Maria had begged Harald for years to bring her a bigger blade now she was full-grown but he had told her the original was perfect as a ‘woman’s weapon’ and compromised by letting her have it sharpened. Her favourite trick was to slice the dinnertime bread with it, slashing it into strips in swift, precise movements. Last summer, though, she had used it little and her complaints about her wrist had ceased only as Harald had healed. Cease they had, though, and now Maria was as eager as any to talk of England.
‘When the time is ripe,’ Harald agreed easily now, but at his side Ulf shifted.
‘Will it ever be so?’
Elizaveta and Harald looked to the big marshal in surprise.
‘You do not like the idea, Ulf?’ Harald asked.
‘England is a long-established country.’
‘Long established by our forefathers.’
‘Three hundred years ago, Hari. I suspect they’ve changed a little.’
‘Of course,’ Harald allowed, ‘but come, Ulf, we had little trouble breaking them down when we raided from Wales.’
Elizaveta shivered. ‘Breaking them down’ – what did that mean? She remembered Greta talking on Orkney about Harald targeting common farmers and fishermen, but her maid had said herself that she was innocent of the world. Even tonight she was safely in the pavilion with Aksel and their children, unencumbered by the wider decisions to be made here. Rulers could not get bogged down in such minute detail; it obscured the wider scope of the fresco.
‘True,’ Ulf was conceding now, ‘but we had Earl Alfgar to direct us.’
‘Alfgar was about as much use as a wooden cooking pot,’ Harald scoffed.
‘As a fighter, maybe, but he knew the land, Hari.’ Harald leaped up at that and snatched the wine jug, sloshing more into his goblet before banging it back down on the side table. ‘I am not opposed,’ Ulf said quickly, though Elizaveta saw him clutch at his belly as if the words hurt him and wondered if he spoke the truth. ‘I am simply saying that we need to plan carefully before committing good men to such a risky venture.’
‘As we will, Ulf,’ Harald snarled. ‘As we always do.’
Elizaveta saw Johanna sidle closer to her husband and rose to join Harald, knowing his old friend had put his experienced warrior’s finger on the same issue that, for perhaps the first time in their married life, was keeping Harald awake at night. She had rarely known him to pace the bedchamber as he had taken to doing recently and certainly never to refuse the distraction of any of her finest seductions. She did not think she had lost her charms for him. Indeed, just a few weeks back he had taken her aboard his new flagship, fronted by her very own eagle-prow, to ‘christen’ their joint creation as if they were youngsters, so the proposed invasion must be truly preying upon him.
‘What bothers you so, Hari?’ she’d begged him the other night when he’d pushed past her playing her viol naked, to get to the maps and sketches strewn across his desk.
He’d looked up, preparing, as always recently, to brush her concern aside, but something had changed his mind – perhaps the threatening way she’d pointed her bow at him, or perhaps the sight of her in his favourite outfit, or perhaps just the pressure of his worries finally growing too great, like the fire in an Icelandic hill.
‘I do not know the land, Lily,’ he’d admitted. ‘I cannot take England in a sea-battle so I shall have to conquer her cities. I shall have to fight in her fields and they will know them so much better than I. They will know the slopes, the woods, the hiding places and the vantage points. That makes me vulnerable and I do not like being vulnerable.’
‘No man does, Hari, nor woman neither.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He’d pulled her onto his desk, pushing the maps aside. ‘You don’t seem to mind.’
He’d grinned wickedly at her then as if, problem admitted, it already haunted him less, and she’d wrapped her legs around him, setting her viol aside to play with her husband instead.
‘You did not know my body, Hari, when you first took it but you seemed to find the way.’
‘I’d found my way around enough women, my Lilyveta, to work you out.’
‘As you’ve found your way, my love, around enough battlefields.’
‘You compare yourself to a battlefield?’
That had stopped her for a moment.
‘I fear I have, perhaps, put up something of a fight at times,’ she’d admitted but he’d caught up her hand and kissed it.
‘And I have loved you all the more for it. Now, though, I need you to fight with me.’
