“I will think on it,” Cnut said. “I shall send word by the morrow noon.”
Edmund conceded. That was fair. Cnut would never accept the terms as they stood, but if Edmund’s spies spoke right, he would be willing to bargain.
Out of respect, Cnut bowed his head, turned, left, was partially annoyed that Edmund had not risen to return the politeness. He remarked upon it to the hostage, Godwine Wulfnothsson, as his ship pulled away from the shore, her oars dipping, hungry, into the smooth waves.
“Does your King not honour his guests by getting off his backside as they are taking leave? Where I come from that is a mark of disrespect.”
“So where you come from,” Godwine answered, looking directly ahead and riding out the roll of the craft with spread legs and a spear-straight back, “do you dishonour your warriors by expecting a wounded man to stand on his feet?”
Cnut’s head shot up, alert. “He is wounded? I saw no sign.”
Godwine kept his face impassive; nor were you meant to, he thought. “He took a sword blade into his groin; it heals slow.”
“But it heals?”
“It heals.”
Silence. Cnut’s mind was buzzing with a torrent of whirling thoughts. Why had he not known this? How much was being concealed? How much truth?
“It is not mortal?”
“It is not mortal.”
The wind caught at Cnut’s cloak, sent it flapping about his head like the black wings of the raven on his banner. He was certain Godwine was lying.
“I do not know whether to believe you,” Cnut said, speaking with honesty.
“That is for you to decide. But I am permitted to tell you this: you would gain much and lose little, if you were to accept King Edmund’s terms.”
Cnut sent reply to Edmund by the following noon. He agreed to take the North for his own, but he wanted more than Edmund had offered. As the victor of Ashingdon, Cnut demanded all that lay above the Thames. Edmund was to have Wessex and Kent.
It was how England had been divided in Alfred’s time, and Edmund was content with the agreement, with the provision that London was to be free to see to its own decision and that his heirs, the Æthelings, had their lawful right to take up his crown when he no longer had use of it. Cnut accepted, for within that short space he had made his own private enquiries.
For the honour and dignity of his Lord and friend, Godwine had indeed lied. The sword blade had gone deep, and the wound was festering. The physicians had cut away Edmund’s manhood in an attempt to stem the putrid spread of gangrene, but to no avail. Honour and respect were two things valuable to a warrior, for by these they were judged in this life and the next. It made sense to agree to Edmund’s terms, for as Godwine had said, what had Cnut to lose? Plain also, why the Lady Emma had been there, to ensure her eldest son acquired the crown for himself.
It had been a difficult thing for Edmund to sit there in front of Cnut and act as if he were fit and well, knowing he was rotting inside. More difficult still to have swallowed that remark the Dane had innocently made: “I have to confess I admire your nerve. You certainly have balls.”
That was something, Edmund, physically, no longer had.
In York, safe within the protection of the nunnery, Ealdgyth, wife to Edmund Ironside, now made King of Wessex, delivered their second child, a son, in the first week of the October month.
Edmund did not hear word of it until the twenty-ninth day, and it pleased him to know he was leaving behind two healthy boys. He asked Godwine to ensure they were kept safe, thanked God for all He had blessed him with, and, in the early hours of the thirtieth, died.
26
November 1016—London
Frost crackled on puddles beneath their feet as the small group of cloaked people had stolen out of the gateway, opened by the minimum of gaps, and made their way by the light of a single, heavily shaded sheep’s-horn lantern to the last jetty of the Thames, downriver. The aroma of the ship met their nostrils: the caulking, the ropes, the sails. The sailors themselves, unwashed, their skin and hair salt-smeared from their days at sea. This was a trader’s boat, smaller, more squat than the huge warships and not so manoeuvrable, for she did not have the ranks of oars that could propel a boat forward, fast, in any weather, any wind. Traders’ craft were sedate, matronly things that relied heavily on the wind and the turn of the tide. They were also, on a moonless night such as this, able to glide silently past Cnut’s drink-sodden men and his fleet of ships moored at Greenwich.
