The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  She swallowed hard, bit down the scream as her hand missed a hold and rocks crumbled. The story of the Green Man swam into her mind. If only he had called on God…Her tune changed to a holy one.

  First He created Heaven as a roof.

  The holy Maker, for the sons of man…

  Grasping at a grass tussock, she paused, steadied her breathing, dared a glance downwards, regretted it. She had climbed fifteen feet, too far to fall. Harthacnut had ceased his crying, was silent. She smiled at him.

  “Well, my sweeting, this is a fine way to journey, is it not?” Her legs were shaking, her arms aching. She climbed on, feeling carefully with her fingers, touching with her toes, ignored the sweat as it trickled down her back and between her breasts, the abrasive sores on her hands and feet that were already scraped raw.

  “Almighty God and everlasting Lord…Why in damned Hell did you have to create the sea and these bloody cliffs?” The words tore from her as she shoved loose rock from a crevice. There had been no wind on the beach, but up here a salt breeze was blowing in off the sea. She risked another look down. The first waves were lapping at the base of the cliff, the tide almost fully in. As far to go upwards now as it was to go down.

  In a bird-dropping-filled crack, her fingers moved a stone, cold and hard. She made to toss it aside, noticed its coiled shape. She had seen these at Whitby, lying on the beach or embedded in the rocks, some small, as tiny as a thumbnail, others as large as a cartwheel. Sea snakes, they called them, Saint Hilda’s serpents, for her command had petrified the evil creatures and turned them all to stone. There were other shapes in the rock, solidified bones, the imprints of shells and fronds that looked like bracken. Shapes that to a mind already filled with fear added more dread.

  “Will we be turned to stone, eh, my dumpling?” Emma said to the child through ragged, uneven breath. “If we cling here long enough, will someone one day find our bones squashed into this rock face?”

  A clump of samphire fell from above, hitting her shoulder. She looked up, distant faces, small against the sky, were peering down at her: Elfric in his red tunic; his aunt, Leofgifu, her veil askew, tears streaming; Leofstan, her captain, white-faced and at a loss for what to do. If they were calling to her, she could not hear for the singing of the wind. Above, in the blue sky she noticed two black ravens lazily circling.

  “Odin’s birds,” Emma explained to Harthacnut as she hauled herself another four agonising yards. “His two messengers were ravens, Hugin and Munin, Thought and Memory.” Another yard, slightly to the left to avoid a solid outcrop that yielded no handhold.

  “The birds of the battlefield.” Wished she had not considered that aspect. Were they hovering, waiting for her to fall, waiting to pick her bones?

  Blood was oozing from the cuts and grazes on her fingers and palms, the fingers themselves swollen, too stiff to move, often locking, refusing to bend. Her feet, too, although she could only feel, not see, were as badly mauled. She was tiring. Should she stop, rest? She set her forehead against the rock, closed her eyes; her legs felt like lead, shook like the jelly-ooze of bone marrow, her arms a dead weight. Just let go…Harthacnut whimpered again; it felt as if she had slung a millstone weight around her neck. Best to keep going, find the strength, the energy. Keep going!

  Easing slowly, right hand, left. Left foot, right.

  From above they were trying to lower a rope made from joined reins, stirrup leathers, and harnesses. It would not be long enough! Nothing would be long enough! Her foot crunched into something, an abandoned nest, cracking open the eggs, the pungent sulphur smell wafting into her nose, gagging in her throat. On. Climb! Climb!

  Then the sling ripped. Emma heard it, the tear as the weakened material gave way. Felt the weight suddenly ease from her neck as Harthacnut began to slide down her chest and stomach, what was left of her tunic fluttering away from her legs, sailing lazily, turning and twisting in the breeze. She did not have the breath to scream, but her heart lurched, the sickness rising from her stomach and her head spinning dizzily. Every fibre of her body was trembling as she pressed inwards to stop the baby from falling, held him tight between the cliff face and her abdomen. What to do? Oh, good God’s mercy, what to do? Think! Steady the rattling breath; breathe in; slow the frightened heart-rush of heat.

