“Are you not well, my Lord?” Godwine asked. “You look pale.”
“Ready for my bed, I think, Godwine; it has been a long day and I have an uncomfortable touch of indigestion. I will send for a herbal draught and get some sleep. Ensure I am woken an hour before dawn, for us to be on our way by sunrise.”
But his heart failing while he slept, Cnut was never to see the morning sunlight flood over England again, and Godwine, galloping his horse to return to Winchester, did not see the dawn for the blur of tears that scalded his eyes.
Part Four
Emma
Anno Domini 1035–1041
And men advised that Emma, Harthacnut’s mother, stay in Winchester with the housecarls of the King, her son, and hold all Wessex for his hands. And Earl Godwine was her most faithful man.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
1
12 November 1035—Winchester
Emma knew from the grey pallor on Earl Godwine’s face and by the way he stood, one step within the threshold, that something was horribly wrong.
“My Lord, you are wet through?” she said, a question in her voice, although the statement was obvious. A second question, of why he had come to Winchester so unexpected in such torrential rain, hovered unspoken. Rising from her chair, set for comfort beside the fire, she indicated with her hand that he could enter into her private chamber, come closer, warm himself, but Godwine remained at the door, his thumbs depressing the iron latch. How could he repeat news that would break this good lady’s heart like shattered pieces of glass?
“Lady,” he finally stammered, “I have ridden at the gallop since dawn.”
He shook his head slowly, held out both hands, palms uppermost, pleading for her to read what was in his mind to save the pain of having to say this thing aloud. How could she guess? No one in England could have foreseen this. No one. His arms fell to his side, a tear slithering down his cheek. His hair was rain-matted, his cloak and boots sodden; he said in despair, “Your husband is dead. God took him from us during the night.”
Emma stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her face draining of colour. She licked her lips, shook her head, denying what she had heard.
“No,” she said, backing away from Godwine and stumbling over a footstool, her voice rising to a scream. “Oh God! No!”
He hurried after her, took hold of her shoulders. “We could not rouse him from sleep. His physician, who knows of these things, believes it to have been a seizure of the heart. I assure you he looked to be at peace, did not feel pain or discomfort.”
Emma, Regina Anglorum, Queen of England, remained silent for several long moments, her mind, eyes, and heart blank. Empty. Numb. Then, with a steady calm returning, graciously thanked Earl Godwine for his trouble in riding to her on this wet day. “It was good of you to come to me personally, not send a mere messenger. You have always been loyal.” She spoke with a smile. “I am grateful for that and for your friendship. Attributes which may, I fear, be sorely tried in the weeks ahead of us.” She faltered, the control collapsing into the sham it was; her lip trembled, tears welled.
Snatching up her cloak from where it lay across a chest, she muttered, “Please, dry yourself before the fire. I would walk alone awhile.” Pride had been her only comfort and salvation for too many years; she was not about to alter her schooled endurance now.
Before Godwine could remind her of the bad weather, she had disappeared from the chamber and was running down the wooden stairs. Ignoring the sudden hush of the crowded hall below, she flung on the cloak and stepped out into the rain. She did not mind the rain; rain masked scalding tears and the pain of gut-wrenching, heartbroken grief.
Godwine made to follow her, reached as far as the hall’s outer doors, but there he halted and watched Emma walk across the mud-puddled courtyard towards the shelter of the stables. Retracing his steps inside, called for food and mulled wine. He had not waited to break his fast at Shaftesbury, nor barely eased his stallion from the punishing gallop he had set. The horse was ruined, of course, his wind and legs beyond repair, but what mattered one horse when the King was dead? When so many more horses, and men, might soon be beyond saving?
2
Emma heard a quiet footfall, a discreet cough; Godwine, come carefully to find her. She lifted her head from her mare’s warm flank, brushed ineffectually at the tears. Godwine had faced the doing of some hard things during his lifetime of two-score years; having to tell of this tragedy had been the hardest of all.
