What he said was not quite true—there was much he remembered, but all of that he had tried very hard to forget. He remembered Bosham, with its white church and tower, the way the sea crashed in across the causeway and rushed, booming, up the mill race. Oh, he remembered the mill race and a girl beneath the water. Her hair floating, her white face staring up, her mouth open in a silent scream! He remembered Godwine bending over him, very angry.
“I thought you were going to hit me,” Harthacnut said suddenly, tucking his hands between his knees, his head bent down.
Godwine was confused. He had not raised his hand, made any movement, had he? “When, lad? You have lost me.”
Harthacnut’s face was full of pain as he glanced up. “When Ragnhilda died.”
“That was a long while ago.”
“You were so angry.”
“Not angry, frightened. I did not know what I was going to tell your father. Have you not realised now, as an adult, that the first thing we do when we are scared or in the wrong, is to shout?”
Very quietly, Harthacnut said, “It was so hard to accept that father loved her more than me.”
“Nonsense. He loved you all, which is why we are in trouble now. Cnut could not willingly set aside any of his children. If he had, Ælfgifu would not be attempting to claim the throne for Harold.”
Godwine had never liked Harthacnut. He had been a sly, whining child, throwing a tantrum when he did not get his way. He saw before him now a thin young man with no colour to his face and no substance to his body. How could this boy outwit someone like Ælfgifu or beat a warrior such as Harold in battle? Yet he had held Denmark all these years.
“You have no intention of coming to England, have you?” Godwine said abruptly, realising the truth.
In answer, Harthacnut stood, beckoned Godwine to follow him outside. Beyond the door he pointed at the view. “England is not my home, this is. My first loyalty is to Denmark and, if I can get it back from that thieving Magnus Olafsson’s hands, Norway, too. To the north there is Sweden, which I rule, and Finland looks to me for protection. I command the fjords and the seas. Every ship that enters these waters or wishes to sail north does so with my permission, or did, until Olafsson poked his nose over the horizon. If I leave Denmark and sail for England, he will seize his chance and take all of this for himself. I cannot be risking that.”
“Nor can you risk losing England.”
“England can wait. Mother can hold it for me.”
“No, Harthacnut, she cannot. Not for long. We can stall until the summer at the most. Come to England, secure your crown, then use the English scyp fyrd against Magnus Olafsson.”
“The English would not agree, Godwine, and you know it.” How could he admit the truth without this proud and capable man assuming him to be a weakling coward? How to say that he had no interest in England, did not want it? “I am King of Denmark. I have no ambition to be King of England also.”
Godwine felt as if the wind had been taken from his sails. He shook his head in disbelief. “Are my ears hearing wrong? You are refusing to come?”
The sun was low, although it was not far past midday; in Denmark, in winter, the days were short, the nights long. Staring out into the fresh, brilliant sparkle of blueness, Harthacnut knew he could not leave, whatever Godwine said or thought.
“I had a letter from my sister,” Harthacnut said, hooking his thumbs through the broad, bronze-studded belt. “From Gunnhild. She is settled and appears happy at the German court. I wish her well in her marriage. In this letter she said Mama was desperate for me to go to England. Why, Godwine? Answer me why Mother wants me there. For my sake or hers?”
Godwine’s answer was succinct. “For England’s sake. For England.”
The day was bright, but the air cold. Harthacnut shook his head. “No, Godwine, I have seen precious little of her, but I know my mother well enough to understand it is her crown she wants to preserve, not mine.” He pushed the heavy door shut, closing out the light and the chill. “If Mama wants England, until I am certain Denmark is secure, she will have to do her own fighting.”
9
April 1036—Winchester
Emma stared uncomprehendingly at Godwine. “What do you mean, he is not coming? He has to come; he has to be consecrated.”
“He cannot leave Denmark; Magnus Olafsson is too much of a threat.”
“Not as much a threat as Harold Ælfgifusson!” she barked.