Godwine steadied Edward as he stepped aboard, the boy’s nose and mouth puckering in a grimace of disapproval. “It stinks of sheep shit,” he said. “We cannot go in this, it is not suitable as transport for the son of a King.”
Edward was petulant because he did not see why he and his brother had to leave London in darkness and secrecy. He wanted to go to Normandy; he had been happy there after that first flight into exile when he had been eight years old, and this exile would be even better, for Mother was not coming, at least, not straight away. The problem was the manner of going.
“A head severed from the neck stinks even more,” Emma snapped in answer, her voice a low whisper, “as we shall all discover if you insist on making so much noise.”
“I am sorry, Mother, but I do not see why we have to leave like this,” Edward persisted. “We sailed to Normandy in a dragon craft last time.”
“I will whistle Thorkell up for you, then, shall I?” Godwine answered, as irritated as Emma. “I am sure Cnut will be only too pleased to see you.”
“Come on, Edward,” Alfred chided, pushing past him. “This is fun, an adventure; I have never sailed on a trading ship!”
“I do not want an adventure. I was asleep in my warm bed, and I would rather have stayed there. Cnut will be pleased to see us go; why can we not leave with our heads high, in daylight?”
Alfred grinned. “Are you serious? He would never let us walk out of here. Exiled Æthelings, Edward, have a tendency to return with an army following close behind. At first opportunity Cnut would make certain we were of no more nuisance by stringing us up and cutting off our ears and noses. If we were lucky, he might not bother with the niceties; he might simply decide to slit our throats.”
Edward bit his lip to refrain from making a retort. All he had to do was make a pledge with Cnut and explain to him he wanted to become a monk. Pouting, he sat where Godwine pointed, Alfred thumping down next to him, grinning and making the boat rock.
The ship was Godwine’s; it had been one of his father’s trading vessels, a good, solid craft with a dependable, solid crew. She had carried various things during her long sea career: wool, wine, ale, timber. Never the two sons of a dead King, having to flee for a second time into exile.
“You will be following soon, Mother, won’t you?” Alfred said anxiously, peering through the darkness at Emma, who stood at the edge of the jetty, her cloak clutched tight at her breast.
“As soon as I can,” she said, shuddering at the looming prospect of having to step onboard a ship in the dead hours of the night. “If I abandoned London now, there would never be any coming back for us. The people would shun me, and you, as if we carried the plague. If I stay until the last possible moment, then we might have a chance of rallying a Norman army to put you on the English throne by force, Edward.”
The boy muttered something into the blanket that he was hauling up to his shoulders against the damp cold. “I do not want to be put on a throne.” His mother, fortunately, did not hear, but Alfred did.
“Then I will have it!” he hissed, snuggling into his own blanket. He was only eleven, but he knew his own mind and what he wanted when he became a man: England, and a crown. It was so annoying that everyone talked about Edward being the next King; he was nothing but a girl’s squit.
“Kings on thrones get killed,” Edward added when Alfred said nothing.
His brother looked at him with a contemptuous sneer. “Not good Kings. And anyway, the eldest-born Ætheling is more likely to be killed.�
� Alfred’s sneer widened. “Usually by a younger brother.”
Shuddering, Edward drew away from Alfred, tucking the blanket tighter as if it would protect him. “You’re beastly to me,” he whined, “I hope you do become King, and I hope someone poisons you or lops your head off.”
Alfred ignored him. “You will take care, won’t you, Mother?” he said, his inner anxiousness overriding the bravado and teasing of his brother. “We will need you in Normandy to help raise the army.”
Emma hesitated before answering. If only she could ride to Normandy or fly on the shoulders of some enormous bird.
Her silence alarmed Alfred; he half stood, dropping the blanket. “You are coming, aren’t you, Mother? You are not sending us away from you?”
Ah, the last was easier to answer. “No, dear, I am merely sending you away from danger, not from me. You were right to realise Cnut would not allow you to live if he captured you. You will be safe in Normandy with your uncle.”
