Edmund half turned to his right and saluted the Ealdorman Ælfric. That is courage, he thought, to stand in line, waiting for the order to go, knowing your guts have been left in camp and there is nothing left to shit from your backside.
There would be reward for Ælfric when this was all over, Edmund decided. He looked up as a flock of geese skimmed overhead, their wings whistling in flight. A good omen? Bad? Enough of this! Someone had to get things started, and it did not look as if Cnut was eager to take the initiative.
Lifting his axe above his head, Edmund swung it three times in a circle. The war horns boomed into the saline-crisp air, and chaos was let loose.
“We must keep together,” Ulfkell had said last night, when they squatted beside the rough plan he had drawn in the hearth ashes. “It will do us no good to have one flank outpace the other.”
Enthusiasm? Eagerness? Or merely the easier curve of the terrain? Whatever cause, Ulfkell’s flank advanced quicker than the right, opening a gap that rapidly widened with every yard. Eadric, watching, holding his men at a steady walk, knew it would all go wrong.
“Walk!” Eadric yelled, holding his axe out to one side, shield to the other, as a barrier. “We will not spend our breath in the first few minutes; we will walk!”
Those ahead of him had not listened; they had gone, the fools, were up with Edmund and the centre, closing in on Cnut’s men, who were rushing forward. This was madness! Could Edmund not see it for himself? They were vastly outnumbered; Cnut had the advantage of the high ground—in the names of the saints, they would be massacred! Horrified, Eadric halted abruptly, the ranks of men behind bumping to a stop. He had never seriously fought, had never been one to listen to the advice or wisdom of those who knew more than he did. Nor was he the type of man to admit his own failings.
The gap between the right flank and the rest of the field had widened so much that, as the two armies clashed in a great uprush of sound, the entire third of Eadric’s command remained behind, uncommitted. He had said it was a fool plan, that it would be better to wait, choose a more suitable location. Eadric Streona had said, but had anyone listened? And here he was, being proved right! The Danes were too superior in strength; look at them! Look how their left is coming forward, turning inwards to envelop the rear of Edmund’s centre!
There was nothing he could do to help; the tactics had been flawed from the start. Was that his fault? He had to make a quick, practical solution; this battle had been badly commanded, badly led. Best to get his men out, serve their interests as well he may.
Convinced, Eadric fled the field, taking the entire right flank with him. The remainder of them died; those who had not turned tail to run. With the right flank gone, the rest stood as much chance as a field of corn surviving the reaper’s scythe.
Ælfric never felt the axe that took his head from his neck. Ulfkell fought on with a spear rammed through his thigh, agonisingly hanging there until he could find a moment to twist it out. Fifteen minutes later, a sword curving into his arm amputated it above the elbow and he bled to death on his feet, still fighting. The Bishop was killed, as well as the Abbot of Ramsey. Ramsey was responsible for the recording of the Chronicle. He was a man much loved by the monks, and they would see to it later that his death was honoured and the manner of its treacherous doing preserved in their careful, scripted writing.
So many of them dead or left to die. Ah, the glories of battle? Glory belonged only to the harpers’ songs, not to the reality of a battlefield.
Godwine, wounded, but able to stay on his feet, got Edmund away with the help of a small group of cnights. Such a small, bloodied, bewildered group. They half carried, half dragged their King, for he was unable to walk without aid. It had seemed such an innocent wound, one he barely noticed at first, but the sword had bitten deep into his groin, thrusting up into his guts and stomach. He fought for as long as he could, but the bleeding disabled him and he fell, useless, to the mud-bloodied grass. And then it was all over.
He was in great pain, the redness of agony swinging in and out of the swaying blackness of nothing. Edmund was unaware that they managed to get him to the horse lines, to put him across a pony and ride, so slowly, so damned slowly, away. Was unaware of those left behind as fodder for the ravens and that Cnut had won for himself a crown.
