Unimpressed by the threat, but mindful of his duty, the reeve did so, and Emma had come personally, sure the message she had received was incorrect, that her son’s ship from Normandy was in harbour and did she wish him arrested? Had she realised that it was, indeed, “ship,” singular, not “ships,” plural, perhaps she would have been tempted to stay within doors and agree, aye, lock him in a cellar somewhere until the next tide, then throw him back to the sea as if he were a worthless shrimp.
Edward objected to Emma’s accusation. “You did not ask for an army. You said I had plenty of support here in England.” Strange how he thought he had forgotten how this woman looked and sounded, worrying, through the voyage, that he might not recognise her.
A crowd had gathered, curious, as men and women were when there was gossip to be made from listening to family conflict. Someone pushed through, roughly shoving aside those more reluctant to move, a large man, broad of shoulder and girth, his temper as hard-edged as his elbow. Godwine.
“What in the name of God is this?” he bellowed, stamping to a halt before Emma and Edward. “What is he doing here?”
There was no doubting who the boy was, for he was the image of Æthelred, save for the absence of a beard. “Do not tell me you sent for him, madam, please do not!”
Emma was about to lie, say no, she had not, when Edward, folding his arms and standing square in front of Godwine, countered, “And why should she not?” Affronted, added, “I am the son of Æthelred, the second King of that name. I am Ætheling. I have every right to be here.” Disdainfully wrinkling his nose, he looked at Godwine as if he were a begrimed beggar-boy “And who might you be?”
“I wanted my sons with me; is that not a reasonable thing for a mother to want?” Emma said quickly, belatedly aware of the storm rage glowing over Godwine’s face, and that she had made an enormous mistake. “Harthacnut has ignored my summons. You are deliberating the possibility of abandoning me.” She flicked her hand, desperate, uncertain. “I thought it prudent to call my other son to me.” When Godwine made no answer, protested loudly, “I cannot allow Harold to walk in through an open gate, can I? I must try all I can before facing defeat. I am prepared to fight this thing through to the end, Godwine, even if you are not!”
Godwine stared at Edward, at the cut of his light blue tunic and darker-hued mantle. At the ermine trimmings, the curled, combed hair, the slender, manicured fingers. If he had shown the curve of a bust and braided hair, Godwine would have sworn he was looking at a woman.
“To fight?” he echoed scornfully. “What? With this delicate bluebell?”
“I have returned from exile,” Edward declared, drawing himself straight and thrusting his face close to Godwine, whom he instantly disliked. “It is obvious I have been too long abroad, for Englishmen appear to have forgotten their manners.”
Godwine remained staring at him, speechless.
“Let England rejoice at my homecoming!” Edward shouted to the crowd, raising his hands, the sun sparkling on his adornment of rings. “Let the fyrd take up their arms and march with me!” He was enjoying being the centre of attention, although it would have been more encouraging if the cheers had not been so thinly scattered. How wonderful it would be when he had the chance to parade before all these onlookers with the crown on his head and the sceptre in his hand! He was quite looking forward to the pomp of all that. Was this another reason why he had never taken that final step into a monastery? Because he liked the thrill of pageantry and glory, and abhorred the thought of always having to be humble. Realised, suddenly, he preferred the knee bent to him, not the other way round.
Blandly ignoring the imbecile, Godwine spoke directly to Emma. “There is barely a man in Wessex who remembers Æthelred with anything more than contempt. No one will lift a spear to aid this peahen runt, except perhaps to quicken his going back to Normandy.”
“They will if I command it,” Emma snapped.
“If you command it, aye, the fyrd will answer you,” Godwine said, “but their hearts will not be in it, and you will bring down the full force of an armed North against you. Harold will see this for what it is, an outright threat, and he will retaliate without pause to first ask questions.”
Emma was close to tears. The frustration, the disenchantment, the sheer enormity of being alone to face all this. “He would not dare bring an army into Wessex!”
