“So you would prefer to fight him this time, then? I will ensure the King knows of it, shall I?” Alfhelm’s retort was deliberately malicious. “Do not fear, Ælfric. With good fortune, Swein will attack somewhere more convenient for you. East Anglia, perhaps? You will not need to stir from your Hampshire hearth. Thegn Ulfkell of Thetford is a capable man when it comes to warfare, though I think Æthelred is remiss not to elevate him to the rank of Ealdorman. The fyrdsmen in those boggy fenlands can be a temperamental and churlish lot. It is the constant damp, I judge; it addles their brains as much as it knots their joints. We have warned Æthelred there is a danger they may not rally to arm at the word of a mere Thegn, but Streona thinks that to be nonsense, and who are we to know better than he?”
21
August 1003—Wilton Nunnery
The nuns’ singing was beautiful, the small timber chapel holding their voices like ripened grain cupped in joined hands. The hymn was one of thanksgiving, the words trilling up to the rafters and clinging under the thatch with the drift of candle smoke. Emma sat, relaxed, in her high-backed chair, her eyes closed, allowing the glorious music to surround and penetrate every fibre of her body, her lips moving, soundless, with the words. Wilton was a prestigious place, home to twenty nuns and several daughters of wealthy families, dwelling here for the benefit of their education, which the good Abbess ensured they received with dedicated authority and dutiful obedience.
“It is to the glory of God,” she maintained, “that I send forth my girls as young women who can read, write, and run a household as a household should be run.” And, of course, the better-produced girls, the higher the gifts offered by their grateful fathers. Having Emma herself as a residential guest was the final accolade of respectability.
Surrounded by the grace of tall elm trees and the open swathe of sheep-grazed downs stretching away behind, Wilton was situated in an ideal and serene location. The buildings were simple, nothing elaborate, with the guest chambers comfortably furnished. Æthelred had suggested Emma come here to restore her health rather than traipse after a summer-travelling court. “And perhaps when you are well again,” he had suggested with a parting kiss to her cheek, “we can try for a child? A son will bring you joy and contentment, I am certain.”
Emma had not echoed his belief in the benefits of a child, but he had been right about Wilton. The colour had returned to her cheeks, and a smile came more often to her lips, the dark rings lifting from beneath her eyes and from her troubled soul.
The hymn finished, the nuns knelt in prayer, then filed from the chapel. Emma sat a short while, staring at the one round glass-paned window. The crude thick glass was of expensive coloured panes, reds and blues and greens, and where the sun, darting in and out from behind scudding clouds, shone through, rainbow patches flickered on the stone-flagged floor. Like dancing faeries. Where had she heard that analogy before? Gunnhilda! Gunnhilda had told her of watching patterns on the floor, reflected there by the shine of the silver decoration on the haft of Swein Forkbeard’s axe—or was it his sword? She could not fully remember. Emma felt the tears within her, the great well of grieving sorrow clinging deep in her stomach, but nothing would come into her eyes. She missed Gunnhilda, her first and only friend, missed her so badly that it hurt as if a knife were being twisted within her. Why could she not cry? Why could she not expel this weight of tears and weep?
“Lady? Lady, be you all right?” One of the novices, a young girl who had no cares of the outside world to worry or trouble her, had entered, her sandals soundless on the stone floor.
Emma opened her eyes, smiled reassuredly. “There is nothing wrong. The beauty of the singing caught at my heart, that is all. It was a lovely hymn.”
“There are men arrived from London. They ask to see you.”
The colour drained from Emma’s face. Æthelred wanted her back? Of course he did. A King needed his Queen, needed a son. She stood, took a steadying breath to quell the shaking in her legs and stomach. “My husband?”
“No, I believe it to be his son, Lord Athelstan.”
The relief was intense, replaced immediately by guilt. She ought not feel so pleased that her husband was not here. Smoothing her gown, straight-backed, dignified, she left the chapel.
