The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  “She was distraught and spreading lies,” Æthelred bellowed, having heard enough of Edmund’s diatribe. “Eadric had no part in any injustice. He saved me from those two scum when they burst in here with daggers drawn, intent on my murder.” He stormed across the room, pointed at the fouled rushes. “Here is the blood of the servant they killed to get to me! If you care to look outside, you will also see the blood of the man who stood guard. They stabbed him through the heart. How could I tolerate the lies that woman has been broadcasting about the man who saved my life?”

  “How noble of Eadric Streona to be so conveniently on hand,” Emma said, examining her nails. One on her right hand was broken; that was from riding yesterday. You could tell a lot about a person by studying their hands. A noblewoman boasted cared-for hands; women who spent much of their life cooking often showed fingers yellowed and smoke-tainted. Blood was another difficult stain to remove. Especially when congealed beneath the fingernails. Abruptly, she dropped the pretence of disinterest.

  “Streona had this planned, I know for fact. What I do not know is how much of it was your idea, Æthelred. I am sincerely hoping you can assure me, in the name of the God who anointed you as a King, that none of this was done in your name.”

  Æthelred turned away, growled at his servant to fetch him ale. “And make it the better-brewed stuff; the piss you brought me last evening was not fit for the pigs.” He busied himself with some rolls of parchment scattered across a table, said, with his back firmly to Emma and Edmund, “My life was in danger and its cause has been remedied; those who attempted murder have been hanged and their estates laid forfeit to me.”

  With a bellow of rage, Edmund pitched over a candle stand. “You wanted the land, didn’t you? Wanted to be rid of two troublemakers and make a profit into the bargain? How low can you stoop? You and Streona together, accusing the innocent of crimes and taking all they had in forfeiture.” He flung his arm out, in a gesture of contempt. “How long do you suppose Ealdormen like Uhtred will remain loyal to you once they realise what you have done?”

  Æthelred turned, a dagger in his quivering hand, its tip pointing vaguely in the area of Edmund’s midriff. “But they will not realise it, will they?”

  The tension, as taut as a tent’s guy rope, was shattered by Emma. Her hands flat on her knees, she tossed back her head and laughed. “You poor, pathetic old fool.” She rose, walked towards him, and removed the dagger as if she were taking away a toy from one of the children. “Do you seriously think you could kill Edmund? And then me? For you would have to, you know. I have no more intention of keeping this from your Lords than does your son.”

  She set her face very close to his, said into his ear, “And do not think to have Streona do your filthy work for you. If he steps within sword length of me, I shall have my cnights cut him down and feed him to the pigs with your pissed ale.” She handed the dagger to Edmund, who, staring at it a moment, threw it, with insipid distaste, into the floor rushes.

  “You have imprisoned Ealdgyth because of the estates, haven’t you, Father? By right of law, they pass to her, unless she enters a nunnery.”

  “Or unless she carries an unborn son,” Emma added. “Abbess Mildrith can be relied upon to ensure no unwanted pregnancy comes to term.”

  Edmund’s face drained pale; panic flared through him. “My God, I never thought of that! I promised Sigeferth I would take care of her, I promised!” His hands were raking his hair as he strode around the room, trying to think, trying to reason.

  Emma, experienced, trained to show an outward serenity through an inner whirl of chaos, made up his mind for him. “Then take the fastest horses from the stables and remove Ealdgyth from Malmesbury.”

  She went to the far side of the room, rummaged in her husband’s jewel casket, and handed one of Æthelred’s recognisable rings to Edmund. “Use this with wisdom. I suggest you take young Godwine with you; he will need no explanation, for I have a suspicion he has had his ear nailed to the door throughout. Before you leave, I would see you in my own chamber.”

  Edmund stood a moment, bewildered and confused.

  “Hurry, man!” Emma said impatiently, shooing him towards the door.

  He bowed to her; except for a curt, contemptuous glance, ignored his father. They heard him calling, a moment later, for his cnights and horses to be saddled.