“But he will not help us return to England,” Alfred persisted, “not if you are not there to make him.”
Emma was impressed. Her younger son had sense and intelligence. He had certainly not inherited either from his father.
“See you take them directly to Rouen, my friend,” Godwine instructed his merchant master. “Deliver them, personally, with this letter from their mother, into the Duke’s care.”
“Aye, I will.” To Emma, “Do not worry, they will arrive safe. I pledge my life on it.”
Godwine handed him a leather pouch. “My Lady Queen knows I trust you, but this is by way of something extra from her to you.”
The ship’s master weighed the pouch in his hand. It was heavy, and it chinked. Gold coin. He smiled at Emma. “I trust this has our good King Edmund’s head upon it by way of its minting?”
“Tide’s turning, sir,” one of the sailors remarked. “The wind with it; we’ll be able to drift along without a water vole knowing, let alone a snoring Viking rat.”
As the ebbing current took the ship and the four oars dipped to guide her out into mid-river, Emma threaded her way, careful in the darkness, up the sloping pathway. They would steal, like thieves in the night, back into London through the gateway held ajar for them by one trusted guard of the watch, and none would be the wiser of this night’s events. No one would know Æthelred’s sons had been taken to her brother in Normandy, not unless she or Godwine cared to tell, and not until Richard came with a fleet and an army. Although that was a vain hope. As Alfred had realised, Richard would do nothing if it was an inconvenience to himself; without her there in Normandy to nag and pester at him, things would be left to moulder.
She turned, once, as she trudged up the slope, to look for the ship, but she could see nothing in the darkness, only the black shape of the river snaking through the blacker grasslands of the meadows that spread wide beneath a black, clouded sky. She listened. Could hear nothing except Godwine’s breathing and the moan of an ice-chilled wind. They were gone. The elder son, who irritated her because of his likeness to his father, and the younger one, who, if he had not been sired by Æthelred, she might have come to love more. Goda, her beloved daughter, was already gone from Wilton to Normandy. Godwine had seen to that as he had hurried to London and his Queen, on the very day of Edmund’s death. Richard would find her a good husband. One better than he had found for her mother, Emma hoped.
“Godspeed you, my children,” Emma said to where the black ribbon of the river wound its way through the night. “Godspeed all of you.”
Was this how her mother had felt that day when she had left Normandy to come to England and Æthelred? She had not thought of her mother in a long while; she had been dead these many years. Emma could picture her straight, erect stance. Could not remember her voice. She strained to hear it, but nothing came.
And after all these interim years, Emma discovered why her mother had turned away and not watched as her ship had left Normandy, bound for England. Discovered how a mother’s feelings of loss for her children, when she well knew she might never see them again, cut deep into the heart.
Part Three
Cnut
Anno Domini 1017–1035
The King commanded brought to him the widow of the other King, Æthelred, that he might have her as Queen.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
1
January 1017—London
The snow had made it hard for everyone; the cold gnawed at fingers, toes, and faces, bit into the empty bellies. They were down to eating the dogs now in London, and the rats. The royal household was faring no better, for the sacks of grain were almost emptied; a thin and watery porridge, bolstered by the last of the stored root vegetables, was a diet Emma was beginning to detest. The start of a thaw had not made any difference; they were still hungry. The only consolation, those on the outside of London’s walls, Cnut’s men, were worse off. Londoners had the shelter of their houses; the Vikings had only their tents.
Throughout most of the day the sun had been shining, although too weak to melt more than the tips of a few hanging icicles that would refreeze overnight. Emma, as she did every day, was up on the rampart wall, observing the comings and goings of the besieging army. How did one gauge misery? By men shuffling on frostbitten feet or huddled beneath damp, mouldering blankets? By the cries of dying children who could not suck milk from an empty breast?
What more could they do? Wait out this Hell until the last one among them died?
“We cannot go on, Bishop,” Emma said to her good friend Alfward, Bishop of London, who stood haggard and shivering beside her. “London is on its knees. I have to put an end to this.”
