Leofric again: “But we have that with what is already raised. Why do you need more?”
Cnut was beginning to regret promoting the man into the position of Earl. Godwine had warned him…ah, well, the thing was done, and in other respects, outside of his tight purse, Leofric was an honest and dedicated man.
“Can we be certain,” Thorkell interrupted, “that this raised tax is for the benefit of England? Can you assure us this extra geld will not be used for subduing Norway? Does not Denmark, after all, bring you sufficient finances for doing so? We, some of us,” he indicated the men of the Witan, “do not believe you can successfully be a King to both Denmark and England.”
“Yet you had no such qualms when you fought with my father,” Cnut answered quietly, annoyance slithering into his voice. “It was accepted that he could reign over both lands. But then you were expecting to be made supreme over England, were you not, Thorkell?”
The mood had turned; Thorkell felt it. The disagreement of the afternoon’s debate had veered against him like a temperamental wind. Had he been at sea, he would be ordering the sail reefed, anything loose roped down, and waterproof sealskin jerkins pulled on. The squall hit him side-on.
“You have been doubting the King’s intention since his return from Denmark,” Earl Godwine of Wessex said. “On how many occasions now, Thorkell, have you disagreed with his decisions, queried his proposals? Do you wish me to tally them?”
When Thorkell made no answer, Godwine tossed at him, “And for how long have you nursed a blackened heart because you have not been rewarded with a King’s crown?”
Thorkell had sat biting his tongue for most the day, could not remain silent at that last. He leapt to his feet, his arm raised, fist clenched. Angry. “I served with loyalty and honour while Cnut was away abroad. As I will always serve if asked. I have nothing more than a wish to serve him to the best of my ability whenever and whatever he asks of me.”
Godwine remained seated, his legs spread before him, thumbs hooked through the bronze-embossed belt at his waist. “How noble of you,” he said sardonically. “A pity it is all lies.”
“How dare you…”
“And how dare you?” Godwine countered, coming alert to his feet, his arm also waving, his fist also clenched. “Just when, Thorkell called the Tall, were you proposing to inform us of your recent marriage?”
Consternation, muttering, the men exchanging glances, whispered questions. All eyes on Earl Godwine of Wessex and Thorkell of East Anglia.
“Your marriage,” Godwine continued, his eyes boring into Thorkell, “to a daughter of the royal line, a daughter who, as wife, could give you the right to be elected King. A marriage Cnut forbade.” Uproar.
Godwine sat, his arms folded, watching the slow smile come across Cnut’s face. It had been nicely and so completely done. None had known of the marriage; at least, Thorkell had assumed none had known. Even the priest who had married them had been dispatched a day or so later, quietly poisoned. None could have known. Could they?
She had said it would not work; Wulfhilde had warned him that Cnut was not the man her father had been, was not the man Thorkell judged him to be.
Thorkell laughed, cynical, half bowed to his King. “Is there any point in denying it?”
Cnut was stone-faced, disappointed. Why could men not accept what they had been given and be thankful for it? Godwine, for instance, cherished his role as Earl of Wessex. Why did men like Thorkell, men who already had power and status, have to prove they were better than others when they were already the best? Why could they not just do their job with goodwill and an eager heart, prove themselves by Christian acts, not those of hate and evil? Resigned, he said, “No, my friend, there is no point.”
Thorkell shrugged, spread his hands in submission. “Then, with regret, I must take my leave of you.”
“Ja,” Cnut replied, his voice flat, almost uncaring. “Take your leave of my council and my realm. You have three days to be gone.”
“And may I take my wife and her child into exile with me?”
“You may. But should any one of you dare step foot on the shores of England or Denmark again, I will send you, her, and the child to a different, more eternal kingdom.”
20
September 1022—Bosham
Godwine found his brother-in-law, Ulf, to be a Goddamned pain in the arse, with Eilaf, Gytha’s younger brother, running a close second. His one consolation: Gytha matched her husband’s opinion of them both. No matter what you thought of someone, however, if he was a guest in your house, he had to be treated civilly. Even if his company was unwanted and uninvited.