  “I will send men after him,” Æthelred announced. “I shall order a galloper to race ahead of him. I shall…”

  “You shall do nothing, Æthelred, for if you do, I shall not guarantee my silence. If your Lords only guess at half-truths, you have a chance of survival. If they learn of facts, you will be dead before the summer. And I, for one, shall not regret your passing.”

  ***

  What she had to say to Edmund in private impressed him, but did not come wholly as a surprise. Emma spoke forthright. “I suggest, after you have secured Ealdgyth’s release, you find a priest and witnesses and take her as your legal Christian-blessed wife, then ride north. As her lawful husband, her estates become yours. With Sigeferth’s men joined with your own, you can also claim what was Morcar’s. From there, I suggest you rally the North to your own banner.”

  “Civil war, you mean?” Edmund puffed his cheeks. How often had he talked his brother out of doing exactly what Emma was proposing? From where he now stood, too often. Perhaps he ought to have let him get on with it?

  As if she had been planning this for some while and not just thought of the idea, Emma took her crown from its casket. It was a band of purest gold, two inches in height and studded along its centre with sapphires and rubies.

  “It is not in my power to give you Æthelred’s crown,” she said, holding it out to him. “That you must win for yourself, but it is in my ability to give you mine. I charge you to take it, for the good of England and the welfare of my people.”

  Puzzled, Edmund had not understood. “You are relinquishing your queenship?”

  “Of course I am not! I am asking you to take care of this kingdom, as its King clearly cannot, to protect the laws and justice of England in the name of the Æthelings, Edward and Alfred, and myself, the Queen.”

  “I could decide to sidestep you, take Father’s crown, and keep it,” he answered honestly.

  “And there would be none who could stop you. Except my sons will not always be boys, and, as I have often said to your father, you do not have the strength of Normandy to call upon to aid you. They, and I, do.”

  On every occasion she mentioned this threat, Emma said a silent prayer: Please, God, do not let my brother fail me if ever I need to ask help of him. After the weeks of purgatory in Normandy, she feared her threat was emptier than a dried well. Richard was too mean-minded to be helping anyone, but the bluff came with no one besides herself realising that the Duke of Normandy was as contemptibly useless as the King of England.

  In the courtyard, ready to leave, Edmund mounted his horse and saluted her, not a mocking gesture but one of admiring sincerity. She stood in the doorway, her cloak gripped tight by her fingers so none might see the tremble in them.

  “I will rule as King with your sons as Æthelings to come after me. Is that sufficient for you?”

  It was not, but it would have to do.

  13

  June 1015—Hlaðir, Norway

  Summers were warm in Norway; in, Hlaðir the fields were sweet, flower-strewn meadows or fertile, rich, arable land. The Jarls of Hlaðir were wealthy men, their jurisdiction lusted after by those in search of wealth-making.

  Cnut was fishing with Hakkon, Jarl Erik’s son. They were good companions, these two men, of almost the same age, give a month or two, similar build, height, wit, and temper. Hakkon was also much like his father, a warrior, who lived and breathed for the excitement of the fight. Since his fourteenth birthday, he had gone í-víking with his father, both of them serving with King Swein. Their regret: they had not been in England when he had died. Had Erik been there, Cnut would have been honoured as King, ther
e would have been none of this waiting in Norway for men. Not that they had done too badly, for the harbour bobbed with ships; Erik’s hall and the numerous taverns bulged to bursting. But it was not enough, it was still not enough!

  “You are not concentrating on this fishing, are you, Cnut?” Hakkon commented, seeing his companion’s line dip below the surface, bob a few times, then go slack. “We are supposed to be catching your supper, not sitting here feeding them theirs.”

  Startled, Cnut jerked his line, which promptly broke, and laughed apologetically. “No, I admit my mind is not here.”

  “In England with that fool of a King? Ah, you will not have long to wait, lad! We almost have the ships and the crews, and even if we do not, I hear that Æthelred is despised more than ever. He might be dead now for all we know.”

  “Ja, and he has a son capable of taking over from him.”

  “What? Edward? He is a ten-year-old!”

