In Winchester Emma learned quickly what was going on. All of England but London was under Sweyn. Ethelred’s son Edmund had seized London and still defied the Danes from there, but it was said everywhere that Sweyn would not wait for the city to fall. He would summon his own council and have himself crowned by Christmas.
Emma asked for a hearing and was called at once, as fit her rank. The Danish King was a fine, strapping man, with a splendid moustache, gold rings on his arms, and a gold belt. He laughed a lot. A translator carried their words back and forth. She kneeled down before him and asked him for leave to go to Normandy, where her sons were.
“I am alone now. You have taken away even my household.” She wept, and patted the ground before his feet. “I have only my two baby boys. Let me go to them.” She laid her head at his feet. She kept low, humble, meek. Best not to help him remember that, in Normandy, her sons were now the real Kings of England.
Sweyn stood and went behind his chair, leaning on it. “Lady,” he said, “I shall take this in mind. Tomorrow I shall answer your plea. In the meantime, you will be comfortable in your own bower here in Winchester. I have restored your whole household, and I shall see you have everything you want.”
This satisfied her. Now she had her women back too, almost without effort. She gave him Emma’s sweetest smile and left.
* * *
Sweyn said, “We need to move quickly now. Most of these English lords hated Ethelred himself. Since he is gone, everything will change.”
He misliked being so far from the sea. It was the overland trek, exposed on the road, that had made it impossible for Ethelred to escape. He thought about what Thurbrand had told him of the death of the King. Some violent spasm, he had heard of such things, especially among fat men. Still, the mark of fate was on it.
The Queen was yielding enough and seemed fluffy headed. The wizard’s advice with her had a broad wisdom: Hold her against her brother, Normandy. But it might be good to put her under him, to take full possession.
He remembered that the wizard had said not to let her touch him. A warning shudder passed through him. She was ugly anyway. He gave orders for her to be kept in close confinement, always under guard.
* * *
The next morning the Queen said, “I will go abroad today.”
Her women said nothing, having no power of independence. One went to fetch the man outside. The guard came to the door, a bony Danish face, young, with a pike in his hand.
She said, “I will need an escort. I will go to church.”
The Dane said, “The King has said you are not to leave this place.”
She flared at him. “Church! I want to go to church!” Her voice rose to a shrill whistle; she gave off a rush of heat. She was too wild: She sent him off; he fled, and when she went to the door, the latch was pulled and fixed. She leaned her back against the door. The bower was a jail.
Inside Emma’s body she roiled like a gathering wind. As if these puny things could hold her. Around her the accidental matter dissolved into a pulse of color and heat. She could blast everything apart and escape. Fly wild again. An ancient passion quivered in her. Once she had rushed out boundless over the void, her own skin the edge of everything—
Something cool formed in the red bloom. Patience. The old, raw lust faded. She built herself around that blue cold, crystalline, a still place, a center.
There were guards everywhere. They would kill Emma to defend themselves. If she had to leave Emma – if the stupid woman died – she would lose all her powers; she might even dissipate if she could not quickly find a new host. She composed herself of the blue cool patience, she made a castle of it. She saw there would be a better way out of this.
But surely this was a warning. Emma was no longer useful. She should shift again before Emma was too old. She began to think of transferring everything into a new body – younger, fresh.
She remembered taking Emma. She had been housed then in the nursemaid, attending the little girl for years, making possible the long, slow crushing of the child’s mind to make room.
So she began to plan. There would be some way to escape Sweyn. She thought first that she would go to Normandy. Maybe she could go into a nunnery. One that took in foundlings. Then she remembered that Raef Corbansson had a daughter.
She savored that a while. There was something elegant in that, a symmetry, a triumph. Maybe after all this time here, she was becoming too human. Besides, the girl was tucked away in Jorvik. And first she had to get rid of Sweyn.