“Ulf has always considered himself to be a bigger and better braggart than anyone else,” Gytha had confessed to Godwine last night in the quiet of their bed. “And where Ulf goes, Eilaf follows. The pair of them are like empty iron pots, their voices making nothing more than a hollow clang.”
With Thorkell outlawed and expelled, Godwine had accepted that Cnut had been honour bound to offer Ulf a position of authority because of Estrith; the King could hardly refuse his own sister’s husband a title when one had become available. “Countess” sat well for her, but it had been a sad day for England when it had to join alongside Ulf, Earl of East Anglia.
Thorkell had stormed in a rage from court in a flurry of foul threats, had taken his ships, his men, his wife and adopted child to Sweden, where he was stirring muddy-watered puddles into bore-tide waves. Through Wulfhilde’s son, he wanted England and had decided to take it by using the restless manpower of the Netherlands. He had the ships and the finances, but whether he could gain the loyalty of men remained to be seen. Mercenaries were wary of following a leader who changed the set of his sail with each shift of the wind, and two could play at the buying of men’s loyalty. Putting Ulf as Earl in his place had been an intentional insult, for Godwine was not the only man to dislike Ulf’s arrogance. If it were possible, Thorkell despised Cnut’s brother-in-law even more than the rest of them put together.
The summer had passed slowly, with the fleet patrolling the waters off the Island of Wight, Godwine taking his turn of command alongside other Earls. Huh, Ulf had made a mess of that simple task, too, by allowing six of Thorkell’s mercenary ships to slip past one moonless night. He had been sleeping, curled beneath a blanket in the stern, his back propped against the steerboard. Consequently, his crew, leaving the ship to drift, had slipped from the rowing benches and snored the night away as well. Bloody fool.
Add to that, Eilaf had spent the better part of this blustering afternoon bemoaning Cnut’s overlooking an appointment of title for himself. “I am Ulf’s brother, and I am the only one without rank; even Gytha can call herself Countess. What honour is there for me?”
“My brother shall find something for you,” Estrith had snapped, after hearing the complaint once too often. Few had heard her added mutter of, “Preferably something tight that will fit your neck and strangle you!” But then Estrith was entitled to a bad-tempered humour; her child was overdue by two weeks, and she felt herself to be broader than the entire width of Godwine’s manor house.
Escaping the incessant mithering, Godwine had come from the hall to walk by the shore, despite the rough wind blowing off the sea. Decided, first, to inspect progress at the church. Only the tower was left to be completed now; once the scaffolding was removed, Holy Trinity would be ready for dedication to God. He stood for a while at its southeast end, inspecting the length of the nave before him, watching, in admiration, the builders running up and down ladders, scampering about as if they were squirrels. Catch him up there, even if it were only two floors high! He had climbed up the internal ladder-way three days ago to peep through one of the window slits at the incoming tide, the ground below sending his head spinning into dizziness—and he had argued for a third storey to be built? He smiled to himself. Perhaps Cnut was as wary of heights as he, hence the stubborn refusal to make the porticus any higher than it was.
Beyond the shelt
er of the tower, Godwine stepped over the plank bridge spanning the stream and was nigh on knocked sideways by the blast of wind that whipped at his clothes and stung his cheeks. He grabbed at his cloak and, ducking his head, strode along the promontory, following above the tide line of exposed mud, his passing disturbing the busy waders poking about for their low-tide feast. Bearing left along the curve of the headland, he puffed his cheeks, grateful to turn away from the strength of the wind, saw Gytha with the Queen and the children coming towards him, returning from their own walk. Emma was often at Bosham, though her husband’s manor was on the opposite side of the creek at Cnut Bourne; it was lonely for her with Cnut gone to Denmark in pursuit of stopping Thorkell’s nuisance. Made sense to be more frequently on this side, with her joint regent of England, the Earl of Wessex.
