“What happened?” Godwine asked again, standing below the boy, his arms folded, expression stern.
Harthacnut shrugged his shoulders, lied. “She slipped.”
“And you did not think to shout? To come and get anyone? Get help?”
“I thought she would get out.” That was truth; he was not aware of what drowning meant. He had been told of the danger of water, but he was a child; the adults’ constant babble of warnings went over his head with no more notice than when the wild geese took wing.
Godwine stared suspiciously at the boy. There was something about Harthacnut he did not like. No, it was not like or dislike, more something about him he did not trust. Swegn, his own son, was wilful and naughty; Godwine was the first to admit he was going to be difficult to control in future years, but Swegn admitted his offences, was almost proud of them. Harthacnut lied too easily.
“God help you, boy, if you are not telling me the truth of this,” Godwine said. “I have to tell your father when he returns from London that his daughter is dead. It is not a task I relish. He loved Ragnhilda; we all did.”
Harthacnut did not believe him. Why would Father be sad? She was nothing but a useless girl, and he had Gunnhild, another girl, anyway. He, Harthacnut, was the important one, was he not?
It came as a shock for the boy to discover that his father could weep. Troubled him when Cnut, on his return to Bosham, walked straight past him and went to stand, for hours, beside the millstream, his shoulders hunched and shaking, great sobs bursting from his mouth. More of a shock when, attempting to approach him, Cnut had snarled at Harthacnut to go away.
Emma was at a loss what to do. Her husband would allow no one near him. Harthacnut kicked and scratched at anyone who went within distance of his reach, and little Ragnhilda lay so alone and cold before the altar in the church. What could she do? What would any mother do at the sudden loss of a child? She left Godwine to persuade her husband out of the dark of the night and into the warmth of the hall. For herself, Emma slipped quietly into the children’s sleeping quarters and huddled with her daughter, Gunnhild, who had sobbed herself to sleep; her mother’s tears were silent, but as many.
25
September 1023—Cnut Bourne
They are saying,” Godwine said, offering more chicken, “that you are a saint, the chosen of God.”
Cnut took the chicken breast, bit into the succulent white flesh. “Then they are talking fool’s talk,” he responded dourly. “I am a mortal man, no more than are they, whoever ‘they’ might be.”
“Oh, it is all of us, sir!” Ulf piped from down the table. “We think it nothing short of a miracle what you have achieved! To avert a war with words alone? Such a task could not be completed by those as simple-minded as us.”
That Ulf, the proud coxcomb, should think of himself as simple-minded Cnut found hard to believe, but he held his silence.
“It seems, husband,” Emma said, curling her fingers into his and smiling at him with approval, “because you have conquered Thorkell into submission with only your voiced command, the populace are overawed by your power.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” he countered, genuinely bemused. “I have done nothing more than show him my strength and that I will not hesitate to use it. He has used his common sense and submitted to my superiority. Where is the miracle in that?”
“All the same,” Ulf added, “that is what the people are saying.”
Cnut puffed derisory air through his pursed lips. Concentrated on his meal and sat brooding for the rest of the evening.
“They are only meaning to compliment you,” Emma said that night as they lay together. “They are pleased—relieved—there will be no more fighting or bloodshed.”
“But it is not a compliment. Can they not see that? Who am I to compare myself with sainted men? I merely issued threats I know I can follow through with. Where is the saintliness in that?”
Emma snuggled closer to his naked body. “The years of deprivation under Æthelred took their toll, Cnut. We, all of us who suffered, remember his inability to defend and protect. Now here you are, strong and powerful. You send our enemies from us with the ease of snapping your fingers. Is it any wonder the people think of you as almost a god?”
“Oh, enough!” he roared, hurling the bed furs aside and swinging his legs to the floor. He reached for a mantle. “I have more than I can stomach from the fools out there”—he flicked a hand contemptuously in the direction of the door—“without hearing it from you also!”
