The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Edward reached the King, his face bemused at the unexpected euphoria of the reception, beginning to spread into a conceited grin as he realised the extent of the pleasure being shown for his return. Harthacnut was smiling. Edward hesitated. Was he doing the right thing? Was this a carefully planned, cruel trap? He glanced anxiously over his shoulder at Robert Champart, received an encouraging nod and a smile. Champart had come as his chaplain, a role the Abbot had humbly, but eagerly, accepted the instant Edward had, with a little guided prompting, offered him.

  Seeing the wariness, Harthacnut strode forward, arms outstretched to embrace Edward—two men, both the sons of one woman, who had never met. “My brother!” Harthacnut beamed. “It is good to greet the man I always wanted as my friend and companion. Welcome to England, sir, welcome!” And he kissed Edward on both cheeks, held him close in a bear’s hug of delight, and Edward shed a few more emotional tears.

  “Come,” Harthacnut said, “I must not have you all to myself. Mother, Edward has returned to us. Is this not a glorious and happy day?”

  The smile on her face appeared sincere—indeed, the upward-turned lips were genuine—but the delight did not come wholly from Emma’s heart. Too much was uncertain, too many questions were rambling about, questions that did not yet have satisfactory answers. And too many sleeping memories joggled into lurching wakefulness. Edward was too much like his father, particularly now that he sported a new-grown moustache that drooped to either side of his mouth and a curled beard. The face, if not the body, reflected too much of Æthelred.

  “My son, you have been gone too long from England; it is with gladness in my heart that I see you come home again.” Emma presented her cheek for a kiss, the response from Edward dutiful but nothing more. He might tolerate this young man, Harthacnut, for he knew nothing of him, but his mother? Oh, he knew and remembered her well enough! Her austerity, her coldness. The disgust with which she had greeted him that last occasion at Winchester.

  But Robert had urged him not to think of that. To put it behind him. “Look to the future with fresh eyes. Cast a new beginning,” he had said.

  The parade through the London streets, once all the formality of greeting had been completed, was slow and seemed everlasting, for the crowds would not allow Edward through before they had been permitted full inspection of him and had offered their unequivocal allegiance. He soaked it up as if he were a cloth drawing in water. Waving and nodding his head, acknowledging their delight, he rode a pure white horse bedecked with fine harness and coloured ribbons, a horse with flowing mane and tail that pranced and sidestepped and snorted dragon’s breath at the flowers and green branches being strewn in Edward’s path.

  Riding behind, Harthacnut was pleased with the adulation. He had wondered whether this was to be one of his better or worse ideas. Thank the Lord it appeared to be the former, though why these Londoners should be so ecstatic over this frail-looking, thin, and bemused man he could not comprehend. Edward was not a warrior type; one gust of wind and he would be blown over! As for wearing armour, would he be able to stand upright in a chain-mail hauberk? Lift a sword, wield an axe? Harthacnut had the clear impression that Edward had never handled such weapons. Quite possible, for the Norman Dukes would not have been wanting to encourage a potential rival in the art of warfare. A poor idea, then? Would Edward be able, or willing, to defend England in time of crisis? His father certainly had not, but then it would not be Edward making any ultimate decision, and there were always men like Godwine, Leofric, and Siward to guide him. And Mother, of course.

  ***

  By the time they reached Thorney, dusk was closing in. Harthacnut had planned a welcoming feast, his hall was strewn with splendour in honour of his brother; Edward was to be seated alongside him at the centre of the high table. But first Edward insisted on attending God.

  “We have Mass to celebrate your coming at the Cathedral of Saint Paul, on the day following the morrow,” Harthacnut explained. “Although, naturally, if you also wish to pray this evening…”

  “I do, I insist upon it. Do you not attend Compline? Shame on you as a Christian if you do not.”

  Harthacnut did not. There were already too many demands on his day.

  Edward was insistent, and there was nothing else for it. Instead of heading directly for the awaiting feast, the party proceeded towards the timber-built West Minster Abbey that spilt light from its numerous rush candles through the line of small, slit windows.