25
October 1016—Alney Island, Gloucester
Emma took the bold and nerve-racking decision to join Edmund, with her sons, at his manor on Alney Island in Deerhurst. If she was to fight for Edward’s right as Ætheling, then this was the day she had to do it. She told herself the unease fluttering inside her was from the importance of the occasion, that so much of the future rested on this one afternoon’s work. That there was no reason for her stomach to be churning or her heart to be thumping so fast, but if this day did not go as Edmund planned…no, she would not think of that. All the same, the flicker of unease lurched more persistently when Cnut’s ship came into sight downriver.
She stood on the wooden rampart walkway to see him come in; that should have been the King’s prerogative, but Edmund had asked her to do it on his behalf. Why was it she was so pleased to oblige? Why did she feel like some silly, giggling maiden? Because Edmund trusted her? Because after all these years, she was beginning to realise what it meant to be a woman in command of her own destiny? She convinced herself, as the ship came closer, that her eagerness to be done with these next few hours was to satisfy her fears about Godwine. He was with Cnut as a surety of safe conduct—aye, and all knew Cnut’s reputation there! No, her heart was skittering, her throat and lips were dry because she was nervous of making a fool of herself, of doing, saying, the wrong thing. Nervous? She was almost scared witless! So very much depended on this day’s work!
The negotiations for a meeting of truce had swung to and fro like a dangled plumb line these last weeks. As the victor of Ashingdon, Cnut had demanded that Edmund attend him. Edmund, as the crowned and anointed King of England, had politely refused on the justifiable grounds that Cnut was not a man to be trusted, even with his given word. Instead, Edmund made his own alternative demand. Southern England was in disarray, but he was holding on to it through the sheer bravado of willpower and the respect he had earned as a formidable leader and opponent. Those with him at Deerhurst were well aware the holding was by the skin of his teeth, but Cnut was not. The ability to bluff your opponent convincingly could often be the more discerning side of valour.
Cnut stood in the bows, behind the high, carved dragon prow, his legs braced against the movement of the ship as she nosed in against the jetty. He was a fine-looking man, Emma conceded as she watched him disembark and make his way up the slope towards the open gateway with his escort of ten unarmed men. The remainder of his guard stayed aboard, watching every movement the English made, ears pricked, alert for a shout or the clash of weapons. With them Godwine, who placed himself where Cnut had stood, beneath the dragon prow, plainly seen.
Cnut was aware, from his own doing, that treachery was too easy a thing to organise. What he had done to Uhtred of Northumbria could be replicated here at Deerhurst, with the spear point turned against him. His safe passage up the Severn, therefore, had been elaborately arranged and the exchange of hostages undertaken with almost as much ceremony as the meeting proper, although Cnut’s record of the treatment of hostages was not admired among the English either, a fact the Dane used in his favour. If he did not return by the setting of the sun, then nor would the Englishmen and boys in Danish temporary keeping be watching a new dawn appear.
Of her own choosing Emma had decided to attend this meeting, a decision Edmund had generously, and gratefully, welcomed. It was her place as Queen and as the mother of the eldest Æthelings to ensure her voice was heard in any undertaking that affected the governing of England. And whether she could add her own bluff by convincing Cnut that Normandy would take great umbrage at a usurpation of her crown remained to be seen. She was determined to have a good try at it.
&n
bsp; Emma descended the wooden steps. At the bottom, she ensured her wimple and crown were straight and walked, proud, across the bailey towards the centre of the open courtyard to where Edmund was already seated beneath an erected canopy. She settled herself beside him, chiding Edward, perched on his own stool, for his fidgeting.
Edward bit his lip and stared hard at his boots, rapidly blinking his eyes against threatening tears, afraid of the big man coming towards him.
“I greet you, my Lord,” Emma said, rising to acknowledge Cnut and speaking in Danish. As head woman she offered him the traditional welcome cup of wine, discreetly sipping from it first to show it was not tainted.
Aware that poison could take many forms and be spread on the edge of drinking vessels as well as added to the liquid, Cnut deliberately turned the goblet to drink from the edge that had touched her lips. He took the obligatory sip, one that barely wet his mouth, and poured the remainder to puddle at his feet.
