The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Edmund was not here to see to London’s safety, but Emma was; therefore, the responsibility had become hers, and she was determined to make a good job of it. “We must be ready,” she said with authority, “to send word to Edmund. If Cnut decides to lay siege, we will need help.” She ordered Leofstan, at her side, “Select two suitable men; have them leave now and make camp up beyond the fields of the Corn Hill. Arrange some signal that can be sent from the walls, a smoking beacon, perhaps? When it is lit, they must make haste to ford the Thames at Thorney—no, too near, Brent Ford would be more suitable—and ride with all speed to fetch the King.” She surprised herself; here she was, giving orders to men about men’s business, and they were obeying her without murmur. She liked the feel of it. If London fell, it was possible that she could die along with these good people. They had cheered her when she had ridden through the gates and ordered them barred, saying before them all that they would not be opened again to any but Edmund Ironside. They still cheered her whenever she rode along the streets, still blessed her with God’s mercy. The poor, simple fools. If Cnut attacked, what did she know of holding him off? On the dexter side of the argument, winning the admiration of the Londoners was no easy achievement, but done by showing that she, Queen Emma, was willing to die alongside them.

  ***

  The ships took hard effort to move, but the Danes were tough, resilient men, and once on the far side of the bridge, there was more work. Cnut ordered a line of earthworks constructed outside London’s walls and then, hunkered behind their protection, settled down to what could be a tedious blockade. London was the pivot point of all England; when London fell, the rest, by default, would follow. Unfortunately for Cnut, Emma discovered that she knew more about sitting out a siege than she had realised; her knowledge gained by listening to her brother’s insistence on so often recounting his numerous triumphs.

  Looking over the rampart walkway of the city one morning as the sun rose in the east, its pink fingers turning the Thames into a glow of red-tipped gold, she smiled at the irony of finally being grateful to Richard for his interminable bragging. He had come through worse situations, or so he had claimed; therefore, so would she. Emma felt frightened, apprehensive, yes, but also elated and excited, her feelings all tumbled and mixed together like a stew of varied ingredients tossed into the same pot. She was aware of the blood coursing through her veins, the beat of her heart, the breath in her lungs. Was aware, too, of that clenched knot that hung in the pit of her stomach. This was what it was to be alive, to be at the edge, facing survival eye to eye, knowing, knowing, you would win.

  20

  Early June 1016—Sherston

  Cnut had not expected an organised and effective counterattack on his overall strategy. Had he been a fool not to think of the possibility that Æthelred’s son might be the opposite in character to his father? Everything had all seemed so easy when he had talked and planned with Erik around the hearth in Norway. Ah, plans always sounded simple when discussed as hopes and dreams. You never looked for the pitfalls, the things that could go wrong, or even when you did think of the counter side, there was always something else unexpected lurking in the shadows, waiting to leap out and surprise you. Like that damned woman in London. A woman! Ja, she was also a Queen, but women were supposed to content themselves with weaving and spinning and suckling brats at their breast, not defending cities from siege! If it had not been for her rallying London to stand firm, the place would have fallen by now; as it was, he had been forced to leave half his army sitting below the walls arse-scratching the interminable days away, while he hurried southeast to deal with Edmund.

  Slamming his boot into a molehill, Cnut sent a spray of earth scattering over the summer-heated dry grass. Edmund, the one they were calling Ironside, was not the King—he was; Cnut, son of Swein Forkbeard, Cnut Sweinsson, was King! He kicked again at another mound of earth, taking his temper and frustration out on the habitat of a creature no larger than the palm of his hand.

  Damn him—damn him! Cnut stamped the disturbed earth flat. Wessex had reverted to Edmund, along with East Anglia, Essex, and Kent. What did Cnut have? Eadric Streona of Mercia and a sullen, resentful Thegn called Thurbrand! He walked on down the hill, heading to where he could hear men bathing in the river that wound between a copse of trees. It was all right for them; they could take an afternoon to enjoy themselves in the summer sunshine, could wash away the grime and the sweat and the cares. How could he shrug off this weight of frustration?

