The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  The manor estate of Wighill, a few miles off the Roman road that led from Tadcaster to York, was chosen as a neutral place for Uhtred’s public submission. Thurbrand the Hold brought Ælfgifu there to reunite with her Lord, and to wait for the Ealdorman and his escort of no more than forty men. An agreement that was not to Uhtred’s liking, but the defeated were not in a position to dictate demand. And how hard could it be to bend a knee to Cnut? To kiss his hand and swear an oath? No harder than when he had done so for Swein Forkbeard. Except then it had been of Uhtred’s choosing.

  The March day was sun-bright, a vivid blue sky tingled with the keenness of the frosted night that had gone before, and the promise of an early-come spring was bursting from the hedgerows, meadows, and trees. Uhtred rode at the head of his men, sitting easily, hiding the sour mixture of displeasure that galloped in his stomach. He did not want to do this thing, but neither did he want death and destruction for his people. They should not suffer because a man could not relinquish his pride.

  The manor stood on a rise of ground, safe from where the River Wharfe could touch it on those many occasions when it burst its banks. The fields were fertile, the cattle, sheep, and ponies plump. Birds were already busy about their nesting, although it was too early for the summer visitors of swallow, swift, and martin. Uhtred was not paying attention to the progress of nature, however; his stare was fixed on the nearing hall, the tents of Cnut’s men, the noise and bustle that lay ahead. He rode through the open gateway into the courtyard, had to wait for one of his own men to dismount and come to hold his horse. That ought to have been a courtesy offered by the host, a traditional welcome that was obviously not extended to a man coming to submit his King-given power.

  He was dressed in splendour, his body armour gleaming, his weapons of the finest quality. From his shoulders hung a cloak lined with marten; at his throat a torque of gold. No one would guess, in the pride of his step, the shame that hung like a stone in his stomach.

  They had to leave the weapons on the threshold, as etiquette demanded, but safe conduct had been pledged and a man’s word was his honour. Uhtred clung to that as a litany. If he murmured it often enough, he might come to believe it.

  Inside, the hall was ill-lit and smoke-fugged. Uhtred, with his men ranged nervously behind him, paused inside the doorway, their eyes blinded by the contrasting darkness of the interior to the bright sunlight outside. The talk and laughter faded to a hush as he stood there, letting his sight adjust, all heads turning in his direction. Cnut sat at the far end of the hall; at his side the woman, Ælfgifu, cold and austere.

  They have made well their difference, then, Uhtred thought. She has seen it is better for a woman with two sons born to hold her tongue if a man should choose to take another to his bed. He stepped forward, three, four, five, paces into the centre of the hall, brought his clenched right fist up, sharp, smart, to his left shoulder in salute. Cnut made no movement, no attempt to rise and greet him or bid him welcome. He swallowed his dignity. The Dane intended to make this hard, then. He lowered his head and bent his knee to the ground, his men, to soften their Lord’s humiliation, following his lead.

  They came from behind the curtaining, from down the ladder steps that led to an upper chamber, from a smaller side door. Thurbrand’s men, daggers drawn, swords gleaming, blood-bringing. It was soon over—three, four minutes? Unarmed, unprepared, trusting of the honour of a safe-given conduct, lying in pools of seeping blood, one and forty men lay dead. Cnut sat unmoving and silent. He could not be allowing Uhtred opportunity to submit and then break his oath again, as he had with his father. But had it needed to be done like this?

  Ælfgifu was laughing, clapping her hands at the success of the treachery. Thurbrand wiped his soiled blade on Uhtred’s fine, bloodied, and torn cloak, saluted Cnut, but it was Ælfgifu who acknowledged him, Ælfgifu who ran down the steps from the dais and hugged him, her kinsman. Cnut said nothing, sat in silence. He would have accepted the submission, but not Ælfgifu. She had wanted Uhtred dead. He groaned. He was sick to the stomach of death. A man’s pride was his honour, and what honour was there in cutting down unarmed men? He looked at Ælfgifu, her wide, smirking mouth, the way she was prodding at the dead, her head back, drunk with laughter and the smell of spilt blood. And suddenly Cnut realised how much he despised her.

