The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  “I loved your father,” she confided, “but he could, on occasion, make my blood boil like it were a bubbling cauldron of rage. He took you to Denmark with the excuse that it would be for your own good and for the security of his throne there. I ofttimes wondered then, more so now that he is gone, whether it was, in truth, to punish me.”

  Harthacnut was shocked. Emma had walked a few paces from him, had turned slightly away. He stood, whirled after her, swung her round. “Why would he do that? It was me he thought to punish, not you!”

  Emma had never spoken of this before—had never even allowed the thoughts to filter near the surface, especially while Cnut was alive, but so many hidden memories and troubles had surfaced since his death, and she had had so much opportunity to dwell on them while in Bruges that it was becoming difficult not to share them.

  “He blamed me for Ragnhilda’s drowning,” she explained. “He never spoke of it aloud, but I could read it in his eyes. He had expressive eyes, your father, as have you, eyes that could never hide the truth from those who knew how to read them. He thought I ought to have taken better care of her.” She sighed, suddenly tired of it all, tired of the longing for him, the anger she felt at his so suddenly going away, at not saying good-bye.

  Harthacnut was appalled. Not at what she had said, but at the consuming inclination to suddenly want to laugh, to toss back his head and crow his mirth to the sky. He looked out over the river, watched a heron taking off, its ungainly legs trailing behind, three crows rising to mob it as it flew over their nesting site in the trees along the far bank. “When Papa took me to Denmark, he said he wanted me to learn how to be a great and good King. When he left me there, I made a vow, one known to none but myself and God. I wanted nothing, save for my father to acknowledge that he loved me first, above all others.”

  He turned back to his mother. “Do you know what he said to me as he left Roskilde, as his ship caught the tide and her sail billowed? He called out, ‘Take more care of Denmark than you did of my daughter, Harthacnut.’” He dipped his head, his body sagging. “I have been too scared of not doing so ever since. That was why I stayed, that is why I must return. I cannot allow my father to think wrong of me.”

  Emma set her arms around him, and they stood, linked together, heads touching, not weeping openly but allowing the tears of shared regret to fall inside, where they could not show. “He was a man who did what he had to do, even though the doing could be harsh. He did as many bad things as he did good, but he will be remembered as a loved and wise King, and God help me, Harthacnut,” Emma concluded with a shaken laugh, “I shall never stop loving his memory, nor stop this wanting to have him with me.”

  The both of them braved a smile. Harthacnut, linking her arm through his, began strolling back towards the palace. Not that it looked like anything more than a hovel of clustered deteriorating timber and reed-thatched buildings from here. “I hate this place,” he observed suddenly, with deep feeling. “It is so melancholy!”

  Emma laughed. “That is what Æthelred repeatedly said—and Cnut.” Wondered, had Harold thought it, too?

  “One day I will rebuild. Raze the lot to the ground and replace it with buildings of stone. A palace and an abbey to be proud of. How think you of that proposal?”

  “I think of it very well, dear, only do not take over long in the doing of it. I have heard the same avowal for nigh on seven and thirty years!”

  They laughed, the animosity forgiven and forgotten.

  As they walked beneath the wooden arch of the wide-flung entrance gate, Emma shivered at the sudden cold, for the watchtower and platform above threw the tunnel into dark and damp shadow; it was as if a ghost had walked across her future grave.

  “Promise me,” she said, earnestly, “that you will never leave me alone to face the threat of exile again.”

  “I promise I will do my best for you,” he said. “I can do no more than that, but in return you must do something for me.”

  Emma lifted her face enquiringly. If he asked to be allowed to return to Denmark, the answer would be no.

  “I think it best that you have assurance of your position. I intend to bring Edward back to England as King regent.”

  Emma stared at him blankly. “Edward?” she queried. “My son Edward?”

  “Do I know of any other called Edward?”

  To Harthacnut’s surprise, Emma laughed. A long shriek of high-pitched, witless laughter.

  22

  Emma sent for Godwine.