He had not meant in earnest, of course, weapon in hand like a shield-maiden of old, but he did need her support and she meant to give it wholeheartedly. The thought of him invading England made her every bit as fearful as Ulf, but Harald was alive with it and for that alone it meant the world to her. And they were making progress too. Already he had taken several keys from her neck chain and it was growing lighter as the mouth of the Sognafjord began to thicken with warships.
Boatbuilders all over Norway were delightedly receiving commissions and word was spreading through the mercenary community, bringing eager soldiers to Oslo in the hope of a share in this, the greatest mission west since King Cnut had set his own sails for England. Elizaveta embraced their spirit but as rulers they needed more; they needed plans, tactics. She drew Harald back to his seat beside Ulf and leaned between them.
‘Svein, don’t forget,’ she said quietly, ‘was born and raised in England.’
Both men looked up at her, eyes wide.
‘Of course!’ Harald cried. ‘Svein knows England. You are suggesting, Elizaveta, that we share this invasion?’
She put up a hand.
‘That would be for you to decide, Hari. I am simply saying that in all these negotiations Svein has something we want.’
‘He also has a claim on the English throne himself,’ Ulf warned. ‘Stronger, perhaps, than our own, for he is Cnut’s nephew whereas Harald’s claim is based on Harthacnut’s inheritance pact with Magnus. What if he joins our mission then steals it – as he stole Denmark from Magnus when the poor fool granted him the regency?’
‘He seems,’ Tora said mildly, ‘to have been content with Denmark all these years. Mayhap he’d think invading England was foolish.’
Harald squinted at her.
‘Mayhap you think invading England is foolish, Tora?’ Tora looked hastily to her embroidery and Harald turned with a sigh to Elizaveta. ‘And you, my sweet?’
Elizaveta looked down at him. She had written to Agatha, expressing sorrow for her loss and concern for her wellbeing. She had suggested, in veiled terms, how lovely it would be for them to see each other again and Agatha had written back all enthusiasm. If only Lily could be with her in England, she had said, everything would feel so much easier. Neither of them had dared speak openly for fear of seal-breaking spies but she could only hope that Agatha had understood and that she welcomed Harald’s challenge.
‘I think,’ she said stoutly now, ‘that England would be very lucky to have you on her throne.’
Harald smiled, a slow smile that gained in power, like the sun rising, then suddenly pulled her onto his knee, spilling her wine down her gown.
‘Hari!’
‘Oh, don’t mind that, Lily. You have to spill a little scarlet to win, but you are right – is she not, Ulf?’
Ulf inclined his greying head.
‘In that, Hari, she is definitely right.’
‘Good. So let’s make peace with this rogue of a Danish king and set our sights west.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Oslo, February 1066
‘King Edward is dead!’
Elizaveta sat bolt upright in her bed as Harald burst into the chamber. He’d been up early again, conferring with his commander and boatbuilders, but she’d had no desire to leave the warmth of her fur covers – until now.
‘King Edward?’ she stuttered.
‘Of England, yes. Dead. This month past an
d Harold Godwinson crowned king the very day of his funeral, with his new wife Edyth of Mercia as queen.’
‘The Welshman’s queen?’
‘The Welshman’s widow. Earl Harold took Griffin’s life and now it seems he has his wife too. They have moved fast and we were right that Edgar stood no chance.’
Elizaveta jumped out of bed, grabbing her woollen robe for though the snows were melting early this year it was still icy cold.
‘How do you know?’ she demanded, grabbing Harald’s hands to stop him twitching about the chamber like a grasshopper at mating season.
‘Traders sailed into harbour late last night. They were begging an audience before I even broke my fast, desperate to be first with the news. Lord help us, Lily – this is it.’
‘The time is ripe,’ she agreed slowly.
‘It is.’ Harald stilled. His hands squeezed hers. ‘It truly is. I promised you England, my sweet, remember? When I leaped onto the fire-ship to beg your hand I promised your father I would take England for you. It was a madness then, a young man’s ambition and for a time it looked as if her throne would turn to your sister instead but now . . .’