  Carefully, she let go her clinging hold with her right hand, gripping tighter to a jutting rock with her left. She shifted her weight from left foot to right, lowered her hand, feeling for the child—she dared not look down, for the swirl of dizziness would come again and she would fall. Felt his curl of fine hair, his cheek, his neck, dug her fingers—those cramped, sore, swollen fingers—into the swaddling linen. Slowly, slowly dragged him up her body, ignoring his rising wails of protest, hoping the cries were nothing more than fretful indignation and soiled swaddling. She had him at her breast, his head at her left shoulder; tears would come if only she had the spare energy to shed them. She nestled her cheek against his hair, her breath catching in her throat, dared not let go of that clamped hold on him, though the pain in her hand was shrieking as if the muscles and sinews were afire.

  She closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. What to do now? She needed her hand free to climb…pushed him higher so that he lay across her shoulder and fastened her teeth into the folds of the linen, praying that the wet nurse had swaddled him tight, that the encircling binding would hold. Emma climbed.

  Breathing was hard now, for she had only her nose, not her mouth. Her jaws were aching, the muscles locked in spasm. Sweat dribbled into her eyes; her hands were clammy, wet, sticky. But she would not stop or give in. Would not listen to the voice that shouted and screamed at her to let go. Give up.

  Inch by inch she hauled herself up the cliff face. Inch by slow, pain-racked, agonising, stubborn-minded inch.

  And hands were on her shoulders, twining into her hair, grabbing her arms, the baby; dragging her over the edge, rolling her onto the flower-speckled sweet grass, the wind hitting her sweating face, her sodden clothing. Her body trembling uncontrollably, the blood pounding through the taught, clamped fingers, the aching shoulders. They were crying together, laughing, jubilant—afraid. Unbelieving that she had done it, had climbed those cliffs with a babe carried in her teeth.

  18

  18 October 1020—Ashingdon

  Cnut finished his prayer, crossed himself, then turned and smiled radiantly at Emma. The consecration of his church built at Ashingdon to commemorate the dead had been a moving service, one he could boast of for many years to come.

  Emma smiled up at her husband as he helped her from her knees; the dedication prayers had been long, and her joints were always stiff since that nightmare climb. She still shuddered when she thought of it, breaking out in a sweat, feeling her stomach lurch, her muscles lock in remembered fear. When she dwelt on what could have happened…She stood, her hand clasped firmly in Cnut’s. No good would come of the might-have-beens; nightmares were for children, who did not face the reality of the day. What could have been had not happened; she was here, alive and well, except for the occasional creak of the knees and knuckles.

  She turned her dazzling smile to Archbishop Wulfstan. By right, the dedication should have been made by old Ælfstan of Canterbury, but he had gone to God on the twelfth day of June, and his replacement Archbishop had not yet been appointed.

  They walked from the church, out into the sublight, acknowledging the cheers of the gathered crowd.

  “I understand you have received a letter from his Holiness, Pope Benedict?” Wulfstan remarked.

  “You are remarkably informed!” Cnut retorted with raised eyebrows.

  Wulfstan inclined his head, offered a slight smile. “I confess, he wrote to me also, praising your foresight.”

  Cnut grinned. “In other words, Archbishop, my programme of building churches and defence towers meets with Rome’s approval?”

  “There are some who doubt the necessity of a watchtower at Hadstock,”
Godwine, at Cnut’s shoulder, interceded, “though I admit it will oversee the Granta River.”

  “Believe me, Godwine, the Granta is a strategic waterway that needs watching; we made use of it, did we not, Thorkell?”

  “Ja, there are dead among the ash trees of Hadstock. It is good to lay souls to rest by the building of churches, and buying the Pope’s approval will always bring benefit. Whether God can be so easily appeased is another question.” Thorkell’s sardonic words caused everyone to turn, to stare at the Earl of East Anglia as if he had sprouted a devil’s horns and tail.

  “By which, you mean?” Cnut’s brows furrowed.

  “Merely that sin must be paid for, one way or another.”

  The young priest of Ashingdon, Stigand, a quick-witted, intelligent man who had ambition more far-reaching than some back-of-beyond church, was the first to think of something tactful to say to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Penance for sin must always be paid. The greater the sin, the greater the atonement.”

