Elgiva stalked the residence trying to find her ally, even looking in the kitchens and stables before she accepted he was gone.
Of course he’s left; how could I ever have been foolish enough to believe he’d stay? she told herself, shaking her head at her own naivety. Godwin had grown up in the reign of King Ethelred. When Ethelred had been defeated, he had made himself the indispensable servant of his conqueror, Canute, winning his earldom and helping Emma run the country when Canute was engaged elsewhere in his empire. Then Canute died, so Godwin had dropped Emma and taken his place alongside Elgiva as the power behind Harold’s throne.
‘And now you’ve gone to find your next master, haven’t you?’ Elgiva muttered. Oh yes, Godwin of Wessex would do very nicely for himself, whichever of Emma’s boys took the crown, but he’d have no more time for Elgiva of Northampton.
Why would you? she thought, bitterly. I’ve run out of sons.
Leofric and a handful of his retainers had ridden through the storm to Banbury, slept there and then headed on to Coventry, where he and his men passed another night. Now he was standing in the ruins of the old convent chapel. An altar had been erected there, two of his tenant farmers drafted as witnesses and his personal priest summoned to read the rites. For today was Leofric, Earl of Mercia’s wedding day. To his great surprise and overwhelming delight, for he had thought that such happiness could never again enter his life, he had fallen in love with the widow of a local landowner, and she with him. As he looked on her lovely, gentle face and thought of the body that lay hidden beneath her wedding gown, a paradise that would be his to plunder when he took her to bed this night, his heart and manhood both swelled. He pledged himself to her, and she to him, and then both of them joined in a shared vow: that they would give thanks to God for their love by funding the building of a new monastery on the site of the convent, whose future prosperity would be guaranteed by the rents and tithes from local estates donated by the newly married couple. It was a magnificent act of charity, and both the vicar and the witnesses were effusive in their praise for the plans.
The congratulations, however, were disturbed by the clattering of horses’ hooves on stone. Leofric turned to see a dozen men-at-arms with a familiar figure at their head. There were shouts and curses as his own men drew their swords and hurried to their master’s side. Leofric held up a hand to calm them, then looked up at Godwin. ‘So now you know my business. This is my wedding day.’
For once, Godwin was at a loss for words. ‘I . . . I . . . I apologise, Leofric, and to you, my lady. I had no idea . . .’
He dismounted and walked towards Leofric, his hand outstretched. ‘Many congratulations. Please forgive me.’ He gave a nod of the head to the bride.
Leofric seemed content that his honour had been satisfied. ‘Godwin,’ he said, ‘may I present my wife Godiva, the new Countess of Mercia. My dearest, this is Godwin, Earl of Wessex.’
‘I am honoured to meet you, my lord,’ she said, in a soft, low voice.
‘The honour is entirely mine, Lady Godiva,’ said Godwin, taking her hand while making no effort whatever to hide the frank appreciation with which his eyes were taking in her beauty. ‘But now, I must beg your forgiveness too. I must speak with your husband. It is a matter of the gravest importance.’
Godwin drew Leofric to one side and told him the news that Harthacnut was en route to Bruges to rendezvous with his mother. ‘We both stand to lose by this,’ he pointed out. ‘Emma wants my balls on a plate for handing her boy Alfred over to Harold.’
‘Well I had nothing to do with that sordid business,’ said Leofric. ‘I was away on the Welsh marches, keeping that savage Gruffydd ap Llywelyn at bay.’
‘I understand that, and the price you have paid to keep our western border safe,’ said Godwin sympathetically, for he knew that barely six months had passed since Leofric’s brother Edwin had died fighting the Welsh. ‘But Emma has been away. She neither knows nor cares about any of that. The only thought that will be in her head is that you allied with Elgiva to promote Harold’s claim to the throne over Harthacnut’s.’
‘Harold was in the damn country!’ Leofric protested. ‘For all I knew, Harthacnut might have been an even greater monarch than his father, but he was in Denmark and we needed a King of England. What else was I supposed to do?’