Godwine could only keep his thoughts to himself and shrug. He agreed, but short of trussing Harthacnut in rope and carrying him aboard a ship, what could he have done?
“Ælfgifu is working to deprive my son of his kingdom. Are you aware, Godwine, that she holds feasts and entertainments for anyone of influence from the North? Thegns, Bishops, and the Earls, of course. She buys gifts and pretties herself to persuade them to swear loyalty to her and her bastard. Beds them too, I do not doubt.”
The anger she felt was to hide the hurt. Cnut had been taken from her without warning, leaving her to fight alone for survival. Now Harthacnut was refusing to accept the responsibility of duty to his kingdom and his mother. She slumped into a chair, rubbing her aching forehead with her hand. “What am I to do, Godwine? Cnut never foresaw this.”
Godwine was tired. The voyage from Denmark had not been easy, for the wind had been tempestuous and the waves strong. Nor had he relished this interview. He had taken the opportunity to bathe and change, to eat, but had not known how to prepare for telling Emma that her world was crumbling to dust. His world too? His life could, if he went the right way about it, continue much as it already was, whatever Harthacnut’s ambiguities or Harold’s ambitions. Provided he made his mind as to which path to follow.
He lifted his shoulders, wearily let them fall, the defeat plain. “Without Harthacnut here to shout about his cause,” he shook his head, “there is nothing we can do to salvage the situation.”
Carefully, Godwine added, “I hear Harold is willing to offer you the respect of a King’s widow?” He had heard this from Gytha not more than half an hour since. “Is willing to leave you a portion of the treasury and for your lifetime your dower lands.” He rubbed at his moustache. “If he has so offered, I would judge it to be without the knowledge of his mother. Ælfgifu would never consent to such generosity. Harold, in this, is showing considerable sense.”
This was a double blow, the knife stabbed in and twisted. Emma felt her stomach churn, her head reel. Her hands were shaking; she gripped her fingers into the chair arms so that Godwine would not notice. “So,” she said with false civility, “you also are to abandon me? You are contemplating turning to Harold?”
Godwine all but ran to her, knelt, took her hands. “No! I did not say that! I convey only the facts, but without Harthacnut’s commitment to England, what choices are left us?”
“You judge Harold Harefoot to be honourable, do you?” she rebuked. “He will imprison me within my own house.” If she did not hide behind scorn and anger, she would be sobbing; she could not allow defeat to consume her, for once she let go of her hold, she would tumble into despair and never find the courage to climb out again. She had to stand firm, steel her resolve, and fight.
“I do not judge him, not until, on your behalf, I find chance to talk further with him.” Godwine smiled jestingly. “Perhaps we could ask for his mother as hostage?” he slumped, tired, into a chair.
Emma was not in the mood for frivolity. She waved him to silence. Her good friend’s loyalty was faltering. Could she blame him? Without Harthacnut there would be nothing to fight for.
“I will never accept any offer of Harold’s over the rights of my son, Godwine. It is foolish of you to think I would.”
Aye, Godwine had known that.
They sat quiet, each nursing his own thoughts. Emma annoyed with her son for being so selfish and stupid; Godwine wanting his bed and his wife.
“I have an alternative choice,” Emma said at last. “I have two other sons who have a
greater claim than even Cnut’s whelps.”
Suddenly wide awake, Godwine looked up sharply from the doze he had been drifting into. “Edward and Alfred? Lady, you cannot be serious? There is not a man in this land who would support either of them!”
10
May 1037—Jumièges, Normandy
Edward was furious that his mother had written to him demanding help. “How dare she send her ‘maternal greetings’? What is there maternal about her? I barely remember her!” Contemptuously, he skimmed the offending letter across the floor.
Alfred rescued it from a flutter of cackling chickens who thought anything thrown down had the possibility of being food. “She sounds distraught,” he tried diplomatically.
“Distraught! Distraught? Did she care that we were distraught when Father died? When we were sent, running for our lives, from England? If she thinks I am going to risk my life to keep her head in high glory, then she can think again!”