  “If I read my Earl’s attempt at subtlety correctly,” Cnut answered, scowling at Thorkell, “he asks how many churches must be founded to ensure God’s forgiveness.”

  “That would depend on the depth of the sin, would it not?” Thorkell bounced back at him, unperturbed by the penetrating glare of his blue eyes, satisfied that he had correctly interpreted his ambiguous meaning.

  Animosity had been rough-edged between the two men for several months now, almost as many months as the tongue-wagging, critical gossip against the King and Queen that had been systematically whispered through the trading towns and market centres of the southeast.

  “I remind you, Thorkell,” Cnut snapped, losing patience, “contrary to speculation, it was not me who tossed meat bones at Archbishop Alfheah. Nor, as the gossip seems to imply, was I in command of the men who did. You were. Poor command, as it turned out—perhaps the one who began this recent spate of tongue-tattling ought think of that?”

  “But you were there,” Thorkell insisted very quietly. “You watched and did nothing to stop it.”

  That, Cnut could not deny.

  Guests invited to the dedication were many. Cnut’s council, his Earls, Thegns, commanders of his housecarls, men of the Church hierarchy, Bishops, and Abbots. His wife, his family. Men and women who wondered at Thorkell’s outspokenness. One woman, however, stood at the chancel steps with her head high. The woman Cnut guessed to be behind the initiation of the tale-telling.

  Cnut had been reluctant to invite her to the ceremony, but it would have been unwise to ignore her. Her sisters, Algiva and Edgyth, had been more accommodating women, for when their husbands were dead, they had taken themselves off into a nunnery. Granted, their circumstances were different; their husbands had been traitors who had paid the price of going against their King. Ulfkell, on the other hand, had been an acclaimed warrior. Why should his widow, King Edmund Ironside’s beloved sister, hide herself beneath the dark habit of a recluse? Wulfhilde had no intention of doing so. Nor had she the inclination to allow the stirred dust of the past to settle and lie undisturbed. Cnut, as far as she was concerned, was a usurping tyrant who had stolen her brother’s throne. A throne she wanted for the son she had borne to Ealdorman Ulfkell eight months after his death. Æthelred’s grandson.

  Cnut’s lips thinned. Wulfhilde. This was not the place, nor the occasion, to rant against her. He decided to ignore her cold stare and her seeping hatred. Said simply, “It is a frailty of man to make mistakes, Thorkell. I am not God. I have done things that were wrong, things that perhaps condemn me in His sight, but I can do no more than I am already doing to set right those wrongs. The rest is not for you to judge, but for me and God to settle when I eventually stand in His presence.”

  “Come!” Emma declared, trying to relieve the tension of the situation. “There is ale and wine and feasting awaiting us at the manor. Let us make merry!”

  A raised cheer, the return of laughter and chatter, Thorkell acknowledging Emma’s diplomacy with a discreet bow. All the same, it was he who escorted the Lady Wulfhilde along the lane to the royal manor, also new-built. Thorkell who sat attentive beside her throughout the feasting.

  Come morning, with the ebb of the tide, the leave-taking was under way, guests dispersing for their own lands and homes, some by sea, others on horseback. Wulfhilde had gone with her retinue to her manor in the heart of Essex. Thorkell, too, had sailed north, heading along the coast to Norwich. Godwine rode with Cnut; Gytha rode alongside the Queen.

  “The boy is settled?” Emma asked the young woman as their horses walked lazily in step behind the jocular banter of their menfolk. She swivelled her head to glance at the swaying litter some distance behind, amid the winding line of housecarls, militia men, and baggage carts.

  “Swegn is an independent child, even at these tender months,” said Gytha. “I swear to God if a second child is as full of temper as this one, I will not be birthing a third!”

  “A little warrior, I have heard Godwine call him.”

  “Ja, for the way he kicks and screams when he cannot get his own way—God help me when the lad grows older!”

  Emma laughed. She had recently discovered the same problem with Harthacnut, now that he was learning to shuffle his own way about. In comparison, Gunnhild was a cherub.

  “What of Ragnhilda? Is she not the sweetest child?” Gytha asked. She found it so easy to talk to Emma, who had no airs of arrogance and had become a good friend.

