* * *
That afternoon they attacked the small gate, and with axes and sheer weight they beat it down and swarmed into the narrow gateway and drove the English back into the street. Knut led them to make sure they went the right way, hacking down two men who tried to hold the passage and then charging into the little square beyond, where the English were jamming together to make a stand.
Here the stair went up to the gate tower. If he could take that tower he could bring in the whole Danish army, whatever Thorkel did, and he bellowed to the rest to follow and rushed the stairs.
The English met him in a solid wall. He planted himself, slashing and swinging around him. Odd was at his shoulder, a long shield on one arm, an axe in the other. But steadily more English were pouring down on them, and he had to back up.
He gave the whistle signal. Step by step they drew down into the gate; they gathered up their wounded as they went, and then they turned in the outside gateway and ran down the long slope toward the camp, with the English jeering behind them.
Knut ran only a few steps from the English. His back to them, he walked up to his camp, three fire rings on the trampled grass with a litter of gear all around. Five hundred yards west, by the road, lay Thorkel’s bigger camp, quiet as always.
Knut’s sword was in his hand, the hot temper still coursed in his blood, and he slashed at the nearest bush.
“If he gave me more men. If I had enough men.” He cleaved the bush in half and stuck the sword hard into the ground. The others were scattering around the place, looking for drink, sitting down. He shot a look at Odd.
“Thanks. I’d have gotten killed without you.”
Odd said, “Maybe. We nearly had it. You’re right. Twice as many men, we take the tower.” He nodded, smiling. “You did well. I could hardly keep up with you. You must have had a good teacher.”
Knut snorted at him. He turned, looking over his band; some were lying flat on their backs, but they were just resting. He had lost nobody; there were only two wounded men, hunched over by the fire. He went over and squatted down beside them.
“What happened to you?”
“Something landed on my back, and then Ketil damn near cut my head off.”
“It was a mistake,” Ketil said. He came up with a bucket of water and some ale. The nick on the wounded man’s neck did not look serious. Knut went off to the edge of his camp and looked toward London.
The city’s old overgrown wall stood at the top of a slight rise, the tower of the gate rising straight in front of him. He meant to keep hammering that gate until he took it – and to hell with Thorkel, sitting on his backside.
“Altar boy!”
He looked over his shoulder. This was the name they had given him after the argument with Sweyn about Thorkel. In fact it was Thurbrand, who had been there, riding up toward him, trailing a string of his own fighters. Knut put his hands on his hips.
“I hope my father’s sending you with more men.”
Thurbrand reined down, swung his leg over the pommel of his saddle, and slid to the ground. He had gotten a lot of gold since this started, rings and chains and earbobs. “No, in fact the King wants you in Winchester for a council.”
Knut crooked his finger at somebody to bring by a jug of watery ale. “Take Thorkel. I’m close to breaking through here.”
Thurbrand drank deep of the ale, his throat moving under the wiry flare of his beard, and lowered the jug. A rim of foam clung to his moustache. He said, “This is the King, commanding,” his voice a little testy. He held the jug back to the man behind him. “Kings Day. In Winchester.”
Knut still stood with his hands on his hips. He looked up toward the long spine of the wall, and the gate he was trying to capture. “Kings Day. What’s that?”
“A Christian feast. Three days from now.”
Then he had to leave at once; he could not mount another attack. He gritted his teeth. They would think, in there, he had given up. He began to argue with Thurbrand, who was pulling him away from this. Before the words came, it occurred to him that if they thought he had given up, they would be softer when he came back.
He said, “All right. Odd—”
The Trondejarl’s son walked up to him, eager. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t; you’ll keep the place. I can go by myself. Move along this wall. Let the English see you. Try to get them to raid out. Pound them if they do.”
Odd’s face fell. Knut laughed at him. “What, you think this will be fun, sitting at tables listening to people talk? I’ll be back. Keep them working.” He turned toward Thurbrand again. The thegn of Lindsey was watching him, smiling. “Did you bring me a horse?” Knut said. “Good. Let’s go.”