  Cnut laughed again, realising Hakkon was teasing him. “No, I meant the other son, Alfred,” he baited in turn.

  “Well, I suggest you stop thinking of boys and set your mind to fishing, else you are likely to go hungry to bed tonight.”

  Grinning, Cnut rethreaded a line, hook, and bait onto his pole. Confessed, “It was not of the English boys I was thinking but my own—unless he has arrived as a she.”

  Hakkon stared, content, at the gentle swell on the water, looked out at the wonder that was this coastline of Norway, drowsy beneath the summer sun. Ragnhild had been about women’s work this day. Cnut, pacing the hall, banned from the women’s chamber, had begun to grate on everyone’s nerves, hence Hakkon’s suggestion of fishing. Someone would come to the shore, attract their attention when it was suitable for them to return. Unless night came before the child, which, with a first babe, was more than possible.

  “I would not mind a daughter,” Cnut mused. “I have two sons in England, although the one I have seen was a scrawny thing. He reminded me of a newborn rat.”

  “You tread on a young rat if you find one; hardly a suitable comparison, Cnut.”

  His line sinking, Cnut began to haul it in, cursed, as with a snap this also broke, the fish darting away. “With children, how do you know which are to grow into rats or cherubs? Which ones do you stamp on with your boots?”

  “Children? Huh, looking at my cousins and the monsters that run around my father’s hall, I would say all of them are vermin! Hello? Is this someone calling our attention?” He peered across at the shore, saw a man standing, frantically waving. Hakkon pulled in his line and began to row. “We are wanted.”

  Cnut was out of the boat and plunging through the water before Hakkon had opportunity to beach it. The young man on the shore he did not recognise, but from the banner he carried, he was one of Harald’s men.

  “There is news from Denmark?” Cnut panted as he waded ashore, oblivious to the cold water on his legs. “Is there any word from Lord Erik’s hall? Has the babe come?”

  The messenger looked puzzled. “Babe, my Lord? I know nothing of a babe; I bring news direct from King Harald.”

  “My brother is well? There is nothing amiss?” Cnut was on dry land, out of breath from excitement as much as the hurrying. “Did they not ask you to bring me word of how my wife fares?”

  “No, Lord, the news I bring is of far more importance.”

  Folding his arms, Cnut frowned. The lad was not far past puberty, too young to have the birth of a child as a priority. Good-humoured, he said, “Tell me, then, what can be more important than the coming of my son?”

  “Thorkell the Tall is harboured at Roskilde. He has come to Denmark with nine ships and crew to join with you against Æthelred. Your brother sends word that he grants permission for him to do so.”

  Cnut was stunned. “Is this a jest? Thorkell? The man who turned traitor against my father?”

  “Ja, Thorkell. He has abandoned Æthelred as a man who breaks his promise and murders those of his own. He says the English King has no honour, his blood is nothing more than piss, and his given word is shit.”

  With the boat pulled above the tide line, the three men began to walk towards the complex of buildings of Jarl Erik’s homestead.

  “So what has happened to make Thorkell so suddenly change his mind?” Hakkon wanted to know.

  The messenger, finding he had to jog to keep up alongside the two older men, explained, “This is what I have been told to tell you, by the lips of Thorkell himself: ‘Now that you, my Lord Cnut, have adopted the ways of a Christian, I am willing to serve you. If you do not want me, I will understand and go in peace with my ships to seek employment elsewhere. I will no longer support a man who has ordered my brother murdered and a corps of the finest Danish soldiers butchered, on an imagined charge of treason.’”

  Appalled, Cnut slammed to a halt. “Hemming is dead?”

  “Ja, or so Thorkell says.”

  “By Thor’s Hammer,” Hakkon exclaimed, “if we care to wait long enough, Æthelred will kill off all his followers for us!”

  “Will you have him, sir?” the messenger asked, anxious that his hard journey would not be wasted. “Will you let Thorkell join you?”

