With the thaw coming, the snow in the encampment had turned to a muddy slush that had splashed up his boots and smeared the hem of his tunic and cloak. His beard needed trimming, too; he felt as ragged as a blind beggar. He half turned, intending to go to his tent to tidy himself, shrugged. If someone wanted to speak with him, they could speak as easily with him dirty as clean.
“I will come,” he said, feeling churlish for his lack of enthusiasm. If London was seeking to discuss terms, then it was all over—he had won, he had his crown. Was that the rub, though? Any man could set a crown on his head and call himself King, but a real King, a true King, was one loved and cheered by his people, who was mourned with genuine grief after he had gone. How was it achieved? Edmund had managed it; in a few short months most of England had turned to him with respect, admiration, and affection. How was he, Cnut, to do the same thing?
The west gate opened and two people emerged. A man and, to Cnut’s sudden interest, a woman. The man he recognised instantly, Godwine Wulfnothsson, who had been hostage at the treaty of Alney Island. The woman? Cnut swore at the stupidity of not tidying himself—damn and all Hell, it was Emma, the Queen!
He rubbed the palms of his hands on his backside before they reached him, masked his embarrassment by bowing a slow nod of his head as she stopped and stood before him. Emma remained spear-shaft straight, not condescending to acknowledge his rank; he supposed she deserved the authority. On the other side of the shield, it was damned annoying to be snubbed by a woman. Even if she did wear jewels and a crown.
“Lady, you honour me. I was not expecting one of such beauty to beg my solicitude.”
Emma took a deep, steadying breath; this was it, then, the gamble that could save England but ruin what was left of her life. She would have given anything at this moment for a gulp at a strong brew of barley beer. She was shaking, hoped Cnut was unaware of it. She exhaled slowly, tipped her head a little higher. She was a Queen, Queen of England, and by God, this pip of a boy was not going to take that away from her!
“I have come, sir, to beg nothing. And senseless flattery does not become your rank or position.”
Cnut raised his eyebrows. So her tongue was as spiked as ever.
He smiled insolently. “Have you come to beguile me instead, then? To seduce me perhaps?” A crowd of his men, interested in the exchange, had gathered around; they laughed.
“I’d wager you’re up for that, sir!” someone shouted lewdly.
Godwine coloured at the insult, his hand going to where his dagger would be had he been permitted to carry it.
Emma ignored them. “What I intend to say is between my lips and your ears only,” she remarked, “It is not for the low-life entertainment of your slug-slimed, illiterate barbarians.”
Cnut shrugged, raised his hands in defeat, grinned as he said to his men, “It seems the Lady does not appreciate your sense of humour. I will have to instruct her on our charm and wit by myself.” The laughter increased. Cnut gestured for her to precede him to his tent.
With the dour-faced Godwine remaining outside, she ducked beneath the opening, waited for the Dane to chivvy out his ear-wagging servant then fetch her a stool. He poured her a pewter tankard of watered ale.
“Would you care for something to eat?” Cnut asked, noticing she was thin but did not look starved or hungry.
“I thank you, but I have eaten.” A broth with more water than vegetables, but that she was not going to divulge. “I will say what I have come to say without the preliminary niceties of formality, sir. Conquest by force and tyranny is never satisfactory; even the red-crested legions of Rome could not rest easy when there were those who resented their presence.”
Cnut said nothing, sipped his ale. He had heard of the Romans and their empire from his childhood tutors but had never taken heed of the tedious and long-buried history. Fighting and the tactics of warfare had been his interest.
Her nerve strengthening, Emma smiled to herself. Ah, he was not as well read or educated as she. Good, that was useful to know. “I take it you can read?” she queried, being deliberately insolent.
If anyone else had so insulted him, Cnut might well have had them hanged, but somehow he could not take offence at Emma’s blunt rudeness. “We can exchange debate on some great work of authority if you wish,” he answered flippantly, desperately hoping she would not take him at his word. “I did not bring my books with me to besiege your capital city, but I know a few of them well enough.” He rubbed his chin, fingering the curls of his blond beard as if thinking.