* * *
He had never been to Winchester before. The size of the buildings amazed him, the hall of the King stretching its great roof back among the old oak trees and, across the broad open square, the church soaring vastly up. The people all seemed to wear gold, rich velvets, and laces. Even the horses were more richly dressed than he was. Thurbrand took him to the King’s hall; said, “Go in and wait”; and rode off.
Knut dismounted. His eyes turned after a pretty girl walking by; he thought he might as well make some use of being here. He remembered to keep his eyes wide, looking at everything. People were walking up and down the long, flat step to the hall, and he hitched his horse to a pole and went inside.
The room was high ceiled, dim after the bright sun, and half full of people, all talking. The space cupped the dozens of voices into a single blur of noise. Knut went along the wall, wondering what he should do. He kept a sharp watch around him, saw men he recognized: Uhtred of Bamburgh in his green jacket, some of the thegns of the Five Burhs – all surrounded by servants, floppy hats, gold badges. A wasp buzzed by him, humming in the dusty air. In the back of the room the high seat stood on a box. There was a big pale square on the wall behind it, as if some hanging had been taken down.
People went to and fro in crowds and singly. Most of them were Englishmen. He marked a few Danes here and there, but they all seemed to be on guard. He stood near the wall, considering how to find something to eat, and then saw Thurbrand walking across the hall toward him.
Other people saw Thurbrand; they turned and swept him bows, in the English way, very wide and deep. The thegn paid them no heed, came straight to Knut, and said, “The King wants to see you. Come along.”
He followed Thurbrand down the length of the hall to a little door, and through, and stood in a small chamber. This was some kind of closet, small, with a big padded stool and a bench and a small door out the back. In the door was a round window, its shutter open. The room was empty: Sweyn was not there.
Thurbrand huffed, surprised, and went out, and then the King came in through the back door. He was pulling his clothes together. He had gone out to make water. Knut felt suddenly much easier, his father somehow smaller, manageable, if he had to piss like any ordinary man. He said, “Hello, Father, do you want to talk to me?”
Sweyn sat down on the stool. “Knut,” he said. He planted his fists on his knees and stared at him. “What is this I hear of you?”
Knut jerked, his mouth falling open; he thought suddenly, wildly, that Thorkel had sent foul stories about him, that he had done something ill without even knowing. Sweyn watched him with narrow eyes, his constant, meaningless smile on his lips.
“So London is a tough nut.”
Knut wondered if he were in trouble. Thorkel could be blaming everything on him. He thought of Thorkel again, with a brimming rage; if Thorkel would attack, they could take the city. He held this in. It did nothing to talk about a man behind his back, even as shiftless a man as Thorkel. Whatever Thorkel said behind his back.
He said, “We’ll get it. I need more men.”
Sweyn said, “I’m thinking to give you the whole command and send Thorkel on his way. What do you think of that?”
Knut was still. His father confused him; in a flash, he knew tha
t was Sweyn’s whole intent, that he never feel certain. But to command the whole army against London. He warned himself not to rejoice in this; Sweyn had done this before. There would be somebody else to knock against, some new rival in Sweyn’s eternal balancing game. He said, “Yes, sir.”
The King’s smile widened, and he leaned forward a little. “What I’ve heard of you, you are the only one doing anything there, and your men would follow you into the abyss for the sake of a good word.”
Knut swallowed, wary of believing it, yet he was childishly pleased at this. “Thank you, sir.”
The door into the hall opened, and Thurbrand came in. “They’re here, Sweyn.”
He held the door open as he spoke, and Knut saw something moving toward them through the light there: the wasp. It was late in the year for a wasp. He watched the thing buzz into the room. It circled around the room and landed somewhere, out of his sight, and the buzzing stopped.
“Send them.” Sweyn nodded to Knut. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Father,” Knut said, moving sideways, looking for the wasp. Thurbrand went out.
