The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  50

  Late Afternoon

  Was that the wind rising? Thorkell raised his head, listening. Odd, there were few trees along these marsh-bound lees, yet it sounded as if a tempest was roaring down through wooded hills. He hoped it was not a storm coming. These last few days had been bright with spring sunshine, the warmth coaxing out the budding leaves and spring flowers, bringing a similar warmth to cold bones and flesh. Winter was long and tedious; he had been pleased to see the end of it.

  He sighed, pulled his cloak tighter, set out to inspect the security of the palisade fence. Unlikely that they were in danger here at Greenwich, for the openness of the marshes and the width of the river was adequate defence, but Thorkell was a commander who never took things for granted, and men with beer in their bellies were too capable of shirking given orders.

  As the Danish commander walked past, Alfheah murmured the final word of his prayer and, opening his eyes, laid his hands to rest on his lap. The knuckles were swollen, red with the pain of chilblains. These months of captivity had tested his faith almost to his limit; the squalor, the taunting, the isolation of being denied the companionship of his brethren. Gradually he had learnt to trust in his Lord God, realising this was how Christ must have felt during those forty days alone in the wilderness. The acceptance of his situation had brought a calm, inner sanctity to him, one that lifted his fear of the unknown and brought the word of God louder to his ears. If this was to be the ending of the world, then he was in the hands of his Lord, and with that he felt privileged and content.

  He looked up, said in halting Danish, “I see a self-importance about that boy Cnut, one that can only come from the son of a King. I see, also, you do not like him.”

  Thorkell laughed grimly. “It is not for me to like or dislike him, old man. It is my place to serve.”

  In his turn Alfheah laughed, his a lower, more subtle sound. “I believe that no more than you do, Lord Thorkell. It takes a brave man to admit his King has forsaken him for an untried boy.”

  Derision snorted from Thorkell’s nostrils. “Swein has not forsaken me! What makes you think that? He is delighted with what I have achieved here.”

  Alfheah looked around with a puzzled frown, assessing the heaps of rubbish, the sloth, the naked foulness of the camp. “And what achievement would that be then, Thorkell the Tall? I see about me no great achievement.”

  Cnut, returning with a swaggering stride from the latrine pit, heard his scathing words. He was new to English ways—new to leadership. New, but keen and anxious to learn. His father showed no more than a glancing interest in this green, fertile country, and that interest ran only as far as the amount and availability of silver and gold. He wanted to annex England as part of his growing empire, but only if it could be done with the least effort possible. Cnut thought of England in a different vein; it could be a suitable kingdom for a boy who had a limited prospect of wearing a crown. That was the drawback if you were a Northman, born as the second son: the eldest inherited all with precious else left for any younger siblings, unless they used their ingenuity.

  “I will achieve what Thorkell will not be able to do,” he said confidently to Alfheah. “I will make England my own.”

  Alfheah smiled. “Not without the grace of God, you will not, boy. Unless you set aside your heathen ways and embrace the true faith, God and England will never accept you. Without God, you cannot be anointed as King.”

  “That’s the trouble with you priests,” Cnut said, irritably striding away in the opposite direction to that which Thorkell had taken. “You mumble and mutter about your God as if there are no more important issues to concentrate on.”

  Alfheah’s expression remained unruffled. “That, my son, is because there are no important issues over God.”

  Annoyed that he had been so easily bettered twice in the one day, Cnut strolled down towards the river where the men were gathering in noisy excitement. The incoming tide was causing a stir; he looked out at the water, his eyes lighting up with aroused pleasure. Odin’s joy! A bore tide! A high, fast-bowling bore tide! A spectacular surge wave caused by the tide, not swelling by degrees but rolling in, roaring and foaming as if it were an enraged, gape-mouthed sea dragon hurtling up the River Thames. Cnut, as with his fellow Danes, had no idea of the scientific logistics of the natural phenomenon, although as seafaring men they realised the cause to be the combination of the wide shape of an estuary and certain tidal conditions funnelling into a narrowing, shallower channel.

