“I assume,” Gytha wondered aloud, “Cnut does fully intend for this marriage between your nephew Robert and Estrith to go ahead?”
Poor Estrith; when told of Cnut’s agreement, she had apparently been horrified. To have escaped the nightmare of being wed to Ulf—and if anyone had the right to agree with Estrith on the vile nature of Ulf’s character, it was his own sister, Gytha—only to be wed to an equally pompous man such as Robert of Normandy? Gytha sighed. Such was the fate of royal widows.
“Estrith is to sail to Normandy and meet Cnut there,” Emma confirmed. “How else can he neutralise any interest Robert may show in England? And Robert, despite protesting he has no wish to take a wife, must agree to the betrothal. His war with his elder brother is at a stalemate; with patronage from England, Richard stands no chance of lingering.” She shook her head. Why were men so impatient? Richard always had been prone to illness and agues; he had barely been from his bed for more than a few days at once. He would no more survive for long as Duke of Normandy than would a handful of snow near a heated brazier. All Robert had to do was wait, but, no, he wanted the power and the ducal coronet now. For that, he was willing to sacrifice his conscience, his whore, and his indulgent lust for boys.
She made no mention of the reason why Cnut was so eager to back Robert’s cause. Her sons by Æthelred were both of age, and Robert, unlike his brother or father, was a man who wanted more in his mouth than he could easily chew. It would be so easy for him to decide to fight for the boys’ right to the English crown. The only thing restraining him from such rashness was Normandy’s overlord, the King of France, who was, as with Richard, an ailing man of poor health. A tethering alliance through marriage was therefore inevitable, with poor Estrith the sacrificial goat.
Tactfully, Godwine returned to Emma’s letter. This was her own personal version. Others had been sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury to be copied and sent throughout the entirety of England. “It is interesting that the King has managed to procure more suitable arrangements for our pilgrims going to Rome. The tax levied against them at certain places on the journey was a scandal. Few except those of high means could contemplate going on pilgrimage, but now Cnut has opened the way, he is to be praised.”
“And to obtain a relaxation of the charges made to our Archbishops when in Rome to collect their pallia; that, too, was an outrage, one that for all these months had denied Puttoc the honour,” Emma added, delighted at Cnut’s triumphant political achievements.
She had resented his going when first Cnut had spoke of it, but to be the first King of England welcomed into Rome—how could she deny him that pleasure and respect?
Emma’s delight at receiving his letter was evident to all who knew her. The sparkle returned to her eyes, a lightness had come into her step; once or twice servants had even heard her singing. The only part of it which troubled her was his brief outline of future plans. To go, more or less immediately, and make an end of the war with Olaf of Norway. She would not have been pleased, either, to have learnt that he had written separately, if not in as much detail, of his intention to Ælfgifu.
He had signed his letter with such pride and determination. God was on his side, and no one was going to stop his intended retribution against Norway.
May He in His loving kindness preserve us in our sovereignty and honour, and scatter and bring to naught the power and strength of all our enemies.
And his signature for Emma, had been:
Cnut, your beloved and devoted husband.
For his official letter, in case any were in doubt of the blessed authority he now possessed in the name of the Holy Roman Emperor and of God, through His representative on earth, the servant of the holiest of saints. To England, and to Ælfgifu, he had signed
Cnut, dear to the Emperor. Close to Saint Peter.
Emma’s grievance was that he had made no mention of Harthacnut. The boy was at Roskilde with Estrith. Was he to stay there when Estrith left? Would Cnut be bringing him home to England? She wanted to see her little boy, to determine with her own eyes that he was well.
Another resentment against that Northampton slut. She had her sons constantly with her.
33
June 1027—Fécamp
The marriage of Count Robert d’Hiémois to Estrith Sweins’s daughter was a matter of distaste for himself, his betrothed, and her brother, the King of Denmark and England. Rarely were noble marriages expected to be of agreeable favour to the couple concerned; as rarely, were they as instantly hostile as this one.