Godwine was disappointed, too, in Emma, in England. In Harthacnut. Why did the damn boy not set sail? The anger bubbling over made him forget all sense of position and diplomacy. “He will not be bringing an army against Harthacnut; it will be against a usurper, against Edward.” He pointed his hand at him. “Do you seriously believe this thing standing before you would last ten minutes against Harold? He may be the son of a woman you detest, but whether you accept it or no, he is also the son of Cnut. Harold’s father ensured he was taught to read, write, and fight. This lamb here may do well at prayer and dancing, but does he know how to use an axe or a sword?”
Edward did not care for being spoken about so rudely. He attempted a stammered protest that floundered into silence. He had never cared much for warfare, either. On balance, if it were a choice between the two, he would opt for this man’s blustering. “Alfred can fight,” he said, suddenly eager again.
Disdainfully, Godwine turned round slowly, faced him, fists on hips. Said, with his back to Emma, “I do so hope you have not issued a similar invitation to your other son? If Alfred comes to England, the hornets’ nest will be well and truly kicked over.”
“Mama wrote only to me. Alfred was most put out about it. So cross, in fact, we had the most dreadful argument.”
Emma closed her eyes, thankful that Edward was the simpleton he appeared to be. The letter had been intended for the both of them, had he not seen that? As well he had not!
Blithely unaware of possible implications and his mother’s discomfort, Edward prattled on. “Alfred raged about it for hours, saying he had as much right to come to England as me. He always did think he knew best above everyone else. In fact, he even threatened to go to Goda and her new husband for aid. You do not know le Comte de Boulogne, do you, Mama? Eustace is an ambitious sort and would welcome a chance to expand his authority, although he is far too brash and ambitious a man for my liking. Goda appears content with him as husband, though.” Realised, belatedly, that everyone had grown strangely silent and was staring at him with horrified eyes.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Godwine growled, his breathing coming in quick, anxious rasps, “that your brother may be bringing a Norman army into England?”
“That’s what mother wanted me to do,” Edward exclaimed. “She has this half-hour been scolding me as if I were a swaddled child for not doing so!”
“Madam,” Godwine said with vehement passion, his eyes staring into hers, “I pray your second son is as pathetically foolish as this firstborn. I will not be held responsible or accountable for any of this. What were you thinking, woman? If Alfred comes, he is on his own. I will not offer my sword in support, nor shall anyone else.”Annoyed, grieved that he had not been consulted, Godwine was turning away from her.
She caught his arm. “Godwine, I am so tired of trying to pretend that everything is all right.” She swallowed tears, her lip trembling. “That I do not miss Cnut.”
He turned back to her, touched his finger to her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he said softly, “we are all missing him.”
Taking hold of his hand Emma wiped a tear. “I was afraid, God as my witness, I was afraid that I was to be left alone with not a soul to aid me. Can you blame me for trying the one option I had left?”
Shaking his head, Godwine kissed her hand, then let it go. “I cannot blame you for thinking of it, but I do blame you for doing it. You know nothing of war or fighting. Leave the tactics to those of us who know what we are doing.”
“And if you desert me? Who do I entrust with the tactics then, Godwine?” Emma hurled back, angry at his response. “I know nothing of
war? I witnessed it firsthand when I watched Cnut besiege London. I felt it every day when my first husband abused and ill-treated me. I have done, and I will do, all in my power to preserve my crown and my son’s kingdom.”
“Then I suggest you get Harthacnut over here. I will not topple England onto her knees for any other. It is a sorry fact, but if Harthacnut will not come for his crown, then he is not the best man to wear it.”
Godwine bowed briefly, walked away. A light rain began to drizzle, and Edward huddled his cloak about his ears; he had forgotten how oppressively damp England was.
Emma stood, oblivious to her surroundings, numbed. She had thought loneliness unbearable when Cnut had been taken so cruelly from her. What was crueller? To live in perpetual misery and never know the pleasure of happiness, or to find it, only to have it taken away again? Who was there now to ride in on his stallion and carry her to paradise? If Cnut’s death was hard to bear, this second loss was worse, for this day she had lost her friend, adviser, companion, and crown all in the one blow. This was the pain of despair: the knowing that there was no further possibility of hope.