“I am sorry,” she apologised with a false laugh. “I am being childish and silly.”
“It is neither childish nor silly,” Godwine answered, “to weep for one who was loved.”
“I cannot believe what you are saying is true. It is as if this is some nightmare, and I shall awake in a moment, see Cnut coming in through that door, cursing the rain and the leak in his boot. Or if not today, then he will return tomorrow, or tomorrow, be gone some weeks, months, mayhap, but he will return. He has always come back to me. Always.”
Godwine was unable to find the words to respond—what did one say when someone was breaking apart? Instead, he spread his arms wide, half a gesture of helplessness, half an expression of support. Emma stepped forward, uncertain, unsure what to do, how to behave, how to react. Godwine had always provided a rock of solid friendship, but they had never crossed the boundary into the close intimacy of touch. Suddenly, anger filled her, the overwhelming anger of misery.
“How dare he do this to me?” she gasped. “How dare he hurt me so, let me down? He was always selfish, thinking of himself, his kingdom, what he wants, what he needs. How dare he do this!”
The tears freely falling, unchecked, Emma went into Godwine’s arms, accepting the offer of comfort. Her face tucked into his shoulder, the tears tore from her body as she wept great, gulping sobs of desperate sorrow, the pain so intense it burnt into her soul.
Kindly, gently, Godwine stroked her back, her hair, letting her cry, not caring to keep in his own tears. Two people, deep in the pit of grief, linked by their years of friendship and the gaping, aching chasm that had ripped open before them.
After a few moments—it was only a few moments of raw anguish—Emma pulled free, embarrassed. She went to turn away, but Godwine touched her shoulder, stopped her.
“It is all right to cry,” he advised compassionately.
“Yes,” she answered with a pale smile, “but not always wise. I am the Queen; people expect me to be their strength. If the foundation should falter, the building may fall.”
Godwine reached forward, very delicately put his finger to her cheek. “I am not people, Emma. I am your friend.”
The initial shock receding, her smile strengthened, and she took his hand, squeezed his fingers. “That you are, and I am so very grateful for it.” She took a deep breath, puffed the air from her lungs, and, secreting away the grief, pretended to have a stoic public face as she smoothed the front of her gown for want of something to do with her hands. “And I expect I shall be even more grateful during these next weeks to come. I will be in sore need of friends, for a variety of reasons.”
The stables were a refuge; they were also, apart from the horses, with their steady, soporific sound of chewing hay, deserted. There was no one to hear, no one to see.
“Tell me what happened, to the last detail; I have to know. Is anything amiss suspected?”
Emphatically, Godwine shook his head. If she thought murder, then he could most certainly reassure her against the dark menace that so often stalked Kings. “No, Lady, he died in his sleep, at peace and knowing nothing of it.” He told her of yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?
Emma digested the information. “It is good to know he did not suffer. He will be greeted well by God.” She was recovering, achieving the public face above the private grief. “Has word been sent to my son? He must be informed as soon as possible.”
Harthacnut. There, Godwine could be of service. “I dispatched the captain of my house
carls, my most trusted man. He is to take my own ship and sail as close to the wind as he can to Denmark.” It did occur to Godwine, now that he had a chance to think on it, whether anyone would bother taking word to the other sons, Edward and Alfred in Normandy, but there were not many in England who retained a loyalty to the old King. With the Duke of Normandy being a boy neck-deep in his own pile of trouble, it was unlikely there would be any Norman aid offered to the two forgotten exiles. No, the difficulty would be coming, when it came, from Northampton. Godwine’s mouth thinned; this was not the moment to be talking of it, but if Harthacnut did not come with all haste to England, his half-brother, Harold Ælfgifusson, would be making his own sturdy claim for the kingdom.
Emma was no fool. Her thoughts had already leapt there. “While we await my son’s arrival, we must ensure his succession. There are others who will be wanting a crown that is not theirs to take.”
Godwine half smiled, incredulous at this woman’s resilience.