“Mon Dieu, she says nothing of risking our lives, Edward,” Alfred countered. “She wishes to discuss the difficult situation in England, that is all.”
“Do not swear in God’s name; we are within an abbey,” Edward admonished. “Are you such a fool? I thought I was supposed to be the naive one! Tell him, Robert, explain what an imbecile he is.”
Alfred felt like retorting, Bugger God, and bugger Abbot Champart!
Robert Champart, Abbot of Jumièges, rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. Edward had been a guest of his since Duke Robert’s death, for the court was unsafe, even for the present Duke. The boy, William, was not expected to remain Duke for long, for already he had survived several attempts at assassination. If this young William managed to reach maturity, it would be a miracle. Mind, if he did, men would alter opinion and be eager to follow him, for it would be obvious that God was protecting him as His chosen one for a purpose yet to be disclosed.
Champart was a man who had pledged his vows to God and believed in His divine intervention, but did not believe William would see adulthood. If—when—William was slaughtered, the likelihood would be that Robert Champart would be one of those in danger; he had no intention of remaining in Normandy when that happened. Nor did he want to throw away his carefully pursued position of prestige. This unexpected situation in England could be a gift sent from God, one Robert intended to exploit to the full.
“Your brother speaks aright, mon ami Edouard,” Robert said with a small, sorry shake of his head. “I believe your mother is thinking of England above personal issues. If you are entitled to the crown and there is no one else to wear it, then, alas, it is your duty to God to go to England.”
Edward mumbled a protest. That was not what he had meant on asking Robert to interfere. Why did this wretched issue of a crown insist on reemerging every so often? He was not interested in England. And to have this final insult from his mother, all of a sudden wanting her sons beside her? Edward was gullible and softhearted—anyone could get anything out of him if they appealed to his easy emotion—but even he could see the ambiguity in this! Mama had been abandoned by her favourite, Harthacnut, and all she had left were the sons she had abandoned to suit her own purpose years ago. To go running to her open-armed and all-forgiving was not an option. Not now. She had left it too many years.
“I do not want a throne,” Edward stated. “If Mama wants security, I suggest she come to Normandy. There are some most suitable nunneries for widows.”
Impatiently Alfred sighed. What he would give for his brother to show an ounce of sense! “Our mama, Edward, is not the sort of woman to pass the rest of her days contemplating God in a nunnery.”
Robert held out his hand for the letter, read it through. He rubbed again, thoughtfully, at his chin. He must tread carefully in this with Edward. Alfred was the bold one, who acted impulsively before thinking; Edward would need delicate manoeuvring. He could ponder forever, never committing himself. The one brother as opposite to the other as vinegar to honey.
“Your mother says there are many who would support you. She urges you to hurry to England, for the usurper is buying his way to favour with gifts and great promises. Where he cannot purchase support he issues black threats and warnings. It is your choice, of course, Edward, but unless you act now, England shall be lost to you forever.”
“I do not want England,” Edward tried again, but Robert hushed him.
“It is not always for us to choose what we do or do not want, my son. That is for God to decide. You are the eldest-born of a King, the grandson of a Duke. Why do you think God has so carefully attended your safety all these years?”
Edward slumped forward, dejected. “I thought He wanted me to become a monk.”
“Ah, mon brave, you have another, greater, commitment to God. To serve Him as King of England, to hold the authority to restore His justice and will. To build churches in His name, to…”
Annoyed, Edward erupted to his feet. “I have no intention of going to England. This summons”—and he struck the parchment in Robert’s hand with his knuckles—“is a ploy of my mother’s for her own benefit. I will have nothing to do with it or her. Neither shall Alfred.”
