No one thought it amusing. Godwin saw that even Sven Estridsson and the other Danes were looking on in silent disgust. If Harthacnut was losing their allegiance, his position was parlous indeed. And then there was the question of his health. The king was growing fat. His breath was laboured, his complexion mottled, his mind almost permanently befuddled.
If he carries on like this, he’ll soon be dead, Godwin thought. And then what?
He walked across to Estridsson’s place at the table and leaned down to speak in his ear. ‘A word if you please, nephew.’
Sven glanced across at Harthacnut, for it was the height of bad manners to leave the table before the king.
‘Don’t worry. He won’t notice,’ said Godwin.
He led Estridsson away until they were standing by the wall behind the high table. ‘You were at that meeting with Magnus of Norway, the one where he signed the peace treaty with His Pie-Eyed Majesty over there.’
Estridsson nodded.
‘Am I right in thinking that one of the clauses in the agreement was that whoever died first, the other would inherit his kingdom?’
‘Yes,’ Estridsson agreed.
‘Now tell me, did that clause apply to the kingdom His Majesty ruled then – that is to say, Denmark? Or did it apply to any kingdom he might rule at any time?’
‘Well I think we all understood that His Majesty was only talking about Denmark.’
‘I’m sure you did understand that, my boy. But were there specific words, written in black ink on white parchment, that very clearly said that Magnus could have Denmark but not England?’
Estridsson frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not that good with writing. Leave it to the monks.’
‘Look over there, young Sven. Look at the man who signed that godforsaken treaty. Now, I don’t know King Magnus, but my guess is he’s probably in better health than our monarch currently is.’
‘Well, he’s younger than Harthacnut, certainly.’
‘And does he eat and drink every night to the point where he’s sick, or passes out, or both?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So we have a problem, don’t we? The King of England is sickening fast, and there’s another king over the water who has what he doubtless believes to be a very good claim on the throne. Now, Magnus will go for Denmark first. It’s closer. His claim there is iron-clad, and he won’t want to strike for England if it leaves Norway exposed to attack from Denmark while he’s gone. So he’ll sort that out first and then come for us.’
‘So what should we do?’
Godwin shrugged. ‘I don’t give a fuck what Magnus does to Denmark. With respect to my dear Danish wife, it’s none of my damn business. But I care very much about England, and my personal slice of it, and I don’t want it being taken from me by a bunch of Norwegians. So the best thing you can do for yourself, and for your Aunt Gytha and me, is to take your mates and all their ships, and piss off back to Denmark. Harthacnut signed that treaty. You didn’t. And you’re a nephew of Canute the Great, so your claim to the Danish throne is better than Magnus’s, treaty or no treaty.’
Estridsson nodded. ‘You know, Harthacnut said that if Magnus had the throne of Denmark, I should just kill him and take it for myself.’
‘Then there’s one thing, at least, that he and I agree on.’ Godwin moved to walk away, paused, and then turned back to Estridsson. ‘When the king said that to you, about taking Denmark . . . was he drunk at the time?’
‘Yes,’ said Sven Estridsson, ‘very.’
‘Still, I think you’d be wise to heed what he said. Denmark is yours for the taking. If you’ve got the balls for it.’
‘You’re right, Uncle. I’ll start making arrangements at once.’
You do that, thought Godwin. He was relieved to discover that Sven didn’t seem to have the limitless, insatiable hunger for more that marks out the truly ambitious. The boy seemed more than satisfied with the idea of seizing Denmark. Yet there was a bigger prize for the taking, if he had the nerve to seize it. Sven’s father had been Gytha’s brother Ulf. But his mother Estrid was Canute’s sister. That made him the late king’s nephew too, giving him a strong claim to England’s crown as well as Denmark’s. Godwin smiled to himself: thank you for not noticing that, Sven, my lad. Because you’re not the man I have in mind for this job.
3
Winchester and Rouen
Godwin went straight from the great hall, where the palace servants were now trying to lift Harthacnut to his feet and get him to his bedchamber, to the treasury, where he knew that Emma and the noble ladies who attended upon her would be gathered. The elixir of power had worked its magic on the dowager queen. Godwin had been shocked, as well as surprised, by the signs of fragility, brittleness and even mania he had observed in Emma when he had first set eyes upon her in Bruges. Her condition had worsened still further on that ghastly day when Harold Harefoot’s body had been exhumed and decapitated. But the restoration of her status had brought with it a steady recovery of her old qualities of strength, determination and a sharp, invigorating dash of sheer malice.
The first evidence of her return to form had been the humbling of her old rival, Harefoot’s mother Elgiva. As was frequently the case with women of high rank who had outlived the men from whom their power derived, Elgiva had been sent to pass the rest of her days as a nun – in a convent chosen specially for its remote location and modest accommodation. At Emma’s request, the mother superior kept her fully informed about the activities of the newly renamed Sister Magdalena as she accustomed herself to a life of strict poverty, chastity, obedience and prayer. The queen particularly enjoyed the reports that described occasions on which Sister Magdalena had been obliged to undertake acts of contrition in penance for trifling misdeeds. She had at first been unwilling to accept the disciplines of monastic life, but any residual haughtiness was being expunged from her personality in a most satisfactory fashion.