  The huge wave, as it sped and thundered its passage, heaved up the Thames at a rate of almost thirteen knots and a height of over six feet. As it plummeted by, men, whooping and yelling in their delight, plunged into its wake, some taking their shields to lie flat upon, enjoying the sensation of riding tumbling, pounding waves. They were like children enjoying an unexpected holiday. Cnut, stripping to his skin, jumped in as well, his exhilarated shouts as loud as any of them.

  Thorkell, watching from the palisade fence, was thinking on what Alfheah had said. What achievement? Ja, he was right. What achievement?

  51

  London—Late Afternoon

  The distant roar of sound from downriver alerted all of London, entreating screams of fear from the women, sending the men running for spears and axes. Had something gone amiss with the payment of tribute? Had Queen Emma been taken? Killed? Were they under attack? Was this it? Was this the coming of God?

  The London militia hurried onto the wooden structure of London Bridge, alert, hearts hammering, weapons tight-held, waiting. If this was Thorkell launching a raid…aye, well, if it was, they were ready.

  Waiting, standing erect on the parapet wall running alongside Queen’s Wharf, Edmund reflected on another of the bitter arguments that last night had, yet again, torn his father and brother apart. The row had flared from bitter disagreement into an outright hostility that no regret or apology was likely to erase. Sending a woman to do a man’s job instead of the eldest son? That, Athelstan could not, would not, tolerate.

  Edmund winced at the memory of his brother’s ferocious wrath. He felt wrenched in two over this, as if he were being dragged each way by straining horses, honour-bound to support his father, but, oh, Athelstan was right! It was not Emma’s place to deliver the geld—damn it, it ought not be geld delivered but a full-armed fyrd!

  Dismally, Edmund lifted his head, was struck straight in the face by a hammer-thrust rush of wind. Perhaps Thorkell had made further decision for them? If this was the Vikings making their attack…Suddenly, men were laughing, setting their weapons aside, thumping each other on the back, linking arms to dance in crazy circles. Edmund, too, grinned, released the tied straps of his war cap. What idiots! It was the bore! Only the bore tide! More than one of the London men, standing there or already turning to make his way home, felt a tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks. Mind, that showed how much of a dither London was in, how sense and everyday practicality had been swept aside by the presence of those heathens encamped at Greenwich. London had become as twitchy as a flea-riddled dog!

  Edmund laughed with the rest of them, a laugh of relief; then, glancing at the shore where the after-waves were crashing and rippling, he cursed vehemently. Shouldering his way through the crush, he began to shout, waving his spear, pointing, but no one heard above the din of excited, chattering voices. His young stepbrothers had come into London with him from Thorney and had, when the alarm had been raised, been left with strict orders to stay inside at Edmund’s favourite tavern. Godwine was supposed to be keeping an eye on them. Where was he?

  Angrily, fear heightening his temper, Edmund lashed out at someone to urge him to move aside. Those stupid boys were down on the shoreline, jumping in and out of the waves, the silly fools! Where in Hell was Godwine?

  ***

  It had been Alfred’s idea. The ideas were always Alfred’s, even though he was only in his sixth year. Edward, a year older, did not have ideas as bold as Alfred’s, but somehow he was always the one wh
ipped twice as hard when they went wrong. As they usually did.

  “Come on!” Alfred shouted as he jumped over another incoming wave, soaking himself further. He was already wet through from head to foot, so what did it matter? “Try it! This is fun!”

  Alfred had been the one wanting to come down into London. Edward would have been quite content to have remained at Thorney Island. The monks were practising the singing of a new psalm; he would have liked to have sat and listened, but no, Alfred wanted to come to London with Edmund. And what Alfred wanted, Alfred usually got. Edward did not like Alfred; he was only young, but already he realised his brother was a troublemaker who had no realisation of the meaning of fear.

  “When I grow up, I am going to be England’s greatest warrior!” Alfred often boasted. Edward had abandoned answering that it was the other Alfred, his brother’s namesake, who already had claim to that title. As he had also abandoned answering what he wanted to be when he grew up. An Archbishop.