“It was a moving ceremony,” Cnut observed untruthfully as the celebration feasting entered its third hour of entertainment. For the prestige of his reputation there was nothing Robert had left out. The food had been the most sumptuous ever prepared and served in Normandy, the jugglers and acrobats the best money could buy, the dancing bears expensive, the harpers unprecedented, and the decoration of the hall, a displayed mass of gold and silk, weaponry and jewels, breathtaking. A pity the sullen faces of bride and groom spoilt the proceedings.
Robert made no answer to Cnut’s comment, but clicked his fingers for more wine to be served. If the day had to be endured, it could at least be helped along by a good grape.
Cnut had swallowed the insult of being virtually ignored for the three days since his arrival here at Fécamp. Had it not been for the necessity of this alliance, he would have returned to his ship and left this Norman to his fate. As it was, he swallowed his pride and attempted, yet again, to be civil to his new brother-in-law.
“It will be good for our lands to be further united in property,” Cnut tried again, his gaze still roving the stone-built castle’s great hall for sign of the two young men he sought. He was not surprised he could not find Emma’s sons; Edward and Alfred would be prize fools to be here. He would dearly like to see the scrawny brats, to decide for himself whether they would ever be a match for his own sons, but given the open nature of his preference to see the both of them dead, it was no wonder they had declined any invitation to attend.
“For treaties to hold,” Robert said with narrowed, hostile eyes, “the men who made them must be willing to uphold the agreements. To do that, the parties involved must have wanted the thing in the first place.”
“I would remind you,” Cnut said slowly and with barely disguised menace, “my sister is not a woman to be treated poorly. She will not allow dishonour or disrespect. Neither will I.” How to convince this proud peacock that he would need to bend his knee to the command of his superiors if he wanted to successfully replace his brother as Duke?
Robert did not give two pickled eggs for what Estrith or Cnut wanted. All he wanted was the legal right to wear the ducal crown, and for that Richard had to be removed and himself set as Lord of Normandy. Above that wanting, he had a list as long as his arm for what he did not want. He did not want Estrith as wife; he did not want Cnut’s patronage, nor the Pope, nor the Holy Roman Emperor’s interference. All he needed was for Richard to die; the rest would be simple, but, damn the bastard, he refused to step into his grave. Ah, that was the rub—when had Richard ever been truly ill? Always he had developed a malady when something was required of him that he would rather not do. Robert had never known a man who could vomit on command with the absolute proficiency of his brother.
Robert was of the firm opinion that, given adequate arms and men, he could convince Richard that exile would be preferable to death, but to raise an army he required finance, and that he did not have.
Reading Robert’s thoughts, Cnut spoke his own. “I will undertake to back you in whatever the future may dictate for Normandy, whether that be at God’s instigation or your own. In return, you will advance no military aid to the sons of Æthelred, should they seek it. We are brothers now, Robert, united through my sister. Consummate the marriage and treat her with respect—that is all you have to do. Beyond courtesy to her, I care not what you get up to, whether it is to make war on your brother or love to your whores, be they the tanner’s da
ughter or beardless boys.”
Prudently, Robert made no comment, and neither, sitting on his left-hand side, did Estrith.
She was not a young woman, nor especially handsome or intriguing. Her quality was in her kindred to Cnut, and in her impeccable sense of loyalty and honour, the mainstay reason for her toleration of this sham. Estrith had adored her father, as she now adored her brother, for either of them she was willing to sacrifice her life and, as in the case of Ulf’s various betrayals, her conscience.
This marriage was not to Estrith’s liking, but what woman was fortunate in having her wishes taken into consideration where a husband was concerned? Whether she would tolerate Robert’s dalliance with the whore Herleve she would yet have to decide. A man’s past was his own and God’s concern; of previous indiscretions Estrith would be forgiving. The same applied to any future bedding for the practicality of need, as with any woman trapped in a loveless marriage—better by far to have your husband occupied in an insignificant whore’s arms than suffer unwanted attention. A mistress, however, was another matter entirely, particularly one who had already given the man a child. Herleve had borne a girl—no threat, no consequence—but the relationship, as far as Estrith was concerned, must end.