‘I take your point. In fact, I made it, repeatedly, to Emma at the time. But it means nothing now because Harthacnut is not in Denmark. He’s on his way to Flanders and from there he’ll come to England with an army at his back. What chance do we have of raising an English army to face him when he gets here?’
‘None,’ said Leofric bluntly.
‘I agree. And if he becomes king by conquest, then you and I can expect to have our titles, our lands and probably our lives taken from us. You’re a lucky old dog, Leofric. You’ve found yourself a beautiful young wife. Do you want to make a widow of her so soon after the wedding?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then we have to find a way to win Harthacnut and Emma over, so that they see us as allies not enemies.’
‘How in God’s name do you propose to do that?’
‘I’m not yet sure,’ said Godwin. ‘But one thing I do know. If we are to have any chance at all, we have to get to Harthacnut before he sets foot on English soil.’
‘Will he speak to us?’
‘It’s more a matter of “Will she let him speak to us?”’ Godwin said. He paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then smiled. ‘You know, I may have a way past Emma. From what I hear, Harthacnut’s closest friend is my wife’s nephew, Sven Estridsson. He may be able to make his young master see sense. In any case, we must leave at once.’
‘But my wedding night . . .’ Leofric protested, appalled at the sacrifice he was being asked to make.
Godwin gave him a sympathetic shrug. ‘I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes,’ he said. ‘But think of how many more nights will be yours to enjoy if we manage to pacify our new king and king mother.’
Leofric thought for a moment, shaking his head. Then he gave a long, regretful sigh and walked back to his wife. ‘My dear, there’s been a change of plan . . .’
4
Bruges
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood outside the door of one of the Flemish capital’s most imposing houses. His hair and beard were a reddish golden colour, as were his eyebrows, which seemed fixed in a permanent frown, for his forehead was strong, his brow heavy and his blue eyes slightly sunken. His complexion looked ruddy and healthy enough, and it would have taken close examination to see the network of veins that was just becoming visible on his cheeks: the sign of a heavy drinker.
He knocked once, hard, and a few moments later the door opened and a woman peered round it to see who was standing there. She had to tilt her head up to look at the man as he told her, ‘Please fetch Queen Emma. Tell her that her son is here.’
The woman scurried away at once, thrilled by what she had heard, for she knew that the queen had spent many months hoping for her son to pay her a visit. With each passing day, Her Majesty’s melancholy had deepened, and her staff had begun to fear for her well-being. But this good news seemed to lift Queen Emma instantly from gloom to manic excitement, for she did not instruct her servant to let the visitor in but flew past her in a whirl of woollen skirts and linen veil.
The visitor, who had been expecting to see the servant return, was surprised to be greeted by a tall woman who still possessed the faded remnants of what had been a spectacular, regal beauty. ‘Mother?’ he asked, uncertainly, for he had not seen Queen Emma since he was a small boy.
She screwed up her eyes and held a hand horizontally to her forehead, for the sun was shining upon the house and casting a golden aura around the visitor while leaving his face in deep shade. ‘Alfred, is that you?’ she asked. ‘Oh, my darling boy, you came ba
ck to me, my darling, darling boy.’
As she took him in her arms, the visitor spoke in a puzzled, hurt tone. ‘No, Mother, it’s me: Harthacnut.’
When Count Baldwin, the ruler of Flanders, heard about Harthacnut’s arrival in Bruges, he at once sent word to Emma’s house insisting that the king should be a guest at his castle and offering him the use of the chamber in which King Henry of France had once stayed. Emma understood that this was as much a command as an invitation. She might want to keep the son she had not seen in thirteen years under her own roof, but a visit by a reigning monarch was a significant event, and Baldwin would naturally want to be seen to be a good host.
‘I hope you have a hearty appetite,’ Emma said to Harthacnut. ‘He will want to lay on a great feast for you, and the Flemish love their food.’
‘Oh you need not worry about that, Mother,’ her son replied. ‘I’ll match them course for course and tankard for tankard. And I’ll be the last one standing.’