With two of her enemies disposed of, the queen had devoted all her energies to reassembling the huge fortune, acquired while she was consort to Ethelred and Canute, that Harefoot and Elgiva had taken from her when they were in power. Having retrieved all they had appropriated, and added to it the considerable quantity of gold, jewellery, illuminated manuscripts and holy relics – including a bone from the arm of St Augustine and the skull of St Ouen – that she had been able to take with her to Bruges, she was now the mistress of one of the greatest hoards in all Christendom, and it was her pleasure to visit the treasury with her most favoured ladies-in-waiting to sort through the piles of coins and objects so that it could all be recorded and stored as efficiently as possible.
When Godwin arrived at the treasury, however, he was surprised to discover that Emma was accompanied not by her ladies-in-waiting, but by Aelfwine, Bishop of Winchester.
‘I need to talk to Her Majesty,’ he said. ‘In private.’
The bishop glanced at Emma, received a fractional nod of the head that signalled her assent, and left the room.
‘Strange place to meet a priest,’ Godwin said. ‘But then, greed is a deadly sin. Was he taking your confession?’
‘Mind your tongue, Godwin,’ Emma replied. ‘Remember that my son is king. One word from him would finish you for ever.’
‘One word of scandal might finish you too. Might I ask what the bishop was doing here?’
‘The same as he has done for many years, giving me wise counsel and honest friendship. There is nothing whatever scandalous about that. So . . . why are you here?’
‘To save that son of yours. You realise, don’t you, that he’s doomed?’
‘I realise no such thing.’
‘For God’s sake, open your eyes. He’s losing the country, if he ever had it at all. He’s barely been here a year and already the people have had to pay for his fleet, and now there’s this
Worcester nightmare. The whole of Mercia will know about that now, and it won’t be long till the story’s reached every corner of England. The reality was bad enough; God only knows how it will sound by the time it’s been told and retold, and exaggerated a little more each time.’
‘All kings do that kind of thing. Canute was no angel.’
‘Yes, but he was a conqueror, a leader, a real man. People couldn’t help but admire him. His son is a bully; that’s not the same thing at all. And he’s drinking himself to death. You’ve got to stop him.’
Emma seemed to shrink before Godwin’s eyes, her defiance vanishing like mist burned off by the rising sun. ‘Do you think I haven’t tried? I’m his mother, Godwin. I notice everything about him. How he looks, how he talks, what he does . . . But I can’t stop him. I wasn’t there, you see, when he was a boy. By the time he was eight, he was gone. So he didn’t grow up with me looking after him, nursing him when he was sick, congratulating him when he did well, ticking him off when he did wrong. He’s not used to being obedient to me. He has no reason to care about my opinion of him. He knows that I’m his mother. But he doesn’t feel it, deep down, the way a son should. But then none of my children do . . . They were all taken away from me. Every one of them . . .’
Emma paused for a moment, lost in thought, then looked at Godwin with eyes suffused by an overwhelming air of loss and melancholy. There were, he now realised, limits to what even power could achieve. Emma’s separation from her children was the one wound that nothing would ever heal.
‘My little Gunhilda died, did you know that?’
‘No, Your Majesty.’ Godwin felt he owed her that honour, that acknowledgement at least. ‘I did not. Might I ask . . . ?’
‘It was three years ago. She was on campaign with Henry. He was in southern Italy, sorting out some dispute or other, and she went with him because she wanted to show that she was worthy to be his empress. Fever broke out in the army. It took half the soldiers and . . . and it took my little girl.’
Godwin recalled a day fifteen years ago, maybe more. He had been a young man, still flushed with the power that had been bestowed on him with the earldom of Wessex, glorying in his position as Canute’s most trusted English subordinate. The king had pointed to his two children, Harthacnut and Gunhilda, who were playing some childish game or other while Emma – and by God she had been a sight to behold in those days – looked on. Harthacnut must have been six or seven, his sister a couple of years younger.
‘See those two kids of mine?’ Canute had said, glowing with paternal pride. ‘Well, that little boy is going to be ruling Denmark soon. I’m going to take him back there and make him my regent, help him understand what it means to be a king. And she . . .’ he nodded at Gunhilda, ‘my pretty little princess, well, today I have just concluded an agreement with an ambassador from the court of the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Conrad has agreed to betroth his eldest son and heir, Henry of Germany, to Gunhilda. We’ll be sending her off to live at the imperial court. Do you understand what this means, Godwin?’
‘Well, it’s a very fine match, sire.’
‘It’s more than that, Godwin, it’s my legacy. Just think of it! When I’m gone, my son will rule over my empire in England, Scotland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark. And his sister will be the Holy Roman Empress, wife to the ruler of all Germany, the Low Countries, Burgundy and Italy. Together they will hold Christendom in their hands . . .’
But now Canute was gone, his son was a wreck and his daughter was dead.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Godwin said, and meant it.
Emma nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I envy you, Godwin,’ she said. ‘What is it you have now, six sons?’