* * *
Uhtred of Bamburgh stood with his face stiff and his hands together in prayer, watching the crowning of the New King. This was like a sword through his belly. He had been among the men at the council that declared Sweyn their King a few days before, when their voices had come out of them as if the Danes put them there, Danes at their backs. All this, the end of the long earth slide that began far back when somebody had said, “We should call in Sweyn Tjugas.”
Now Ethelred was gone. And Uhtred was witnessing the crowning of a Dane in his place. Worse, he himself had helped it happen.
He had thought, once, that this was the only thing to do. It seemed much different, from this side of it, watching the crown settle onto Sweyn Forkbeard’s great golden head. Uhtred had the taste of dirt in his mouth.
He glanced around at the other Saxon thegns, watching, lined up there before the new King. Half of them were heirs to Ethelred’s victims. They stood looking at the ground or staring away into the distance, their faces grim. Uhtred thought he saw in them the same unease and rancor.
Up there, Sweyn sat in his fine, fur-lined robes, smiling, his eyes narrow. Probably he was seeing this too. Now up before him came the thegn of Lindsey, Thurbrand, to give homage— Thurbrand, who loved this day. Thurbrand with his hundreds of men. The half Dane kneeled before Sweyn and, in a loud screech, proclaimed himself into Sweyn’s service.
Uhtred thought, I will not swear. Though they kill me. But even as he thought it, he shrank as if from an icy coat. He raised his eyes to Sweyn again and found the King watching him, smiling. Uhtred straightened up, squaring his shoulders.
They spoke his name. He could defy them now. He could stand here like a man and say, “You are not my King.” Let them strike him down for it. The others were all watching him. Thurbrand, up at the foot of the King. The other, younger Saxons. The Danes, all around, all armed. Beyond them the ordinary people who had squeezed into this hall. Above all Sweyn watched him, with that smile, as if he knew everything already. Uhtred went up there, kneeled down, put his hands between Sweyn’s hands, and swore the oath.
* * *
Edmund kneeled at the altar of the little old church, Saint Mary’s, the oldest church in London. He was trying to pray for his father, but he could not. He thought his father had somehow worked his brother’s murder. He hoped Ethelred was in hell.
To the left of the crucifix hung an old banner, a long blue strip of cloth figured with a yellow lance. He thought of the great banner of the Wessex dragon, hanging in his father’s hall in Winchester. Probably the Danes would haul it down. He realized that there was no banner for England.
There might never be. He thought he should pray for more than his father now, with the kingdom all but gone.
“My lord?”
“Come up, Godwine.”
The Saxon came forward; with his shoulders hunched, he looked even younger than he was. The news of the King’s death had stunned him. Still more, the crowning of Sweyn Forkbeard. He said, “My lord, I need to ask something.”
“You wonder why do we not give up,” Edmund said calmly. He crossed himself, to end his hearing with God, and turned to Godwine. “Let Sweyn have England, since he already does.” Everybody would have heard by now that he was to meet the Vikings outside London, under a truce, in the afternoon. Most of them would be expecting him to surrender London to Sweyn.
“My lord, he holds all the country.” Godwine swayed from foot to foot. “We are all
that’s left. How can we stand against them?”
Edmund said, “So you think we should give in. Go to him and kneel. He will treat us honorably; we have done nothing to disquiet him. We can go home, learn to speak dansker, and live in peace.”
Godwine licked his lips. His eyes were hollow; Edmund saw he had not slept for brooding on this.
Edmund said, gently, “Go home, then, Godwine.”
The boy was still a long while. At last, he said, “I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Godwine said. “My lord, why do you fight still?”
Edmund said, “Because if I don’t keep fighting, there is no chance at all of winning.”
Godwine’s eyes widened. Someone had come into the back of the church and was waiting for them there. It was almost time to go meet the Vikings outside Bishopsgate. Godwine said, “Do you think we can win?”
“Yes,” Edmund said, although he did not see how. “Yes, I do.” He pointed up at the old standard on the wall. “Bring that, Godwine. Hook it to a banner staff so we can carry it.”
