The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  “You had me scared,” Godwine admitted as he personally stripped the clothes from his King in the privacy of his own chamber.

  “I had to show them in a way they would understand, my good friend, and this was all I could think of.” With a half grin through chattering teeth, added, “I knew full well what I was doing, though I had not bargained on the water being so cold!”

  Did not admit, even to Emma, later as he huddled into her bed, that he had considered staying there, of going to join his drowned daughter. But sense had prevailed. He would see her again one day, at a time of God’s choosing, not his own.

  27

  October 1023—Rochester

  The rain squalled in across the harbour, battering at the manor that sat on the rise of ground above the town, the ships bobbing in its wake as if they were impatient to be off and away, out into the open of the sea. A busy place, full of activity, as each ship was made ready to sail; fresh water put aboard in barrels; food, weapons, spare clothing wrapped tight in waterproof bundles of seal or otter skin. The shields were already out along the sides, some of the crews ready to run out the oars, hoist the sail. Always that excitement when the fleet was making ready.

  “And when,” Emma said, her fists on her hips, face contorted in outrage, “were you planning on telling me? Were you going to send a messenger once you were clear of the harbour?”

  “I only finally decided this morning, elskede. If I had made up my mind earlier to take him, I would have said,” Cnut lied.

  Folding her arms, Emma stared confrontationally into her husband’s exasperated face. He had difficulty meeting her eyes, a sure sign of a guilt-ridden conscience. “Yet Harthacnut seems to have all his belongings packed and made ready.”

  “He has little to take, a few clothes, spare boots. Leofgifu knew what to sort for him.”

  “Ah, so Leofgifu knew you intended to take my son from me, but not I?”

  Running his hand through his wind-tousled hair, Cnut attempted to keep his ebbing patience. The tide would be on the turn soon; he must be making way. “I would have consulted you, but I knew you would be saying all these things. I wanted to save you hurt.”

  Emma slapped his face. “Do not patronise me. You are to take my son to Denmark, to offer him as hostage to Thorkell in order to bring peace between you. You are using my son—with the history of how you Danes treat hostage sons?”

  Cnut spread his hands. What could he answer? “That was me, Emma. I made the wrong decision to mutilate those boys, not Thorkell. I have paid the price for making that mistake ever since. Will carry it to my grave.”

  “And what if Harthacnut, too, has to pay? What then?”

  Cnut went to put his hands on her arms, but she brushed him angrily aside. “He will not be harmed, trust me. He will not.”

  “Trust you? Trust you! I’d as soon trust a wild boar caught at bay to lie down and purr like a contented kitchen cat!”

  Harthacnut ran up to them, his face glowing with excitement, one of Cnut’s housecarls, assigned as the boy’s bodyguard, close behind.

  “Mama, I am to go on the Sea Serpent with Papa! I am to sail all the way to Denmark. Is that not wonderful?” He ran off again, overflowing with happiness, to lean over the sea wall to watch another ship pull away to join the flotilla waiting to make sail out in deeper water. Papa loved him after all! He was to sail away with Papa!

  Cnut tried again, put his hands firmer on Emma’s shoulders, gave her a light, loving shake. “I know what I am doing. The lad has to grow up someday, beloved, has to become a man soon. How is he to learn to become a King if he sits at home with the women all day?”

  Emma attempted to bat him away. Shook her head, unable to reply.

  “I intend to agree for Thorkell to rule Denmark as my regent. I will need to show him I am willing for such a treaty to work; for the sake of Denmark I must.”

  “Then why not take one of her sons?” Emma said, her voice catching with tears. “Why take mine? I loved Ragnhilda, too, you know. I am sorrowing as much as you for her loss. And what of Gunnhild? How will she feel to be losing her brother so soon after her sister?”

  More diplomacy. “I am taking one of Ælfgifu’s sons. I take my firstborn, Swegen, with me. He, too, needs to learn how to become a man.” He did not add that for Swegen there would be no remaining in Denmark, that he would be returning home with his father as Harthacnut would not. That amount of courage he did not possess.