“Is it customary to be greeted by the widow of a dead and mouldering King?” he asked, meeting her eye to eye. He turned to Edmund. “I was expecting your wedded wife to accompany you.”
Indicating the cushioned stool set ready for Cnut, Edmund answered, courteously using Cnut’s own tongue. “My wife is about women’s work; she is close to her time for bearing my second son. But surely you know she is not our anointed Queen? My Lady Emma Ælfgifu is dowager and bears the honour of that title.”
Polite, Cnut bowed his head, sat, smiled. Ah, that was why his Ælfgifu, up in Northampton, was so persistent in wanting Emma gone.
She was not as tall as he remembered, thinner of face; for the rest, he recalled her well, every nuance, every flexion of her voice, movement of hand and head. Remembered the flash of her eyes, the control of her voice. Had he ever forgotten that day in Greenwich? How she must have looked upon him with loathing, a spot-faced, ignorant youth. If she still thought of him with contempt, she hid it well. Huh, of course she despised him, foolish of him to consider otherwise.
“May I present my sons,” Emma said, chivvying them both to their feet. “King Edmund’s brothers, the Æthelings, Edward and Alfred.”
“Half-brothers,” Cnut drawled, “they are of no consequence to me.”
“But they are of a consequence to England, sir, and to my brother, Duke Richard of Normandy.”
Outmanoeuvred, Cnut acknowledged them with the barest of nods.
“My brother thought he had killed you once,” Alfred announced, unabashed and unafraid. “It turned out to be a Viking deserter, though. Do you get many deserting you?”
If Emma’s own face had not mirrored his annoyance, Cnut would have sworn the statement had been deliberately planted. As it was, she ordered her sons to sit and be silent and still. For his part, Cnut could not imagine the elder boy, a scrawny twig of lad, capable of killing anything larger than a fly. For the younger, though, ja, there was spirit behind his gawky childishness.
“Let us get to business,” Edmund said, waving for a servant to bring forward wine and sweetmeats. “I would ask you to be gone from England before any more blood is shed and wasted.”
Cnut tossed his head back and laughed outright. “Well, that is bold and to the point! I have to confess I admire your nerve. You certainly have balls, Edmund, if nothing else!”
Emma, alarmed, glanced at her stepson with a sideways look, uncertain how he might react to such bluntness, relaxed at his apparent calm composure.
Folding his arms, Cnut’s poise and attitude of self-assurance gave an impression of arrogant haughtiness, although, in fact, he was as nervous as an unbroken colt. “Your army is grossly depleted, your leaders are dead. What have you got left to send against me, Edmund? I could take England now, like that.” He snapped his thumb and finger together in a loud, expressive gesture of contempt. Bluff. He, too, had lost men at Ashingdon.
“I have lost good friends, yes,” Edmund answered quietly, the memory painful, “but you made a grave and irreversible error in sending Eadric Streona to me as your harnessed traitor. What he did by running from the battlefield without a drop of blood staining a single weapon has sickened all England, even his own Mercia. Because of that one act of cowardice and betrayal, there is now no one who would not rally to me if I asked it of them.”
Listening intently to every word, his eyes not missing a single movement or subtle gesture, Cnut stroked his short blond beard. If I asked it. Was there some doubt, then, that Edmund intended to carry on with this fight? Surely he was not prepared to capitulate so easily?
Disappointment plunged through Cnut. He liked this man sitting before him, for all he was an Englishman and his enemy. No, it was more than liking; this was respect. But there could be no admiring a man who laid down his spear on the first night of darkness. What was it he had heard about Edmund? That he had refused to leave the field at Ashingdon although he was sorely wounded? That he had insisted on continuing the fight, swearing to see it through to its ending? Close to death they had carried him away, his sword clasped in his hand, refusing to set it aside for a full seven-day round?
He could see no sign of wounding; there was no pallid complexion, sweating, or death rattle in the throat. A healing gash on his forehead and yellowing bruising on his cheek, that was all. No more than Cnut himself sported as a reminder of combat.