Robert kept to himself that he had no intention of setting Herleve aside. Or that at the time of his marriage, a second child was already planted in her womb.
For Robert, the alliance with Cnut was essential for the single reason of funding, but God could be a cruel jester with an obtuse sense of humour. On the night of the fifth of August, scarcely two months after the marriage, Robert’s brother was stricken with a seizured flux that emptied his stomach, his bowels, and his body of life.
There were those who suspected poison, but, equally, the fish at supper had tasted rancid, although none other had suffered similar symptoms. But then Richard had always been prone to eat more than was good for him.
34
January 1028—Rouen
A son. Herleve had given birth to a son. William, he was to be called. A lusty, healthy boy. Estrith had learnt of his existence eighteen days after his birth, after her husband had returned from Falaise and boasted of him to his court. If he had assumed Estrith would not care, then he assumed wrong.
“You will not see that slut again,” Estrith said, standing in front of Robert, her arms folded, her back rigid, face set. “I forbid it.”
Robert laughed. “That slut, as you call her, is the mother of my children.”
“They are the bastards of a whore. This boy will never be anything more than the by-blow of a tanner’s daughter. I am your wife, not her.”
“And I wish to God she was!” Robert roared back. “She is good and kind; she gives me pleasure, gives me love. What do I get from you? Dieu, there is more warmth in a block of ice than in you.”
“Do not blame me for any failure in bed; the fault is yours. How you can believe that boy was sired by you is beyond comprehension. How did you manage it? That flaccid cock of yours has as much chance of siring children as a mule in a herd of mares! I’ve seen more life in a dead chicken than in your pizzle!”
That hurt, for it was true, all of it. Robert rarely visited Estrith’s bed, and when he did, he was so besotted with drink he did not know whose bed he was in. Yet he was never impotent with Herleve. Why was that? he wondered. Because she was young and beautiful and made no demands of him?
“Either you avow never to see her and the boy again, or I shall ensure the child never sees his first birthday.” Estrith was not bluffing.
“You would not dare!”
“Would I not? I cut my husband’s throat for humiliating me; I could as easily do so again with a child.”
“I will have you locked up, have you flogged, starved, beaten…I’ll…”
Estrith laughed. “You can do nothing. If my brother should ever learn of harm inflicted on me by you, then you will surely know the meaning of suffering. Not only this bastard son shall be killed, but his whore mother also. Her death shall be slow, after all of my brother’s army have used her, after she is made to watch as this son of hers is ripped to pieces by dogs or dropped alive into a vat of boiling oil. Lay one hand on me, Robert, and all that shall happen.”
Robert raised his hand, went to strike her.
There was no fear in her face; she did not flinch, did not blink. “Do it,” she whispered. “Hit me, give me an excuse to prove what my brother is capable of.”
Angry, powerless, Robert ran, retching, from the room, did not stop running until he reached the upper walls of the castle. High above the town he leant his arms on the parapet wall, let the wind sting his eyes and bring the tears. No one would think he was weeping, not like this.
How could he give Herleve up? But he would have to, he had known that; from the first when he had lain with her, he had known he could not keep her. She was a tanner’s daughter. How could he make her Duchess? Dieu! If only he knew of a way to be rid of Cnut! Assemble an army, conquer England, take it by force, make it his. Huh! Hopeless dreams! Unless…
Robert’s fingers gripped the stone, his nails digging in, bruising, painful, but he did not notice. Unless he could do it another way? What if he were to do as he had once, in half jest, suggested? What if he were to put Edward back on the throne? He would need approval from his overlord, the King of France, of course, but that should be easy enough done. He would need allies, too. How could he get them?
