“What? There is more?” Siward guffawed, rubbing his already bulging belly.
Always difficult to present a feast worth the eating during the lean days of Lent, but the royal cooks were expert at their job, and so far no King had ever been let down, even with a menu that consisted almost entirely of fish.
“We have pike served in a wild garlic and butter sauce, I believe,” Harold remarked, looking critically at the servants beginning to file in with silver serving platters held high. He was not much impressed by pike, but some men were fond of it, and the cook had assured him the sauce would be the finest ever tasted. These last days before Easter had to go well in all areas, from discussion to dinner. This was all Harold’s doing; none of it could be claimed by his mother. Nor blamed on her if things went awry.
Earl Leofric pricked the fish set before him with his eating knife. He, too, was not keen on pike. “Pike gives my lady wife bellyache,” he observed.
“That’s you poking at her that does that,” Harold mocked, his voice loud and carrying, more than a little drunk, drawing laughter from the rest of the table. Leofric scowled; he disapproved of lewdness.
Another of those awkward pauses, when men had nothing to say.
“I have decided to search for a wife,” Harold declared as he cut the steamed fish open and began to separate the meat from the bone. “A pity your daughter is not of age, Godwine.”
Godwine’s head shot up, as did Leofric’s and Siward’s, all three for differing reasons.
“My Edith is in her eleventh year,” Godwine answered, barely able to conceal his excitement. “She is not long from marriageable age. At present she is receiving education at Wilton. She is an apt and careful student.”
“Ah, but is she pretty?” Harold asked through a mouthful of hot fish. “I will not take a hag to my bed, you know.” He picked a bone from his teeth, swallowed.
“Could there not be some objection on grounds of kindred?” Siward offered, alarmed at the prospect of Godwine being so closely allied. Working alongside him as an equal was one thing, but this was not at all acceptable. “Cnut’s sister was wed to her mother’s brother. Might the Pope, therefore, not object?”
“Even if he does not, I most certainly shall!” Leofric railed, slapping the table with his palm.
“It will be nothing to do with your decision.” But Godwine got no further; Harold was rising from the table, tipping over his chair in his haste, his hand clutching at his throat. His breathing was gurgling, his face turning red, his fingers clawing at his neck, trying to cough, trying to spit out the fishbone caught there.
Siward thumped his back, hard, between the shoulder blades. Someone suggested laying him down, another getting him to bend forward. All the while, Harold was gasping for breath that he could not suck in, the redness of his face turning blue. He fell to his knees, his right hand imploring someone to help; no one knew what to do, all they could do was stand, watching, suggesting futile ideas, helpless and hopeless. Someone—Harold, Godwine’s second son—ran to find a physician, someone else to fetch the priest, but it was too late. Harold Ælfgifusson sprawled forward, quite dead, having choked on a swallowed fishbone.
***
In Bruges, Emma had waited the year around, from March until March. Waited, impatient, filling her time with plans for invasion and daily prayer, her heart high with hope. Waited for Harthacnut to leave Svein Estrithsson, the eldest son of Cnut’s sister, in charge of Denmark; waited for him to gather his battle fleet and sail to Bruges.
And then he came; in the month of March in the year 1040, he came sailing into Bruges as a cold wind blew a drizzling rain across the squall of the sea. He came, bringing ten ships into harbour, the rest, the other two and fifty, lying at anchor at safe distance in a sheltered inlet, lest Count Baldwin misinterpret his intention.
Emma greeted him with a smile as high as her pride and expectation. She was going home. Soon, very soon, they would both be going home!
20
17 June 1040—Sandwich
Emma fell to her knees, kissed the planks of the timber wharf, her heart thundering with happiness and relief. Exile and sea voyage, she vowed, as she knelt, offering a thankful prayer to God, would never, never be repeated. She would rather open a vein than suffer the humility of either ever again.
