The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Harthacnut was staggered at her presumption. She had barely waited to be announced into his hall, but had swept in through the doors, Swegen, her miserable, plump rag of a son, scuttling at her heels. Nor had she waited for the politeness of formalities, but had launched immediately into a tirade of abuse and condemnation against the Norwegian people, followed by this demand for assistance.

  For a full minute Harthacnut sat, staring in disbelief at her audacity, saying nothing.

  “You have the effrontery, madam, to burst uninvited into my hall. To that you add demands of my crews and ships, without any suggestion of financing such a nonsensical expedition. Why should I bail you out of a sinking ship? What are you to me? What have you been to my mother, save a festering thorn that ought have been poulticed and plucked before I was born?”

  “You dare talk to me so?” she snapped at him. “I am your father’s first-taken wife. This”—and she shunted Swegen forward, the boy wiping at a dripping nose—“is your father’s firstborn son. Cnut set us to rule Norway. It is your duty to fulfil his wishes.”

  “My duty is to Denmark. If Magnus Olafsson cares to bring a fight to me, then he shall feel the edge of my blade, but I am not in a position to take the sword to him. Not for myself, my father, nor, and most especially, for a whore and her bastard-born by-blow.”

  Ælfgifu took one angry step forward—just one—and found herself surrounded by the sudden standing to attention of Harthacnut’s housecarls, all of whom cradled an axe or a spear. Had she made that two steps, the second would have been her last.

  “Your father shall have something to say about this when he hears!” she hissed, rage oozing from every pore.

  “Then I suggest, madam,” Harthacnut answered laconically, “that you reboard your ship and go personally to tell him.”

  She was a proud woman who had no idea how to admit defeat or to show humility. The years of bitter hatred had wormed into her, the cruelties she had witnessed seeping like black pus from her heart to contaminate her soul and every fibre of her body. Hate breeds hate that can never, once it has anchored, be sated.

  “You shall suffer for denying me, Harthacnut.”

  “Get her from my sight,” he ordered. “Come sundown, I do not wish to see her ship in my waters.”

  ***

  Swegen sat hunched and miserable in the stern of the ship, a walrus skin pulled close to his shoulders and head. It was supposedly waterproof, but how did he stop the slop of the waves from breaking over the side? The runnels of water gushing along the deck? He was wet, cold, and uncomfortable, and he had not liked Norway, not the land, the mountains, nor the people. He never wanted to eat another fish, smell the stench of another oily dead seal or whale ever again. Swegen loathed the sea, and he had been useless at government—what little chance he had had at it. His mother had done most of it, making charters, judging law, dictating this and that. Swegen could barely read, although the tutors had attempted to beat into him the letters and sounds scrawled across the pages. Harold was good at all that, but not Swegen. All he was good at doing, as she often told him, was annoying his mother. She blamed this present predicament on him too, of course.

  She said they were to return to England and demand that Cnut call out the scyp fyrd to redeem her honour. Swegen could not see Cnut doing it, but who was he to gainsay his mother when she was flying in one of her rages?

  He looked out at the heave of the sea, the white-topped waves that rose and fell as the ship lurched up and down from trough to trough, her keel rolling with the heavy swell. He felt sick. He did so hate the sea. And his mother. Scrabbling to his knees, he leant over the side, his belly spewing bile. He knew the crew was laughing at him—Cnut’s son, the useless dog who spilled his guts as soon as he set foot aboard a ship. Did not care. His only thoughts were of despair and discomfort, of the hopelessness of everything.

  Whether the high, wind-driven wave that shook the boat and tossed her, as if she had been no more than a delicate child’s toy, knocked him overboard, or whether he let himself fall, no one knew. One moment, as the ship rose, he was there; the next, he was gone.

  Ælfgifu screamed that they were to put about, but the sea was rough, and although they looked and called until nightfall, they could not find him.

  Perhaps he had not wanted to be found.