  It had been a mistake ridding himself of Uhtred. He realised that now, now that it was too late. The motive had been to show he was not a man to be gainsaid or betrayed by broken promises. Instead, he had established that he was a man of dishonour, who courted lies and deceit, and who extolled murder over negotiation and compromise. Uhtred’s death may have been essential, but not the way of doing it.

  Ducking through the trees, Cnut walked from the dappled light into the full sun, found himself grinning at the men, stripped naked, playing like children in the curved meander of the river. He had a sudden flashed memory of walking with his father along the shore of a fjord back home in Denmark. He had been a child—seven, eight years old? What was it Swein had said? “Everyone makes mistakes, boy, but not everyone cares to learn the lesson.”

  Using Thurbrand the Hold of Holderness to dispatch Uhtred had been Ælfgifu’s suggestion. Another mistake, listening to and trusting that woman.

  Damn it, the water looked inviting. Cnut sat, began pulling off his boots. A lesson to remember? No one, ever, did something for nothing.

  Thurbrand had been anticipating reward for his services. Cnut had intended a rich payment of gold and the hand of friendship. Whether Ælfgifu had made promises without consulting him, Cnut did not know; probably she had. A full week after Uhtred’s disposal, a storm had broken loose with Thurbrand; he had expected to be made Jarl of Northumbria, or Ealdorman, as they called the title here in England. That favoured distinction Cnut had awarded to Erik of Hlaðir, Earl Erik—these English always did turn the Scandinavian tongue so quickly into their own pattern! Jarl in English pronunciation became Earl. He made a mental reminder to use the term.

  So here he was, skulking in Wilt-Shire, waiting for his scouts to inform him of Edmund’s whereabouts, and Thurbrand, in a mood as black as winter clouds, refused to leave Holderness to support Erik, who was struggling to establish his claim on Northumbria. What a God Almighty mess!

  Naked, Cnut dived into the water, plunging down into the cool greenness, his strong arms propelling him forward. He came up again several yards from the bank, gasping for breath and tossing water from his hair and eyes. He lay back, allowing the gentle current to rock him along, giving only the feeblest of paddles with his hands and feet. Above, the sky spread into infinity in an unbroken stretch of sapphire blue. Nearly all England was clamouring for Edmund. No one, beyond Mercia and Northumbria, was shouting for Cnut.

  “My Lord! My Lord Cnut!”

  Startled from his reverie, Cnut lost his buoyancy, coughing and spluttering, went under, then ploughed to the surface and, regaining his bearings, struck out for the bank with strong, swift strokes. Pulling himself from the water, he indicated for his clothes to be brought.

  “What is it, Thorkell? I can see from your face it is urgent.” Perhaps it was the invigorating cold water or the sudden heartbeat excitement of something happening at last? Whatever, Cnut’s dark mood lifted as swiftly as a hawk snatched her prey.

  “Edmund has come. Two, maybe three miles to the north of here.”

  The north? Gods curse it! The north of us? How in God’s name has he managed that? “He was to the south, Thorkell. We fought a skirmish with him not two weeks past at Penselwood; that is to the south, in Dorset-Shire. How has that whore-poxed Englishman managed to get to the north of us?”

  Cnut cursed again, lengthily, colourfully, and explicitly. Why, in all the names of all the gods, was Edmund not an incompetent fool like his father had been?
/>   Thorkell could only shrug. “I told you he was one to be reckoned with, although I had no insight to him being this wily.” Personally, in Thorkell’s opinion, the brain behind the English campaign was Godwine Wulfnothsson. Now, there had been a schemer! His father, Wulfnoth, would have been able to outwit the most cunning wolf. Had he passed his skills on to his son? Thorkell would be most surprised to find he had not.

  Cnut dressed, not bothering to dry his skin. He pointed angrily towards the river. “Get them out, get them armed, and set them ready.” His eyes screwed against the sun, he estimated the hours of daylight left.

  “At least we are keeping Edmund occupied and away from London,” Thorkell said after he had passed on the order. “While he is pursuing us, our men there are not disturbed.”