“Word must be sent to all the Lords, Godwine, reliable messengers selected. Canterbury and York informed. As you know, my husband had a grave dug and made ready to receive his body at Bosham beside his daughter, but he has become a great and beloved King since those early days of his reign. He must have better for his place of rest. I would have him buried at Winchester, before the altar of the Old Minster, as is right for a King such as Cnut. I would be buried there, too,” she added, her eyes beseeching Godwine’s as her steadiness wavered. “When my end comes, I would rest beside him.”
“That will not be for many years yet, my Lady, I assure you.”
“Not too many, Godwine. I pray to God not to separate me from Cnut for too long.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed down fresh tears.
She recovered her composure by taking great gasps of air, continued with the practicalities. Easier to give orders, make decisions, and to tread familiar ground. Easier to pretend this new, unwelcome, and unwanted thing did not exist. “You will please make arrangements for his body to be brought here and for all the nobles of the Witan to assemble. Harthacnut must be crowned as soon as he makes landfall.” Angrily, she kicked at a stable door, causing the horse inside to snort and toss his head. “For this very reason I did not want Cnut to take Harthacnut abroad!”
For his own judgement, Godwine did not like Harthacnut, had always found him a sullen, indolent boy who let lies fall too glibly from his mouth. But was he being ungenerous? Harthacnut had been a lad when Godwine had known him. He was grown into a young man now. Perhaps he had learnt the wisdom of honesty and truth?
“Harthacnut,” Emma said with finality, “must come to England with all haste for the calling of council.”
Now with that, Godwine did agree.
3
15 November 1035—Northampton
You will find it difficult to take the treasury from Emma; she will not be an easy obstacle to negotiate,” Earl Leofric said gravely, stroking his moustache and shaking his head. “Assuming you get past her protector, Godwine, in the first instance.”
“Emma is nothing!” Ælfgifu spat contemptuously. “She has no more strength than I—and certainly not as much wealth to buy more, should it be needed.”
“I assure you it will be needed, madam.”
Leofric of Mercia thought Ælfgifu’s scheming for her son to be nothing short of madness. She had every right to put in a claim for the crown; Harold was, with all said and done, Cnut’s son, but that small fact would hold little sway once Harthacnut landed in England. He was already crowned jointly with Cnut as King of Denmark; he had fought in battles, could adequately command a man and ship. The Witan would choose him without overmuch discussion. Harold, for all his mother’s adoration of him, was not the man Harthacnut was reputed to be. But then…but then, as Ælfgifu had so plainly stated, Harthacnut was not here in England, Harold was.
“What if Harthacnut should be delayed?” Ælfgifu said again. She had been saying so this last half-day, since Leofric’s arrival in response to her urgent summons. “What if the winds keep him in Denmark or he does not hear for a while? She crossed her comfortably furnished solar to sit at Leofric’s side, put her hand delicately on his arm. “What if Harold does not wait for the Witan to choose? It is the one who wears the crown who carries the strength.”
“There would be opposition,” he pointed out, laying his hand over hers. “Deaths.”
“Theirs as much as ours.”
“It could ruin you. You could lose all you have, including Harold.”
“I could gain much, including a crown.”
Ah, Ælfgifu always had a persuasive answer. There would be civil war, one faction against the other. It could also mean power and status, something Earl Leofric craved.
“It is my son and you,” she said, her voice low and seductive, “or her son and Godwine.” Her sweet breath fell like gossamer on his cheek, and he was stirred. Not his manhood, nor the wanting of sexual pleasure, but a desire for the highest of all powers. To be the man closest to the next King.