  41

  September 1035—Falaise

  The fear that Edward had felt when Duke Robert had threatened to invade England had been nothing to this. This was a gut-wrenching, cold, clammy terror, for the Duke, Robert, was dead and Edward did not know what to do. He had died at Nicea on the third day of July, returning from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Herleve, hysterical with weeping, declared over and over that she had begged him not to go. The eight-year-old child, William, had sat, withdrawn and silent in the same window seat for nigh on four and twenty hours now. And Edward? Edward was close to panic.

  Already Normandy was crackling with the sparks that threatened to turn, in the next breath, into a blaze of war, for the men who had professed to love and respect Robert were greedy to sit in his empty chair. Whereas Edward and Alfred had always been welcomed at court, suddenly they were being regarded with distrust and suspicion. Who could blame the noblemen of Normandy? The only heir was an eight-year-old boy, born illegitimately of a tanner’s daughter who now had a nobleman as husband; anyone who was able had the chance of claiming Normandy for his own. A Count or Viscount, or an exiled English Ætheling, son of the dead Duke’s aunt?

  Edward wanted a duchy as little as he wanted a kingdom, but to profess his lack of interest would be to open himself to ridicule. These harsh-minded, warmongering men of Normandy struck with an axe first and asked questions later, if it occurred to them to ask. They were not the sort of men who would believe a thirty-year-old exiled Prince would not want to take power for himself if opportunity presented itself. Edward had tried convincing Robert of it, to no avail—even Alfred could scarce accept his elder brother did not want a crown or coronet, only a monk’s cowl.

  “What do we do, Alfred? What do we do?” Rocking backwards and forwards, hunched into a ball, his arms clamped tight about his knees, Edward’s plea was pitiful. “You can fight; you are skilled with sword and shield, but I am not. Could we go to Henry, do you think? Would France protect us?”

  Alfred doubted it. “Henry will have his hands full keeping this lot on a tight leash without the need to bother with us. We would do better to attach ourselves to the strongest Lord and brazen it out. Offer our swords in service.”

  That idea did not appeal to Edward at all. Tentatively he suggested, “We could go to Jumièges? Robert Champart will take us in.”

  Alfred raised his hands in despair. “A life of celibate boredom may suit you but it has no appeal to me. I enjoy my women too much, even if you do not.”

  Edward said nothing. Women frightened him; he had, so far, had very little to do with them.

  They were in the great hall of Falaise castle. Herleve, who had always regarded it as hers, had shut herself away in the solar, up at the top of the corner stairs, the servants going about their daily tasks as if nothing had happened. But then to them, Edward supposed, once the initial excitement had been exclaimed over, there would be nothing different—a change of Lord, that was all. Routine would be the same, the daily, weekly, monthly drudge. Get up, do your work, go to bed. The shakes began in his body again, trembling through his arms into his hands. “We could always write to Mama?” he said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “Why not write, instead, to Cnut?” Alfred slammed back at him. “Ask him what would be his preferred way for us to die? Shall we hang ourselves or fall on a dagger? I am sure he could make a few useful suggestions.”

  Chewing his lip, Edward hung his head.

  “It is the lad I feel sorry for,” Alfred remarked, nodding towards William. “He is trying to be a man and keep the tears from falling; he worshipped his father, though he saw li
ttle of him. At least he should be safe. No one much bothers with a by-blow, least they will not once a new Duke is inaugurated and settled.”

  Edward attempted a wan smile. “Not unless he grows like you and hankers over what he could have had.”

  Alfred, missing the sarcasm, shook his head, wrinkled his nose. “Non, the boy is too base-born to rise higher.”

  Privately Edward disagreed, but held his tongue. William, apart from his elder sister, was Robert’s only child, and there was no one else of the line who could boast a legitimate claim, outside of a disabled nephew and a distant cousin or two.

  Noises filtered in from the courtyard, the sound of a retinue arriving, horses, voices, the chink of chain-mail armour. Someone else arrived to see for himself what was happening? To ensure the husband of Duke Robert’s whore did not pursue ideas above his status? Expecting a Count or an estate holder, Edward was surprised to see a man of far more importance stride through the door. Removing his cloak, the man bellowed for the mistress of the house to attend him.