* * *
“My lord, remember, they are treacherous.” Godwine held the staff of the new banner with the butt wedged in his stirrup. He had shaken the dust off the long blue cloth and hung a pennant from the top to make it fancier. But he thought the yellow lance was brave. He was sorry he had spoken so to Edmund that morning. Edmund’s courage buoyed him. His horse was eager and pushed on the bit. He glanced at Edmund, proud to be side by side with him.
“I want to see them closer,” Edmund said. He wore his mail coat, his sword at his waist. He had no helmet on, nor the hood of the mail, and his long brown hair hung down over his shoulders. Godwine held himself that straight. What Edmund could do, he could do.
They rode together through the cavern of the Bishopsgate and onto the road outside. Godwine kept his horse to a jittery walk.
In spite of the bright sun, the air stung with cold. Below, the road ran off through trampled fields, blotchy with old snow. The Viking army was spread out on either side of the road. He wondered if they were trying to look like more than they were. On the road ahead of the rest, waiting for Edmund, were half a dozen men on horseback.
“Thorkel,” Edmund said quietly. “And I have seen that yellow-headed man before. I don’t remember where.” He stared as they rode along, and said, “I think that’s Knut Sweynsson, the King’s son.”
Godwine said nothing. The herald had said that name, along with Thorkel’s, when he appeared the day before to ask for the meeting. None of the six Vikings in front of him looked like a King’s son. The yellow head belonged to someone only a few years older than Godwine himself, although the boy was much taller, his sleeveless leather jerkin showing long arms ropy with muscle.
As Edmund came down the road toward them, Thorkel held his hand up, signaling that he should come no closer. The prince let his horse go on a few steps, to show what he thought of Thorkel, and reined in. Godwine nudged his horse off to one side. The banner flapped in the wind.
“So,” Edmund said, “what do you have to say, pirate?”
Beside Thorkel, the yellow-haired Viking scowled and folded his arms over his chest. Thorkel spoke Saxon. He said, “You took the city. Meanwhile, Sweyn took the kingdom. Your father the King is dead. Sweyn is the King now. Give up, and we’ll see to your safety. And that of your men.”
Godwine grunted. Jomsviking promises were legendary, especially in another language. But he remembered what Edmund had said: They could go home and be at peace, and he wondered if he should want that. Ethelred, his enemy, was dead. He had not killed him, which left him unsatisfied. He fixed his gaze on Edmund. He would follow Edmund.
He thought, suddenly, What is the worst? I could lose. I could die. He flexed his hand around the banner staff. He would follow Edmund.
Edmund said, “I heard Sweyn Haraldsson was crowned in Winchester. But he may find the crown harder to keep than to win. I swear to you I will not cease until I have won my kingdom back again.”
Thorkel said, with a cold laugh, “We can just sit here and wait until Sweyn comes.”
Godwine raised his head. He thought, They think so little of us, then. He clenched his jaw, wanting to show them differently.
Knut Sweynsson spoke. His voice was harsh, and his Saxon wasn’t as good as Thorkel’s. “If we break in, we sack the city.”
At this Godwine said, “You’ll try,” and Edmund flung one hand out, to quiet him. He bit his lips, embarrassed.
Edmund said, “Yes, as this boy says, you may try. I promise you, you will lose. There aren’t enough of you to take London. You make a soldier of every soul inside, and we shall fight you street by street. You may win the city a while, but we will never stop fighting, and in the end you will always lose.”
He gave them no more chance to talk. With a tap of his heel he spun his horse around, and Godwine wheeled to follow him. He thought Edmund was brave as a lion. Maybe it was better to fight, even if they could not win. They galloped up the hill to make the banner fly.
On the wall of the city, as they approached, cheers went up, people waving their arms at Edmund, calling his name and God’s name and whooping. The gate was still open, and he and Godwine galloped through it with the banner and the cheers doubled. All along the street inside, people were gathered to see them come in. Behind them, the great gate creaked shut.