  He entered her chamber, sat with her beside the hearth-fire that did little to dispel the evening chill. It may have been a hot day outside, but these quarters were situated at the northern end of the royal compound, where no sun penetrated. Even on the hottest days it was cold here in this chamber. She indicated the wine flagon on the table, suggested he pour for the both of them.

  “Harthacnut intends to bring Edward to England,” she said. “What think you of that?”

  Godwine sipped his wine. A quality French grape. Answered, “Edward may not be as forgiving of me as you. His brother was in my care when we came across Harold.”

  Prepared to forget Alfred, Emma sat silent. What sort of woman did that make her? What sort of mother? Cold, hard? A woman without love? Yet she had loved Cnut to the depth of her soul and cared for Harthacnut. Cared for this man, Godwine, too.

  Quietly she asked, “What were you going to do with him, Godwine? With Alfred? He was just a child, a poor, misguided child. I have wanted to know these months, these years that have passed since then. Were you all along intending to hand him to Harold? To use him to save your own skin?”

  Godwine was before her, kneeling, his hands taking hers, his face appalled. “No! Believe me I was not! I was fully intending to march him to the nearest river, secure a boat, and send him direct home to Normandy on his brother’s heels. Do you seriously think I considered harming the lad?”

  He stood, drew away a little, rubbed his hand over his forehead. “God as my witness, Emma, for how long have you thought this?” He gripped her hands again, brought her fingers to his lips. Tears danced in his eyes.

  Emma touched his face, her palm caressing, a light, tender touch. “I did not believe the lie, my friend. I only wanted to know the truth.” She paused, touched the tips of her fingers to his lips. “In another life, perhaps you would have been more than a friend.” She shrugged. “But this is the one we have, and this is the way it must be.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Harthacnut does not fully know of that stupid letter Edward received from me, begging him to come to my aid,” she said, trying to remember what she had said to Godwine at the time, those years ago. The trouble with lies, it was so easy to be caught out by telling a different story later in the day.

  “Is Edward likely to make much of it? That is, assuming he will come. Would you blame him if he did not?”

  No, Emma would not, but Edward would come, for the same reason that he had come before. Because Normandy was in turmoil and when the boy Duke was finally murdered in his bed or in some thick forest, the fighting that would erupt would be horrendous. The English-born son of a Norman-born Duke’s daughter would not be tolerated, since he, too, would have legitimate claim to Normandy. Edward would come because of that and because Harthacnut intended to entice him with honeyed words and mellow promises.

  “Then I would suggest if Edward talks of a letter, we deny all knowledge of it.”

  “And if he produces it?”

  “Then we claim it is a forgery penned by Ælfgifu.”

  Emma nodded her head, agreeable to the suggestion.

  “Edward is the last person I want to see,” she admitted. “But England needs stability. I need stability. I only hope Harthacnut soon finds himself a suitable wife and sets about breeding a ship’s crew of sons. He should not be thinking of abandoning us and returning to Denmark.”

  Her thoughts were running slow, addled by tiredness and so many years of disappointments. She needed to ensure Hartha
cnut’s position was undisputed, that Edward would not suddenly be remembered as one born to an older, English, King. But how to do it? Write an account of Cnut’s life? Or her own? Yes, that could be it, a record for all to read, from England to Rome and beyond! The Encomium Emmæ In Acclaim of Emma, an account of her years, her struggle and hardships. Her marriage to Cnut of Denmark, the birth of her sons—but not Æthelred, there would be nothing of him, let him be forgotten. He would have no mention in the book. Some of her life would therefore need be altered or plain left out, but that could be managed.

  “And Harthacnut called his brother to come from across the sea to be regent of England, now that all was made safe and well. And good triumphed over evil.” She liked the sound of that, would ensure whomever she chose to write it used that phrase, and she would choose someone good, someone with a talent for writing history.