They had dismounted in the outer courtyard and had walked through the archway to the inner court on foot in respect for the holy place. Athelstan looked similar to his father, the same nose, hair colour, height, and build. He had been kind to her at Oxford, but Emma had not been fooled. The kindness was through duty, nothing more. If ever she was to bear a son, Athelstan would turn further against her. He had made that plain on more than one occasion.
“My Lady.” He bowed, polite. There was no smile, no warmth in his greeting. “I bring bad news.”
Emma’s heart lurched, the guilt rekindled. Was Æthelred dead? The shame ran through her, freezing her blood; she began to shake. How could she have felt so pleased it was not he who had come? God forgive her! “Is it my husband?” she whispered, holding her breath.
“No.” Athelstan’s answer was abrupt. “Why should it be my father? I come because of Exeter, your dower land. Swein Forkbeard landed there several weeks ago.”
Not Æthelred. Emma closed her eyes, sighed her relief, then admitted the lie. Would she have been glad to have heard of his death and regain her freedom? Huh, how did you keep the lie from yourself? She would never be free, not while she was able to birth a child. Her brother would insist on her marrying someone else; there would never be the peace of the nunnery for her, not until she was old and haggard, with a shrivelled womb, and of no more importance as a woman.
“Are many killed?” she asked, feeling she should say something of consequence.
“Very few.” Athelstan spoke tersely, hard. His lips thin, his eyes narrowed.
Emma did not understand. Dreadful that the town had been ransacked, but if lives had not been lost…? “The townsfolk managed to flee, then? To come back when the Danes passed through? I am glad.”
“No, ma’am. They had no need to flee. The Danes were allowed to pass by without one arrow being shot or one spear thrown at them.” He spoke with the utmost, deepest contempt, spoke as if it were her fault; as if she had given the order to make no resistance. “Exeter,” he continued, “has allowed the Danes access into Somerset and Wilt-Shire. Where they will go next we do not know. Here or towards Oxford? East to London or Canterbury? South to Winchester? I wonder, will they be welcomed there, too? Not since the time of Alfred have they successfully managed to reach so far inland.” His expression was cold, accusing, and angry.
Gathering her pride, Emma answered with aroused indignation, “I do not care for your tone, sir. I thank you for informing me of the problem. I shall, naturally, ensure food and provisions are sent to ease any suffering or disruption. Beyond that, I know not how I can be of further assistance.” Was she being dull-witted? Had she missed some vital point? “If you require the cnights of my bodyguard to join your army, which I assume you are gathering, then you must, of course, take them.”
Athelstan stared at her as if she were some noisome object. “Your reeve of Exeter, Hugh de Varaville, permitted Forkbeard the safe passage. We would very much like to know under whose orders he was acting.”
The words slammed into Emma as if she had been hit by a hammer blow. She put her hand to her mouth to stop the incredulous gasp from escaping. “Are you implying I am involved in this?”
“De Varaville is your reeve. You are half Danish, of distant kin to Forkbeard.”
Reacting in the only way she could, with an inner instinct for survival, Emma took a step towards Athelstan. With genuine fury, her hand came out, fast, hard, slapping his cheek. “How dare you? I am no traitor!”
“The King thinks you are.”
“Then the King is wrong. Let him come here and accuse me of such himself! De Varaville is not my man; he is my brother’s. If your father wishes to find someone to blame, I suggest he has direct w
ord with Duke Richard. For myself, I strongly recall protesting against Hugh being placed at Exeter. I did not choose him any more than I chose your father as my husband!”
Abruptly, she was furious at everybody and everything. None of this was her doing! Brought to England against her will; losing Pallig and Gunnhilda; treated as nothing more than an inconvenient piece of baggage by her husband…and now this. It was too much! Too much!
How dare Richard do this? Oh, there was no doubt he had ordered de Varaville to allow the Danes safe passage; it was the sort of thing Richard would have agreed on with Swein Forkbeard months ago. Richard would do anything for the right price. From selling his sister to the English to breaking an agreed treaty for a more prosperous offer.