Gytha had seen him and raised her arm to wave, the wind tearing her veil almost from her head. He saw her catch at it, laugh. Emma held Godwine’s second son, Harold, not yet three months, draped sound asleep over her shoulder, the other children prancing at their mother’s feet, excited by the boisterous game the sea wind was playing with them. Gunnhild, four, with her brother, Harthacnut, nearing his third birthday; his own son, Swegn, at two, was toddling bravely along with a determination of stamina, and Cnut’s Ragnhilda, six going on sixty, a child born with the wisdom of a grandmother. Godwine halted, waited for them to approach, hunkered down to catch the unsteady Swegn as he lurched into his papa’s outstretched arms.
“A lad with legs as sturdy as oak trunks!” Godwine praised as he lifted his son and swung him round and round, making the boy crow with laughter. Godwine had never seen Emma as content as she had been these last months; even her husband’s going away this time had not unduly saddened her. Motherhood, with Cnut as husband, suited her. Playing with Swegn made the other children clamour for a turn, Gunnhild happily insistent; Harthacnut, feet spread, fists clenched, angrily demanding; Ragnhilda shyly polite.
“Do I get one, too?” Gytha asked, her eyes sparkling like the sun shining on the sea. She was eight and ten years old, and Godwine loved her. Setting Harthacnut down from his second swing, Godwine, feigning a frown, eyed his wife critically. She had not lost the extra weight she had put on while carrying Harold, but then Godwine liked his women to be on the plump side.
“It will strain my back, but, aye, I suppose what is good for the childer…” and grabbing her by the waist, he energetically twirled her round, sending the children and Gytha into fresh shrieks of raucous laughter.
The babe over Emma’s shoulder stirred, and she soothed him, humming a lullaby, stroking his silk-soft fair hair, her own smile echoing the pleasure of the others.
“I would not recommend going by way of the point,” Godwine advised, setting his wife down with a fond pat of his hand on her backside and indicating the way he had come. “The wind will blow the children away as if they were spindrift.”
“We were about to turn into the hall when we saw you,” Gytha explained. “Did you leave by the north door? We did not see you come through the south.”
Lifting Swegn onto his shoulders, Godwine nodded assent. “I could not stomach your younger brother recounting his wretched Welsh expedition once more. Guds skyld, you would think Eilaf had conquered the whole of the place and slaughtered every last Welshman into the bargain! All right, so he ravaged Dyfed, but can he not see we are not impressed by his sacking of Saint David’s? It might be Welsh—God must have his own reasons for accepting their barbaric ways—but to burn a church down? Ah, no, that is not a civilised thing to do.”
“He wants Gloucester-Shire as an earldom,” Emma explained, “and is hoping his prowess will prove his ability.” Sucking in her cheeks to stop the laugh bursting through, added, “You are supposed to be impressed.”
“Oh, I am,” Godwine stated, pretending to be equally as serious and hoisting Swegn higher. “But then I have never encountered such a prolific bore before…No, Harthacnut, I am carrying Swegn; he is smaller than you; he cannot walk so far.” This last was to the boy tugging insistently at his tunic, demanding to also be carried. Pouting at the flat refusal, Harthacnut stood still, fists bunched, the petulant look setting harder.
“Come on, Harthacnut,” Ragnhilda coaxed, holding her hand out to him, “we will be left behind, else.”
“I want a carry.”
“Uncle Godwine has Swegn, and Mama has baby Harold. You cannot be carried.”
“Shall. Mama will have to throw Harold away.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“Not silly—you are silly.” He stuck his tongue out at her.
Ragnhilda bit her lip, unsure what to do. The adults were almost at the hall, were busy talking, had not noticed the two of them trailing behind. She did not care for Harthacnut; he was churlish and spiteful, and not only to Ragnhilda. Yesterday she had caught him throwing stones at the chickens, and she was sure it had been Harthacnut who had made the baby, Harold, cry this morning. Harthacnut had innocently claimed that he had only been trying to soothe the child, the adults not noticing the babe had not been crying before Harthacnut had poked into his crib. Nor had they noticed the angry red pinch mark on his cheek.
“Come on, Harthacnut, I am getting cold. Please?”
“Want a carry.”