  “It will be all right, dear heart, please believe me.” How could he tell her his full plans? She would not repeat them, would not betray a confidence, but Cnut could not, for what he intended to do must lie with his own conscience alone, for God would not be liking its doing.

  He kissed Emma’s forehead, waved the boy aboard. “Look how eager he is, Emma.”

  Emma did look; she looked until the tears blurred her sight and Cnut’s ship was nothing more than a black speck on the distant horizon. Was this what it was to be a mother? To have to learn to let go, to accept that her son’s face was full of laughter and was delighted to be going? He had not hugged or kissed her before he had stepped aboard that ship. Did Harthacnut, then, love her so little?

  “He’s a child,” Leofgifu said at her side, reading her thoughts, “an excited boy who has no idea what it means to be going on an adventure with his father.”

  She was right, of course, but, oh, it did so hurt!

  ***

  Come the Nativity, Cnut sent word to Emma of sad and grievous circumstances. Thorkell, he explained in his self-written private letter, was dead. He died peaceful in his sleep come the rise of a Sunday morning. A good day to go to his Lord.

  Emma closed her eyes as she read, thanked God, for fear had so filled her. Reading his letter, her hand shaking, her tears of relief streaming down her cheeks, she wondered at how she could have doubted Cnut’s asking for her trust. Died peaceful in his sleep? Aye, with a death contrived and planned!

  She set the letter aside, began to dress for the midwinter celebration of the longest night, a celebration of bright, blazing fires, spiced mead, and gaiety. Harthacnut would be home soon, before Easter at least. Whether Cnut was wise to set his sister Estrith and her husband, Ulf, as joint regents in Thorkell’s place was another matter, one Emma sincerely thought was a wrong choice. Estrith was more than capable, but Ulf? Ulf was as trustworthy as a starving dog set to guard a haunch of roasted meat.

  28

  April 1024—Oxford

  Standing with her hands and weight supported on the table, Emma was stunned into silence, could not believe what she was hearing.

  “You have the nerve,” she finally said, the suppressed anger quivering in her voice, “to tell me you have left my son in Denmark?”

  Cnut stood to the other side of the trestle, his hair dishevelled by the gale wind blowing outside, his boots muddy, cloak, as ever, thrown askew across a wooden chest. “I have this moment returned home, having battled with a bitch of a storm, have not yet been five minutes within your company, and you already rail me?” he snapped in answer. “What form of loving greeting is this?”

  “It is no greeting if I am not also to greet my son!” Emma shouted back, her anger rising with his apparent indifference. “You promised me Harthacnut would not be taken from me for long, that our parting was a temporary arrangement only. Do you, then, break your promises as easily as did my first husband?”

  “I made no promise to you about Harthacnut,” Cnut countered. “I wanted him to be joint King of Denmark.” He swung away from the table and seated himself before the hearth-fire, which, because of the wind blustering through every possible crack and opening, was a sulky, smoking effort that offered no warmth and less cheer. “I would have thought you to be pleased that your son is already a King and has the assured security of a crown.”

  “I want my son King of England, not Denmark!” Emma retorted, banging the flat of her palm on the table. “What has Denmark to offer me?”

  “So this is
about you, not Harthacnut?”

  Firmly, Emma set her hands on the table, felt the roughness of the wood beneath her skin, the solidity of the table itself. Very much did she want to grab hold of its edge and send it sprawling across the room. Very much did she want to scream and shout and slap one of these hands against Cnut’s face. “No,” she said, drawing a slow breath, “this is not about me; it is about England.”

  “I am here in England. I require someone of my name in Denmark to ensure Ulf remembers his duty. It will do Harthacnut no harm to begin the learning of his trade of kingship.”

  “I am not disagreeing that he must learn the complexities of being a King, merely that he should do so here, in England, not Denmark.”

  Cnut slammed to his feet, knocking the chair over. “Enough! I have decided my son is to remain in Denmark. You have no say in the matter!”

  There was one thing that had served Emma well through all the years she had lived in England, one thing she had cherished as a lifeline against insanity and the plunging depths of despair. Pride.