He relaxed, released the tight grip, rubbed his hands, thinking…Oui, it might work. Had not that old lecher, Herluin, Vicomte de Conteville, always envied Robert his mistress? Herluin was wealthy; he wanted Herleve as wife; he said so often, had again and again offered Robert incentives to give her to him. What if the price was an army and agreement that Robert could see his children and their mother whenever he wished? With Herleve legally married, what possible impropriety could occur?
Huh! Let Estrith parade her high and mighty indignation about that!
35
June 1028—Nidaros, Norway
Cnut’s talent was the aptitude to use his brain. If something went wrong, he would analyse it, look at it from every angle, decide why it was a failure and what best to do about it. Never, during the entirety of his life, did he make the same mistake twice.
Olaf of Norway had got the better of him once; he would not be doing so again. Sailing from England in the late autumn of 1027, he took fifty ships to start the bringing of Norway under his control. He was not expecting too much of a fight, for there was more than one way to destroy a rat’s nest. His ploy would perhaps take longer, all winter and spring, and would be less exciting and more tedious, but it would be wholly effective.
From as far away as Rome, Cnut had been putting tactics into place: a subtle word here, a bribe there, sowing seeds, scattering whispers and grumblings into the wind. Olaf was not a great leader, nor was he especially liked. How simple for Cnut to build on the resentment against his austere rule and his paranoia of rooting out all heathen and pagan practices. The people of Norway had nothing against the Christian God, many of them happy to embrace Him along with Thor and Odin, but they did not take kindly to being ordered when it came to the personal belief of worship. They preferred to make their own choices, their own decisions, and, if necessary, their own mistakes. No Lord, no matter how powerful or how devout, would sway the í-víking opinion by force. Olaf’s mistake, Cnut’s advantage.
So hated was Olaf that by early summer Cnut found he could sail along the entire coast of Norway and not meet a single ship in opposition. At each landing place he gathered more men and ships, until at the most northerly point, at Nidaros, all men of importance were willing to submit to Cnut as the undisputed ruler over all Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and England. Recognising defeat when it snapped at his backside, Olaf fled into Russia.
For Swegen, sailing with his father, the moment of triumph was exhilarating. “My God, Father, is it so easy to achieve revenge? Why my mother goes on so much about it, I can
not imagine.”
Raising an eyebrow, Cnut turned, with his arms casually folded, to observe the boy seated and stuffing his face with roasted meat to the far side of the cooking fire. Did he never stop eating? Either he was chewing, gnawing, running his fingers round the residue of a bowl, or searching for something to fill his already paunched belly. He was in his fourteenth year, yet had the girth of an old beer-barrelled man. Ælfgifu’s son. Cnut’s firstborn. A worthless hunk of whale blubber.
“So you think war is easy, then, do you, lad?”
Through a mouthful of wheat bread: “Ja. Look how easily you’ve made an empire for yourself.” Swegen chewed, swallowed. “And a future kingdom for us, of course, for Harold and me.”
How odd that his three sons were all so different. Swegen here, lazy, greedy, expecting everything to be provided for him—so much like his mother, the very image of her, even down to the nasal whine when circumstances did not go his way. Harold. Harold was the fighter, the athlete, the wrestler, the one who always had to be better, braver, stronger than everyone else. They called him Harefoot, his friends, for his fleetness at running. Cnut did not deny him the praise he deserved for all those attributes, but where was the counterbalance? Where was the willingness to acknowledge others as good, the humility of losing? And Harthacnut. Still a child, not quite nine years, but with a streak of ruthlessness about him that would, when he became a man, bode ill for an enemy. He was the quiet one, the one who accepted that it was as important to read books as it was to learn how to use a shield and spear. Swegen the greedy, Harold the warrior, and Harthacnut? Harthacnut was the thinker. The one who, although the youngest, would, in Cnut’s opinion, one day make the better King. Although Ælfgifu would never see it that way, but then she was not a woman who could see anything except her own narrowed vision and her ceaseless lust for vengeance.
The Forever Queen Page 55