  Excited, she explored the idea with Godwine, outlining the content, the reason behind it. “With such a written account,” she explained eagerly, “Edward would not be able to usurp Harthacnut’s place of authority, nor that of his sons once they are born, would he?”

  23

  Harthacnut lay abed, awake and alone. He no longer bothered trying to make love to whores. Nothing, beyond embarrassment and frustration, ever happened. He was impotent. His manhood refused to rise, and he had no seed to implant in a woman’s belly. There would not be sons.

  He blew air from his puffed cheeks, put his arms behind his head. Beyond the closed curtaining he could hear his servants snoring on their pallets on the floor. One of his two favourite dogs, stretched across the bed at his feet, scratched industriously at a flea, turned several circles, then settled to sleep with a grunt of satisfaction.

  There would be no sons to follow him as King.

  From the age of fifteen he had lain with women, whores at the brothel, serving maids, farmers’ daughters; with not one of them had his piece performed its duty. He had even tried, to his shame, a boy once.

  To prove he was a capable King, he had to ensure the continuity of peace for England. Denmark had Svein Estrithsson as his heir; he was a good young man, would become an equally good King. Edward was not of Cnut’s blood, but he was, at least, of Emma’s, and for the sake of his father’s memory and his mother’s respect, he must ensure England was not left abandoned again. But Edward? Beyond his piety, Harthacnut had not heard good things of Edward. Maybe God wanted a God-fearing monk as King?

  Harthacnut laughed cynically. He could easily provide the celibate monk side of the bargain.

  24

  June 1040—Jumièges

  Justifiably, after the last unnerving debacle, Edward was concerned about opening another letter from England, even if this one did bear the seal of Harthacnut. Abbot Robert Champart opened it, in the end, after it had sat on a side table for more than two days; he read it aloud, his jaw dropping in amazement and eyes lighting with excitement.

  “You have been invited to England!” he declared, rewarded by an immediate horror-stricken response from Edward, who clutched his arms about himself and shuddered.

  “Oh, no! I am never going back there! I have no intention of having my eyes burnt out and my body thrown into a pit to rot and be eaten by rats!”

  The Abbot declined to correct him on the minor infringement of accuracy. Alfred had been buried in a Christian grave by the monks of Ely; the fact that had it been up to Harold or his witch mother, the body would have been left as Edward said, however, made the exaggeration significant.

  “No, this is direct from Harthacnut your half-brother, my Lord.” Strange how suddenly he dropped the informality of calling the man before him by his name and inserted a more deferential title instead. Edward, however, did not notice his sudden promotion in verbal rank. “He begins with apologies for not contacting you ere now and in offering his condolences for the shameful manner of your brother’s death.”

  “Does he apologise for these years of exile? For his father booting me out of my home and denying me the right of succession? No? Well, there’s a surprise!”

  Retaining his patience, Robert continued, “Your half-brother begs to inform you that England misses your presence, and he wants you to consider his proposal to make you regent!” Champart’s eyes were glowing with the anticipation of possibilities for the future, his thoughts racing wildly. Thoughts for himself, not for Edward.

  “And why would he want to do that?” Edward queried acrimoniously. “For what purpose? To humiliate me publicly? To lock me away in a cell somewhere, never to see daylight again?”

  “Sir, if he had design to be rid of you, it would be better to his purpose to leave you here, to remain forgotten at Jumièges. I would read this”—Champart waved the parchment—“as an indication that he wishes to make peace.” He smiled placatingly. “Harthacnut is also King of Denmark. Who can he leave behind to see to the government of England? There is no one—except you.”

  Edward sat, pouted. “There is Mother.”

  Robert laid the letter aside. “Do you not think that Harthacnut might want someone reliable to take care of England for him? A man who will maintain the justice and law of the land in his name?” Robert stared at Edward with a new measure of respect and awe. “Sir, this is a most wonderful opportunity!”

  Any other man might well have thought of asking for whom the opportunity was best offered. Remaining as an obscure Abbot with no reward, save that of a grave at the end of it all, was not what Robert Champart craved. If he could organise it, he was going to the very top of the ladder, and with Edward as a King, who knew how high that ladder might reach? Archbishop maybe?