  Cnut’s answer was saturated with frustration. “I came into Wessex to remind the nobles that I will not tolerate their defection to Edmund. What have I achieved? I have been harassed and tormented, chivvied and chased. I feel like a man on the run, watching my back at every move.” He pulled on his boots, wrinkling his nose at the uncomfortable feel of wet feet sliding into sweat-soaked leather. “Well, no more. Edmund will not make the fool of me. Make formation. We go to fight him here and now, and whatever way this goes, we use the coming darkness to disperse.”

  Thorkell frowned, drawing his bushed eyebrows close together.

  “Do not look at me like that, Tall One. I know what I am doing,” Cnut barked. “I intend to forget about Wessex and concentrate on London. As I should have done in the first place.”

  Thorkell, Cnut’s second in command, made no comment, but his grunt of satisfaction spoke his approving thoughts for him.

  21

  Late June 1016—Brent Ford

  The longest day had come and gone; it was all downhill now to winter. With the sun blazing in a clear sky these last weeks, the short nights held only a few dark hours, and even then the horizon remained a dusky, purplish blue. Ideal for an army on the march, especially an army avoiding all the familiar roads and taking, instead, side-lane trackways and scarce-known paths.

  The skirmish by the river at Sherston had not any great outcome, but it had wounded a good few of Cnut’s men and tired many more. Edmund had the advantage of being able to call on several different fyrds; Cnut had only his Danes and Streona’s personal cnights. The fyrds of Mercia would not fight outside their own boundaries, not for Streona, nor Cnut. The pity, from Edmund’s view, was that they would not fight for him, either.

  Deliberately, Edmund had ordered the clash of arms at Sherston to be limited and at half scale. The only way he could beat Cnut was to grind him down, smaller and smaller, as a woman takes patience to grind corn into flour on the quernstone. He could not be having all his men out into the field at once, and, cleverly, he had used only the Wilt-Shire fyrd, those willing to fight for their own in their home territory. They had enjoyed the contest, winning no honours but gaining no disgrace. His cnights, those of his permanent army, he had held at bay, ready should things go bad and they be needed in a hurry. Come dusk, Cnut had melted away into the woodland and Edmund had let him go; let the Danes run, he had time on his side, the leisure to pick his way via the quiet routes to London. The Wilt-Shire fyrd he dispersed; his cnights he scattered into small groups and ordered them to travel as secretly as possible.

  “We meet in the last week of June in the woods up behind the Clayhill Farm at Tottenham, north of the Thames. Make your circle wide and keep well to the north of London. Cnut will be returning by the familiar roads; he will not be knowing the lesser tracks as do we.”

  “What if London cannot hold out once he reaches there?” someone had asked.

  “London will hold,” Edmund had answered. “I have sent word to the Queen that we are coming. She will see London sits tight. Like a broody hen on her nest.”

  It was a good plan and it worked well, better than Edmund had expected.

  The last few days of the siege had been Hell on earth for the Londoners. Cnut, as soon as he arrived, attempted an assault that should have worn down the most stoic of defenders, but London, rallying to Emma’s insistence that Edmund was coming, did not give in, despite all Cnut had to throw at its walls and gateways: battering rams and towers, fire carts and burning ships. The walls held, the gateways shuddered, but did not break. The bridge remained firm. Nor had the lengthy blockade been successful—if the idea had been to starve London into submission, it had not worked. With Cnut fighting in Wessex, discipline had been lax, particularly at night, after the ale skins had been passed from hand to hand and the Danes had slept sound and drunk. All too easy for Edmund’s messengers to reach the Queen with news.

  Cnut’s cursing had no effect on the men, for their own expletives were on the same level of profanity as his. It was utterly unbelievable this Edmund Ironside had done it again, had managed a surprise attack, even with numerous scouts sent to patrol the northern marshes! No amount of filthy language would save the situation, however, for the area of a siege was not suited to open fighting. Cnut’s only option was to disband, take to the ships, and flee. Except that, too, was not so easy. The Londoners were manning the bridge, in turn blockading the Danes. Any ship that tried to escape between the wooden uprights and duck under the boarding of the walkway would never reach the other side. Londoners knew how to stop a ship going under their bridge, the most effective deterrent being fired pitch tipped through the metal sluice holes. Every sailor’s fear, fire.

