The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Harold was awaiting an answer. Best, where possible, to cover a lie with the truth. “I am on my way to my recent-built manor in Southwark,” Godwine answered boldly. “I came across these other men by chance. As you see, they face south, I head north.”

  “So you have no objection to handing these dissidents into my care, then, Godwine?”

  Both of them knew what Harold was asking. In his keeping, Alfred would be facing certain death.

  It was not an easy decision to desert Emma. Godwine had given her everything within his ability. He loved her, yet she had gone behind his back in this ill move to bring Edward and Alfred to England. England could not be held in ransom because one woman would not admit the finality of defeat. Without Harthacnut, England was lost, Emma was lost. It was selfish, and mercenary, to attempt to save himself, but neither was it common sense to surrender and give up all he had for a cause already dead. Godwine made his decision: for Wessex and for England, the good of the majority had to take precedence above one woman and one foolish exile.

  “I have your word that Alfred shall be treated with the respect due a King’s son?” It was a futile request, but Godwine felt honour bound to ask it.

  “He will face a trial for treason. I can give no more promise than that.”

  Godwine was in an impossible situation, and so was Alfred, but the boy was too shocked to realise the full extent of it.

  He had stood open-mouthed, incredulous, not believing what he was witnessing. “If you hand me over to this bastard, you go against all you have pledged to the Queen. You break your sworn oath.”

  The contempt, the anger, had gone; all that was left for Godwine was an immense sorrow. He found it difficult to speak, for tears were caught in his throat—not for Alfred, a foolish young man he barely knew, but for a woman he greatly loved.

  “I break nothing that has not already been broken,” he said, meaning the trust they ought to have held between them, the protection he must show to his men and his earldom, for they also deserved his honour. It was not oath-breaking to perjure oneself if the honour and lives of others were at risk of death and slaughter. Honour was a peculiar thing. To be truly honourable, a man had to place the majority above the self or individual. By abandoning her, Godwine would be breaking Emma’s heart, but that, too, had already been broken by Cnut and shattered by Harthacnut. It had not been Godwine’s doing.

  Harold beckoned his men forward, their swords drawn to arrest the exile and the men who dared follow him. Was becoming a King of all England to be so simply achieved after all?

  13

  August 1037—Ely

  Misery. Pain, worse, the humiliation and weariness of enduring, day after day, this living through a nightmare that would not cease, not even in sleep. Alfred lay curled on filthy straw in a dark and dank cellar that was home to some broken barrels and a family of rats. The monastery at Ely was nothing more than a shuffle of buildings clustered on an isolated island set amid the wide space of the desolate Fenlands of East Anglia. There was nothing here except a wind that bragged in straight off the North Sea as sharp as an axe blade, and the incessant whispering of the rushes, sounds broken only by the ghostly boom of the bittern.

  It had been dusk as they had entered through the low archway of Ely, leaving behind the colourless spread of land stretching from horizon to horizon. An eternity of a place. The last thing, aside from his prison and the faces of his torturers, Alfred had seen.

  Ælfgifu had sent him here against Harold’s wishes, to this place where no one, not even God, remembered its existence. She had ridden with them at the head of the small column. Gloating in triumph.

  How had it all gone wrong? What step along the way had he taken as a wrong turn? To think he was clever and have the arrogance to claim a kingdom for himself, by himself? To have the nerve to live, the audacity to be born?

  And where was Edward? Had he, as Godwine had said, left Winchester and returned to Normandy? Oh, God in Heaven, God who had forsaken him, Alfred prayed it was so; prayed Edward was safe, and in the next breath prayed his brother had gathered together an army and was at this moment about to besiege Ely and set him free.

  Alfred cried out, the sound of a wild animal caught in a trap, its leg gnawed half through by its own teeth. A heart-wrenching, gut-twisting sound of immense grief and hurt. A prelude to death.

  His men, those sent by his sister’s husband, Eustace, were dead, all of them maimed then slaughtered. Murdered, with Ælfgifu looking on as each one was questioned, over and over through the agony of torture. Why were they here? Why had they come? To follow Alfred! To make Alfred a King? Damned questions. Damned answers.