  “I cannot face England, Robert, I cannot,” Edward confessed. “What should I do there? I have no idea of government, I have no knowledge of meting judgements!”

  Champart shook his head in indulgent amusement; he was winning the argument, as he always did. “Not know? Oh, but you do! You possess a heart that would melt the deepest snowdrift, a generosity that would fund an entire lazar house; a kindness and humility of spirit to equal Christ himself.” Robert took Edward’s hands in his own. “You are a man the rest of the world will one day envy and admire.”

  Edward preened. There was nothing he liked more than unadulterated praise.

  “And think on this,” Champart added as his final persuasion, “as King regent it will be your directive as to what is to be done with the man who was brutally responsible for the murder of your brother.”

  Pressing his lips together in the full flourish of sudden anger, Edward hissed, “Harold Harefoot, you mean? Aye, I would be told where they buried him, so I may tip him out and leave him to rot as he would have left my dearest Alfred.”

  Champart had actually meant Earl Godwine of Wessex, but as long as they went to England, it was of no matter.

  25

  August 1040—Thorney Island

  Godwine sent one of his own ships to collect Edward from Normandy. Not one of his shorter, stout merchant vessels, but a full dragon-length warship, complete with crew and fluttering banners. It was his gift to both the Ætheling and King, his contribution towards the royal fleet—and to ferry Edward home with eager welcome.

  Edward had last seen London in the midwinter of l016, a black, moonless night. Remembered more than anything the smells and the sounds: the crisp tread of boots on the frost as it had cracked in the freezing puddles, the steam of mens’ breath, the stench of the decaying rubbish rotting in the river as Earl Godwine had helped the two boys, himself, and Alfred aboard a craft that stank as pungently of sheep shit.

  Earl? No, Godwine had not been an Earl then; that was an honour the usurper Cnut had bestowed upon him. Godwine had been nothing more than a wealthy merchant then, a man Edward had barely known. It had been Godwine’s ship, too, that night; Edward remembered complaining that it was not a dragon craft. Remembered, also, quarrelling with Alfred.

  He wiped at tears that welled suddenly in his eyes as the ship’s crew backswept the oars and hauled th
e craft in a neat and tidy angle towards the wharf. He missed Alfred, had not realised it until this moment.

  Alfred had wept on that cold, uncomfortable journey down the Thames, had hidden the fact by huddling into his blanket and shuffling as far away from Edward as possible. Alfred, braver than his elder brother, had disliked anyone knowing he was capable of shedding tears. Had he wept while they were putting out his eyes? Had he begged and pleaded for mercy?

  Edward buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with the sobbing tears of grief. The crowd, gathered at the wharfside to welcome him, assumed they were for the overwhelming emotion of his homecoming. They cheered, loving him for that, waving their green-leafed branches, craning to see better, pushing forward as he stepped ashore, hands reaching out to touch him, to toss flowers and petals, everyone wanting a part of the excitement of the occasion.

  Emma stood with Harthacnut, Godwine, and the rest of England’s southern Earls—the North had not been able to come, for trouble was grumbling along the Scots border again, or so Eadwulf claimed. There, too, among the party of nobles, the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, as formally robed as Harthacnut and Emma.

  The Queen looked magnificent, dripping with jewels that sparked and winked in the sunshine, dressed in silks and brocades. Harthacnut, although it was August and a warm day, wore his favourite mantle of a cream polar bear fur. It had been a magnificent beast; he had killed it himself, its pelt more than fitting for a King to wear.

  A hero receiving a hero’s welcome, Emma thought with scorn. How fickle people were! Three years past, London had wanted nothing to do with her sons, had shut their gates to Alfred and shunned him. And Alfred would have made a better King than this feeble mouse. Even his hands, those long, slender fingers, looked too thin and fragile to be of value—if anyone grasped them too tight, would the bones break?