Ælfgifu looked from the housecarl to her son. The ungrateful bastard had planned this! Had arranged it all! Dignity was the one thing that had allowed her to survive through the horrors and torments that had plagued her life—dignity and a determination to ruin the lives of those who had ruined hers. She stepped over the annoying array of dogs her son insisted on keeping near him, great brutes of things that stank, particularly when their coats were wet.
“I shall return to Northampton,” she said, “but do not come whining to me for aid when something goes wrong and you are suddenly in desperate need for my wealth. You will find my coffers are locked against you. As will be my door.”
“I will not come whining, Mother.”
“You will,” Ælfgifu jeered as she swept from the room. “You will.”
Alone, Harold drank the ale down in one gulp. Found his hands were shaking. “I will not,” he muttered. “I would rather take my own life before groveling to you.”
16
May 1038—Bruges
What had been worse? The panic in fleeing Winchester? The leaving of virtually all she possessed? Or the sea crossing? Her kinsman, Baldwin of Flanders, adored the sea, was always expounding the virtues of his prized warships, exclaiming about the talent of his crewmen. Rivers and the sea might be a part of Baldwin’s heritage, and his future too, for all Emma knew, but if he attempted to entice her aboard that cursed ship of his once more…!
Flanders had been the natural choice for exile. Normandy, with its boy Duke, was unstable, and Baldwin was the stepson of one of Emma’s favourite nieces and, more to the point, powerful. Baldwin, fifth of that name, ruled control of the Flanders sea-lanes, held the key to the silver trade, and was nigh on independent of any other country; and Bruges was a suitable base from which Emma could court allies to aid her return to England. France and Boulogne were worth cultivating, although she doubted Count Eustace would be willing to aid her, not after Alfred’s bungling. King Henry of France Emma did not know personally, whereas Baldwin had been a guest at Cnut’s court on several occasions and his Countess, Adela, was distant kin to the King of France. The two had been married for eight years and had an expanding brood of children, the first two boys, the last a girl, Judith, and another one due any day.
Cnut’s hound, Whitepaw, nudged Emma’s hand with his nose. He had not been an especial favourite of Cnut’s—a pup of his best hunting dog, Liim, he was smaller than the others, less bold—but Whitepaw had been the dog to stay at Cnut’s side, to lie at the foot of the bed; Whitepaw had always been there when the other dogs were more interested in chasing hares or scenting deer, squabbling for the heat of the fire or nosing after food. Whitepaw’s first love had been Cnut, and he had pined almost to death after he had gone. Stupid to have bothered with the animal; it would have been kinder to slit its throat and end its misery, but Emma, too, had been pining; she knew what it was to not want to eat, to want to hide in a corner and grieve. Knew what it was to want only the fond touch of his hand, hear the laugh in his voice. Through their mutual despair, she and Whitepaw had become inseparable friends, down to both being dreadfully sick for the entire sea voyage to Bruges.
Entering the doorway to the upper first-floor hall of the stone keep, Emma almost collided with Adela. They apologised in the same breath, laughed.
“You had no hope of missing me, my dear,” Adela chuckled, resting her hand on the bulge of her belly. “I am almost as wide as this entire hall. The next time Baldwin comes near my bed, I swear I shall cut off his manhood.” Adela threaded her arm through Emma’s. “I am about to walk along the river. I have a headache, and I thought fresh air might clear it. Will you stroll with me?”
Emma agreed, for she found the confine of Baldwin’s castle oppressive. Was it the castle, or the overbearing good intention of its occupants? They made her so welcome, bade her treat the place as her own home, but neither Baldwin nor Adela understood. She was safe, she was comfortable, but she wanted her crown and position. She could not make Baldwin realise that here she was his guest, obliged to the whim of others; in England she was the one to be deferred to.
“I hope the child is a boy,” Adela said. “A boy shall mean so much more to Baldwin. Girls are for marrying; they grow and are gone. Sons bring their wives to court; they do not leave.”