He could read, but he rarely did so for pleasure—where did he find spare moments to sit still and read? He plucked a title from memory, something he and his brother had studied as children. “Bede’s Ecclesiastical History I found fascinating.”
“Gregory’s Consolations of Philosophy was always my favourite,” Emma countered.
Cnut had never heard of it. “It was interesting, but I have read more that were, what shall I say, unbiased?”
He was an accomplished liar, if nothing else. “It was Boethius who wrote the Philosophy, not Gregory.”
“Ah, well,” Cnut answered, unembarrassed, “I never was one for remembering names, especially those of boring old farts who had nothing more interesting to do with their life than grind ink stains into their fingers.”
Emma laughed.
Resting his hands on his thighs, Cnut regarded the woman sitting opposite him. He would not describe her as beautiful, not even pretty. There were lines beside her eyes, her mouth was too thin, her nose too straight. How old was she? Not far from her thirtieth year? She had been three and ten when she had come to England to marry Æthelred, when was that? He could not calculate it in his head. Did it matter?
Ragnhild had been beautiful, and Ælfgifu was irresistible, her lust for sport in bed overriding her plain features. Did she, he suddenly wondered, sleep with other men? Cnut doubted she would be so stupid.
What of Emma? Emma would never cheat on a husband, because she was a Queen and because she did not need to be beautiful or alluring. There was something more to her, more important than the surface layer that everyone saw. She was regal, stately, every inch of her shouted royal pride. Ælfgifu was uncouth, with no subtlety or gift for political astuteness. Beside Emma, she was an embarrassment. Ja, Cnut could admire a woman like Emma.
“So are we to debate history?” he questioned.
In turn, Emma had been studying Cnut. He had matured since they had first met; his face had filled out, his shoulders broadened. He carried more confidence as an adult, more self-assurance. He was one and twenty years of age, she six years his senior—what was she doing here? He had shown himself to be cruel and ruthless, to act on the impulse of the blood heat, not the cool calculation of sense. More than once he had proven that his word was not binding and that he could not be trusted. But then had Æthelred been any different? How many promises had he made and broken? Cnut had shown himself to be without conscience against those who crossed him—but was that a bad thing for a King?
All morning, Godwine had blustered, “What in God’s name are you thinking of? Have you lost your sense?”
She had made no answer to his protestations; where, for a Queen, did sense end and survival begin?
“I have not come to discuss history, but your place in it.” She inhaled, forced her mind to ignore the wild pounding skittering inside her chest and churning her stomach. “You will not last as a King of England, because you are no Englishman. Sooner or later some Ealdorman or ambitious Thegn will take it upon himself to be rid of you, and the English shall be so busy rejoicing they will fail to notice they have crowned yet another fool who does not know how to govern with wisdom and authority.”
“So you are telling me I may as well take my ship and sail away now, for I have no future here?”
“If I were to suggest such naivety, would you comply with it?”
Cnut shook his head.
“You know nothing of England,” Emma
continued. “You do not know our traditions or customs. Despite reading Bede, you have no knowledge of our ways or our laws.”
“I confess you confuse me. You speak as if you are English. My education must have been sorely lacking somewhere, for I was led to believe you are Norman-born?”
“I forfeited my identity as a Norman when I pledged my vows to take care of the English peoples as their Queen. I would not compromise that vow by serving one while being obliged to the other. If you are ever to be accepted, and loved, as a King of the English, then you will have to become more English than the people you rule. As I have.”
The hairs at the nape of Cnut’s neck tingled. How had she known this had been precisely what he had been thinking these past days?
“The English,” she continued, unaware of his inner discomfort, “have been demoralised by thirty years of war and by a King who did not deserve the authority placed upon him. Æthelred did not take his responsibilities to God and England seriously.” Her ale finished, Emma set the tankard down on the floor beside her feet. She looked up, held Cnut’s stare with an intensity he found unnerving. She added sincerely, “But I do.”