“You do not hear it from me,” she rebuked. “I am merely attempting to explain how others feel about the peace you have brought.” She shuffled forward, twined her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek, her fingers curling into his red-gold hair. “I am not calling you a god. How can a man who loves the pleasures of his bed have the chastity of a saint?”
He laughed. Enjoyed proving her point.
***
“God’s grief!” Cnut groaned as he peered across the sea-flooded inlet early the next morning. “What are all those people doing over there crowding the wharf at Bosham? Is something amiss, do you think?”
Emma came to stand beside him, shielding her eyes against the dazzle of the morning light. “There are dozens of them! Are they waving? Look, yes…and here comes Godwine in a hurry. What can have happened?” Her first thoughts, as were Cnut’s, being that Thorkell had changed his mind and his ships had been sighted somewhere off the coast. Emma turned towards the sea, expecting to find the striped sails of a Viking fleet edging up the creek.
Godwine himself was rowing a small inshore craft, his lean, muscular arms pulling steadily on the oars as he negotiated the channels; they were deceptive in this inlet, what often appeared to be deep water lying no more than mere inches above treacherous mudbanks. All was safe, provided a man kept an eye on the pig’s-bladder marker buoys.
Cnut and Emma hurried to the jetty. “What is it, Godwine?” Cnut called. “What is amiss? Is it Thorkell?”
“Thorkell? No, my Lord, nothing is amiss,” the Earl panted, out of breath from his exertions as he shipped the oars and tossed the mooring rope to Cnut, who made the boat fast. “The folk from hereabout have come to beg favour of you, that is all. I am afraid this whole saint business has fermented out the beer barrel and is bubbling over the brewery floor.” He accepted Cnut’s proffered hand and jumped ashore. Scratched, embarrassed, at his moustache. “The people from roundabout have come with their ills and sores, maladies and disabilities. Rumour has spread that you can cure all things sent by the devil.”
Had he been in a better frame of mind, Cnut might have seen the jest of it and laughed, but his mind was bruised, and his soul was still mourning the loss of an innocent child. He could find nothing to laugh about. He rammed his hands against his head and groaned aloud.
“Do they not think, were that true, I would have revived my own daughter from drowning? I am no more a saint than are you, Godwine.” Pleading for understanding, he spread his arms wide. “With all my heart, for the sake of little Ragnhilda, I wish I were!”
“I have told them that. Since they started appearing at dawn, I’ve been pleading, telling, shouting, but they will not listen.”
Cnut buried his head in his hands. “What am I to do?” he groaned. “Tell me, what do I do?”
Emma linked her arm through his, turned him away from the jetty and the crowd of expectant people on the far side of the creek. He looked tired and broken; grey was beginning to tarnish his hair and beard, the skin beneath his eyes to sag. He was seven and twenty years of age, looked seven and sixty.
“Come inside,” she said. “No one shall bother us here at Cnut Bourne, it is a private place.” And thank God for it! she thought.
The children were chasing the hens from the hall, their laughter shrill as the creatures, with feathers puffed and their comical, waddling gait, squawked and clucked in indignation. They were not supposed to annoy the fowl, but Leofgifu wanted to sweep the old rushes fro
m the floor and spread new. All the trestles and benches had been removed; that left only the chickens to shoo out.
“Leave them alone, children!” Emma chided. “Let your father have some peace.”
Gunnhild dropped the hen she had grabbed, allowing it to scuttle away; Harthacnut stood, quiet, his thumb in his mouth, resentful at having the fun stopped, frightened of his father’s presence.
Nothing had been the same since Ragnhilda had fallen in the water. For two weeks after they had buried her near the chancel arch in the church at Bosham, no one, aside from Mama, had seen Cnut. He had shut himself in his bedchamber, refusing to come out. Twice Harthacnut had stolen as far as the door, meaning to go in, needing to see his father to tell him he was sorry. He understood death now! Death was confusion and fear, was a white face sliding under the water. It was screaming at night in your sleep and wet bedding come morning.