Cnut leant forward, propping his elbow on his thigh, his eyes bright, eager. “You have some suggestion for an agreement?”
“I think you know well that I have. The messengers going between us these last days have, I would wager, spoken more than I permitted.” Edmund’s smile was honeyed sweetness. “And in my ear, too, of course.”
So Edmund had his spies listening and watching, as Cnut had his. Interesting. What was this game Edmund was so astutely playing?
Bluntly he said, “I am intrigued that you have the gall to offer me terms of agreement. As I stated initially, England is open to me, like a whore lying with her legs invitingly widespread.”
“Your only problem with that, Cnut,” Emma interrupted sweetly, “is that you cannot be certain whether the whore carries the pox or whether she has a sharpened dagger concealed beneath her bed.”
Cnut looked at her, said nothing. She was sharp, this woman, barbed, like a boar spear. He had thought it before, thought it again. Æthelred had been a fool not to appreciate his Queen. He turned his attention back to Edmund and realised, suddenly, that ja, Edmund was not the fool like his father, for he had Emma here with him and he was making full use of her wisdom.
“You have appointed a man as Earl of Northumbria,” Edmund continued, unaware of Cnut’s speculative thoughts, his English tongue tripping over the Danish word for Ealdorman. “Placing one of your own in a governmental position is not the same thing as governing. There are many in the North who will stay loyal to me, for through my wife and children they are kindred. In addition, there are many who resent the manner of Uhtred’s killing, and such men are already realising I am not my father.”
“Are you saying they will defy Earl Erik and rally to you?” Cnut asked.
In answer Edmund lightly shrugged.
“And I remind you,” Emma added, “that my brother has an interest in the English throne.”
Cnut guffawed. “He has made no attempt to keep hold of it thus far, Lady!”
She retained the smile, serene, her hand going to maternally caress Edward’s hair. She looked at Cnut, straight and directly in the eye. “Did he not?” she said. “Your father died, and you, in your own turn, fled home like a child with a scraped knee seeking his mother’s solace. The weight of Normandy’s strength was therefore not tested.” Bluff. She was getting good at this.
Biding his time, Cnut sipped his ale. He had refused the offered food and was not certain of the drink, but Edmund and the Lady had been served theirs from the same pitcher, and they had been sampling it freely. If death was awaiting him, he felt confident it would not be coming by stealth. Was she telling the truth? Had Duke Richard been p
lanning a counterattack on behalf of his sister?
Loath as Cnut was to admit it, these two people were not talking nonsense. His Danish army had been battered at Ashingdon; many longships would be half empty when the men decided to return home. If it had not been for Eadric Streona’s cowardice, this meeting of truce would not be taking place, Ashingdon would have been lost, and he himself probably killed.
“And so,” he said finally, “what is this thing you wish to propose?”
Relieved that this had been easier than expected, Edmund answered straight. “I wish to retain the South as my own. You may have all the land north of the Trent River. Including Mercia, you are welcome to that. It will be fitting punishment for them.”
Cnut blew disdainful air through his nose. “The North alone is worthless to me.”
“Other Danes have thought it worth the having.”
“Other Danes have not wished to be a King. I do.” As it was, it was a good offer, but not good enough for Cnut to readily agree. It was more than he had been expecting, though. “Tell me this, why should I allow you to keep Wessex and the South for your own? I won the victory at Ashingdon, not you.”
Gravely, Edmund nodded agreement. “Aye, you won at Ashingdon, but you did not win England. You cannot win England, not while I am alive.”
Cnut spread his hands, stood. “Then I shall wait for you to die. If your death comes soon, then the waiting will not be too hard to endure. If it does not, well, I shall harry your coast, take your women, grain, and cattle, and demand tribute, as did my father. I can wait.”
Edmund remained seated, said plainly, “Unlike my father, I will not pay tribute, and Englishmen shall defend their women, crops, and livestock against your coming. Are you so certain that in such adverse circumstances you will find men willing to sail with you? I think not. My offer is a good offer; it is one of peace and mutual satisfaction. We both get what we want. We both win.”
The Forever Queen Page 38