  A small, humble place, wholly different from the churches Edward was familiar with in Normandy. Those were huge and magnificent buildings, stone cathedrals, soaring into the sky for the sole purpose of glorifying God. This, in comparison, was a peasant’s bothy. Edward saw nothing, however, beyond the golden crucifix central to the altar, the serene faces of the twelve monks, and heard nothing beyond the beauty of their soaring voices as they sang praise to God.

  Emma noticed that Champart was the one to pucker his mouth and flare his nostrils, disdainful and patronising of the squalidness of it all.

  Proceeding up the nave, Edward suddenly stopped, a shriek of rage issuing from his lips as he hurried forward the last few yards to the chancel steps.

  “What be the meaning of this? What outrage is this? Get it gone! Get it removed!” Agitated, he waved his arms, stamped his feet.

  Nervous whisperings from some, silence from others. The Archbishop of York, Alfric Puttoc, presiding this night in honour of his position as the officiating priest, hurried forward, enquiring, puzzled as to what was amiss.

  “Be there something that meets ill with your approval?”

  “How dare you insult me, how dare you!” and Edward darted forward, to stamp at a stone slab on the floor. He fell to his knees, began clawing at the edges set into the tiles. “Dig it up! Remove it! Get him out of here; how dare you bury my brother’s murderer within the sanctity of God’s grace!”

  Harthacnut was appalled. He glanced at Godwine, at his other Earls who stared back at him, blank-faced. It had never mattered to any of them that Harold had been buried in ceremony by the monks less than four and twenty hours after his death, buried in the place usual for a King, before the chancel arch with his name, Harold, etched into the stones. No one had said not to, for by the morning after his death, most of his court had scattered to the four winds, Godwine to send for Harthacnut, others to their own estates.

  Not one of them had given thought as to how Edward would react, for the grave, in truth, and the man within it, had been almost entirely forgotten.

  “Dig it up, I say!” Edward shrilled again.

  Alfric Puttoc whispered hastily to Harthacnut, “I would do so, my Lord. It is, I grant, a most embarrassing situation, and it would do you no harm to show England you value the son of your mother over the bastard son of your father.” Added wryly, “After all, Harold did not have right to this honour; he was illegitimate born.”

  “He was also a consecrated King,” Harthacnut murmured, balking at the wilful desecration of a grave.

  “Dig him up,” Emma declared, sweeping to his side. “Edward speaks right. It is insulting that he should be buried here; he does not deserve a Christian grave.”

  Tools were fetched, pickaxes, spades. The stone slab lifted easily, spewing dust and soil; there was no coffin, only a shrouded body that issued a foetid, choking smell of rotting decay.

  Thank God, Harthacnut thought. It would have been difficult to explain this despoiling if the body had been discovered incorrupt.

  “You,” Edward squeaked, his voice high and uncollected in his agitation. “You, Godwine. You were responsible for my brother’s death.”

  “Sir, I beg you to not think so. I had no choice, I…”

  “Do not interrupt me!” Edward shouted. “You will remove that…that thing, and dispose of it.”

  Godwine spread his hands, at a loss, seeking command from Harthacnut. “What do I do with it, sir?”

  An uneasy silence. Harthacnut had no idea either.

>   In his incensed rage, Edward decided for him. “Toss what remains of him into the marsh. Let the filth of the bog take their own!”

  Earl Leofric of Mercia, standing somewhat toward the back of the crowd, bowed his head, thanked God that his wife was not here to witness this shame. What could he do? Speak out? Shout that Harold had been a crowned King and deserved respect? He would lose his earldom for the trouble of it!

  Godwine carried the foul burden in his arms. Not normally a squeamish man, he resolved to strip to his skin as soon as this deed was completed, to bathe, scrub himself with goose fat and lanolin soap. Burn these clothes he wore, no matter that they were made new and had cost a fortune. He walked a short way to where the Tyburn River edged the marshes, crossed the water by way of the bridge, and, without ceremony, dropped the enshrouded body into the bog. It disappeared slowly, the bubbles rising, the gloop of sound indecent. Harold was gone. His reign, finally ending in indignity and Edward’s homecoming, was complete.