Saying nothing, Emma allowed Adela to walk ahead through the narrow gateway that led to the river path. She was not a woman to enjoy the feminine chatter of wives and mothers; children, as a conversation topic, had limited value to Emma. But what else was there to talk about in this dull place? The weather?
“Sons, too, have a habit of deserting you, I have discovered,” Emma said mournfully. She was feeling sallow this day; why was that? Her monthly courses had entirely ceased, although the symptoms of losing her womanhood irritatingly persisted, the hot flushes, the feeling of being as swollen as Adela, the so-annoying loss of memory. She even found, occasionally, that she forgot what she was saying in mid-sentence, and as for remembering where she had put anything—God’s grace, she was beginning to believe were it not fixed to her neck, she would one day soon forget her head.
Fatigue caused it, Adela said, an opinion confirmed by the physicians. It could be; Emma had barely slept these months, dozing, gaining two hours at the most, only to wake, fretful and soaked in sweat, longing for England and Cnut. For her own mind, Emma was convinced her memory and this baffled fug that clamped her brain into a stupor was the result of boredom. There was nothing to do here! Nothing to stimulate her, except the interminable walks. Adela was content with her domestic chores and her children. Emma, who had ruled a kingdom as regent, never had been, never would be.
Relinking her arm, Adela gave Emma an affectionate squeeze. “I am sorry. I forgot your Edward in exile in Normandy, and your poor, poor Alfred.” Overcome, Adela wiped at her eyes. “How that lad suffered, how you, too, must be suffering for his soul.”
“I thank you for your sentiment, my dear friend,” Emma said diplomatically, “but I was thinking of Cnut’s son, Harthacnut.”
Maternally, Adela patted her arm, although she was younger by fifteen years. “So difficult to have control of more than one kingdom. Baldwin does never find the hours to govern Flanders. How Cnut managed three is comparable to a miracle.”
She said nothing directly of Harthacnut; Emma did not expect her to. The Count despised him, for reasons of disagreement over trading and control of the sea routes, and what Baldwin thought, Adela unwaveringly echoed.
“Madam?” a voice called from behind. Adela and Emma turned round, the Countess assuming the hail to be for her, but it was Leofstan, Emma’s dear, loyal, sensible captain. He was running, waving a parchment. “Lady, there is a communication for you!” he called, his voice caught and tossed by the playful wind.
Adela found a fallen tree as a seat, invited Emma to sit beside her while they waited for the man to catch up, but Emma shook her head, walked forward to meet him, patting her side for Whitepaw to follow. A letter? From Harthacnut? Please, Holy God and Mother Mary, let it be from Harthacnut! She ran a few steps, controlled the foolishness, forced herself to stop, stand, wait. Whitepaw whined, sat.
Leofstan, breathing hard, bowed, handed her the scroll. He was putting on weight, his hair starting to show the first frosting of grey. Emma smiled to herself. Gods! Had they once all been young?
Eagerly she took the thing, her hand almost grabbing it, her eyes going straight to the seal—her joy leaping. Harthacnut! Yes, it was from him! Her fingers fumbled at the seal, broke it open, her eyes scanning the words, looking for when he was coming, how many ships he would be bringing.
The anticipation dwindled and faded. There was not much written there, a few lines of hastily scrawled script. Emma handed the parchment to Leofstan. “It was kind of you to bring this to me. Please, read it.”
Frowning, puzzled, Leofstan did so, his face falling into concern as he read the words. He did not finish reading it, though; there was no need. “L
ady,” he said, tentatively reaching out to touch Emma’s arm, “I am so sorry. So very sorry.”
Emma attempted a brave smile. “Thank you, my friend,” then, “I think I would be on my own. May I ask you to convey my apologies to the Countess? Offer to escort her either to the burgh or on her walk. Explain to her?”
Leofstan nodded reluctantly. “You shall be all right, my Lady?”
She smiled, so sadly. “I shall come to no harm. I have Whitepaw with me; he is all the company I require for a while.” She ran her hand across the smoothness of the dog’s head, was rewarded by licked fingers. “Inform the Countess I shall retire directly to my chamber once I have walked, and I would be grateful for only a light supper to be brought to me.”