“Well,” Edward said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I can see I am not wanted here. You lied to me. Where are the fluttering banners? The trumpets, the horns?”
“Go away, Edward,” Emma said wearily, indicating the ship. “Go back to Normandy, and tell your brother there is nothing for either of you here in England.”
12
July 1037—Guildford
Emma’s daughter, Goda, had been widowed along with the young Duke of Normandy’s mother, Herleve, for Drogo, Comte de l’Amiens et le Vexin, her husband, had accompanied Duke Robert to Jerusalem and had died with him of the same illness. Being the daughter of a past King and a reigning Queen, Goda had no fear of a lengthy and lonely widowhood and had soon been snapped up by a young man who welcomed a boost up the ladder of power. Eustace, Comte de Boulogne, achieved a double advantage: Goda was a handsome woman, and she had proven her worth for breeding by producing two healthy sons for Drogo.
Eustace was ambitious. To have a royal-born as wife was useful for his purpose of bettering himself, and the opportunity to become a kingmaker proved too tempting to ignore. When asked by his wife’s brother for aid, he agreed with alacrity, seeing his own possible prestige as an end result. Always cautious, however, he invested only five ships and crew, but Alfred thought that enough; his mother had assured Edward there would be widespread support in England. All he had to do was land and send word for the fyrds to rally. That they would not do so never occurred to either Eustace or Alfred.
To gain Eustace’s help, there were one or two half-truths Alfred had told. And a few outright lies. One of them, the most condemning, that he had made agreement for the entire venture with Edward and they had arranged to meet in England, Edward marching to London from the South, Alfred from Sandwich. The Count also believed Emma knew of, and approved, the plans, and England was eager to be rid of Harold Ælfgifusson as soon as possible. The choosing of either Edward or Alfred as King would be for the Witan, but Alfred was thoroughly confident he would be the first choice.
Doubt nudged Alfred when the initial welcome was not as warm as he had expected, a caution he soon shrugged aside. Sandwich refused him permission to enter the harbour; no matter, he sailed instead direct to London, where he assumed Edward would now be with the royal housecarls from Winchester. Perhaps it would have been prudent to have contacted his elder brother before leaving Boulogne? To have informed him of his intent? But Alfred was sick and tired of dancing to another’s tune, particularly the sanctimonious Edward’s dictate. He wanted to do this on his own, to show his brother—show them all—what he could do if given opportunity. If he was to become King, he would require initiative and independence, and the pride generated for him in his ultimate success would be unmeasurable.
The blow came when London also refused him entry, the high reeve shutting and barring the gate in his face, the suspicion that everything was going horribly wrong suddenly beginning to dawn. Where was Edward? Surely he would have planned to head direct for London?
Refusing to believe he had misjudged the situation, Alfred left the ships at Greenwich and struck out across land heading south, assuming he would meet with his brother somewhere along the way. He would not consider that Edward might not have left Winchester and that Emma had exaggerated the situation. Would not believe it because this was his one chance to free himself from being an exiled nobody; he was here in England, he had armed men, and he was going to succeed.
He got as far as five miles from Guildford in Surrey, where he was intercepted by a furious Earl Godwine.
“So you came,” Godwine said, hitching his leg over his mount’s withers and sliding to the ground. “I thought your brother to be the fool; now I discover the both of you are alike. Mayhap you are even worse.”
Seeing the troop of men appearing from the South, Alfred had assumed them to be Edward’s men and had quickened pace, eager, his face alight with a broad smile of triumph. How astonished and impressed Edward would be to see him here with all these able men! How delighted their reunion, that stupid argument entirely forgotten; how the people of London would grovel and beg forgiveness!
Pleasantly: “You have the advantage over me, sir. You are…?”
Abrupt: “Earl Godwine of Wessex.”
Alfred’s smile broadened. He thrust out his hand in greeting. “My mother’s man! This is well met, my Lord.” He peered round Godwine’s shoulder at the mounted men, expecting to see Edward among them. “Where is my brother? Is he not with you?”