  Kneeling before the altar in prayer, Edward reflected that Champart had been right: this had been his chance to reap vengeance for his brother’s wicked slaying. What more would there be for him to do now he had accomplished what he had come to achieve within the first hour?

  26

  29 September 1040—Thorney Island

  The Michaelmas calling of the Witan council at Thorney Island was to prove an acrimonious one. Argument had raged back and forth for most of the day.

  “I brought this boy here with the intention of establishing a full army of support for his plight!” Siward growled his rage. For an hour now he had been pleading his case. For an entire hour, it seemed, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Edward appeared to be asleep.

  On the fourteenth day of August, Macbeth of the Isles had slain Duncan of Scotland in battle and had taken upon himself the mantle of King of Scotia. Duncan’s young son, Malcolm Canmore, had been hurriedly brought south to seek the aid of England and sanctuary with Siward, his maternal uncle. Eadwulf of Bernicia had refused him hospitality on his flight south. Siward, seeing possible implications fortunate for England, had welcomed a kinsman; no matter that he was a child. To aid the boy in regaining his crown could place Scotland in England’s debt. Eadwulf had not wanted to become involved, and Harthacnut, to Siward’s intense annoyance, agreed.

  “I have not the funding to pay my own armies for my own protection!” Harthacnut roared in final protest, his head aching, his patience wearing thin. “How do you expect me to finance the boy to fight for his throne?”

  Realising the hopelessness of defeat, Siward spread his arms in surrender. “May I at least be granted permission for him to live within my household?”

  “If you agree to fund his cost and keep, then ja, you may do as you wish.” At last, amicable agreement, although not one totally to Earl Siward’s satisfaction. It would have to do, however.

  “To other matters,” Harthacnut announced, by his tone, matters that would not be favourably welcomed. “I brought with me to England a fleet of Danish ships. Soon I must return with them to ensure the security of Denmark. I cannot expect those men, who have served me well and who expect reward for their service, to remain empty-handed much longer.”

  Rumbles of muttered talk. As ever, no one liked discussing the collecting and payment of taxes.

  “We invited you to England. We did not invite your fleet…”

  “Leofric, only a fool would walk in unarmed and with no army at his back.” Unconsciously, Harthacnut glanced at Edward, who had slid into a crumpled heap in his chair, his chin firm on his chest, mouth open, a light snore emanating from his nose. Only a fool would come seeking a crown with no army? Ja. A fool.

  No one spoke outright, although the chamber again rumbled with mutters of indignation. It was no easy thing to speak out if you valued your head and your life.

  “I wish to pay off my fleet and make my displeasure known to those who did not support me from the first when my father died. I shall therefore raise the money from those who did defy me.”

  “You mean to tax the north but not Wessex?” Leofric barked, stamping to his feet. “ The proposal is outrageous. Godwine did defy you also!”

  “No, he did not! He supported me until he could no longer remain in a tenable situation,” Harthacnut tossed back viciously. “It was you who aided Ælfgifu; you who incited rebellion against me.”

  Leofric clenched his fists. He had been expecting punishment and retribution ever since Harthacnut landed at Sandwich. “With respect, you cannot lay blame entirely at my door!” Brave of Leofric to defend himself. “But if you are to do so, I request you do it with honour and not impose suffering on the peoples of my earldom who cannot pay any increase in taxation. I must take the burden of punishment, if there is to be punishment, upon my own shoulders.”

  Harthacnut sat easy in his chair. “Then you are willing to hang?”

  Leofric blanched but managed to nod.

  “A noble gesture, but I cannot afford to lose my Earls,” Harthacnut said. “As with Godwine, Siward, and all others, I judge you to have acted in the best interest of England, Leofric. Misguided interest, but come the end, you saw the error of your decision. However, I must raise the funding to pay my men; therefore a tax must be gathered.”

  He motioned for a cleric to read the royal declaration.

  “Tax is to be assessed at eight marks to the rowlock, eight marks to be awarded to each crewman.” Amid the protested uproar, the man had to raise his voice almost to a shout.

  “Sir! You brought two and sixty ships!”

  “At sixty men to a ship, that is four hundred and eighty marks!”

  “No, nigh on six hundred and forty—he brought the great dragon ships, do not forget!”

