. Edward shrank into the corner shadows where he had been squatting, as several faces peered in his direction. Through most of the day the monks were silent, the spoken word, beyond the requirement to praise God, forbidden, but Edward had learnt much of the sign language used instead. The monk at the door stroked his tonsured scalp in a circular fashion and then rested his hand there, the sign for Queen, then he pointed at Edward and beckoned.
Reluctant, the boy shuffled to the door, his head bent, feet dragging.
“It is good you worship with us so often, my son,” Brother Jerome said with an approving smile, “but your mother has a more immediate need of you at this moment than does God. You are, after all, an anointed King’s son.”
“God is my King!” Edward answered with specific conviction.
“Then that is also good, but God may one day want you to be a King here on earth. You cannot turn aside from what He has ordained for you.”
Edward wanted to argue, to say he would not be a King of England now that they were exiled, but Jerome forestalled any answer by setting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The Englishman, Godwine Wulfnothsson, has brought word that King Swein of Denmark is dead. It is probable that you will be going home.” He said it with a broad smile, assuming the boy would be pleased.
Tears prickled Edward’s eyes and he bit his lip. He would not cry, because he knew what they all said about his father and did not want the same taunts said about him. They used words such as shameful and degrading, dishonourable, pathetic, and pitiful. Edward had discovered early in his life what a sneer sounded like when it was used in speech. He only cried now when he was alone, because he did not want any of these mighty Normans to say of him too, “C’est un vaurien,” as worthless as chicken shit. Nor did he want to go back to England. He wanted to stay here, in the abbey cathedral of Saint Ouen, and dedicate his life to God.
“Does Mother know I am here?” he asked tremulously. If she did, would he be in trouble for it? Probably.
“It seems so,” Jerome answered, trying to be kind, again assuming the boy was anxious not to have worried anyone. “She knew where to send to fetch you.”
Sod, Edward thought and hastily crossed himself for swearing in God’s house.
5
Put these robes on,” Emma said, bustling Edward into a splendid tunic of richly dyed wool. “You are at least to look the part of a Prince of England, even if you cannot act it.”
“Why?” Edward asked argumentatively, refusing to cooperate as she manipulated his arms into the sleeves. “Papa fled England; we are no longer wanted there.”
“We might be now,” Emma responded tersely. Really, this child was so annoying. “If your father does not ruin our chances, Ealdorman Athelmar may be able to ensure we are home by Easter.”
Home, Emma thought, catching herself as she said it. Did she really think of England as home now? She looked about her: oiled parchment covering the slit windows, solid, stone walls covered with coloured plaster and hung with animal skins alongside three of the best tapestries she had brought with her from England. Comfortable, practical, but not home. Here, the Duke treated her as a younger sister, the populace in the street bowed their heads because she was his kinswoman, not because she was a Queen of England. Here, she had no authority, no place, and no pride. Oui, she wanted to go home. She wanted to return to being a Queen, to having the status and the power. To being her own person with her own will and her own say, even if that did mean having to continue suffering the nuisance of having Æthelred as husband. England, with its green fields and soft rain, was now home. Not Normandy and its arrogant, insufferable Duke.
“Athelmar?” Edward queried, breaking her reverie. “I thought he had retired to a monastery?” Edward had admired the old man for giving up everything of material worth for the simplicity of a monastic life. That option, he had decided, was what he would do when he became a man and they made him into a King. He would pass his crown to Alfred and retire into a monastery. How easy solutions were for a child!
Emma had no need to explain, but perhaps it would be useful, and her earlier agitation was subsiding now that hope was blossoming into what could very well become reality. An end to this purgatory? Oh, blessed God, please let it be so!
Fastening a sable-lined mantle around Edward’s shoulders, she licked her fingers and straightened a flop of his hair. “He has left the abbey because the English Witan needs him. Our kingdom is in disarray, and, being old and wise, he is the most suited to sort the chaos. He
is a brave man, Athelmar, for alone among all of them, and by peaceful means, he tried to resist Swein of Denmark.”
“Is he here?”
For once, a silly question did not irritate her. Fastidiously, Emma brushed fluff off Edward’s shoulder, smiled. “Athelmar is too old to come to Normandy; he has sent three men instead.” Bless Godwine for riding ahead to warn her of their coming!
Edward, hiding his disappointment, said, “You’re pretty when you smile.”
Emma was so often aware that she was unkind to the boy. The circumstances of his conception and birth were not his fault, but then, for her, neither was this antipathy of feelings. Perhaps this could be a chance to start afresh? Return to England and be washed free of a soiled past? She would spend more time with her son, ensure he learnt his languages and read his books. Instil within him the importance of becoming King.
As he trotted at Emma’s side, her long stride taking her quickly across the small courtyard towards the hall, Edward dared ask, “Why am I wanted?”
“Because you are King Æthelred’s eldest son, why else? Let me take a last look at you.” Emma squatted on her heels, minutely inspected him. “Oui, you will do.”
“No, I am not,” Edward protested, scuffing his toes on each step as they climbed the stairway that led to an upper private chamber. “Athelstan and Edmund are older than me.”
Halting before the door, Emma smoothed her gown, patted her wimple to ensure wisps of hair were not straying. She was flustered, her heart thump-bumping in her chest. If Æthelred did not convince Athelmar’s representatives that he was the better man to be England’s King…if Richard, damn his eyes, did not agree to back their claim…
“Edmund is bastard-born, you are not. And Athelstan is dead.” Distracted, she was blunter than she had intended to be.
The Forever Queen Page 29