Standing, Cnut strolled to the table, refilled his own tankard, offered her more. She refused. “Are you trying to tell me, in some subtle way, that I will not make a good King?”
“Do you think you will?” she countered.
Cnut faced her, eye to eye, his expression as intense as hers had been a moment ago. “Ja, I do! I do not want to be some mere blood-axe warrior who rules because he is the strongest man to wield a sword. I do not want to have my name scratched from the English Chronicle in a few months to come because I am already dead and forgotten.”
Laughing scornfully, Emma remarked, “You think you are important enough to be written into our church-kept records? I think not, sir, unless it is as a passing mention for an entry in my son’s name.” She paused, composing in her mind: “And Edward did come with a fleet of ships, and with him came his brother Alfred and his mother’s brother, Richard, and together they did drive the usurper from the land.” She smiled to herself; she liked the sound of that; she would have it written in the London Annal, if ever, eventually—by some God-sent miracle—it happened that way.
Frustrated, because he knew she was right, Cnut hurled his tankard across the tent, sending it clattering against the ridge pole. A stir at the door, two anxious faces peering in, Godwine’s and the Danish guard.
“All is well.” Cnut snapped irritably, waving them away. “I stumbled, all is well.” He squatted beside the brazier, fingers locking and interlocking, the bones of his knuckles cracking.
Emma sat straight, dignified. “I do not wish to see England torn into any more shreds. I do not wish to lie awake at night wondering whether, on the morrow, I shall lose my crown. You want to become a King, and I want to retain my position as Queen. It seems, to my mind, we are in need of one another.”
Snapping his head up, Cnut stared at her. “I do not follow you?”
“England will not accept you unless the English are persuaded you were sent by God, and you must ensure peace and prosperity throughout this land. I have the power to destroy any promise of peace by sending Normandy against you. My brother is vassal to the French King; where my brother requires aid, it is the duty of France to grant it. Where France requires aid, it is the duty of the Holy Roman Emperor to grant it.” She smiled silkily. “And where he requires aid, it is the duty of the Pope to grant it.” The same old repeated lie. At least it sounded convincing.
Cnut was astounded. How had she done it? How had she managed so easily to reduce all his confidence into nothing but dust? Gods, but if this woman were at the head of an army…!
“Or,” she added slowly, persuasive, “I could ensure Normandy never has cause to set foot on English soil, that France and the Holy Roman Emperor never wage war on you and that the Pope, far from excommunicating you from God’s truth, shall welcome you as a beloved brother.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. If her spies had been wrong in this, and if her intuition played her false…
Cnut spread his hands, incredulous. “And how do you think you could manage all that?”
She answered simply with four words that totally and utterly stunned him.
“By becoming your wife.”
2
March 1017—Thorney Island
The palace at Thorney was full to bursting, and London, downriver, was no better, with every tavern, boarding-house, and spare bed taken. Even most of the common land, which was not flooded by the spring high tides, was dotted with tents and makeshift bothies. Everyone in the world, or so it seemed, had made their way to London for Cnut’s coronation, everyone from Earl to pick-purse thief.
Erik of Hlaðir had been well pleased with the reward of Northumbria as an earldom; he had arrived only yesterday. He paused before the door to Cnut’s chamber and rubbed his hands together nervously. Cnut should be awake now; a servant had emerged five minutes ago with the night pot. He gathered his courage, knocked quickly, and marched in.
Cnut was sitting sprawled in bed, finishing the remains of a break-fast meal. “Erik!” he called enthusiastically, waving at the man to come in. “Well come, my friend! How are all my nobles this fine morning? Still grumbling that their lodgings have more fleas than a mangy street dog?” Brushing spilt crumbs from his beard, Cnut pointed to a side table. “Fetch a tankard; there is plenty of ale here to be finished. I do not know what they complain about; I am no better off. I mean, look at this place.” He gestured at the room. “Call this a King’s chamber? The walls are damp; the smoke hole is blocked; you cannot see the embroidery on those wall hangings for the grime that covers them. I have no wonder Lady Emma finds Thorney undesirable. I shall rebuild it, I think.”