  “Where is the woman Herleve?” He gestured to a maidservant. “Fetch her; I would speak with her immediately.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy, scuttled off up the stairs.

  This was a chance Alfred could not ignore. He grabbed Edward’s arm and propelled him forward. “We must speak to him and ask his protection. He’ll give it, I am sure.”

  Edward was not as certain, but already dragged halfway across the hall, he could not escape. Robert of Rouen might be a holy Archbishop, but he was also styled le Comte d’Evreux and had the reputation of being as formidable a warrior as any armour-clad cnight. On the obverse side of the coin, he was their mother’s second brother, and therefore he had a duty to acknowledge his nephews.

  “Sir?” Edward stammered, wary. “I give you greeting. Until the Lady Herleve can prepare herself, may I offer you refreshment?”

  “Ah, oui, the exiles,” Robert said, turning to look at them through slit eyes and the length of his long nose. He was a tall man, well padded with flesh around the stomach and cheeks. A man who did not experience firsthand the leaner years of a poor harvest. “You could be useful to my purpose; stay close. I shall wish to speak with you when I have finished with Duke Robert’s woman.” Without barely a pause, his eyes flickering around the busy hall, added, “Where is the boy? William?”

  “Over there, sir, in the window recess,” Edward said, obligingly pointing.

  The Archbishop strode across to the lad, booming that he was to stand up and stand up straight.

  Archbishop Robert terrified Edward more than a horde of besieging warriors or a gaggle of sniggering women. He was ferocious and dogmatic. There was no way Edward would volunteer to serve under him. This was it, then, his mind was made up.

  “I am going to Jumièges,” he declared to Alfred. “I am going to seek sanctuary with Robert Champart.”

  Alfred thought his brother a prime fool, but then he had known that ever since they were toddling children.

  For most of the afternoon the Archbishop of Rouen was closeted with Herleve and her son within the privacy of the upstairs solar. As dusk began to fall, the servants were summoned and a great activity began, the preparing and packing for a journey. Alfred heard of the reason and destination first and hunted for his brother, finally tracing him in the castle’s kennels admiring the recent litter of one of the hunting dogs.

  “She’s a good bitch, this one,” Edward said, looking up as his brother, holding the lantern high, walked quietly in, and shut the door behind him. He indicated the heap of straw he was sitting on, patted it, inviting Alfred to sit. Offered a wineskin and half his chunk of goat’s cheese. Gladly, Alfred accepted the sharing of this sparse supper.

  “That is the only thing with entering the abbey.” Edward sighed. “I shall miss my hunting and hawking. I do so enjoy the chase.”

  “Then do not commit yourself to anything permanent,” Alfred advised. “Go to Jumièges, by all means—in fact, I think the Archbishop would welcome your gesture—but go as a royal guest. That way you have the best of both lives.”

  Edward frowned, suspicious. Alfred had never encouraged his desire before. “You want me to go?” he queried. “Why?”

  “I agree, she is a marvellous bitch. If you were to ask Lady Herleve, I reckon she would give her to you as a gift. She’s in the mood for giving anything asked of her at the moment.”

  “I say again. Why?”

  Drawing a long, slow breath through his nose, Alfred sat up straight, pulled his tunic more comfortably through his waistband, stalling. “Because I am to ride into France with the Archbishop and William, so that the boy may lay his claim and pay homage as vassal to King Henry.”

  “William?” Edward echoed, incredulous. “William is to be Duke?”

  “It seems his father arranged it before he left for Jerusalem. Henry owed him a favour, after all, for the months he spent in exile here with us. If it were not for Robert, he might never have climbed onto his throne. Robert apparently called in the debt.”

  Suspicious again, Edward asked another question. “Why are you to go with them?”

  Alfred puffed his cheeks, embarrassed, rubbed his thighs. “I have offered my sword to the Archbishop Comte d’Evreux.” He cleared his throat, continued, “He is to inform our mother of her great-nephew’s inheritance and is to ask her to ensure no foreign Prince shall take a lustful eye to Normandy as an expansion of an already large empire while Duke William remains a child.”