  18

  22 April 1016—London

  It seemed no one had an option of choice that spring. It was as if the world was treading a path that lurched and twisted through dark woods, up stony hillsides, and then plunged, without pause for breath, into a bottomless ravine.

  Emma had recalled Edmund to London, with those of the Witan who remained loyal, Ulfkell of East Anglia, the Thegns and Bishops of Kent, a few from eastern Wessex. Edmund was yet to arrive. Her urgent summons had been because Æthelred was close to death, but the hushed talk in the hall centred not on him but on Uhtred.

  Treachery stank, and to foreswear an agreement of safe passage reeked the worst of all. There was not an Englishman in all of southern England who would proclaim Cnut’s honour, for he had none.

  Archbishop Wulfstan, a subdued and bewildered man, had managed to make his way by sea from York. He had been so certain that with King Swein’s death, the culmination of God’s wrath had reached its crisis and passed, yet here it all was, swelling larger than ever before, blood and battle, killing and dishonourable slaying. He was on the verge of wanting God to end it all, to send his fireballs, his plagues and floods. What more could a mortal do to appease Him? He sat silent in a corner of the hall, nursing his thoughts, only half listening to the outrage over Uhtred’s shameful killing, finding himself wondering whether it was the death of Æthelred that God was wanting and waiting for. By the rattle of breath in his throat and the yellow colour to his skin, that was not far off.

  A hand touched his shoulder, making him start. He leapt to his feet. Emma.

  “I bid you to come, Archbishop; my husband is lucid, and he would have you hear his confession.”

  Wulfstan gathered his Bible and his thoughts. She was drawn and pale, had not slept for many nights now, having refused to move from Æthelred’s side. For the sake of her son she could not.

  “Edmund will not harm either of your sons,” Wulfstan said as he walked with her. “He is not Cnut.”

  Emma sighed; she was tired to the bone. “At my marriage it was agreed and contracted that any male child of the union must take precedence over any already born; you know this, you were the one to draw the contract. But what good are agreements written on parchment when my eldest son is no more than eleven years old and there is another born before him more than twice that age?”

  They were at the chamber door. Emma halted, let the Archbishop enter alone. All she wanted, all these years, was to be rid of Æthelred, yet now when all he had to do was to die, she was frightened at the dreadful nearness of being abandoned as a widow.

  ***

  The door opened, rustling the heavy covering of deer hide, the draught toying with the candle flames, sending them leaping and skittering. Emma looked up as Edmund entered. He put his finger to his lips to silence her from saying anything and moved to the bed, stood, staring down at the limp, gaunt frame of the man who was his father. His boots were muddied, his chin beard-stubbled, and he stank of his own and his horse’s sweat. He still wore his cloak, in his hand his gloves.

  “To think I have been afraid of him all these years,” he said at last in a respectful whisper. “He never loved me, yet I so wanted to love and respect him. I wanted the people to cheer him and bless his name, for England to fall on its knees and weep when this moment came.” He reached forward, took the claw that was his father’s bone-thin hand. “We rarely have what we want, do we?”

  Emma said, “He was proud of you, of you and Athelstan.”

  “Was he? A pity he never made mention of it to us.” Edmund sat on the edge of the bed, holding those thin fingers between his own, the weariness as pronounced on his face as it
was on Emma’s, for he had ridden without stopping from Huntingdon. “Even as a boy I could see he had no authority of kingship, that he had no talent for knowing the right thing to do and when to do it.” Edmund gently laid the withered hand down on the bed furs. “Can he hear us?”

  Emma shook her head. “We think not. His soul has already departed. It is the shell of his body that has yet to pass over to God.”

  “You know the stupid thing?” Edmund said, gazing directly at her. “I have done all I can to be my own man, yet here I am, sitting in this wretched place, dancing to the tune that Cnut is piping.” He laughed. “I suppose that is what it is to be royal-born. You forfeit all right to a say in what to do with your life.”