Edmund turned his horse around and raised his arm. “Godwine. Put the banner on the gate.”
This much pleased the whole crowd, which roared and chanted and clapped. Godwine dismounted, gathering the banner in his arms.
“What did they say, my lord?” someone in the crowd called. Godwine hauled the banner up the steps to the rampart above the gate.
“That they will sack London,” Edmund said, his voice ringing. “What we said was, they could try.”
A roar of a cheer greeted them. At the top of the gate, Godwine found a socket for the banner pole and sank it in. The cloth furled in the wind, its bright blue rippling, and the yellow lance shining. Out there, the Vikings were riding back to their camp. He stood there beside the banner, hoping they would turn and see him, there beside it. He felt a quaver in his belly, a last uncertainty, and thrust it away.
* * *
Edmund thought of stealing out of London, which would be easy enough; boats came up and down the river every day. He could sneak away and go to see Ealdgyth.
He had seen her only a few times since he had left her at Lark Hill. Derby had given homage, and Sweyn had kept the peace there. She fared well there. Every time he went back, she wept and begged him to stay.
He wanted less to go because she wept. But he craved the sweet release in her arms.
He wondered, at night, when he should have been sleeping, if she was right, if he was chasing a phantom. He was the Aetheling and now tried in battle; by all the old rules, he should have been elected to follow his father. Instead, Sweyn wore the crown, and all England bowed to him save this one city.
Yet he felt himself the King. He lusted for Ealdgyth, but he loved his kingdom, and he alone fought for England. Sweyn was seizing something to add to the realm he had already. The rebels who had called in the Dane were fighting for their own strongholds, their revenge, their hatred of Ethelred. Now that Ethelred was gone, what kept them together? Edmund alone saw it one, the kingdom, the country, the people. If he gave up, would that not die too?
He shivered. His father’s being dead made him feel as if some skin he had never noticed had been suddenly peeled off, and now he felt the cold. He thought again of his brother, his brother’s murder, his father the murderer, the blood fouled, denied. How was he King, if not by blood?
In any case, Sweyn had the whole kingdom, and all Edmund could do was defend this one place. He couldn’t leave to play with Ealdgyth, even though in the grey gloom before dawn he saw no hope in what he was doing here, whatever he said to hearten Godwine. He had to keep going, fight every
day’s little fight, even though he saw it narrowing before him to his doom. He rose from his bed, then, for fear that, if he stayed down, he might never get up.
Chapter Twenty Five
Knut kept his camp and his twenty-odd men separate from Thorkel’s, a little to the east. The Jomsvikings spread out before the big north gate of the city. But then they did not attack, only went around the countryside in packs, stripping away all the food and driving off most of the people. Knut went to Thorkel’s fire one sundown; the long city wall stood over them, and beyond rose the smokes and clamor of a lively place.
He said, “This is no siege. We should get ships, to attack up the river. Cut them off. Make them starve.”
Thorkel was playing bones with two of his men. He jiggled the little white knobs in his hand. “We have no engines, boy. Sieges need engines.” He glanced at the men around him, who grumbled in agreement. “Just sit tight. Sweyn will get to this in his own time. Meanwhile, we need to eat.”
“Well, then,” Knut said, “since I plan on attacking this place, you can supply me.”
Thorkel’s eyes blinked, his forehead creased. “What are you, not listening to me? That time with the wizard did your manners no good, I see. Sit tight and raid on your own.”
“I am the son of the King,” Knut said, and used the magic word again. “Sweyn’s orders.”
Too far from Gainsburgh. Thorkel’s creased and bony face almost smiled. “Well. We’ll see.” He glanced at the men around him, smiling.
None of them were smiling. They were Jomsvikings and far from their ships, with no sign of plunder anywhere. That was why he would not attack. They were not land fighters. Their ships were all beached at Sandwich, far away.
Knut said, “Come when I call you, then.” He turned and walked off, not waiting for anything from Thorkel.
Kings of the North Page 28