  “Why are you here?” They had asked it of Alfred, too. He had not answered, except to spit in their faces. And then he had been the last left alive, and they had brought him here, to the bleakness of the fens and the edge of the world, where no one would notice his futile ending.

  “Why are you here?” Ælfgifu repeated as they held him to the floor. “If it is to be King, then your mother is to be disappointed. For falling into my hands you will pay the price all my brothers endured.” And she watched, cold and detached, as her men put out Alfred’s eyes with white-heated pokers, willing the revenge to flow sweet and sated through her veins, but felt nothing beyond the iron hardness that had turned her, during the passing of time, to unfeeling stone. She laughed as they threw him to the rats, laughed as she rode away and left him to take six days to die from the cruel way they had blinded him.

  The monks buried him in a grave in the south chapel at the west end of their inconsequential church. In a grave that, it soon came to be said, echoed the sound of insane laughter of a woman who never achieved the solace of vengeance. Laughter that, even as she watched her son crowned King of England, glutted her mouth.

  Vengeance was not as sweet as they said it should be. Not when it was tainted by the sickness of madness, cruelty, and malicious spite.

  14

  September 1037—Winchester

  Emma stood, resplendent in the full regalia of her royal finery, on the top step of Winchester Cathedral, stood alone, flanked by no one. Erect, proud, watching the man ride towards her on his prancing horse, her expression an unreadable mask, her mind as blank as her face. Harold rode into Winchester with banners flying and crowds lining the streets, but the cheering was muted, roused only by the spear points of his insistent housecarls.

  He halted, dismounted, handed the reins to one of his companions. Godwine was there among them, and Leofric. All of them, every single, last, traitorous bastard. Harold came up the steps, his crown catching the sunlight, his mail armour new and splendid. He stood in front of her a short while, then brought his right fist up to his left shoulder in salute.

  “My Lady,” he said, the smile fixed on his face. He was not going to let this woman know his knees were shaking and he wanted to piss himself. Aye, all those men down there might be ranged on his side of the fence now, not hers, but how many of them carried a dagger concealed beneath their mantles? “It is good of you to welcome me into Winchester.”

  Emma stared at him. Saw Cnut’s eyes staring back. The slope of his jaw, the jut of his chin.

  Harold had offered her peace. She could live, retired, in her own home in Winchester, provided she never stepped outside the walls and provided she handed him her crown when it came time for him to take a wife.

  “Tell him,” she had said to the messenger, “I will not let it go to the whore who is his mother.”

  “Tell her,” his reply had come back, “that neither will I. My wife, when I find one, shall wear it, and my son, Cnut’s grandson, shall wear mine after me.”

  A pity, Emma had thought—if things had been different, if it were not for Ælfgifu, perhaps she could have liked Harold. He had so much of his father in him.

  “I do not welcome you. How can I welcome the man who had my son cruelly murdered?”

  Alfred, poor, stupid Alfred. She had indeed bred two fools for sons fr
om Æthelred. For Edward, Emma had given no second thought. He was his father’s son, not hers. Looked like him, sounded like him, was as useless as him. Alfred? She had offered a prayer for Alfred, paid to have Mass said in his name, and believed God had taken him to Heaven, where all his suffering was ended. She had not wept for him. How could you weep for a fool? “I cannot welcome the man who is to take all I have.”

  “Your son invaded my kingdom. He knew the risk, the penalty of failure.” Harold’s stomach was churning. How he wanted to say that Alfred’s death had sickened him, that it was all his mother’s doing? But how could a King begin his reign by falling to his knees and begging forgiveness? “Nor am I taking everything from you. I have given you your house and, within Winchester, your freedom. I give you your life. There are not many Queens who have been granted such honour. There are not many Kings who would have been so generous.” Nor as many so stupid, his mother had said, but Harold would not have any more blood shed at the start of his reign.