Gallantly, Harthacnut offered his arm to help her rise. She flashed him a smile of gratitude, revelling in the marvel of how beautiful her son had become in manhood. He was, every inch of him, Cnut, save for being leaner and thinner. His hair perhaps a shade lighter? His voice a slightly higher pitch? All else was the same. His eyes, his laugh, his strength. His smile. Cnut, Emma thought, would be so proud of him.
If he were here, her husband would be slapping everyone on the shoulder, asking after wives and children—calling for his best hounds to be brought forward, his favourite stallion, so he might show them off. That was a difference; Harthacnut had no inclination to boast, to show what he could do and how clever he was at doing it. Perhaps because Harthacnut did not have the need to prove anything? He already ruled Denmark with fair justice, discipline, and authority. Cnut had never lost that inner need to prove himself to England. She put her hand down on Whitepaw, who leant heavily against her, afraid, trembling at the noise and new smells. Emma rubbed his ear, received nuzzled fingers in return.
The crowds pressed close, straining to hear the words of welcome offered by a succession of church clerics, Lyfing of Worcester among them. His eloquent speech was intriguing, for he had opposed Harthacnut from the outset, championing Harold Harefoot and, as rumour wildly speculated after the event, had been party to the blinding of Alfred. Although it was false rumour, it was one that had the tenacity to cling as if it were spattered mud. The crowd was interested, also, to witness the reunion of Emma and Earl. Not as interested, if only they knew, as Godwine himself.
He had authorised the Bishop of London to go immediately to Bruges on the first tide’s sailing after Harold’s death, before they had even buried his body in the grave near the chancel arch in the modest Thorney Island abbey. Before the body was cold, some said, though they did not say it loud for fear of being heard by the wrong ears. The Bishop had been as eager to go, for he had been a monk at Evesham, an abbey revered by Cnut, and had suffered personally from the vindictive nature of Ælfgifu of Northampton.
Seven nights before midsummer—a significant celebration for the Danish who associated the shortest night with rebirth and fertility, the ending of the old, the coming of the new—Harthacnut stepped onto English soil again. Godwine came forward at a slow walk, his head bowed, hands low and wide, his naked sword spread bared across them to show he made no threat, was suppliant to any wish or command, whatever it might be.
Godwine had never been frightened of anything, only that time when his father had faced trial by ordeal, but that was fear for another, not for himself. If he were to count those occasions, there were all the births Gytha had laboured through, the childhood illnesses his boys had suffered, the death of men who had been friends. This fear was for himself. This could be the last day he felt the sun warm his face. Tomorrow he could be dead, hanged, or worse. That was not what he feared—death was an inevitable thing—but could he survive Emma’s scorn? How could he endure it if she were to turn away from him and treat him as nithing?
There had been delay in inviting Harthacnut to return to England, formalities, the back and forth of messengers and envoys. Harthacnut was to come as an elected King, not as an invading conqueror. The weeks had passed in frustrating slowness, but now that Godwine stood in front of Harthacnut, he wished there had been more time to prepare himself. He sank to his knees, head bowed, spoke with the words choking in his mouth. His memories recalling this man before him as a boy who had gloated at cruelty. Emma had never seen the streak of malice, neither had his father—or had he? Looking up into the young King’s face, Godwine saw Cnut staring back at him, and it occurred to him, all these years later, why it was that Cnu
t had taken his son off to Denmark: to teach him respect and control.
“I offer my sword and my loyalty, do swear my oath to you, and beg your favour for my foolishness in doubting your coming to England to free us from the tyranny of a usurper King and the stupidity of our misguided error.” He offered the sword to Harthacnut, who took it, gave it to his housecarl, Feader, standing upright and straight at his side.
“Break this sword,” Harthacnut commanded, “so I may symbolise the ending of what has been.” He took a new sword given him by his other companion, Thorstein, held it towards Godwine. “And take this in return as my gift to you, to signify the future peace between us.” He kissed the round pommel, and presented it to Godwine, who took it with a shaking hand.