He was worried, too, that Papa was going to die. Why, after they had buried her, had Papa ordered a second grave dug if he was not to die? Leofgifu said it was because it was prudent to have your eternal bed made ready. But why bother if you were not intending to use it? He was too young to recognise a father’s grieving and an emotional gesture made on the spur of the moment.
Cnut sat in his chair on the dais. Emma brought him a tankard of the strong barley beer he occasionally liked to drink, one for Godwine also. Harthacnut walked across the expanse of floor, his boots sounding loud on the cleared and swept timbers. Slowly he mounted the three steps, went to stand before his father, pleading to be noticed and reassured that everything was all right again.
Emma saw him first. “Come along, son, get you out into the fresh air. Papa is not feeling well.”
“I only wanted to tell Papa…”
“Not now, Harthacnut. Later.”
“Yes, but…”
“You heard what your mother said,” Cnut shouted. “Get you gone.”
Harthacnut stamped his foot. He was fed up with this. “But I want…”
“Go away!” Cnut’s hand came out to slap his son’s face.
Crying, startled, the boy ran, setting the group of hens into fresh squawks of alarm. “I hate you!” he screamed. “And I hated her! I’m glad she drowned!”
He ran out of the door, added to himself, “I only wanted to know if they have found my boat in the mill race yet!”
“Do not be hard on him,” Emma said placatingly to Cnut. “He is bewildered, and we are all upset.”
“You see—what sort of saint would rebuff a child as I just did?” Cnut answered, setting his drained tankard down onto the table with a thud. “Right!” He leapt to his feet. “Get my boat ready; I am going over there.”
“Cnut, why?” Emma said, trying to persuade him to sit down again. “You are tired; you need to rest. Give them a few days, and they will forget this nonsense.”
“No, they will not. Like weeds the rumours will flourish and grow more rampant than ever if not hoed and thrown on the dung heap.” He clicked his fingers for a servant, ordered his crown fetched, called to another, “My chair here, take it across to Bosham.”
The servant frowned, uncomprehending.
“Now, man, before the tide turns. Put it in a boat and have it rowed across.”
“What are you planning?” Godwine asked, curious.
“When the tide turns back in, I shall hoe the weeds to show the truth and stop the rumour. Go with my chair, Godwine. Set it below your manor steps beside the sea line. You, Emma, shall assist me to dress. I need my finest robes, the best I have. Today shall be an unexpected crown wearing.”
26
No one particularly minded the King’s odd behaviour; in fact, it drew more crowds as men, women, and children from all the outlying villages made their hasty way to Bosham to watch the tide come in. He sat on the causeway, a yard or so below the steps that led up through the back wall of Godwine’s manor-house courtyard. Come high tide the water would slap below the top level, allowing access, whatever the height of the sea.
Cnut sat rigid in his chair, his mantle draped around his shoulders, his crown on his head, watching the tide creep slowly nearer, ignoring the whispers, murmurs, and speculation from the watching crowd. With polite gratitude he ate, drank whatever Gytha brought him, but he refused to move from his chair.
“You think I am equal to God?” he exclaimed. “Then let me prove, once and for all, that I have no more powers than any one of you.”
And he sat, waiting patiently as the sea edged higher. Clouds scudded over the sky; the wind turned. Gulls screeched and squabbled; waders, busy about their foraging, quartered the mudflats until the sea reclaimed the land. The moored boats, leaning drunkenly on their unsupported keels, waited, stern outward, until gradually, trickling and gurgling, the water began to meander up along the channels, turning the reed-strewn mudbanks into whispering, rippling water. Bringing the slumped ships awake.
“My Lord,” Godwine said, becoming anxious, “it is not wise to sit below these steps. It may seem that it creeps like a scared mouse, but the tide can gallop in. Especially on a day as today, with the wind full behind it.”
“I know, Godwine, I know,” was all Cnut said as he steadfastly sat there.
The excited chatter began to lessen into a baffled mumble. What was he doing?
Again, as the tide lapped at the cobbled causeway, Godwine came to Cnut. “Sir? I beg you to move; it is unsafe here.”