  “Do not be silly,” Alfred had taunted with that scathing harshness only children could appropriate. “You are going to be the King; you cannot be Archbishop as well.”

  Caution always rallied Edward not to reply that he did not want to be King. No one seemed to like the present one, and being King meant strutting about shouting at people. Edward did not like shouting. In fact, there was not much Edward did like, except the singing of the monks in church. Particularly, he did not like water, especially not this angry, boiling, and churning River Thames. Bad enough to go out on it in a ship or coracle—but this! To step into this raging madness? Ah, no!

  “Come on!” Alfred repeated. “If you don’t join in, I will ask God to set Thorkell the Tall on you!”

  What was worse? That evil, yellow-eyed monster Thorkell or this rampaging river? Edward hesitated, took a tentative step forward, slipped, and fell beneath the echo of the surge tide, a wave slurping over him, covering him and rolling him several yards upstream. He tried to scream, to shout for help. Water bubbled into his mouth, choking him. He could not see, could not hear…Something had hold of him, was dragging him, trawling him like a fisherman’s net. Edward had seen men drown, a vision he vividly remembered. He had been four years old, and a ship had run aground in a storm. He could not remember the location, but he could still see the men crying for help, the ship breaking into pieces, the waves gulping and gnashing, eating the thing up as a dog rips and tears at a hare or wild fowl.

  The sun hit Edward’s face, something, someone was pounding his back. He felt sick, scrabbled forward onto hands and knees and vomited up the contents of his stomach. Beyond his watering eyes, Edmund’s boots swam into view. The boy looked up at the tall, angry man, who stood with his hands on his hips.

  Aye, Alfred’s ideas always went wrong and were always blamed on Edward.

  52

  Greenwich—Evening

  Cross-legged and deep in thought, Cnut sat before the fire, poking at the glow of burning wood with a stick. He watched its end catch light and the flames lick up the shaft, then tossed it into the heat. Watched it burn.

  The men were feasting, eating and drinking their fill. There had been a special raid yesterday, taking three of the ships up the Lea River as far as the small Waltham monastery to acquire provisions. Dusk had barely settled, but already most of them were drunk. They were going home, mayhap not tomorrow, nor the next day, but soon. Very soon. When the ransom had been dealt with.

  Prodding a log with the toe of his boot, Cnut shifted to a more comfortable position. “What do you think of Thorkell?” he asked his father’s friend Erik Håkonsson, who had accompanied him from Denmark. “Will he remain loyal?”

  Erik was picking at a strand of meat caught between his teeth, alternately worrying at it with his tongue and fingernail. “Thorkell is a good leader,” he answered, noncommittal, was uncertain why Cnut should be doubting the man. Jealousy perhaps? It was possible: Swein had always held great respect and admiration for Thorkell; if the boy was trying to shine, he would have to eclipse the brighter star first.

  “That I grant,” Cnut said. “That my father grants, but will he remain a good leader?” The question had been nagging at Cnut these last few days, had grown stronger with the onrush of today’s events, and he was not going to be sidestepped from an answer. “My father,” Cnut added, selecting another, stouter stick to riddle the fire, “is concerned that Thorkell is becoming”—he paused, considered—“distracted.”

  He looked across the river at the empty marshes on the south bank that were turning dull and grey, now the day’s colour had gone. He was missing home, missing the deep blue fjords that reflected every shadow of colour. It was too flat, too empty, here in this part of England. Too lonely. “I would rather be sitting in a suitable hall on a comfortable stool, than here in this wilderness,” he confided.

  “We sit here because here has a twofold advantage,” Erik pointed out. “We cannot be attacked without foreknowledge of an army’s approach, nor can London function efficiently as a trading town. Thorkell has tied a band tight round the vein that carries the lifeblood to Æthelred’s heart.”

  “There is more of a restlessness in Thorkell than in the men. For him, it is not the longing to return home, but something else. He is like a man who knows he has forgotten something important, but cannot remember what.”

  Erik nodded in satisfaction as the meat came away. “He has not been the same since hearing of his wife’s death. It is a sorry thing for a man to lose one woman to childbirth, to lose a second…ja, well, it must be hard.”