Æthelred was as bad. Did he think so little of her? Did he truly think she was acting in league with Denmark? It seemed he did, but then why should he not? He had made no effort to get to know her; he ignored her as often as not. Beyond a casually tossed word, the odd glance, or sexual attention for his own relief, what had he offered her? She suspected her husband had been pleased to be rid of her for the entirety of the summer. Well, he was about to discover just who Emma of Normandy really was!
“You!” She pointed to one of Athelstan’s men. “Saddle my mare.” To one of the nuns hovering in the background: “Have my possessions packed and inform the Abbess I am leaving.” At her hesitation, snapped, “Now, girl! Not this afternoon or the morrow, now!”
Athelstan rubbed at his stinging cheek, a twitch of mild amusement tipping the edge of his mouth. The slap had hurt; the lass had weight behind her fragile appearance. “And where are you planning on going? To join your Danish cousin? The black mood that Father is in, you would be safer with Forkbeard than returning to court, although it is there I am ordered to take you.”
“I am going to Exeter, to hang Hugh de Varaville.”
Alarmed, Athelstan blocked her path as she was about to stalk away towards the guest quarters. “Whoa, hold hard, madam! You are jesting? You cannot go to Exeter; the countryside is crawling with Danes.”
“Sod the bloody Danes!”
Suddenly Athelstan laughed outright, his fists bunched on his hips, his head lolling back, a great shout of mirth bursting from his open mouth. “God’s truth, ma’am, I will wholeheartedly drink to that!”
A scathing retort hot on her breath, Emma realised Athelstan had reassessed his anger, had listened to her and believed her innocence. Was laughing with her, not at her.
“If I were not so dreadful a sailor, after Exeter I would be tempted to go to Normandy to hang my brother also.” To her surprise, she found she meant her words; they were not merely hot air blowing from a cooling furnace. What did she owe Richard? Nothing! He had sold her to Æthelred; she was no longer Norman but English.
“De Varaville’s death alone would do adequately, but it is a deed already completed. The people of Exeter strung him up immediately after the Danes had gone. He was not well liked, being a Norman.”
“How fortunate, then,” Emma answered succinctly, “that by default I am now English, and it is harder to be rid of a Queen than it is to dispatch a reeve.”
22
September 1003—Salisbury
Swein Forkbeard was a tall, muscular man with shoulders as broad as a bear’s and a heart with the courage of a lion. He was firm, ruthless, and his men worshipped him for the heroic warrior he was.
His army was in good spirits, deservedly so. Had they not marched all this way into England without a single sword or axe raised against them? There had been an English Ealdorman called Ælfric leading the fyrd gathered at Shaftesbury, but he was a known weakling who had spewed his guts into a ditch and then fled. The English army had scattered into the dawn behind him, leaving the road open for the Danes to pass by unhindered.
Swein pulled thoughtfully at his beard that was stiffened with white lime to hold it in its characteristic forked shape. The map spread before him, daubed on the underside of a clean-scraped calf hide, was crude, but then the Danes had no need for the detail of carefully drawn maps. All they required was a talkative tongue and knowing where the English King was mustering his army, so it could be avoided. Information was easy to obtain. Peasants were willing to tell all they knew to save a farm from burning, or a wife and daughters from violation, and Swein saw to it that free-given talk was rewarded. The farms that burnt held farmers with tight tongues.
The King of Denmark glanced across the boards of the trestle table at his trusted second in command, Thorkell, called the Tall for his great height. Thorkell dwarfed even Swein, who stood the width of three fingers above six feet. “So we must decide. The younger men are all for fighting, such is the hot rush of their blood. We older, more cautious ramblers prefer to gather what we can with comfortable ease. Why go climbing up and down a rocky mountain track when a well-worn path winds its way along the bottom?”
Thorkell grinned. “It is always the way of the young; they have their weapons sharp and no blood staining the blades to prove their valour. They will go along with your thinking, though, if it is your wish. Provided our ships are brimful of reward when we return home, none at the end of this day shall mind remaining all in one piece.”