“Go, Knut,” Sweyn said. “I have much to do. You can sit at my table tonight; I will have some presents for you.” He leaned back on the stool, and then he let out a yell, slapped his neck, and swore.
Knut shouted; he plunged across the room, his eyes following the sudden zigzag course of the wasp rising into the air. Sweyn reeled up onto his feet, brought his hand from his neck, and looked at his fingers.
“Something bit me.”
“I saw it,” Knut said. The wasp went out the round, unshuttered window, and he followed it out the small door.
The door opened on a garden, tucked for the winter under heaps of grey straw, with leafless little trees around the edge. He saw the wasp flying off toward the far end and ran after it. The wasp flew over a hedgerow, and he scrambled through the thorns, got stuck, and lost it, until he heard the buzz.
He turned. The wasp was landing on the wall of a little octagonal building behind the hall. As he watched, it crept up in under the eave. He ran around the building, looking for the door, and found two English guards dozing there.
He kicked the nearer one. “Let me in here.”
The Englishman twitched up onto his feet. “Hey, who are you?”
Knut gathered his Saxon. “Let me in; I am from the King.”
The other man said, “She’s foul when she’s disturbed.” But he turned and unlatched the door and opened it.
Knut shoved his way in through the door, into a beautiful, crowded room. The walls were white, hung with flowered cloth; scented rushes covered the floor. It was the Queen’s bower. Her women in their white gowns were doing chores: brushing, cleaning, sorting. They seemed unsurprised to see him. They said nothing to him. None of them looked like a Queen. He strode across the room to a curtain and pulled it back.
Behind the curtain was an alcove. There on a cushiony bed a plump woman in a silken robe was just yawning awake. Her white moon face turned toward him, and she started in fear at the sight of him. “Who is this? Help!” He threw the curtain back in place. He wondered if he imagined that her voice buzzed.
He went out again through the listless women. On the floor among them a brown wasp was lying on its back, its legs wiggling in the air. Emma’s shrieks sounded behind him. He crushed the wasp under his foot and left.
* * *
He could not explain to Sweyn what he suspected. He wasn’t even sure himself what had happened. For a few days anyway the King seemed no different. He was hearing men’s complaints and granting charters, and he wanted Knut there to witness them. Then, on the third day, he fell sick.
He was a big, strong man; at first he was only tired, and there was a sore on his neck. He went on with the work of being King: seeing men and hearing petitions, sending men here and there to speak for him. There was to be a council in two days, when he would declare a full attack on London, which Knut would lead. He gave Knut a gold ami ring, and they talked over storming the city.
In two days Sweyn was lying in his bed, covered with tiny open wounds that oozed and bubbled blood. Knut hung by him. He kept watch out for more wasps; he made sure the guards kept the Queen always under their eyes. He himself gave his father sips of ale and bits of bread and cheese and helped the servants who changed the soaked bloody bedclothes. He watched Sweyn’s face for the first sign he was getting better.
He was not getting better. Thurbrand, Uhtred, even Eadric Streona stood around the hall muttering, their eyes white. In the town the streets were quiet. To get his father away from the Queen, Knut took him in a wagon up to Gainsburgh. By the time they reached the little city on the Trent, Sweyn was dying.
Knut felt stupid with grief and fear. In spite of everything, he loved his father. He could not leave his side, and after a few days Odd and the rest of his men showed up from London. Half the fleet was already at Gainsburgh; on the beach, around the fires, men talked of nothing but the dying King.
Thorkel came, and Thurbrand, and stood beside the King’s bed. Uhtred did not come. Nor did any of the other Saxon lords. Knut noticed this; he sent all the men out to the hall and sat alone with his father.
The King lay on his back, his flesh raw and oozing, and his breath rasping in and out. He said, “Knut.”
Knut moved up nearer; he could not speak. He knew the King was near his death.
In the rotten mess of his face Sweyn’s lips moved. “Take… me back to Denmark. To be howed. Not here. My son. My son. I leave this work to you. But I tell you… the crown of England is a curse.” His eyes gleamed in the bloody min and then closed.