  Nothing would induce her to set foot aboard a ship; Emma had said so many, many times. Harold’s offer of peace between them had come as a gift from God. Aye, she would be prisoner within her own town, but anything, anything was preferable to crossing that sea…except, Harold did look so like his father. How could she, day after day, whenever he was in Winchester, whenever she touched a coin that carried his likeness, how could she not see, instead, the beloved face of Cnut?

  “I thank you for your offer,” she said. “It is generous of you, but I shall not be accepting. England is Harthacnut’s. It is not fitting for me to take bribery from the one who usurps his throne.”

  Harold shrugged mildly. “It is your choice.”

  “I choose exile. It will be of but short duration.”

  15

  Easter 1038—Woodstock

  For Harold this was one straw too heavy for an already overloaded wagon. His mother had interfered because of her petty squabbles and vengeances once too often. He had reached his fill of the wretched woman; her insistence on imposing her will on an independent and proud people had been the reason behind Norway’s rebellion, and he was not prepared to lose England for a similar reason. Ælfgifu had queried every move he had so far made, had belittled him in public, criticised him in front of his council, and disparaged him in the eyes of the Church. There was only so much a man could stand when it came to a woman undermining his authority, and this latest, an incitement to murder, Harold would not tolerate.

  “I remind you, Mother, Thurbrand the Hold was your man; his feud with Bernicia was of your making. Blame for the murder of Ealdred sits square on your doorstep.”

  “Appointing Ealdred’s brother, Eadwulf, as Earl of Bernicia does nothing but perpetrate the feud,” Ælfgifu retorted. “Thurbrand’s son, Karl, is most aggrieved.”

  Harold frowned; her protestations against his decision of a new Earl-making did not include mortification at being implicated in the outrage of murder, he noticed.

  He did not give a damn for what Karl Thurbrandsson thought; Ealdred had been a good man and had kept a firm hand on the rippling unease of the borders with Scotland. He had also worked well alongside Siward of Deira, in itself no insignificant accomplishment, for the two areas of the North always had been antagonistic towards each other, except where Scotland was concerned. And Scotland, of course, always took advantage of any weak links. Cnut’s authority had brought an uneasy settlement of peace; with his death all the old border raids were beginning again. It was a damned nuisance to find Ealdred murdered through a nonsensical reason of revenge that had long been forgotten and supposedly forgiven, though. Harold had needed Ealdred to ensure the lasting protection of the border country; he did not need his mother taking every opportunity to prod and poke new life into dead embers.

  “Ealdred was one of the few Lords to speak against your crowning,” Ælfgifu retaliated. “You ought to be pleased he is gone, ought to punish Eadwulf for his brother’s disloyalty, not reward him.”

  Harold refrained from stating the obvious. Such a course of action could unite Bernicia with Scotland. It would not take much doing, for Cnut’s adversary Malcolm was dead these past four years and his grandson, Duncan, was touting for all the support he could get against the rising power of Moray and King Macbeth. Now that he had Gruoch as wife, Macbeth was daily growing stronger; allied with the MacAlpin clan, there would be nothing to stop him once he decided to make his move. Both Duncan and Macbeth were intent on playing out the game to its end; if one side could manage to sway Bernicia, a distinct advantage could be created. For Scotland, not for England.

  While Scot bickered with Scot, England was safe, but steps needed to be lightly trod where the North was concerned, not committed to the heavy stamp of nailed boots. With his mother recklessly waving a lighted candle near the hay, the whole of the northern borders could erupt into flame.

  Tactfully, he said, “My father passed months of patience achieving peace between Ealdred and Karl Thurbrandsson. Putting an end to the bad feeling was one of his greatest accomplishments.”

  “Ealdred had considered supporting Harthacnut. The bribes I paid him were tenfold to any other,” Ælfgifu rejoined, as if that said it all.

  “God give me patience! That was no reason to manipulate his murder! Godwine supported Harthacnut, too, as did virtually the whole of Wessex. Are you to manufacture several hundred deaths, then? Am I soon to be depleted of the entirety of my southern Lords through a whim of yours?”