  Tall, elegant, she faced her husband. With Æthelred she would have been hiding her fear, the dread of enticing into the open one of his furies. Cnut raged, for he had a temper which could bluster with all the pique of that gale outside, but he was never cruel or spiteful towards her. For Cnut, there would have been no honour in beating a woman. Aside, as he had often jested, were he to strike Emma, there was every possibility she would strike him back with twice the ferocity.

  “So,” she said with all the authority of her dignified self-esteem, “you do not consider me worthy to have a say in my son’s future? Because I once set aside two of my sons for your benefit, you think I am able to do so again without a thought or qualm? That because my daughters married Lords who live many miles distant, I can readily accept the disappearance of my son? Well, think again, Cnut. I am the Queen of England, and I have an opinion as able as yours. Either you value me as your partner in marriage and rule, or you do not. You clearly do not, so get on with it, but do not come crawling to me when you need advice on how to circumvent some difficulty you cannot fathom for yourself.”

  She walked across the room, lifted her cloak from its peg on the wall. “If you so enjoy ruling on your own, then I shall leave you to it. You will find me, should you wish to apologise, at Winchester.” And she swept from the chamber, calling for Leofgifu and her maids to begin packing.

  Cnut slapped his hands onto the chair arms, swore. How could he have told Emma the whole truth? It would have hurt her beyond healing. Ja, he had wanted Harthacnut to be crowned as a boy King for Denmark, for all the reasons he had said, but there had been no urgent need for him to remain there, not with Estrith as joint regent. But Harthacnut had refused to come home to England! He had screamed and shouted, had proclaimed he wanted to remain with his aunt Estrith and did not want his mama, because Mama insisted on treating him like a girl. He had not expressed himself well, for he was too young a child to have the vocabulary necessary, but Cnut had known what he meant, for he had come to the same conclusion. Emma overprotected the boy and coddled him too much.

  And there was that other thing Cnut had never confided to his wife: the matter of Ragnhilda’s death. Godwine had been determined to keep his counsel, but Cnut had dragged it from him. As reluctant as he was to accept Godwine’s suspicion—that there had been more to the drowning than had been admitted—he had not been able to force more detail from his friend. Cnut had his own idea, though; the girl had not slipped.

  Ja. It was time the boy learnt the meaning of truth and responsibility, and he would not be doing that learning while sheltered by his mother’s misplaced protection. Nor would it do to leave Emma in a hot temper.

  Wearily, Cnut pushed himself to his feet. He would humble himself and apologise. It was a thing he had learnt early in his reign. A wise man did not allow the sun to set on an ugly row with his wife.

  29

  August 1025—Bosham

  Gytha gave Godwine another son, Tostig, and Emma, two months later, miscarried a five-month son for Cnut. At seven and thirty it was hardly surprising; age did not make the sadness of loss any easier, however.

  “I am only glad she is safe,” Cnut confided to Gytha as they sat, one on each side of a brazier, sipping Godwine’s best imported wine. Instead of August being its normal benign, hot month, the rain had fallen in sheets these last three days, the nights clung damp and chill, and Cnut’s ship had been forced over towards Bosham, for the wind had been too strong to allow him to tie up at Cnut Bourne.

  It was late, gone ten at night, many of the servants settled abed. Gytha, too, had been preparing herself, her hair unbound, stripped to her under-tunic, when the King had walked in as bold as a full-pronged stag, asking for shelter and something warming for an empty stomach.

  “It has been a bastard of a sea voyage from London,” he apologised. “My wife urged me to stay awhile, but I have the law court at Winchester to attend. If this wind had not grown more tempestuous than I had reckoned, I would be safe there and not bothering you this night.”

  What could she do? Turn him away? Deny his hospitality?

  “My husband is not at home,” she stammered, covering her immodesty with a hastily grabbed mantle. “He is at Southampton, supervising the fleet with my brother, Ulf. Alas, I have been left alone to find my own entertainment this last week around, although I had hoped him home this evening. No doubt he will be here early on the morrow.”