Again Leofstan nodded. He would do anything for his Queen, if only he could protect her from this new grief.
“There is bad news?” Adela enquired of him as he saluted.
“Oui, madam,” Leofstan answered in French, the prime language of Baldwin’s court. “Lady Gunnhild, my mistress’s daughter, Harthacnut’s sister, has died of a pestilent fever.”
Adela shook her head. Was there no end to Emma’s grief?
Emma wept private tears for Gunnhild, called for that other woman from so long ago, Gunnhilda, wife to Pallig. Wept for the loss of a child, the loss of all that was dear. Wept for this new tearing of her heart. Whitepaw lay beside Emma on her bed, occasionally licking her face, his warmth and presence comforting, not minding if her arm was heavy, her hold too tight, or that her tears soaked his coat.
By next morning, from the floor above, Adela’s birthing screams filled the upper chambers of the castle. A short labour, three hours. She produced a girl, Mathilda, and asked Emma some days later to consent to be her godmother. Emma agreed out of courtesy to her hostess; agreed, too, that although the babe was small—she looked more like a baby rabbit than a girl child, in Emma’s opinion—she would be destined for great things.
“Perhaps a King or a Duke shall seek her hand in marriage!” Adela boasted, proud.
“Oui, peut-être,” Emma replied, thinking the child was no more than a few days old and already her mother planned her marriage. That might be the sensible option, though, she reflected when she was once again alone in her chamber, with only her dog and her despairing thoughts for company. Might it not be sensible to dispense with children the moment they were born? Aloud she said, “That way, the hurt is over and done with the cutting of the cord.” Whitepaw, with his liquid amber gaze, thumped his tail in uncomprehending agreement.
17
June 1038—Southwark
Godwine’s hacking cough was painful to listen to; Gytha had tried, to no avail, infusions of coltsfoot, wild garlic, and sage. His face remained grey, the cough barking and wheezing in his lungs, and still he had insisted on going out in today’s downpour of rain. The meeting of guildsmen at the merchants’ hall might have been important, but so was his health.
“If you catch your death,” she had warned, “do not expect me to be able to save you with my herbs and potions. I have nothing more to use.” Yet he had gone and had come back wet through, shivering and burning in fever. Gytha had put him straight to bed and was steeping rose petals in hot water and honey, the smell from the simmering pot sweet and fragrant, when a visitor arrived at the Southwark manor. Tovi, who some called the Proud because of his supercilious nature and extravagant, colourful, and highly expensive dress. He shook himself like a dog and crossed the hall quickly, arms outstretched to greet Gytha with a kiss on both cheeks.
“My dear Countess, I observed this afternoon that your husband is not well. I have brought you something to help,” and he ushered the servant accompanying him forward, to place a leather-wrapped package on the nearby trestle table. “Spanish liquorice root,” he announced grandly, opening it to reveal the contents. “The juice is guaranteed to cure the stubbornest of any bronchial cough.”
Gytha clapped her hands in delight. She had tried the ordinary liquorice root, but the Spanish variety was purported to be the better for medicinal value; she had intended to scour the London wharfside for it on the morrow.
There were many who scorned Tovi, for he was a wealthy man, and his office to Cnut as staller, a high-ranking court official, had been envied and, in some cases, condemned by those who claimed he had been given the position for his financial worth, not his ability. Among them, originally, Godwine himself, although that opinion had altered since Cnut’s death, for Tovi had resigned his position and excused himself from serving Harold. In consequence, Godwine’s path had crossed with Tovi’s in a more social manner, for the staller had a lavish estate on the fringe of Lambeth across the river from Thorney Island, and now that Godwine had his own manor built at Southwark, the opportunity to meet had occasionally arisen.
Tovi sniffed at the infusion of rose petals. “Use some of this, after it has cooled, to bathe his eyes, they looked most red to me. It may help to cool his fever, too.” He smiled at Gytha, took her hand in his own. “But I am telling you something you already know, and probably far better than I.”