“He is not,” Godwine answered, ignoring the outstretched hand.
Embarrassed, becoming aware that something was amiss, Alfred withdrew it, wiped his damp palm surreptitiously on the back of his thigh. “As you see, I have come with men to aid my mother in answer to her summons.” Alfred swept the same hand towards the straggled group of his weary, uninterested men taking opportunity to sit and rest, to swig at pigskins of ale and gnaw at dried strips of beef or hard rye biscuits.
Critically Godwine eyed the ragtag bunch of ruffians—scraped from the bottom of barrels, by the look of them. “You intend to fight for a kingdom with this lot?” He snorted in derision. “Can any of them stand upright, let alone fight?”
“We have marched without rest from London,” Alfred defended himself hotly, refusing to give ground to this arrogant man. He would see to it that this Earl was replaced as soon as the crown was secure. Oui, he knew these men left much to be desired, but le Comte had been as generous as he was able, given the limitations of finance. Aside, Alfred had expected better men to be available here in England. “Is my brother to follow behind you soon, then?” he persisted.
“Your brother has left Winchester…”
The delighted smile returned. “Then he is on his way!”
“…And has returned to Normandy.”
The smile faded, enthusiasm seeping away like melting snow. “But he was to lead an army?” The bewilderment turned to anger. “Damn him,” Alfred roared, kicking at the hard ground. “Damn him, the coward has done it to me again! He has shit himself at the thought of fighting and, rather than face a few ragged outlaws, has run for cover! He would never make a King, and I will tell Mother so when I meet with her. I am the better man; she must see that now. Who needs Edward anyway? I most certainly do not!” The anger came quick, to hide the disappointment of ruined expectation.
Godwine laced his fingers through his baldric, slung aslant across his chest beneath his mantle. “You think that, do you? You and who else?”
Alfred spread his arms wide, indicating the Guildford countryside. “England, of course. You, Wessex, and all others who would join with me.”
“Let me make this plain. There are no others, nor will I join with you. The sons of Æthelred are not wanted or welcome here. I suggest you march at double speed back to your ships and return to where you came from.”
O
ne of Godwine’s lieutenants hailed him. “Sir? Riders approaching.”
Godwine swore. Ten, twelve men, coming fast at a gallop. Swore again when he recognised the horse in front and therefore the rider: a spirited dapple grey with black mane and tail.
“I advise you, boy, keep your mouth shut and say nothing,” Godwine said hurriedly as he faced the new arrivals, bowed to the man who leapt from the grey and swaggered over.
“I am not a boy to be ordered by a traitor like you,” Alfred grumbled.
“So you have intercepted him, my Earl of Wessex,” Harold Ælfgifusson said, nodding in approval. “What were you to advise? That he make all haste from England so I need be none the wiser of this attempt at invasion? Or were you to escort him to Winchester to aid the traitor Queen?”
“My mother is no traitor! How dare you slander her!” Alfred shouted, ignoring Godwine’s good advice. “She is the crowned Queen. I am her son.”
“I know full well who you are,” Harold drawled. “I am most pleased with London for informing me of your identity and whereabouts. London supports me, not the sons of Æthelred, a man who soiled himself as he ran from my father and grandfather.”
With a hand gesture, Harold dismissed Alfred and confronted Godwine. “And so, my Earl of Wessex, what say you? Would you prefer to keep your title, lands, and life by serving me, or do you side with this absurd turnip? I remind you, before you answer, that you are not at this moment in Wessex. Surrey is mine, and any man who brings an army into my territory must face the consequences of sedition.” He waved his hand at the Earl’s men and Alfred’s. Not many more than one hundred men. Ten was enough to constitute an army.
Godwine was trapped. This was the reason he was so annoyed with Emma; this was what he had feared, what he had not wanted to happen: a war to start, innocent men butchered. How could he answer? Defend Alfred, to whom he had no loyalty, and betray his own men? Men who had followed him all the years he had been an Earl, aye, and for some of them beyond that, for the two eldest had sailed with his father. But betraying Alfred would betray Emma also.
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