  Cnut frowned. Ulf was proving to be not very useful; in God’s name, he spent more weeks here in England than he did in Denmark! He claimed it was because he felt honour bound to bring personal word to Cnut, and that Estrith was capable of seeing to government. All true and worthy, yet Cnut had the suspicion that Ulf used the voyages as an excuse to be gone from his wife, to be visiting other more enticing ladies, and to make money from illicit pirate trading.

  Feeling awkward with Cnut’s presence, Gytha reasoned: she was not alone, she had insisted her women were to stay in the room, and this was not some ruffian good-for-nothing outlaw. She was safe in his company. Surely? She served him wine and ordered food to be brought, guessing at the grumbling that would erupt from the kitchen at this late hour.

  “Leofric of Mercia has had a second son delivered of his wife, did you know?” she asked, attempting to think of conversation. Why talk of Leofric? Godwine detested the man, nor was she impressed by him.

  Cnut was tired and this night, oddly, lonely. For one reason or another he had not been to Cnut Bourne or Bosham these last two years, not since that summer when they had laid Ragnhilda to rest and he had shown, by the only way he knew, that although he wore a crown, he was no more of a god than any of them. He ought not have come here, he realised, but he would look the fool to leave now; aside, he could no more command the wind to stop blowing than he could turn a tide.

  “He has called the boy Hereward,” Gytha added, “an old Mercian name.”

  “A name belonging to the ancient Kings of the Little Folk, so I hear tell,” Cnut growled. “I trust Leofric is not lusting after more than he is entitled to?”

  “Surely not!” Gytha answered quickly, wishing she had never started the topic. “He and Godgiva are staunch followers of God. I would say it is His favour Leofric is intending to purchase, not yours.”

  Cnut laughed. “That I agree with. If the man founds any more churches in the Mid Lands, he will end up as poor as a pauper. Mind, he collects his taxes with a fervour that will easily balance the scales.”

  Gytha motioned for a servant to top the brazier with charcoal. “I will have my husband’s bed made ready for you. I think you will find it comfortable.”

  “Not without a woman to warm it for me, I won’t.” The words slipped past his lips with the tiredness, the drowsing warmth, and the strong drink. He shrugged, realising he might have offended her, but suddenly not caring. God, he envied Godwine! He had healthy children, a charming wife, everything. Did they ever quarrel? D
id they ever go for months barely speaking a civil word between them? Were there times when Gytha loathed Godwine?

  “I have been advised that it would not be wise to bed with Emma for several months; should she conceive again, she will not survive the pregnancy. What is a man to do in such circumstances, eh, Gytha? Ignore a physician’s orders or become a monk?”

  What could she answer save the candid truth? “It would harm no man to follow celibacy for a while. And if he cannot control his urges, then that, sir, is what whores are for.”

  Cnut saluted her with his empty goblet and a mocking grin. She was right, but how in God’s name did he go to Northampton without his wife knowing of it? Ah, it was memories of this place that brought this unreasonable melancholia over him. The whispering of Ragnhilda’s spirit drifting, lost and bereft, like a rudderless ship on the incoming tide.

  “I may need to return to Denmark with your brother when he goes,” he said gloomily into the silence. “For all it pains me to say this, Gytha, I do not think I can trust Ulf to keep faith with me.” He looked up, sheepish, attempted a weak smile of contrition. “I confess I did not wholly admit the truth to you. Had we tried harder, we could have moored across the way, but I found a sudden need to hear answers to doubts that are clogging my mind.”

  Gytha sat opposite him, straight-backed, proud. She was aware of her fortune in marrying Godwine, for he was a kind and generous man who doted on his wife and family. If he took whores to his bed, as all men did when away from the home for any length of time, he was discreet about it. Discretion being a thing her brother had no interest in. He might be the husband to a King’s sister, but of what use would that connection be when the idiot man wasted his position on some foolish moon-seeking quest of his own? Which he would. Gytha knew him too well to believe he would stay grateful for what he had been given.