Swein brought his calloused finger down his nose—he only had four on the right hand, having lost the middle digit in his first battle. He pinched his nostrils together, considering. He was too proud a man to run a race if he was not certain to win it, and he was not ready or strong enough to be the unchallenged victor of England. Yet. The men with him in his army were professional and experienced mercenaries hired for their spears, shields, and double-handed axes, called the bearded axe, the skaegøkse, for its drooping lower edge on the blade and the yard-long haft. Some called it the “death-bringer.” With more chests of silver and gold, with more hides and furs, he could, next year, hire more men. And more, and more, until he had an army so vast, England would yield the race without setting foot over the starting line. He wanted England, and he was going to get it. But not this year, nor the next. Soon, though, very soon.
“We go to Wilton,” he announced, making up his mind about their course, “then return to our ships. Æthelred thought it not unreasonable to attack and kill innocent women; let us follow his example at the nunnery.”
The death of Gunnhilda had opened a wound that was festering. Swein had been fond of her, had wept at the manner of her dying, and had vowed with his own blood, spilt from a dagger taken to his arm, that she would be avenged. Wilton nunnery seemed a suitable place to begin.
“And Wilton has treasure in plenty to satisfy our requirements.” Thorkell passed his remark with a grin, was answered by one as wide from Swein.
Laughing, Swein returned to staring thoughtfully at his map. “Can we send scouts ahead? Find whether that farmer told us right? I have no wish to march into an ambush; mayhap this Ælfric has not run far, has more courage than is granted him?”
“That we can.” Thorkell pulled sheepishly at his right ear lobe, then grinned again. “Truth to tell my Lord, they are already gone. I sent our best men ahead not an hour since.”
It could be a dangerous tactic anticipating Swein’s intentions, for he was not a man to be gainsaid, nor did he tolerate others appearing more astute than he. Taking and holding a crown could be a precarious occupation, for there was always someone else who also wanted the wearing of it. Thorkell, however, was a good second in command, and Swein Forkbeard valued his reliability, as long as he understood that the custodianship of the Danish crown was not negotiable.
Swein clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Were it not for a lack of time, I would be tempted, after Wilton, to scald the shit from Æthelred’s backside. He sits safe in Oxford, knowing we are well away from his poxed town. Oxford tempts me, for my sister’s sake, but I can wait to pay my respects to her. After my coronation, perhaps?”
“When you are King in Æthelred’s place?” Thorkell laughed. “Very soon, then, we shall be in Oxford!”
“Very soon. But for now it will not be long before the leaves turn gold, and frost will not be treading far behind. Our ships await our return. Come, let us strike camp and finish what we came for. If Wilton is as wealthy as I have heard, I can purchase twice, three times as many men for next summer’s campaign.”
If the Danes had also discovered that Queen Emma had been residing at Wilton for the better part of the year, they were disappointed to discover her gone. The Abbess and her nuns and students were not there either, having fled as soon as the Danish host set foot on the Wilton road. Some of the nunnery’s riches the women managed to take with them, the important items, the holiest relics. Swein was content with what they left behind: the golden altar cross; the silver psalters, candlesticks, bowls, and plates; the gold-bound books.
As September blew out with a strong westward wind, he stood at the prow of his dragon ship and felt the pleasure of the lift of the tide as she slid into the crest of the next wave. He turned his face towards Denmark as the English coastline grew smaller, his cloak billowing about his shoulders, his hair tangling with the wind. For now, England and her King could sleep sound. For now.
23
July 1004—Thorney Island
The seventh month of the year, and with a string of inexcusable inadequacies stretching behind his noblemen, Æthelred was close to ordering the lot of them to be hanged. Above them all, Ælfric of eastern Wessex for his consistent and utter uselessness, with Richard of Normandy running a close second. The words he applied to the manhood and existence of the Duke bordered on blasphemous.
Twice, Æthelred had tried a diplomatic route of persuading Richard to honour the agreement of his sister’s dowry. Twice, Normandy had blatantly ignored England’s polite request.
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