As one night followed another, with a more splendid spread on each occasion, Harthacnut’s ability to down his food and hold his drink greatly impressed his fellow diners. He seemed to them to be a hearty, good-humoured young man, and this, combined with the reputation for grace and charity that his mother had already established, made him a popular addition to Bruges society.
When Godwin, Leofric and their men arrived in the city, they immediately made their way to the castle to pay their respects to Baldwin. The throne of England lacked an occupant, and such a vacancy was liable to make men greedy and reckless. Godwin wanted a king on that seat as soon as possible, and what was more, a king he could rely upon to heed, or preferably obey, his counsel. He had spent the past three reigns placing himself at the heart of the kingdom’s affairs. Now he planned to surround himself with his sons, so that it mattered not who supposedly ruled the country; the Godwin clan would always remain in power.
If Leofric sensed, let alone feared, Godwin’s ambitions, he gave no sign of it. He had other things on his mind. ‘I reckon we sell ’em our wool too cheap,’ he said, looking around at the magnificent town houses owned by the city’s wool merchants, weavers and tailors. ‘This lot live better than we do, that’s for sure.’
Not better than me, thought Godwin, but he took Leofric’s point. ‘They’re certainly making handsome profits, that’s for sure. And it’s your sheep and mine that are earning them. But we’re not here to haggle over wool prices. Let’s just make our introductions, and remember, there’s no need to bow and scrape. A Flemish count is no more noble than a good English earl, and I don’t care how fancy his city is, we’ve both got more land than he has.’
‘And land is what matters,’ Leofric agreed.
When the time came for their interview with Count Baldwin, the three men therefore greeted one another with respect, but without deference on either side.
‘You’re very welcome to stay here, and of course I would be honoured if you ate at my table,’ Baldwin said. ‘May I ask what brings you to Bruges?’
‘We’re here to talk to Harthacnut of Denmark,’ said Leofric. ‘We heard he had come here to, ah . . . to visit his mother.’
Baldwin smiled at the Englishman’s clumsy, very Saxon attempt at subtlety.
‘We recently heard of the death of King Harold. Naturally I offered King Harthacnut my deepest condolences at the passing of his half-brother. He seems to have taken the loss very well, I must say.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ said Godwin, ‘and you will not need me to tell you why. Can you tell us where we might find him?’
‘Yes, of course . . . There is an enclosed herb garden within the castle walls of which the king’s mother, Lady Emma, is very fond, though it’s rather bare at this time of year. I believe you’ll find the two of them there. One of the servants can show you the way.’
They were shown to a wooden door, set into a high brick wall. Godwin opened it and led the way into the garden. Emma was standing just a few paces away and saw them at once.
‘Godwin,’ she said, flatly.
‘My lady.’
‘And Leofric, too. It’s not often I’ve seen you two on the same side.’
She turned her head to look at a man a short distance beyond her. He was bent over an earthenware pot in which a thyme bush was growing, with his back towards them. ‘There are two men here from England,’ she said. ‘I expect they’ve come to see you.’
‘Your Majesty . . .’ Godwin began, as the man straightened up, for there was only one person this could be. Then he stopped dead as for the first time he saw Harthacnut’s face.
A smile that seemed almost triumphant flickered briefly on Emma’s face. ‘You see it, don’t you, the resemblance? I knew I was right! The last time I saw Alfred, he was a very small boy, but a mother always knows.’ She stepped close to Godwin. ‘You must feel like you’ve just seen a ghost,’ she whispered.
Godwin swallowed hard and went on, ‘Your Majesty, I am Godwin, Earl of Wessex, and this is Leofric, Earl of Mercia.’
‘Good day to you both,’ Harthacnut replied. ‘You look familiar to me, Godwin, from when I was a boy. Didn’t you fight alongside my father in Denmark?’
‘I did, sire. Your father was a great man and it was my honour to serve him. And if you’ll forgive me, I remember you too, when you were that boy.’