He was heavy, for although younger than her, he was stocky and well-fleshed. Even so, Ragnhilda managed to hoist him into her arms and stagger to the hall with him. Without being tempted more than twice to toss him head first into the mud.
21
September 1022—Northampton
Sweat glistened between Ælfgifu’s breasts. Cnut, tempted to remove the enticing trickle with his tongue, judiciously refrained; he had not the energy to make love a third time this night. She lay naked, her hair spilled in a cascade across the pillows, her arms stretched, careless, above her head. She was not beautiful, not as Ragnhild had been, but there was a sensuous allure about Ælfgifu that drew Cnut to her. He fooled himself that he only visited her because of the boys, hah! What care had he for those two bad-mannered brats?
He stretched, easing a twinge of cramp from his calf, ignored her fingers as she moved her arm to trace the curl of his chest hair with her cat-claw nails.
“What are you to do about those boys?”
Cnut knew full well whom she meant, but was not going to fall into the trap of playing her mind-twisted games. “The boys are exiled, would be dead if I were able to get at them. Edward and Alfred are nothing to you, as your brothers’ blinding and father’s murder is nothing to do with the Queen.” He used the term deliberately, not using the more personal “Emma,” to emphasise her status.
Ælfgifu, unimpressed, merely snorted.
“I visit with you, make love to you. I am generous with funding the education of our sons. What more do you want from me, Ælfgifu?” He raised a warning finger to silence the intake of breath that signalled a tirade. “And do not say a crown. You cannot, nor shall not, have one.”
Pouting, she rolled from him, leant from the bed to retrieve a sable mantle to throw about her shoulders. “Is that all you credit me with? The wanting of a poxed crown? I do not want her stupid bauble—I want you to pass your kingdom on to my eldest son. Our son, not hers.”
“Harthacnut is also my son.”
“Huh!”
“Yes, huh.”
“Are you sure he is your son?”
“Am I sure yours are?” Cnut was wryly amused when she did not answer. He slid his hand across the satin feel of her shoulder beneath the mantle; irritably, she shrugged him aside. Very well, if she wanted no more of his attention, he would dress; the day was already busy about its passing. He fumbled on the floor for his clothes, left in a muddle from their hasty discarding last night. Three days he had been in Northampton, perhaps his welcome was becoming stale?
“I’m sailing later today,” he announced, suddenly setting his mind to it as he fastened the bronze buckle of his elaborate belt.
Ælfgifu respon
ded with a noncommittal twitch of her shoulder, a toss of her hair. “What do I care? Three days of your company is the most I can expect from you. I will never get anything else. Your pleasuring is pointless, for you can never satisfy me in ways that are outside the bed. Not even there, truth to tell.” Her words stung, said with intentional spite.
“As I said, you want for nothing save my presence. What you receive is more than many concubines dare hope for.”
“Dare hope for? What I dare hope for?” She jumped up, was on her feet, her hand holding the mantle close to her breasts to dignify her nakedness. “I hope for nothing from you; I know I shall never get it! I am your first-taken wife, the mother of your firstborn son. It is my right to be kept in the manner I am accustomed to. It is my right to expect you to be here to protect me and my kindred, to see to the punishment of those who commit evils against us!”
Ah, so that was it. Cnut stood, arms folded, regarding her. Her face was plain, her eyes unremarkable, nothing exceptional. And yet…and yet something kept drawing him back to her bed every few months. The longest he had been away from her, discounting his journeying to Denmark, had been six months. He spaced the visits deliberately and rarely announced them in advance, for he trusted her as far as a legless grasshopper could leap. Emma, he thought, knew nothing of his coming here, or if she did, held her own counsel. A pity the pleasure Ælfgifu’s body provided did not match her company.
“So what is it I have not done?” he droned. Something minor to him, major to her; he knew her well enough for that by now.
“You should know.”
“Well, I do not.”
“Are you so stupid, then? Do you take so little interest in your northern provinces? Your northern Lords?”
“I take great interest in both, madam, but through Earl Erik, who has charge of them.”
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