  Cnut clamped his hand on the lad’s shoulder, confirmed that ja, he would. “But first I have my child to greet and my wife to kiss. Then we will celebrate! We will lift the roof and sing songs of victory.” He did not add that he had silently noted the insult his brother had tossed at him. So he gives me permission to unite with Thorkell, does he? We will see who will be giving permission in a month or two!

  Unaware of Cnut’s hidden anger, Hakkon laughed. “And make up a few songs we do not yet know, eh?”

  Another was waiting at the doorway of the Jarl’s hall. The midwife. Cnut saw her face, the tears in her eyes and all joy of feasting scuttled from his heart like a stone skidding on a surface of ice.

  The child had been born, a healthy daughter, the woman said, but the mother had begun to bleed. There was nothing to be done to save her.

  As evening fell, the evening that in these northern lands never faded beyond the purple blueness of dusk, Cnut stood alone by the shore, alone but for the tiny bundle wrapped warm in lambswool in his tight-held arms. She was beautiful, this little girl. Fair hair, wide blue eyes that stared, bemused, up into his, a rosebud mouth. She had made no cry beyond a whimper for her milk. Ragnhilda, Cnut called her. An angel from God, the image of her mother, the pride of her father.

  At the water’s edge, where only God and the sky could look upon him, Cnut stood with the child cradled in his arms, rocking her to sleep, and wept, for the both of them, their tears of grief.

  14

  October 1015—Leicester

  AEthelred was ill, and Cnut’s ships were prowling the south coast like hungry wolves waiting for the kill, but Edmund was not in a position to do anything about either. Not on his own.

  Welcomed in the Mid Lands for rescuing Ealdgyth, their marriage had soon become an ideal match, proven by the child she carried, due in late December. But the support of the seven boroughs was not enough to fight for a kingdom. King Alfred had inaugurated the building of burghs during his time to stem the incoming tide of Danes. Designed as permanent, defendable places, each had expanded into larger boroughs, taking their names from the original defended place: Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Lincoln. One day Æthelred planned to promote them into the higher status of shire, to bring him more profitable taxation. But Edmund wanted to make use of the boroughs as Alfred had intended—as military places. While he could not go south to face Cnut, he could prepare to protect the men who had declared for him after Æthelred’s wanton destruction and lust-taking of revenge against those who had not supported the King.

  In wisdom, Edmund was determined to rebuild morale. Each fyrdsman was reequipped with helmet, shield, byrnie, and weapons. The war horns were polished, the horses fed grain and newly shod. When Cnut came, Edmund would be ready for him—and he would come now that Æthelred had taken to his bed with
a bowel flux.

  All Edmund needed was to consolidate the North, but Northumbria and the boroughs would not be enough when it came to a fight. He also needed Mercia, and that meant dealing with Eadric Streona.

  In appearance Leicester was no different from any other Saxon town, the usual huddle of houses, rubbish strewn in the streets, and an overall permeating stink. Edmund had suggested he meet with Streona under the auspices of the Abbot at the abbey. He would rather slit the man’s throat and be done with it, but a King’s son who wanted to step into his father’s boots the moment they became empty could not have the luxury of personal feelings. Not unless your name was Æthelred and you had already intentionally alienated half your kingdom.

  “We must unite as friends,” Edmund began, pouring wine for Streona. “We are, after all, kinsmen; your wife is my sister.”

  The two men were alone in the Abbot’s private chamber, a quiet room that caught the last burst of evening sunlight through the window slits.

  Eadric scratched at his nose. “What is in it for me?”

  Edmund retained the congenial smile that he had set on his face. “England’s deliverance from Cnut’s raiding. A return to the justice of law. An end to crime, robbery, murder, and rape.”

  Raising his hand, Eadric stopped Edmund there. “No, lad, I said, ‘What is in it for me?’ I do not care an owl’s hoot for England. I am interested only in personal profit.”

  Angry, Edmund dropped the amiable pretence. “The tax of one penny for every three paid? The right to purchase forfeiture land at a reduction of its value; to sell men, women, and children into slavery because they cannot meet your excessive demands? Is that what you are talking about? You do not care who rules England, do you?”