“We will need to move fast,” he said, making his decision. “Gather all we can to our side and descend on London. If we can get London with us, we will find firm footing beneath our feet, for who controls London can control England.” He looked across the room at Harold, who sat, elbows on his thighs, his lips pressed into his clenched hands, his eyes watching, watching every move Leofric made. Harold was one and twenty years yet wore the look of an old man about his eyes, a narrowed, calculating expression that reminded the Earl of a snake’s gaze. Harold’s eyes, if ever you met them straight on, sent shivers tingling down the spine as if an ice wind had blown in through an opened doorway. His mother wore the same eyes; the pair of them had the look of the devil in their soul. All the more imperative, then, to go with them if the storm was going to gather.
“Who will back us?” Leofric asked the question of Harold, although guessing his mother would answer. Harold had not spoken a word the entire afternoon, had just sat there, brooding.
“Deira, Bernicia, the seven boroughs—all the shires from the Great Wall down to the River Thames.” Alfgifu spoke with confidence, as well she might, for many of the Thegns and Lords were her kinsmen, either close related or, as with Leofric, distant cousins. However long or loose the tie, the blood of family could run thick when the possible reward was a crown.
“Siward was Cnut’s man,” Leofric countered, uncertain.
“Siward was content to serve Cnut, but not Godwine.”
Leofric was sceptical of Bernicia. “Forgive my discourtesy, ma’am, but I must say this bluntly. Uhtred’s kin will never side with you, not after the shameless way in which he died.”
Ælfgifu had been expecting the comment, memories were long in the North. Memories, however, could be manipulated into being selective. Theatrically, she shook her head, sighed with exaggerated weariness. “For how many years must I plead my innocence regarding that dreadful day? I have been forced to remain silent of the truth for the sake of my son. If I had dared speak within Cnut’s hearing I would have risked my life.” She stared levelly at Leofric. “Cnut made use of the known enmity between my kindred and Uhtred’s. He was desperate to seek southern allegiance but had first to be rid of Uhtred. How could he open his own hands and let England see the blood that was stained on them? So much easier to conceal the guilt and lay blame where it was conveniently diverted.”
She was clever; she allowed a tear to trickle from the corner of her eye, her face to crumple into fragile sorrow. “I carried a weighted burden for Cnut, bore vilification for the sake of my son. But I cannot remain silent any longer; the truth must be told.” She patted the damp tears from her cheek. “Cnut had Uhtred murdered, not I. I love the North, the strength we possess, the rights we ought to have, and the independence we should be granted. Why would I attempt to destroy our unity? Cnut wanted to divide us, to create a blood feud between kindred to ensure we would never unite against him.” She shook her head, seated herself on a chair.
“He succeeded only too well.”
If he had no other regard for Ælfgifu, Leofric had to acknowledge she was a believable liar.
She sighed and her shoulders drooped, defeated. “We have allowed Wessex to walk all over us and will never be rid of men like Godwine, because we are too busy squabbling among ourselves.” Carefully she did not raise her eyes, but kept her gaze downcast. Did she have him? Had she hooked him to her baited line?
She tried one last thrust. “We have a chance of putting a northern King on the throne of England. If we do not act quickly, England will always belong to Wessex, not to us.”
Uncertain, Leofric chewed his lips. Much of what she said was true, although as much of it stank more than fresh bullshit, but then the North was used to the smell. He looked across at Harold, studied him. A lean-faced youth, so much like Cnut. A King had to shine, had to be more than ordinary. What was there about this boy that would inspire men to follow him into the Hell of death, if it was asked of them?
Harold gazed back, his stare rigid, unblinking. Unafraid.
“Why,” Leofric asked, “should I make you a King, eh, boy?”
Aware the answer could affect the Earl’s final decision that, once made, would not be altered, Ælfgifu held her breath.
“Why”—Leofric expanded his question—“should I follow you as my Lord and turn against Cnut’s son? Harthacnut is already of more significance than you.” It was what they would all be asking. “What is there about you, boy, to justify a bitter war?”
Slowly, almost lazily, Harold unfolded himself from the hunched, morose figure he had depicted. He walked slowly towards Leofric, stood before him, confident and assured, his fists on his hips, legs spread. So much, so much like his father.
The Forever Queen Page 60