Harthacnut set his hands on Godwine’s arms, raised him, kissed him on both cheeks. The crowds cheered, petals were thrown, green-leafed branches, flowers. Joy spreading like welcome sunshine emerging from behind black clouds.
Godwine turned, bowed again to Emma, and again sank to his knees. Offered her the sword.
“How can I beg your forgiveness? I am a humble, worthless wretch, and I beg you to punish me now by ordering the striking off of my head with this, the sword presented me by your son. I do not deserve to use it, only die by it.”
The cheers became louder, reached to the sapphire blue of the cloudless sky, for Godwine, and his father before him, had always been popular here in the south. And crowds loved a brave hero.
Emma’s stomach was still turning like a butter churn, although this voyage had not been as bad as she had expected. Countess Adela had given her a potion of steeped herbs that had tasted vile and bitter, but had settled the worst of the seasickness. Everything had been such a flurry these last weeks, she had barely found pause to consider what she was to say to Earl Godwine of Wessex.
Harthacnut had made no protest at Alfred’s slaying, beyond general disgust at the method of it. “He is to blame for being captured,” he had said when first she had discussed it with him. “Alfred wagered on winning; he lost. That is the way of things.”
“What do I do about Godwine?” she had tremulously asked Harthacnut before they had left Bruges. “When he asks forgiveness, do I give it?”
“That is for you to decide,” he had answered.
The crowd was waiting for her to say something, to acknowledge Godwine’s plea—one way or another.
“Oh, get up, Godwine; for the sake of God, get up,” she said, impatient with herself as much as Godwine. “You did what you had to do. As did I. It is in the past; let us forget it and be friends.”
He eased himself from his knees; in four years he would be fifty, no longer a young man with supple joints and lithe ability. His knee bone cracked as he stood, the pain of the joint ache swarming down his thigh from his hip. “I know not what to say or how to say it.”
She leant forward, touched her cheek to his. “Then say nothing, but ensure you serve me better in future.”
21
June 1040—Thorney Island
He had been crowned King of England for the one week and already he was missing Denmark.
Harthacnut stood at the edge of the River Thames, watching four ducklings paddling frantically after their mother to safer waters, his approach having disturbed their feeding among the reeds. This was Midsummer Eve, when in Denmark the old year ended and the new began. When men laughed with their wives and bedded their whores. When, in nine months’ time, at the start of spring a fine new crop of midsummer-blessed children would be born. England did not share the same custom. There was so much that was so different about England.
The day was hot, the heat haze shimmering over the marshes and sparkling on the iridescent hues of a dragonfly’s wings as it patrolled the riverbank, then darted low over the water. The midges, too, were out, but, unlike the solitary larger insect, hunted in swarms the size of an army, biting at his bare arms, flirting around his head. He slapped a few with his hand, mostly ignored them.
Harthacnut pinched the bridge of his nose, the headaches he often nursed seemed to affect his eyes. Tiredness, he supposed, and he was often tired these days. He called out in English to two fishermen sculling past in a flat-bottomed boat. “Hie, there, is it a good catch you are making?”
“Nay, the fish are all deep in the shallows, seeking the shade.” The speaker sounded cheerful, content despite the poor result.
“We will wait for dusk and trawl downriver,” the second man added.
If these peasants can find pleasure and happiness, then why can I not do so? Harthacnut thought.
“I wish you good fishing,” he offered, swiping at a horsefly that was suddenly interested in the alluring scent of human sweat. Was it any wonder horses were driven mad by them?
Swatting at it with both hands only made the creature more angry, and Harthacnut found himself in the ridiculous situation of running along the bank, being chased by a crazed fly the size of a fat wasp. He ducked into a clump of reeds, found himself up to his waist in water, swore vehemently in Danish. At least the horsefly had gone.
He sat on the bank, laughed when he saw one of the fishermen leaping about in the boat and waving frantically at the air with his hat. Persistent little pests, horseflies.
“Harthacnut? Be that you?”
He groaned beneath his breath. Mother. “Ja, Mor, det er mig. I am here.”