He stuttered to a halt and Elizaveta stared up at him.
‘Now it is ours for the taking?’
‘Now it is ours for the taking,’ he agreed but his eyes had fixed on the rafters, or maybe somewhere beyond. She reached up and stroked his face, letting her fingers skim across his Stikelstad scar.
‘You are afraid?’
‘Afraid?’ That pulled his eyes back to hers. ‘No, Lily, I am not afraid. I was just thinking of something Finn said to me after Nisa. He said, Lily, that ambition is a disease.’
‘A disease? Hari, that’s fool’s talk.’
‘He said I had an infected soul.’
He looked tortured and she hated it.
‘Oh Hari,’ she said, ‘of course you do. No man could be king otherwise and we should thank God for it.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Who brought you up a warrior, Harald?’
‘Finn.’
‘Who taught you to fight? Who taught you courage and honour and ambition?’
‘Finn?’
‘It is why you loved him so. He is old, Hari, as his adopted king, Svein, is old.’
Svein had been a disappointment to her at the peace negotiations. He had formally declared that he had no interest in invading England himself but had also, sadly, shown no inclination to aid Harald. He had at least, in return for Harald’s full acceptance of his kingship of Denmark, sworn to leave Norway’s borders unmolested during the proposed invasion but for intelligence about the land of his birth he had insisted they must look elsewhere. Harald had been downhearted but Elizaveta had been busy. She’d written again to Agatha and the reply had been most helpful.
‘Those pseudo-Danes are men who have forgotten how to be ambitious,’ she insisted now, ‘but you, Hari, you have not.’ He looked at her as if she had uncovered the secrets of the ancient world and, for once, she blushed. ‘It is no great wisdom, just a simple truth.’
‘A truth I had forgotten, but you are right – it was Finn who showed me how to embrace the desire to fight and how to use it. He is the one who has changed, not I.’ He kissed her. ‘What would I have done without you, Elizaveta?’
She smiled ruefully.
‘Married Tora and ruled Norway in peace and prosperity?’
He shook his head.
‘I think not. I have seawater in my veins, my sweet, and I would have itched to move on without you tumbling into boats to force me to it – but I would never have done it so well, nor so happily. You will come to England with me?’
‘To fight?’
‘No! Though I warrant you’d scare a few Saxons, my love. You can rest in the Orkneys until I have secured victory and then I will send for you to be queen.’
‘In Westminster, where Agatha resides?’
‘Eventually. To York first though, I think, as our ancestors did – if I can find it.’
Harald looked lost at the thought and Elizaveta shook at his hands.
‘You will find it.’
‘How do you know?’
She drew in a breath; it was time to confess.
‘I have sent for someone. Or, rather, invited someone who will, I believe, be more amenable to working with you on this venture than Svein.’
‘Who? Oh God, Lily, who have you sent for?’
‘’Tis my gift to you, as you have given so many to me.’
Elizaveta looked over to the neck chain, strung carefully on a wooden hook at her bedside. It was devoid of all but the very first keys but rich still with charms – a jingle of memories and promises.
‘Who is it?’ Harald asked, his voice hoarse. ‘Who have you asked?’
She looked up at him, half-smiled.
‘Lord Tostig Godwinson, once Earl of Northumbria and now, I am told, an exile and a seething mass of rage against his brother Harold – his brother who is now, it seems, king.’
Harald swept her into his arms, crushing her against his broad chest and pulling her up under his chin so that his moon-hair tangled with her night-time locks.
‘I am not good at prayers, my sweet,’ he said, ‘but I thank God above every single day for giving you to me.’
Elizaveta reached her arms around his neck and kissed him.
‘He may not be any use,’ she warned, but Harald just grinned.
‘Oh, he will be,’ he said, kissing her back, ‘I shall see to that.’