  “No peasant farmer, slave, or woman would allow you that single privilege,” she answered derisively.

  She was right, of course; this nonsense was the melancholy within him speaking.

  The physician entered, peered at Æthelred, inspecting his eyes, smelling his breath, and feeling for the faint, erratic life-beat that fluttered in his ragged, loose-skinned neck. He shook his head, left the chamber, saying he would return shortly.

  “They are to elect me King,” Edmund said suddenly into the silence, said it louder than he had intended. “I am sorry it cannot be your son, but how can he fight against Cnut?”

  Emma shrugged, unable to answer.

  He walked around the room, laid his gloves down, took off his cloak. Said in a rush, “I admire you; as a Queen you have more than proved your worth to England. As King I will return the crown you once lent me and will honour your position as dowager Queen. You may retain Winchester and Exeter as your own.”

  Her hand was on her throat, the words stuck there. Managed to stammer, “And my sons? What of them?”

  “They will have no fear of me. I cannot guarantee either of them a crown, but they will have their life and freedom. When the time comes, it will be for the Witan to decide which among your sons, or mine, is to follow me. I can say no fairer.”

  Ah, yes, Edmund’s son, Ædward, the child that the widow of Sigeferth had borne. There was another child on the way, too, so Emma had heard. Strange how she had not bred for Sigeferth but was ripe for Edmund. But then Sigeferth would not have been the first man to possess a blunted spear.

  “You are certain Ædward is your child? Not from the seed of Sigeferth? It is a question I shall ensure any Witan must ask, even from beyond my grave.”

  Edmund frowned a candid half-smile; it was not a question she should be asking, for it insulted his honour and integrity and that of his wife, but in her position he would have asked the same. “She bled her monthly course during the moon-month we shared the honey cup. He was born more than ten months after Sigeferth’s death.”

  Graciously, Emma accepted the explanation.

  Uncertain what else to say, Edward touched things, picking them up, looking at them, setting them down again without seeing what it was he held. A Bible, a glass bottle containing some unguent or other. A jewelled cloak pin.

  Emma glanced at the hour candle that had burnt down through the marks indented in the wax. “It is tomorrow,” she said wearily. “Midnight has passed; it is the twenty-third day of April.”

  “At the Cathedral of Saint Paul they will crown me as soon as they entomb my father before the altar, as is the way when danger threatens. The one King stepping into the footprints of the other.”

  “And then what will you do, Edmund?” It was not a challenge. Now that she had his assurance that she was to keep her crown, she would be content to support him. At least until Edward reached maturity.

  “Do? I shall take what men will rally to me and go out to meet Cnut. With every breath that remains in my body, I will attempt to kill him for the destruction he has cursed upon my country, and for the way he slaughtered my friend and kinsman, Uhtred.”

  “Then as the anointed Queen,” Emma answered, ensuring for all his fine words that he understood she would not be giving up her God-blessed right, “I shall issue my own order that any man who serves me is to take up his weapons and follow you in my name.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. The fear had gone, the impatience returned. “For the good of England, all we need do now is to wait for your father to hurry and go to God.”

  Edmund nodded, grateful. She could so easily try for Edward to become King, as his grandmother had ensured for her son. Thank God Emma had more sense!

  The third hour of the morning. The candle had burnt almost to its end. Emma peered at it through red-rimmed, tired eyes; she had been dozing, her head resting on her arms cushioned on the bed. She sat up, stretching the ache from her stiffened shoulders. The priest was asleep in his chair, his head tipped back, mouth open, snoring. There was no one else; Edmund had gone, probably to wait within the hall.

  She could hear nothing, no sound. With a muted gasp she leant forward, her fingers going to the life-beat beneath Æthelred’s jaw, put her ear to his mouth, felt the faint warmth of his breath and his bloody-minded determination to cling to life. Why did he not let go, leave all the mess he had made of everything for others with more guts than he to sort out and put right?