“She is more comfortable in her lodgings in the city, I understand?” Erik asked, declining the ale and seating himself on the bench beside the table.
“More appropriate. Until that wretched brother of hers deigns to reply to my messengers seeking his permission to wed her, we must observe formalities, or so Archbishop Wulfstan regularly reminds me.”
“There is no news from Normandy, then?” he asked.
Cnut thumped an extra pillow in place behind his back. He had already decided this was to be a lazy day. Tomorrow he would be crowned King, and after that there would be no opportunity for lying abed, with or without a female companion. “Nothing.” He leant forward eagerly. “I could not believe my luck, Erik, when Emma came right out with her proposition—and there I had been, the previous few weeks, trying to think of a way to wed her without her ripping my balls off with her bare hands!”
“Some would find that most pleasurable!”
They laughed together, friends and kindred, but soon sobering, Cnut added, “Whether I can convince Duke Richard to accept my proposal is another matter.”
“He may decide it would be more worth his while to put Edward on the throne and rule as regent.”
Cnut shook his head. “ Richard likes to keep his treasure chests full. He will not pay for a war. Aside, my proposal of marriage to his sister included a financial offer he will find difficult to turn down.”
“And Edward and Alfred? What is to become of them?”
“If Emma gives me a son—and I remind you I already have two—there will be no need to bother with them. Why swat a fly that is not buzzing about your head?” Cnut lay back, brought his arms up behind his head. “It all seems so simple, Erik. What gaping hole have I missed that I am about to fall unwittingly into?”
Erik fell silent, suddenly interested in a broken fingernail. He had unwelcome news to impart.
“What is wrong? I could read the wrath of doom on your face the moment you came through the door. Tomorrow is my coronation; I was looking forward to it, but that frown tells me my expectations may not be rewarded. Has Saint Paul’s burnt down during the night? Has the good Archbishop of Canterbury received some dreadful blow to the head and
cannot remember the order of service?” Cnut chuckled. “I promise you, whatever is the black news you come so early in the day to tell me, I shall receive it in good humour.”
“I doubt it.”
“Try me.”
Erik took a breath and spoke very fast, as if saying it quicker would make it sound not so bad. “Your wife has come from Northampton—Ælfgifu, with those two sons you just now spoke of. Their ship moored half an hour ago.”
Silence. A long, uneasy silence.
“I did not invite her.”
“No, my Lord.”
Heedless of his nakedness Cnut shot from the bed. “What fool allowed her out of Northampton? Who gave permission for her to take ship?”
“I believe she came with Thegn Thurbrand’s fleet.”
Cnut snatched a bed fur and draped it about himself. “Thurbrand? I might have guessed.”
Ælfgifu had been growing closer to that man these last few years. How close? If anyone had been sharing her bed, it would be he. The man had too much ambition for his own good and was not particular about how he achieved it. Neither was she.
“Where is she?”
“King’s hall.”
“Shit.” Repeated, with feeling, “Shit, shite, shit!” Cnut began to pace the chamber, pausing every few strides as if he were about to say something but, changing his mind, strode on. Jerked to a halt in front of Erik. “What do I do?”
Spreading his hands, Erik shook his head. He had no idea.
Cnut poured himself ale, drank half the tankard straight down, wiped the residue from his lips. “One answer from two choices, Erik. She must be silenced and distanced. For that, I either kill her or”—he ran his hands through his hair, the fur he was clutching to his body slipping to the floor—“or woo her.”
With his hand, Erik indicated if he might help himself to ale. “I do not advocate killing her. I govern the North for you, but it is a difficult governing. If you do away with Ælfgifu, even through an arranged accident, her kindred could rise against you. They are a close-woven lot and are as untrustworthy as a wounded boar.”
The Forever Queen Page 40