Knut sat there, hunched forward and in a long daze. He became aware again, trying to understand why it seemed so still, until he realized his father had stopped breathing. He slid abruptly down off the stool and sat on the floor. Tears squirted down his face. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes.
* * *
He sat in the hall with a cup and a loaf of bread, and people came up and spoke to him, but he hardly heard them. For the first few days, he did nothing but see that Sweyn’s body was washed, dressed, and then packed in salt to be taken back to Denmark. The salt, strangely, made him look better, the sores paler. Odd helped him.
Knut remembered what else Sweyn had said before he died. “What do I do now?” he asked, and Odd shrugged.
“I have no idea. If I were you, I’d be scared.”
He was not scared, just stupid.
Thorkel came to him and said, “You must drink the arvel-ale. As your foster father I will sit beside you at the rite.”
After Winchester the hall at Gainsburgh seemed small and mean. As many as could crowd into it, that many were left outside. Knut sat at the head of the table. He still could think only of Sweyn. The high seat had been taken away and a bench put in its place. Thorkel came and sat beside him, and they poured the ale.
“Sweyn Haraldsson,” Knut said. “King of Denmark, King of Norway, King of England. Of all the Vikings he was greatest. Those who did not bow to him were those he did not fight. He closed the ring.” He raised the cup at arm’s length and lowered it to drink.
The hall thundered with voices: “Sweyn. Sweyn.”
Knut put the cup down, and beside him Thorkel raised his cup and drank. “One king falls, another rises.” He looked out over the hall. “For Denmark, there is Harald Sweynsson, but for England – let the swords choose!”
The roar went up again, like some beast, and then all around the hall men were shouting, “Thorkel! Thorkel! Thorkel!”
Startled, Knut lifted his head. At once he saw what the Jomsviking had done, and he wheeled around to face him. Too late. Thorkel’s lips thinned in a smile, his little eyes gleaming. He was stealing the crown of England.
Then, in the crowd, other voices were shouting.
“Knut! Knut!”
Thorkel’s face stiffened. Twisting, Knut looked out over the hall. Men from outside were pushing
in at the back, and the sound of his name grew to a thunder, and Thorkel’s faded away. They were all shouting his name now. Thurbrand stood in front of the table, bellowing. Odd came up beside him.
“Knut! Knut! Knut!”
He got up onto the table and stood before them. The whole hall thundered with his name. This was, he thought, their last salute to Sweyn. They lifted him up; for Sweyn’s sake, he was their King now. But these were Danes, not English. And this was England, not Denmark.
Chapter Twenty Six
“The King is dead.”
Uhtred startled all over, as if a cold hand touched him. He said, “Where?”
“In Gainsburgh,” Thorkel said. He leaned his back against the door; he wanted this kept quiet as long as possible. “His body’s being taken to Denmark. His son is up there seeing to the proper rites. Uhtred, hear me. This is in our hands. We have to call the council together. We can make the next King.”
The Saxon straightened; his eyes went blank. He looked around; they were in the back of the great hall in Winchester, in the little room with the circular window in the door. “The next King. Did Sweyn lay his hand on anyone in particular?”
“The fleet shouted for Knut,” Thorkel said. There was no way to keep that hidden: better to admit it right away, although he still had hopes of getting in there himself. Even if he could only maneuver this for Knut, there would still be some edge in it for him. “But he’s not here. We can call a council. Most of the thegns must still be here, aren’t they – waiting for Sweyn to come back?” He nodded to Uhtred. “Then you and I can talk them into anything.” His voice fell. “You can make yourself great with this, Uhtred.”
“Yes,” Uhtred said, and his face twisted. “Greatly evil, I think.” But he shrugged. “We can get enough thegns together to call it a council.” He crossed himself. “God have mercy on King Sweyn. He did not look good when he left here.”
Thorkel said, “He looked a lot worse when he died.” He slid away from the door. “You summon the council. As soon as we can, get them in here.”
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