On her other side, Godwine, his arms leaning on the parapet, said, “It is a pity we have to surrender after putting up such a strong resistance. I reckon Cnut has lost as many men as we have.”
“That he has,” the Bishop answered, “but unlike us, beyond his camp whores he has not lost women and children, the elderly and the infirm.”
“We must face reality, Godwine,” Emma said with a sad, resigned smile. “We have lost England. Cnut has won. London may as well seek a truce.” With Edmund gone, this ending had been inevitable, but better to fail trying than not trying at all.
Godwine sighed, long and slow, pushed his chin even tighter into his crossed arms. “Then I shall find a secret way out for you tonight. We can perhaps make our way across the ice to the south bank, from there reach the coast and find a ship to take you to Normandy.”
Emma did not answer. A ship to Normandy? Oh, good God! No! If she must flee, she would go to her kinsman, Count Baldwin of Flanders. Bruges was a more attractive prospect than Normandy. She could not, could not do it! But what was the alternative? The rest of her life locked within the confines of a nunnery? Wilton would not be too bad, or perhaps Shaftesbury, but what if Cnut decided to lock her away in somewhere like Malmesbury? There was no Edmund to arrive suddenly and whisk her away to safety. She missed Edmund; he had been a good friend, and she had not been ashamed to weep for him. For Æthelred she had shed not a single tear.
She snapped her shoulders back. She could not afford to be dwelling on the past; there were things to be doing. She had been nurturing a daring—frightening—idea these last few nights. Night, she had found, was a good time for thinking.
The idea had wormed its way in, initially, some while ago, and she had instantly dismissed it, but today? Today it had begun to take tangible form. It would take an enormity of courage and strength, this thing she was planning, but it could mean an ending with dignity for London and, perhaps, England. It could go well or horribly wrong, but how much worse could things be than the years she had spent as wife to Æthelred? And, dear God, she would rather face anything than crossing that Channel Sea again!
She gazed across the frozen Thames. A few days ago Cnut’s í-víkings had been skating and sliding on it, having a day of holiday to rub salt into London’s gaping wound.
A noise split suddenly the winter-stil
l air with an explosive sound that shot from riverbank to riverbank and boomed across the flat, frozen marshes. Godwine’s head lifted, his hand clutching automatically at his dagger; the Bishop, alarmed, crossed himself; Emma gasped, her fingers going to her throat. In a world where the loudest noise was a clap of overhead thunder, sounds were sharp on the ear; this great shuddering roar was both fearful and exciting.
“My God,” Emma said, shaken. “What was that?”
A great crack was appearing before their startled eyes, running straight as a thrown spear across the frozen water, splitting the ice in two, the widening tear shouting with the force of Thor striking a hammer blow.
Others had come running up onto the wall, fearing some awful new attack. Men and women pouring into the slush-trampled streets, screaming, weeping, expecting to find the sky torn open and all manner of fearful creatures descending to bring their doom. Beyond the walls, by contrast, the besiegers were sprinting for the river, chattering and laughing in their excitement at the ice so spectacularly parting. The phenomenon, for people used to a world of winter ice, quite accepted.
“So there will be no escaping across the river,” Emma said, shrugging her shoulders as they watched Cnut’s men hauling chunks of broken ice onto the bank. “The thaw has set in. I will have to do what I have decided and pray it will be for the best.”
***
Cnut was astonished, and somewhat mystified, to receive word that an emissary was asking permission to come out of the south gate to talk terms with him. Disappointed too, in a way, for he thought Londoners were made of sterner stuff—and he had a wager with Thorkell as to the day of surrender. His estimate was not for a further eight and forty hours.
He had been inspecting the hulls of the ships, the craft drawn up onto the high ground and upturned for over-wintering and repairs. Ships were always pulled out of the water when the season turned cold, for compressing ice could do much unseen damage to the keel, and barnacles clung to a ship’s underside during the course of a year. The task of scraping them off, a messy, tiresome business.
The Forever Queen Page 39