  “I confess our circumstances of meeting were not ideal.” Emma shivered, pulled her cloak tighter, although the day was warm. Shrugging aside the lurch of memory, said, “She is the happiest, sun-bright child!”

  They had met on the cliff path, only an hour after that dreadful climb. Leofgifu’s nephew had ridden ahead to summon help, instead had met with the King’s retinue.

  There had been uproar. Cnut shouting and cursing everyone for their stupidity, Emma included. Dishevelled and ragged, wanting only to bathe and sleep, Emma had knelt on the grass and wept. Great sobs shattering through her aching, scratched, and battered body; her hair loose, matted, and tangled; her bloodied, swollen fingers covering her face. And a hand had come out and touched her cheek. Emma had lifted her head and seen a girl standing there, a child with golden hair and a puzzled face.

  “Are you to be my mama?” the child had asked. “I hope so. You are more pretty than the big lady over there,” and she had pointed to plump Leofgifu, cradling the wailing Harthacnut.

  Unable to speak and only vaguely realising who the girl was, Emma had only managed to nod. Satisfied, Ragnhilda had sat herself down beside Emma and announced. “I am glad of that. Glad also you do not mind weeping, ’cos I was worried about that. My nurse says I’m too big to cry and slaps me whenever I do, which is quite often, because so many things make me sad, but you are sad, too, and you are bigger than me, and no one is slapping you.” Her chatter had been nonsense and delightfully comforting. Emma had hugged her close and laughed.

  Emma’s attention was brought abruptly to the present. Leofric, at last made Earl of Mercia, was making some point of argument with Godwine. The two men detested each other, their petty squabblings building into something grander now that they were so often vying for favour.

  The chance opening so conveniently before her, Emma altered the subject to one her husband had asked her to discreetly broach. “Men are always in disagreement,” she said. “Always wanting more than what they have.”

  “And do not appreciate good fortune,” Gytha agreed.

  “Although,” Emma said, “women are ofttimes blind to sense, especially when they are sisters of dead Kings.”

  She was talking, Gytha realised, of the Lady Wulfhilde. “And your husband is concerned that Thorkell may be wanting more than he already has?” Making him regent of England while Cnut was away had been a hazardous risk and was now, this while later, stirring trouble.

  Emma slowed her mount so as to not be overheard. “Thorkell
wishes to remarry.”

  Gytha kicked her gelding forward from his attempt to lower his head and nibble grass. “No! To Wulfhilde?”

  “He wishes to take as wife the widow of Ulfkell, the daughter of Æthelred, the sister to Edmund.”

  Genuinely shocked, Gytha shook her head. “And from there pursue the claim of her infant son for the wearing of a crown? Is the man such a fool?”

  “It seems so.”

  “My husband,” Gytha answered slowly, astute, “will not be best pleased to hear of this. Leofric is close friends with Thorkell. Godwine would not welcome such a shift in the balance of position at court.” She paused, asked, “May I inform my husband of this?”

  Emma nodded. Cnut’s wishes accomplished.

  19

  Easter 1021—Woodstock

  Council was nearing the end of a long and tedious day, one full of bickering and sallow temper. It was always so when the tax levies were being set.

  “But with no threat from Denmark,” Leofric grumbled, “why must the cost of the fyrd levy rise yet again? Are we now under new threat? If so, by whom?”

  “Norway is not secure,” Cnut said, justifying his reasons.

  Thorkell got to his feet, Leofric sitting to allow his turn to speak. “But Norway will not send ships to England. Olaf would not risk leaving himself so exposed.”

  “You, too, oppose this, Thorkell?” Cnut asked less than mildly. He was finding it difficult to keep his temper in check. Would these imbeciles never understand that England had been left wide open to attack because Æthelred had not always ensured the fyrd was ready, well-armed, well-trained, to be called into action whenever required? Peace was the occasion to ensure your defences were maintained at full strength. Why shut the stable door after the horse had galloped out?

  “I ask only an annual rise of one penny on every hide of ploughland per household. Dependents are also to give one penny extra, and Lords are to pay for any who cannot afford it. Is that so unreasonable an expectation? In return I offer safety and peace.”