“I can speak for myself!” Alfred retorted. “All my life it has been Edward this, Edward that; always have I had it rammed down my throat that you are the eldest, you are the one most likely to wear a crown. Never me, never Alfred, yet I am the more capable, I am the one who can fight! All you can do is prance around with a look of piety on your face!” The outburst swelled, let loose after so many years of being suppressed; a horse set free to kick his heels, a dog allowed to chase hares without restraint—a younger brother shouting his worth above an elder. “You may not want England, Edward, but I do!”
Ordinarily, Edward abhorred conflict and disagreement of any kind, but he was also a self-centred, vain man who could not abide being treated as second best. “God gave me the right of the firstborn. It is for me to become King, not you.”
“You would not last a single day without me!” Alfred exclaimed. It was near the truth. Edward, at one and thirty years old, possessed the emotional passion of a child. Insecure and uncertain, he relied on the familiarity of routine and the advice of others to make up his mind in almost everything, even the choosing of his clothes. There had been occasions at the Norman court when Alfred had despaired of his brother’s ability to cause embarrassment. Yet Edward was learned in his reading and writing, was compassionate and attentive to the detail of the written word, and, a rare thing in a man, was willing to sit and listen to another’s outpouring of problems without interruption or sanction. Nor would he make judgement without first hearing all sides of the argument. For a King, such skills were to be admired.
“If I decide to answer Mama and go to her,” Edward whined, “I shall not be taking you, Alfred. It is me she is asking for. I was the one she sent the letter to.”
Robert rolled his eyes Heavenwards. Were these two men adults or children? Infants trapped within a man’s grown body? “She asks for the both of you,” he stated, pointing at the relevant section in the letter.
“I am perfectly able to attend my mother without a younger brother trudging behind me!” Edward declared, his belligerence aroused beyond reason by Alfred’s defiance.
“I have no intention of trailing in your wake!” Alfred hammered. “I am able to make my own plans!” Furious, he slammed from the room.
He wanted to go to England, wanted to show his mother what he had become and what he was capable of. Could Edward not see that? Did Edward not realise that if they hurried across the sea and saved Mama, she would be eternally grateful to them and would have reason to love them again?
11
July 1037—Winchester
What,” Emma asked her firstborn son looking him up and down with acerbic scorn, “is the use of one solitary ship? How in Heaven’s name can we fight and win a war with one ship?”
That was her greeting for her eldest son, having not seen him for twenty years. It was not what Edwa
rd had planned, but then neither had Emma foreseen that the boy would mature into a man even more useless than his father had been.
“You asked for me to come to you to discuss your future,” Edward protested, finding a voice through his bitter disappointment. “You said nothing of fighting and war.” He had imagined hugs and tears, and an outpouring of lost opportunities and regrets, a rainbow of emotion. Had not bargained for scornful disdain as the first words to leave his mother’s lips. Like his father, he had no ability to see beyond his own feelings, had no sense of realising why others spoke and behaved as they did. Could not see that his mother was equally disappointed.
“I had no idea I would need to spell it out for you. I advised you to come for your crown. How do you expect to do so without an army? Do you think Harold will take fright at the sight of your face and meekly hand England over?”
They stood on Winchester’s busy wharf beside the River Itchen, traders’ and merchant craft moored alongside the modest ship that Edward had hired to bring him from Normandy; the smell of fresh-caught fish pervading the other dockside aromas of tar, sewage, and unwashed men. Edward’s annoyance had started to swell the moment the crew had tossed the mooring rope ashore, for the harbour reeve, hurrying from his house at the far end of the quay, had refused to allow them to disembark.
“I am Queen Emma’s son!” Edward had proclaimed with indignation.
The reeve’s answer was humiliating. “That be Harthacnut. I knew him as a lad, afore ’e went to Denmark, and you be not he. Nor be that his banner flying from your mast.”
“No, that is my father’s banner, the white boar of Wessex. I am Edward, King Æthelred’s son.”
“Harthacnut be our King. You canna’ come ashore.”
“Send word to the Queen,” Edward demanded, controlling his inclination to stamp his foot. “And do not come whining to me when she orders you flogged for this impertinence!”
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