  Cnut, a young boy with his virginity still intact, shrugged, dismissive. “Women are easily found to warm a bed at night. It cannot be that which troubles him.”

  The older man grunted in laughter as he slid another chunk of roasting lamb off the spit. He juggled it between his fingers, bit tentatively, the hot juice running down his chin. “You have a lot to learn about women, then, boy,” he said, talking with his mouth open; the meat was scalding hot on his tongue. “There is the type of woman you love for your need and the type you need because of your love. The two are not the same, and only the fortunate manage to find the second. Most of us have to make do with the first.”

  “Love? Where does love come into it? A man takes a woman for passion. A wife is for the bearing of his children, for the cooking of his meals, running of his household, and weaving his clothes.”

  Erik sorrowfully shook his head. “Ah, the innocence of youth! One day, lad, your eyes will light upon a woman, and you will never forget that glint in her eye, that toss of her head, or sway of her hips. You will dream of her, whether you are asleep or awake. She will possess your mind, and your body will be on fire for her. Nothing will ever erase the linger of her scent in your nostrils, the touch of her hand on your body, the feel of her flesh beneath your fingers.” Erik sucked the bone, tossed it aside, and reached for another portion. The raiding had been good. “When you find a woman to love, Cnut, your life changes forever.”

  Busying himself with chewing a lump of gristle from his own chunk of lamb, Cnut had an excuse not to answer. Before today he would have told Erik he was talking the ale words of drunken speech. Before today he thought of women either as suitable for possibly bedding, or did not think of them at all. That glint in her eye, that toss of her head…

  “I will have no choice of wife,” he said after a moment. “My father will want a useful alliance. My fortune will be that she does not have too many rotting teeth, foul breath, and does not carry the pox.” There was a girl he had seen last Yule, a daughter of the Prince of Kiev. One year his junior, hair that was so fair it was almost silver, a slender, willowy figure, a shy smile from bright blue eyes. He would eagerly have agreed marriage to her.

  “Æthelred must have the brain of a mule to not value the woman he has as wife.” He said it quietly, offhand, as he concentrated on pulling a strip of meat from the bone.

  “Emma of Normandy? She was a fine match, but as you say, this English
King has wasted her advantages.”

  “Thorkell said I might have had her as wife, had circumstances been different.”

  Erik chuckled. “At least she smells sweet, although I believe she can breathe fire on occasion!”

  Ah, forget her, Cnut thought to himself. She was another’s wife, a crowned Queen. She could not be his. He swilled his mouth with ale. “She reminds me, in some ways, of a Kiev Princess I once met.”

  “A daughter of the Prince of Kiev? I am no keeper of oral records, no scop, so I do not know the certainty of it but, ja, they would be similar. Their mothers are distant kindred.”

  That explained the similarity of the eyes with this English Queen then.

  “She is pretty? This Princess?” Erik asked it as a question, half hesitant, not wanting to pry.

  “Some would think so,” Cnut answered casually, then grinned. “I thought so.”

  “Then I suggest you mention her to your father. Alliance with Kiev could be a judicious move. You may have to consider a Christian commitment before any approach can be made, though. They are as much God worshippers in Kiev as they are here in England.”

  Cnut glared across at Archbishop Alfheah and Thorkell sitting beside him, deep in conversation. He would like to have believed his father’s commander was trying to persuade the old man to sanction a paid ransom. Had a gut feeling he was not.

  “That is one thing I have learnt in my short life,” he observed. “There is always a snag where women are concerned.”

  Erik, an older and wiser man, chuckled full-hearted agreement.

  The ale skins were being brought round again; both Cnut and Erik raised their tankards for refills, laughing and jesting with the serving women. Oh, they had women with them, these roving armies; no mercenary would last more than a week without the whore camp for company and comfort. Some of them had followed from Denmark, others were Anglo-Danish or Anglo-Saxon. A whore plied her trade wherever there was a living to be made, and a winter-camped army provided good pickings. Especially once the geld had been paid and distributed.