Lord Tostig arrived a few days later. Elizaveta and Harald, warned his ships were coming by riders posted at the mouth of the Oslofjord, were on the jetties to watch him sail in. He was a lean man, far slimmer than Harald and more than a head shorter, but he looked fighting fit and had hunger in his amber eyes and a fine sword at his belt and he leaped keenly from his boat to land almost directly at their feet.
‘King Harald, Queen Elizaveta, I thank you for your welcome and hospitality.’ His voice was smooth and, even in Old Norse, held hardly a trace of an English accent.
‘Nay, do not thank us yet, Lord Tostig,’ Harald countered.
‘Torr, please – all my friends call me Torr.’
‘Torr, I see – how do you know, though, Torr, that we are your friends? How do you know that we will not take you prisoner?’
‘As my brother was taken prisoner by the Normans?’
Elizaveta felt Harald jump at this information and glanced at him, keen to know more, but Torr was watching them closely and Harald was never one to admit ignorance.
‘Your brother Harold, now King of England?’
‘The very same,’ Torr growled.
‘No longer prisoner then.’
‘No, sadly, though by taking the throne he has foresworn Duke William.’
‘Indeed,’ Harald agreed, as if already apprised of the situation, though Elizaveta could see the clouds flitting across his pale grey eyes as he battled to work it out.
‘Duke William has sworn vengeance,’ Torr was saying, falling into step with Harald or, rather, trying to do so, for Harald’s stride was long and he was forced to skip a little to keep pace.
‘Duke William is a Norman,’ Harald said sharply. ‘I know his type well – brigands, scraping for a law to justify their aims whilst avoiding all its rules themselves. The Lombards invited the Normans into Italy and ended up losing it to them. If they get so much as a fingergrip on a country, they do not let go until they have it by the throat.’
Torr nodded keenly.
‘Duke William says Harold swore to serve him as King of England. He means to invade.’
‘So I hear,’ Harald agreed again, though behind him Elizaveta noticed Ulf pulling men urgently aside – accidental spies would be sought in the taverns immediately for there was always a merchant as eager to sell information as wares.
‘And you, Sire,’ Torr demanded suddenly, stopping dead before the steps up to the grand royal buildings, ‘do
you mean to invade?’
Harald took his arm, guiding him on up, away from the eager ears of the bustling city.
‘I could if I wanted to, but is it worth my while?’
‘Oh yes,’ the English lord said instantly.
‘You think so? Worth my while, Lord Tostig – or worth yours?’
‘Worth yours of course, Sire – you would be king.’
‘If we won.’
‘Yes, but I hear, Harald Hardrada, that you always win.’
‘And I hear, Tostig Godwinson, that you were ousted by your own people. Why would they want you back?’
Torr’s hands twitched at a loose thread on his fine tunic.
‘Because,’ he offered, ‘I would bring them a king worthy to rule.’
Harald glanced back at Elizaveta.
‘They talk well, these Englishmen,’ he said lightly.
‘They do,’ she agreed, ‘but do they fight well?’
Torr was onto that like a weasel on a mouse.
‘Not as well as you, Sire, I am sure.’
Harald laughed.
‘You manage our tongue smoothly, Lord Torr.’
‘In Northumberland,’ Torr agreed hastily, ‘men speak a Norse akin to your own, Sire – they are, perhaps, more Norwegian than English.’
‘You think?’
Harald waved his guest forward through the great doorway of the palace and leaned back to Elizaveta.
‘He seems an empty sort of man,’ he whispered.
‘Good,’ Elizaveta replied, ‘we can fill him with our own goals.’
Harald nodded but now Ulf was coming up – clearly the spies had been busy already – and she went after Torr to give them time to talk. The English lord was strolling around the hall, ostensibly admiring the pillars, though Elizaveta noticed his long fingers picking again at the shining gold trim of his tunic.
‘You like our carvings?’ she asked, moving up at his side.
He snatched his fingers away from their fidgeting.
‘I do. They are very fine and these frescoes at the top are astounding – we have nothing like this in England.’
‘Nor much in Norway,’ Elizaveta told him. ‘The hall is Kievan in inspiration.’
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