  Her fingers were on his neck, a scrawny, wasted little neck that was no wider or stronger than a chicken’s throat. She remembered his hands around her own neck that time, long ago now, the fear and the choking pain as he had squeezed his fingers on her windpipe. Recalled the hatred that had been in his eyes. It would take so little to press there, below the lump of his Adam’s apple. So very little to finish it…

  The hour candle guttered out with a spluttered fizz as the flame fell into the puddle of molten wax; the priest awoke with a jerked start, momentarily confused. For more than ten years he had served as Æthelred’s chaplain, was one of his devoted friends, one of the few who never queried or blamed his many inadequacies. Emma was stroking the lank white hair from Æthelred’s face.

  “You had best summon in the Ealdormen,” she said. “And King Edmund. Æthelred is with God.”

  Or with the devil. She did not much care which.

  19

  May 1016—London

  A long-drawn, tiring, and bloody summer loomed ahead. If this was what it took to be a proper King, then was it any wonder Æthelred had shirked his duty?

  Edmund had been torn over deciding how best to start a defensive attack against Cnut, with his decision, finally, reaching an obvious conclusion. He had to win back those Lords who had deserted his father for Cnut. That meant a campaign in Wessex, for he had no intention of going begging to Eadric Streona. He had not been certain of Emma’s suggestion that he take the two boys, Edward and Alfred, with him, not wanting to be tied down by children, but as she had said, they were eleven and ten years of age respectively, they were the Æthelings, and they ought to learn about fighting and kingship. There were extra advantages also. Any Ealdorman or Thegn who disputed Edmund’s right to the crown, through his mother not being a Queen, could not use the same excuse against Edward. Although Edmund was well aware of another motive—that of Emma ensuring Edward was seen in case anything happened to his elder half-brother. The only risk in the strategy, once Edmund had ridden southwest: Cnut was left free to harry where he wanted.

  He chose London.

  During the second week of May, Cnut’s ships took possession of Greenwich and, soon after, moved upriver to anchor at Bermondsey, where he was barred from further progress by London Bridge.

  “Lady?” Leofstan Shortfist, who had remained loyal to Emma throughout the years, respectfully coughed to draw her attention. She had given orders that she was not to be disturbed from her prayers, but this was urgent. She finished, crossed herself, and turned her head, her eyes and expression querying the intrusion.

  “They are digging a channel around the southern end of the bridge, ma’am. The brothels and bothies of Southwark they burnt yesterday evening, as you know. We assume Cnut is determined to control the Thames. He cannot pass under the bridge, so he intends to take
his ships around it.”

  With a suppressed wince, Emma pushed herself upright; her knees ached often these days, although she was only seven and twenty years old. A hazard of kneeling too long and too often on the cold stone of a chapel floor.

  “Take me there,” she commanded. “I would see for myself.” Not that she doubted Leofstan’s words—he was a good soldier, quick-witted and intelligent—but she needed to think, to plan. If Cnut decided to set a prolonged siege on London, and if London then fell…She steadied her nerve; whatever happened, she would not leave England. But her sons were a different matter; if Cnut got hold of them, they would be killed. Another reason for their being out of Danish reach with Edmund.

  Edmund’s own son and his again-pregnant wife were also made safe, not that Emma concerned herself with them. They had gone north under the personal protection of Wulfstan, who had promised to find them suitable lodging.

  “How long will it take him to complete this work?” she asked, looking out as Cnut’s men laboured to dig a curving channel from riverbank to riverbank, in a wide arc around the end of London Bridge, a discreet distance beyond arrow range. The Ealdorman of London, standing with her, forlorn and filled with misgivings, could only shrug and woefully shake his head. No one knew. A feat of engineering such as what Cnut was attempting had never been tried before.

  “What will he do once it is finished?” Emma mused aloud.

  “Drag his ships through. He will then have access to all the upper reaches of the Thames.” The Ealdorman’s answer came in a patronising tone, as if Emma were only a woman, not a Queen.

  “I have managed to work that out for myself.” When would these fools learn that she had as much intellect as they? Probably more, in some cases! The answer was obvious: he would ensure London submitted.