Emma dismounted her pony and, handing the reins to Leofstan, loosened her gown from where it had been hitched for riding. Bidding her escort to see to the horses, she joined her son at the river’s edge and patted her leg for the panting Whitepaw to come sit with her. The dog waded into the water to lap thirstily, his lolling, dripping tongue slobbering over his mistress. She batted him away.
“I have been to the market in London,” she explained unnecessarily, for that was obvious by the bundles laden onto the two pack ponies. “I have a new tapestry for the council chamber wall; it depicts Christ in Majesty above a merchant ship—quite fitting, I thought.”
“I trust it was not expensive? I do not have the finances to spend on sundries. I have a fleet to pay off, do not forget. I will not be able to do so from my enemies’ plundered estates, so will have to find the coin from elsewhere.”
Emma was irritated. Everything she had done for Harthacnut this week had been rebuffed by surly words and frowned grimaces. To look at him you would think that to be anointed and crowned was a punishment, not an honour. “I paid from my own purse,” she retorted. “I did not touch your treasury.”
A long silence, during which Emma stroked Whitepaw’s silk-smooth ears and Harthacnut brooded on his thoughts.
“I will have to return to Denmark,” he said to the marsh, his attention on the sun-sparkle ripple of the river. “I cannot be away for long.”
“You cannot leave England!” Emma answered, alarmed and more than a little afraid. “Not until you have established your authority here. It will not be safe, nor sensible, for you to leave!” All this hard work, all the anxiety to get him here and already he was talking of leaving?
“And I thought you were more than capable of being my regent,” Harthacnut answered with heavy sarcasm. “How have I managed to think wrong?”
All he had heard from Emma since leaving Bruges was how Cnut had governed, what he had done and how he had done it. How he had relied on Emma, how good a team they had been, working for the good of England. Harthacnut felt as if he knew every minute detail of his father’s life, down to how often he pissed and passed wind.
“You are being churlish,” Emma protested. “I am past my fiftieth year, and as much as I would like to, I will not live forever, nor will your council tolerate a Queen ruling on her own.”
She scrabbled to her feet and called Whitepaw, who had started nosing among the reeds. “I will not sit here with you if you are to behave like a spoilt child,” she declared. “I have more important things to do.”
“Like passing an hour or two in private with your new chaplain?” Hartha
cnut queried accusingly. “People are talking, Mother. Stigand was not the best of choice. He is not, from what I understand, well liked.”
“Should confession and spiritual comfort be conducted in public, then?” Emma responded angrily. How dare her son criticise her personal preferences? “Stigand has been a good friend through the years, to me and your father both. He served well as priest at Ashingdon. Was one of the few men who remained loyal to me, who regularly wrote to me while I suffered exile.”
Oh, here we go again, Harthacnut thought. We are back to the degradation of exile.
“Stigand showed faith in me and, more important, in you. I considered it my duty to promote him into the service of my chaplain.”
“Yes, yes, so you have said a dozen times.” Harthacnut patted the air, as if Emma were a larger, more annoying, horsefly. “I merely recount there are many who do not approve of him.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Harthacnut, I do not want to quarrel!” She bent, set her hands on each side of his face, and kissed his brow. She smiled, smoothed back the flop of hair that insisted on tumbling over into his left eye, said again wearily, “I do not want to quarrel.”
Harthacnut pushed her hands aside, but gently, not with irritation. “Nor do I, Mother.” He shrugged in a half laugh. “I shall be quarrelling in earnest with my council ’ere too many weeks pass, for I must raise payment for the Danish fleet I brought with me. I can only do so through raising taxes, which shall be an unpopular but necessary move.”
His expression turned sheepish. “I would have at least one friend beside me, even if she is a woman who knows her own mind too much for her own good!” He leant forward, offsetting the words that could be taken wrongly by placing a kiss on Emma’s cheek. “Forgive my sullen mood; it has been with me since I rose from my bed, has left me with a storm of a headache.”
Emma cocked her head to one side, astute as ever she had been.
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