‘Seven . . . and four daughters.’
A wry smile hovered around the corners of Emma’s mouth. ‘Poor Gytha, she must be exhausted.’
‘She thrives on it.’
‘And they all still live with you?’
‘For the moment. It’s time my eldest, Sweyn, had some responsibility. He’s headstrong, impetuous . . . It’s time he became a man.’
‘He’s young, he’ll learn.’ Emma paused. Godwin saw the conscious effort it took for her to drag herself away from her sorrow before she straightened her spine, tilted her head back to its old, regal haughtiness and said, ‘So, we have a problem with Harthacnut?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assume you have a solution in mind. I’ve never known you be without one.’
Godwin nodded. ‘Hmm . . . possibly.’
‘Well?’
‘The king has no heir and, since he has no queen, no immediate prospect of producing one.’
‘Even if he had a wife, he’d be in no fit state to bed her.’
‘Probably not. So we need someone that the people will accept, the nobility and the common folk alike. He has to have an indisputable claim to the throne and he has to be English, or at least someone who can be presented as English, so that if Magnus of Norway ever lands on the coast of Yorkshire and marches south, claiming the crown for himself, England will rally behind our man.’
‘Ah, yes . . . I can see where this is taking you, Godwin,’ Emma said. ‘The difficulty is, the man you’re thinking of has good reason to hate you.’
‘Yes . . . he does.’
‘Well let me tell you, he’s not too fond of me either. So that leaves us both in a pickle, doesn’t it? What do we do?’
‘There’s only one thing we can do: show a united front. We make it perfectly clear that we are the reason he’s back in England and that he is in our debt. And we speak with one voice.’
‘You’ve made an offer like that to me before,’ Emma said.
‘I know.’
‘And you didn’t keep your word.’
‘You didn’t persuade your son to come to England.’
‘But this time I will, is that what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so this time I can trust you.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It seems to me that I have no choice.’
‘Neither of us does.’
‘Well then,’ said Emma, ‘you’d better fetch me a monk. It seems I have a letter to write.’
‘How long do you think they’ll keep the boy alive?’ the self-styled King Edward of England asked.
His closest friend, Robert Champart, abbot of Jumièges, looked across the great hall of the ducal palace at Rouen to the table at which Duke William was sitting, flanked by his uncles Archbishop Mauger of Rouen and William Talou, Count of Arques, and his cousin Ralph de Gacé.
‘What an interesting question!’ Champart replied with effete, acidic relish. ‘Well now, let’s see . . . At first glance, I’d say that our bastard duke is lucky to be alive at all, let alone be in possession of his title. He’s illegitimate, his father only became duke because he killed his own brother—’
‘One can’t be sure of that.’
‘My dear Edward, what a simple, honest English soul you hide behind your Norman facade. When two brothers go to war, and one of them dies suddenly, for no good reason, and the other then takes his dukedom, I think it’s reasonable to assume that the new duke was responsible for the passing of the old. Still, that does at least show a ruthless streak, which is no bad thing in a ruler. But as I was saying . . . the boy’s father was a murderer, his mother is a peasant—’
‘Oh come now, Bishop, that’s the Viscountess of Conteville you’re talking about,’ said Edward in mock outrage.
‘Yes, and the stink of the tannery still wafts around her wherever she goes.’ Champart wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘But listen to me prattling away like an old woman, and I still haven’t answered your question. So, will the boy live? Hmm, let me ponder for a moment . . . Well, there’s one thing I can tell you. Master William is lucky in his en
emies.’
‘Ooh, I like that. How clever you are, Champart! Tell me more.’
‘Well, let’s consider them one by one. First, we can eliminate Mauger from our calculations. In the first place, he has nothing to gain by William’s death, since he’s already Archbishop of Rouen and can neither rise any higher in the Church nor take the title of duke himself.’
‘And in the second place?’
‘He’s quite, quite mad!’ The two men laughed gleefully. ‘No, I’m being serious,’ Champart snickered. ‘He’s a very strange young man. He’s going to have a hard enough time holding on to his archbishopric without worrying about anything else.’
‘So what about the other two?’
‘Well, poor Ralph is blessed with much of his father’s talent – the more duplicitous, conspiratorial, malevolent aspects of it, anyway. He certainly has a hunger for power, and talk about ruthless . . . he’s been absolutely savage the way he’s got rid of everyone who ever stood between him and William.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘But he looks like a donkey! . . . No, Edward, stop laughing! People will wonder what’s so funny, and that’s dangerous. Anyway, I’m telling the simple truth. No man who looks like Ralph can hope to rule Normandy – not if he’s a usurper, anyway. Deep down I think he knows it too. So that leaves Talou . . .’
‘Ah, but Ralph would never let him kill William, would he?’ Edward said. ‘I mean, if Talou took over, what need would he have of Ralph? None at all – in fact he’d want him out of the way: dead, or at the very least exiled.’
‘Exactly, so there’s a stalemate. Meanwhile, let me ask you a question. Of all the men seated at that council table, who looks most like a duke?’
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 23