  Edward’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean he is warning Cnut off? That’s taking a risk, is it not? Such a direct approach may be misconstrued as an insult and give cause for Cnut to act!”

  “Archbishop Robert thinks not. Cnut will be busy with Norway—Magnus Olafsson has laid claim as heir to his father and is making overtures to annex Denmark as well.” He grinned. “Our poor half-brother, Harthacnut, could soon find himself in serious trouble.” Added vehemently, “My heart bleeds for him.”

  Edward picked up one of the pups that had crawled over to investigate the scent of his boots. At three weeks old, his eyes had opened and he was beginning to take an interest in the world beyond his mother’s milk teat. A fine, sturdy dog, good legs, good head.

  “You still have not explained why you will be going to France.”

  “Have I not? If Cnut is to agree not to interfere with Normandy, King Henry and the Archbishop, acting together as guardians to the young Duke, will agree not to interfere in any way with England’s politics.”

  “In particular with an inheritance issue?” Edward asked, his head lifting, eyes brightening with relieved delight. No more expectation to claim a kingdom? God be praised!

  “Oui.” Alfred paused, added, “I also get a captaincy in the army.” For Alfred, that was all he had ever wanted: recognition.

  Edward set the pup down and ushered him towards his siblings. “I may ask Herleve if I can have the pup. I like him.” Then said thoughtfully, “Though William is but a boy. Will he survive do you think?”

  Alfred stood, brushed the straw off his woollen tunic. “We survived, why shouldn’t he?”

  42

  11 November 1035—Shaftesbury

  Cnut’s horse went lame a mile from Shaftesbury. “A stone, I reckon,” he said, jumping from the saddle and lifting the offside foreleg to inspect beneath the hoof. With his dagger, he scraped at the dried mud accumulated between the shoe, prodded at the exposed sole. “Ja. Here, it is bruised.”

  Godwine had dismounted and, passing his mount’s reins to a servant, bent to look, agreed. “Will you take my horse instead, sir?” he offered.

  Straightening, Cnut laughed. “No, Godwine, it is but a short walk up the hill to the abbey.” He patted his belly. “And to lose some of this will do me no harm!”

  “My Gytha says it is my appetite for ale and honey cakes that has caused mine,” Godwine grinned as he ruefully examined his own extended paunch.

  “Funny, that.” Cnut grinned back, cli
cking his tongue at his horse to walk on. “Emma believes the same!”

  Out of respect, Cnut’s housecarls had dismounted, offered their horses as Godwine had done. Cnut dismissed them with the same reply.

  “If we stay the night here with the good nuns, then proceed on our way at sunup, we shall reach Sherborne in good time,” Cnut declared as he started up the hill. The nunnery was at the top of the plateau, the climb steep. At least the road was cobbled and dry underfoot; to slog up here in deep mud was never a welcome experience.

  “I only hope the Abbot at Sherborne does not intend to keep us too long. Sign these charters of covenant and be on our way home, I say. The skies are gathering too grey for my liking. It will rain by the morrow’s dawn, you mark my words.”

  Godwine agreed; he sniffed at the air, swore he could smell the moisture.

  “If I did not know you better, my friend,” Cnut chuckled through panting breath, “I would say you are having second thoughts on granting land to the abbey.”

  “What? No, no, Sherborne needs that manor more than I. It is the journey here that irritates, not the deed. I had hoped for the Abbot to come to me, not the other way around.”

  “He has not been well, Godwine; we can hardly expect him to travel abroad with heavy rain expected!”

  Godwine laughed at the jest—the Abbot of Sherborne was known for his reclusive ways—was grateful when Cnut halted halfway to catch breath. “I could run up here when I was a lad, you know,” Godwine puffed. “Can scarce walk it now!”

  “Old and fat,” Cnut gasped, his hand on his chest, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, “that is our trouble.”

  Cnut found he had to stop a second time before he reached the abbey gate, and was pleased to be made welcome with a comfortable chair and a goblet of the Abbess’s best imported wine. The nuns served good food, well cooked with a variety of menu, but he found he was light of appetite and, as evening fell, felt an extensive tiredness creeping over him.