  Ælfgifu resented being shouted at; it was a habit her son was growing into of late; she would need put a stop to it. The accusation of her being involved in this murder was exaggerated also, but there was no point in her denying it. When Harold was in one of these moods, there was never any way to make him listen to reason. She gave no answer, for she was not totally innocent, and, wisely, she steered clear of saying more than was prudent by saying nothing at all. He could not have proof, for she never set anything down in writing and her messengers were carefully chosen men who would not dare utter words against her.

  “Who is King here anyway?” Harold exploded. “You or me, Mother? I distinctly remember the crown was placed on my head, not yours!”

  “And who gave you life? Who nurtured you through the uncertainty of childhood? Who taught you everything you know?” With each word, Ælfgifu prodded her own chest. “I fed you at my breast, nursed your fevers, soothed your grazed knees. I endured the humiliation of your father abandoning me for that bitch Emma, suffering his patronising visits, pretending I welcomed him, missed him when he was gone. For you, I surrendered to his pawing and poking, acting as if I enjoyed his lovemaking. For you, Harold, for you to become King, and what do I get as reward? As thank-you? Accusations and ingratitude!”

  “Oh, you make me weep! I was wet nursed. I barely saw you from one week to another, because you were always too busy with some plot or other with whomever happened to be your lapdog of the month. When you did deign to notice your sons, it was always Swegen you preferred.”

  “You would not be sitting there preening if it were not for me. My voice influenced the northern nobles to back you, my bribes, my cajoling. I could as easily break you, boy.”

  How often had he heard this? Every time he made some law, some suggestion that went against his mother’s grain. Would she never cease her interferences and criticism? Do it this way, Harold, sign this, appoint him. On and on! God’s breath! And she wondered why Cnut had so very rarely visited her?

  Ælfgifu’s eyes narrowed. “You are a worthless wretch. You are nothing compared to your father, aye, nor your brother!”

  “And you are nothing as a mother. I rule as King, and I will not allow more of your picking at my decisions.” Harold marched to the door of his private chamber and, flinging it wide, bellowed for the captain of his housecarls to be summoned. The man came running, his mouth full of cheese, his fingers hastily lacing a half-undone tunic.

  “I suggest, ma’am,” Harold continued with iron coldness,
“that you get you gone from my court and return to Northampton. You are no longer wanted here.”

  Ælfgifu was aghast. “But council…”

  “…Can function without your presence.”

  Outrage was beginning to consume Ælfgifu.

  Drawing herself straight—puffing herself up like a pigeon, Harold thought—she answered with disdain, “No one tells me what I must do, not since the day I saw my father carried in, covered in blood from where he had been butchered, not since I heard my brothers screaming for mercy when their eyes were blinded!”

  The hunting party was returning. Harold could hear the noise and clatter filtering from the courtyard. Most of the Witan members were already arrived here at Woodstock for the Easter council, but before business started, Harold was obliged to entertain his guests. He had wanted to go hunting with them, but there had been important things to attend to that could not wait: a letter to Henry of France, another to Baldwin, Count of Flanders. Neither letter would be answered, for both men refused to acknowledge Harold. That was Emma’s doing. The stretch of her authority was staggering; she might be in Bruges in exile, but her command was as much adhered to outside of England as ever it had been. Trade was suffering, for there was an effective blockade that stretched from Normandy to the Netherlands: export could not get out and import could not come in. Unless he negotiated agreement soon, England would be facing financial ruin.

  There was only one way to outmanoeuvre Emma’s meddlesome plotting, and that was by forming his own alliance. Both Henry and Baldwin had daughters, not yet of marriageable age, admitted, but readiness for a marriage bed was no hindrance to agreeing a betrothal.

  Ignoring his mother, Harold busied himself with pouring a generous tankard of strong-brewed barley beer, something to do with his hands, something to break the tension that was as sharp as a whetted blade. His back to her, so she might not see his face, nor he hers, he said, “I wish you to be gone, Mother, if not on your own initiative, then on mine. My captain is waiting to escort you to your horse. It is saddled; your possessions are being packed.”