Cnut had been dozing. He startled awake, and for a moment Godwine closed his eyes in prayer. Thank God! He had heard reason! But, no, Cnut was having none of it. He half turned, stared long and steadily at the array of people, gathered now at a safer distance over near the mill race. They fell silent, awed by his presence, convinced that here was a man about to perform a miracle.
“You think I am God?” Cnut boomed. “You think I dare to compare my humble self with the Lord Christ’s Father in Heaven? For myself, I would not be so conceited as to agree with you, but you are, all of you, honest and brave people. Many among you read and write, are learned men and women—who am I to gainsay what you must know above me? I am one, you are many. You say I have the power of a saint, then let me see it for myself!” The water was lapping at his feet, swilling onto the folds of his cloak, seeping into its rich embroidered binding, the salt irreparably staining its plush, expensive wool.
He sat, his hands resting on the carved, gold-gilded arms of the chair, feeling the coldness of the tide seep into his boots. He raised a hand, glared at the running water, coming ever faster now, in full spate. “I am a god, they tell me!” he boomed. “As a god, I make command of you, the sea! I tell you, go back! Get you gone! I command you, the waves, the tide, to cease, to stop your invasion of my land!”
A wave, rolling with the eddying current, splashed against the chair, sending spray into the air. Solidly, Cnut sat there, unflinching, unmoving. The tide was up to his knees, his lap. Again he boomed his command for the tide to recede, his voice clearly heard over the concerned murmuring. Beyond the roll of the tide, relentlessly sweeping inwards, nothing happened.
Kneeling on the top step, Godwine stretched out his hand. “My Lord, you must come!” Where was Queen Emma? She ought be here, drum sense into the stupid man! “Cnut, this is naught but folly! Come away!”
“I command again!” Cnut bellowed for a third time at the water. “I demand you heed my word and retreat. Cease this flood and turn away!”
The sea was up to his chest, spluttering into his mouth, soaking his beard. All talk was turning to cries of alarm and fear, a woman began to scream, another to cry. Many were on their knees, praying. Godwine himself was shaking, the housecarls, his own and the King’s, arrayed behind him along the manor wall, afraid and uncertain what to do. Cnut had bade them be still, to do nothing whatever might happen, but surely he had not meant for them to allow him to drown?
“Pull him out!” Godwine stuttered, unable to bear the tension any longer. “Let us pull him out!”
�
��Leave him!” A voice called from the courtyard.
Godwine swung round, saw Emma walking towards him. She had come at last, thank God! She would talk sense into her husband!
“My Lady, he will drown!”
Emma climbed to the top step, stood, observing her husband sitting rigid, stubborn, on his chair in the sea, the water almost up to his chin. “Damn silly way to prove your meaning,” she muttered.
“My Lady…!” Godwine begged, falling to his knees as she stood there, immobile.
“Hush, man, have more faith in your King!” Emma snapped.
She rarely wore her crown in public, only on feast and holy days, when it was essential to show the full regalia of queenship. Today she wore it with a pure white linen veil that fluttered to the shoulders of a gown of turquoise blue, the sleeves of the under-tunic a darker colour. At her throat, her wrists, gold jewellery studded with rubies and gems as vivid as her dress. Standing on the top steps, she lifted her hands.
“My Lord God,” she cried, “may you see this day that your anointed King is a wise and humble man. He shows to you that although he is anointed with the Chrism, that although he is touched by your hand and your blessing, he can but command the men and women and children of this land, not the wind or sea upon it. He can command but mortal things, for he himself is but mortal and is no saint or god!”
She stood down into the water, descending the first three steps, and reached out to Cnut, who rose from his chair, sodden and cold, took her fingers in his own, and, wading through the swirl of the sea, climbed the steps.
“You see?” he roared to the crowd, “I am King by the grace of God, but I am not God himself!” With an extravagant gesture, he took his crown from his head and hurled it into the tide, let it drift there, significantly poignant. He strode away towards Godwine’s manor house, as dignified as he could, ignoring the weight of his sodden garments.
The Forever Queen Page 52