“You are very kind, and I thank you. I confess, Godwine will not stay within doors and coddle himself for a few days.” She shook her head, concealing the deeper thoughts, that Godwine was driving himself to the grave for the want of his conscience. Alfred’s death weighed heavy in his heart—on many nights since that dreadful ordeal, Gytha had awoken to find him out of bed, sitting alone in the dark, weeping.
Suddenly making up her mind, Gytha decided to unburden herself. Who else could she talk to about this? Certainly no one of court, for everyone trod carefully in their thoughts these days, not for fear of Harold, for he was doing his best, to be fair to him. No, the wariness was reserved for Ælfgifu, who took the smallest opinion to be the largest criticism.
“It is not this cough alone that bothers me, sir.” She gestured for her guest to be seated, sank, herself, onto a bench. “But his state of mind. He frets and worries, cannot rest or sleep; always, always he thinks on Emma or Alfred. He blames himself for both, you see.”
Tovi hauled a stool close, squatted on it, smoothing the lay of his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. He was not a young man, in his mid-forties, with receding hair and a coarse-skinned face. He had vast wealth but had worked hard to obtain it, not expecting any man to take the responsibility of his merchant trading that ought fall to his own concern.
“He was devoted to Queen Emma—begging your pardon for any misunderstanding in my saying that,” Tovi added with haste, “as, similarly, I was devoted to Cnut.” He shook his head regretfully at the memory of what had once been. “I understand Harold is attempting to rule with dignity, but until he gains the courage to bar his mother from his court, I fear England will suffer the consequences. He expresses good ideas for the making of laws and legislations, but each and every one is shredded by her superior authority. It is a King of substance we want, not a man too weak to demur to a dominating mother. He banned her once. Should never have capitulated to and allowed her back into his presence. The woman is a viper.” He shrugged. “Until Harold learns that yea and nay are words to be adhered to, England shall continue to spiral into decay.”
He sympathised with Godwine, for the decision to abandon Emma and serve Harold had been a hard one, one many shared in different degrees. Aye, Tovi was independent and concentrated on his merchant business—primarily the buying and selling of wool, a useful excuse for not being close concerned with King Harold—but for all that, he had to tread carefully and bend his knee when it was required of him. Had he been a braver man, he could have stood by his conviction of support for Harthacnut and taken himself off in exile to his other estates in Flanders or Normandy, but he had elected to stay, another man among the many disappointed and disillusioned at Harthacnut’s failure to claim his crown.
“If only Harthacnut would come to our aid!” Hasty, realising what she had said, Gytha covered her mouth. To speak thus was treason; if said before
the wrong person, it would mean certain death by burning alive, a barbaric execution Ælfgifu favoured. And what if Harthacnut did come? How would he value the men who had turned their backs on him in support of his rival?
Gytha was saved from embarrassment by the noisy entrance of two young men who burst into the hall amid a cloud of sodden cloaks and barking, excited dogs. They were arguing, although the tone was amicable banter more than bad temper.
“And I say the peregrine is the better bird than the gyrfalcon!”
“Nonsense! How can you compare any plumage with the gyrfalcon’s appearance of royal ermine? I have seen the most beautiful birds, snow-white with flecks of black, reminding me of letters upon a bleached parchment.” Swegn, older by two years, sparred with his younger brother, Harold, the two similar in appearance and already taller than their father.
“Beautiful, I grant, but merely decorative against the speed and grace of the peregrine,” Harold persisted; he noticed Tovi and immediately came over to him, his hand extended in welcome as he hailed a third opinion. “Hie, brother, here is a man who shall settle our disagreement! What be the bird of your choice, Tovi? Peregrine or gyrfalcon?”
Tovi the Proud had not been in Cnut’s employ without reason; his sense of diplomacy was unequalled. He answered promptly, “For my mind, my young adventurers, you cannot beat a plump roasted duck basted with herbs and served with new-baked bread and thick, golden butter!” The jest went well, the laughter whirled to the rafters.
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