Harthacnut grinned. ‘You showed me your sword once. It still had bloodstains on it from the last battle you’d fought. I thought that was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen in my life.’
‘I remember the occasion well,’ Godwin said, though in truth he had nothing but the dimmest memories of a small, flaxen-haired boy getting under the soldiers’ feet as his father insisted on taking him on campaign.
‘Earl Godwin agrees with me that you look just like Alfred,’ Emma said. ‘Isn’t that so, Godwin?’
‘I really couldn’t tell, my lady. I’m not that good at faces.’
‘Come now, you know exactly what I mean. You saw Alfred in my son’s face, and I pray for your sake that you felt even a shred of guilt or remorse when you thought of him, for I fear for your soul if you did not.’ She looked again at Harthacnut. ‘Earl Godwin helped murder your half-brother.’ She frowned. ‘I’ve probably told you that already . . .’
‘I’m sure we all regret the fate that befell Alfred Atheling . . .’ Leofric said, then fell silent as he realised that no one was paying any attention to him.
Things were not going the way Godwin had planned. He had expected that his part in Alfred’s death would be an issue between him and Emma, but he had not anticipated that she would be so changed by grief that her once effortlessly regal demeanour would have become so brittle. He had a very strong sense that there were raging pent-up demons in her just waiting to be let loose. He looked across at Harthacnut, who was frowning, clearly displeased that his mother had been made unhappy. So now, though he was talking to Emma, Godwin aimed his words at the Danish king.
‘I am truly sorry that Alfred died in the way he did. But he had been banished from England for life, and suddenly there he was, landing on the Kent coast with several ships filled with armed men. Any king would have seen him as a threat.’
That much was straightforward enough. No one could deny it. Godwin should have stopped there, he knew he should, and yet he could not prevent himself from adding, ‘You must have known that, Emma, but you begged him to come to you anyway. His blood is on your hands too.’
The blood drained from Emma’s face and she gave a little gasp of pain, almost as if she had been struck. At once, Harthacnut leaped to her defence.
‘How dare you talk to my mother like that?’ he snarled at Godwin. ‘Is this your way of attempting to win my favour – accusing my mother of killing her own son?’
There was nothing to be gained by grovelling now, Godwin decided. He stood tall and loo
ked Harthacnut straight in the eye. ‘No, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m simply being honest.’
‘We had no idea that Harold could be so wantonly cruel,’ Leofric said. ‘He was an ignorant oaf, of course, that was obvious. But I for one had not understood that he was also a monster.’
‘Nor had I,’ said Godwin, grateful now for Leofric’s support. ‘If the king had asked me, I would have told him to imprison Alfred but to make sure he was well treated. He would have been a useful hostage, a bargaining chip in any negotiation with Normandy or even Denmark. Instead—’
‘The boy was an idiot and his head was filled with malevolent demons, that’s perfectly clear,’ Leofric interrupted. ‘But he’s dead now, so there’s no point going on about what did or did not happen in the past. We’re here to talk about the future, and to offer you, King Harthacnut, the throne of England.’
The Earl of Mercia might not have been a subtle man, but there were times when his bluntness was more effective than any cleverly worded diplomacy, and this was one of them. All thought of Alfred was driven from everyone’s minds. Even Emma’s face suddenly snapped back to its usual cool composure.
Harthacnut was the first to react. ‘Thank you, Earl Leofric, but why should I wait for you to offer me the throne when I can just go and take it for myself?’
‘Because our offer gives you legitimacy. The English nobility choose their king – that’s our custom. Of course, a king can seize the realm by conquest. But it’s an exceptional man who can do that and then win the country over to his side.’
‘My father did exactly that.’
‘Yes, but he did not have to be asked to do it by his mother,’ said Godwin. He suddenly felt very strongly that the crown should not be handed to Harthacnut on a plate. If he, Leofric and the other nobles were to have any power under this new king, then he had to feel beholden to them. He also had to respect them as men whose loyalty and respect needed to be earned. Godwin had thrown down a challenge. Now it was up to Harthacnut to respond.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 14