  “Three hundred and twenty pounds of silver per ship—Christ God,” Leofric pleaded, appalled. “You request nigh on nineteen thousand pounds of silver from us!”

  Harthacnut was familiar with the added sums. “I do. That is the cost of disloyalty and betrayal, Leofric. Be thankful that is all I demand.” He rose, his face without expression. He had been used to getting his own way in Denmark and was not going to change the habit now. What did these men think? That he would turn a blind eye to their support of Harefoot and his whore mother? Ah, no, men had to learn where loyalty must lie!

  Everyone else had to come to their feet; no one sat while the King stood. Edward was the last to rise, having entangled his mantle somehow between his legs. Emma glared at him impatiently.

  “I declare council closed,” Harthacnut announced. “Business is done.”

  ***

  Within the privacy of Harthacnut’s chamber, Emma tore off her wimple, throwing the flame-coloured linen to the floor in her rage. “How dare you decide such a high rate without consulting me!” she shouted, thumping the table before her with her clenched fist.

  Edward hastily caught a wine-filled goblet before it rocked and fell.

  “This could raise rebellion against you. And you are about to go to Denmark and leave me to gather up the shattered pieces? I had no idea you were such an idiot, boy!”

  “Idiot, am I?” Harthacnut yelled back. “What would you have me do? Let my men loose on the countryside? Allow them off the tight rein I have kept them on, let them choose for themselves what they would like to carry home? A few women, maybe, or the riches from churches? Where shall I suggest they raid, eh, Edward? “

  Edward attempted to bluster a diplomatic answer, but never managed to finish his sentence.

  “I said nothing against raising a tax,” Emma snapped, “but not at that levy. It is a ridiculous proposal!”

  “So first I am the idiot, now I am ridiculous? And you so wanted me to be King of this wretched country—have you so easily altered your mind?”

  Emma gathered her breath to retaliate; the angry, churning words filled her mouth, but she swallowed them down, exhaled, sat, ordered Edward to pour them wine. “Whether I approve or not,” she said more reasonably, “is
immaterial. What you have decreed must be obeyed. I suggest, however, you grant longer than the one month for the gathering. Certain areas have been sore hit by the rains this harvest season. If next spring’s sowing be as badly affected, we may face famine. The shires of Worcester and Leicester have been most hard-pressed.”

  She had done her best, but her son, she belatedly realised, was a man forged of unbendable iron and stone. He could be just and lenient, but, like his father, could be as stubbornly determined. And he carried a streak of ruthlessness that, once his mind was set to it, would not be assuaged. As had Cnut.

  As September crept into the autumn-coloured month of October, Harthacnut sailed for Denmark. He left behind the two men he most trusted, Thorstein and Feader, to collect the additional forfeiture of tax and to bring it, as soon as the winter storms abated, in his wake. If they did not come with the stipulated amount, he would return by Easter to take it by force. A threat not idly made.

  27

  October 1040—Saint Mary’s Church, Worcester

  Set the tables here,” Thorstein directed officiously the moment he stalked into the church, the only place in the small town of Worcester suitable for the purpose of collecting taxes. “Put that one over there; they can enter at the main door, make their mark under Feader’s administration, pay their due here at my table, and leave through that side door.” As he gave the orders, Thorstein unpinned his cloak but left it hanging from his shoulders; it was cold in here.

  “You!” He pointed to a man disappearing through the door at the rear that appeared to lead into the tower. “Fetch us lighted braziers.”

  The man bowed meekly, hiding his expression. Aye, he would see these bastards were warmed right enough!

  “So much for the threat of rebellion these peasants ranted on about.” Feader laughed as he perched his backside on the one already erected trestle and watched the men begin to unload the reams and piles of official documents. “They ran like frightened hares as soon as we rode into view!” He lifted one of the scrolls, the names of men who held freehold property in the Hundred of Worcester, glanced at it: Turbrand, coppersmith. Edmund, brother of Edwine, potter. Osbern Fairbrow, fuller. Bored, threw it aside. He so disliked tax gathering; it ought not be a housecarl’s duty. “Might be an idea to send for a barrel of ale,” he suggested. “A few pasties alongside it?”