  Cursing, unable to run towards the sea, Cnut ordered the ships upriver, clinging to the southern bank, ensuring his best and most experienced men remained behind to hold the ford at Thorney. He could not be allowing Edmund to cross behind them, not until he could reposition on his own terms at a place of his own choosing. He chose well. The next most suitable fording place was Brent Ford.

  Hand-to-hand fighting. No niceties or opportunity for leisurely decision-making. Cnut himself was in the affray, using his axe, his feet, fists, anything and everything. Close-quarter combat and chaos. Weapons clashing, men grunting, shouting, and screaming. The stink of sweat, blood, and urine. The numbers evenly matched—again Cnut cursed Edmund for his ability; his men were fresh and eager, with much to gain, little to lose. The Danes were tired and were fighting for survival.

  Several thoughts skimmed through Cnut’s mind as he met, head on, with one opponent after another. Tactics, plans, all intermingled alongside idle thoughts as he hacked and slashed and fought to live. Who would care for his daughter, Ragnhilda, if he were killed here? A damned stupid thought, one he drove instantly aside. Another thought. His death would irritate Ælfgifu; she would have no hope of installing either of her sons above Edmund or the offspring of Emma of Normandy. She was there, in London, Emma; he had seen her himself as she stood on the wall rampart looking down at his army. Cnut had even fancied he had seen a smile of triumph on her face. That had been this morning…this morning! God take the bitch! She had known! London had known Edmund was in position, ready to break the siege!

  He struck out with his axe, using it two-handed in the figure-of-eight swing that brought it down and up in one flowing movement. It struck home, cleaving through a man’s shoulder, taking the arm off in one single slice. The man screamed, blood pumped in a fountain from the severed stump. Cnut, barely giving the dying man a second glance, merely stepped over him and aimed for the next man. The haft split; he dropped it, used his sword instead. He had ordered one tactic only: to avoid a long, drawn-out fight. That was not for here, not for this place. He would need more men to defeat Edmund in a decisive battle, men he would have to draw from Northumbria and Mercia. The tactic here was to kill or mortally wound as many English as possible, and to thrust through, directly and as rapidly as possible, to this bastard of a man who was calling himself King of England.

  A good tactic, but one difficult to achieve, for the other side was trying the selfsame thing.

  ***

  Edward and Alfred were ordered to stay w
ith the ponies. It was not an order Edward had any inclination to break. He had hated these last months; each morning had felt sick, each night had piddled his bedding. Thank God it was only bracken or hay or straw; had it been the linen he was used to, he would never have stopped Alfred from laughing. Alfred, along with the other boys, was revelling in all this nightmare horror. He stood there now, perched on the bough of a tree, intently watching the fighting, giving a vivid and lurid commentary on what was happening. Edward squatted beneath the sweep of the low branches, his arms over his head, hands against his ears, his face pushed tight into his knees. He hated the squalor, hated the hardship, and hated his mother for sending him into this fear and danger. What if he were to be killed? Had she thought of that? He had. He thought of it constantly, which was why he wet himself and spewed up his food as soon as he had swallowed it. He stuffed his fingers in his ears, trying to drown out the sounds, tried to curl tighter into a ball like a hedgepig rolling up to defend itself. He was supposedly here to learn how to fight, how to lead. Aye, he had learnt, all right! He had learnt that battle was a foul, evil, stinking thing, that battle was to be avoided at all cost. At all cost!

  Something made him look up, some disturbance of the ground, a movement, a shadow in the grass. A man! A man coming towards him—a man with chain-mail armour and an axe. No helmet. Fair hair, a bushed beard. A huge man, an ogre, titan, giant. God save his soul—a Viking!

  Edward screamed. The branches caught at his clothing, whipped his face, grabbed his hair as he tried to scramble away, crawling backwards into nettles that bit and stung at his legs and arms. He could hear his brother and the other boys shouting, hear them scrabbling about in the tree. The man kept coming forward, a leer on his face, his axe raised. Edward felt something under his hand, something hard and heavy. A stone. His fingers clamped around it and he was throwing, his full weight and desperation giving the missile momentum. By luck, not aim, it struck home; the man lurched, dropped the axe, his hands going to his face; blood seeped from between his fingers, and with a rattled groan he toppled and crashed to the grass, quite dead.