“God be with us.” Godwine took the staff and planted it, and the wind opened the long blue pennant. “For Edmund and England!”
The English gave up a single roar that deafened him, jubilant, in the teeth of death. “Edmund! England! England!”
Edmund said, “If we all die here, yet we have won, for this moment.” He was breathing hard. The blood seeped between his fingers. “That’s Knut Sweynsson, there.” Godwine put the staff into his left hand and drew his sword again. Down there the Danes were circling closer. He watched that yellow head. He would take Danes with him. He was not afraid. The honor of this was greater than any man, greater even than Edmund. He planted himself, ready.
* * *
Knut saw the banner on the hill and shouted, fighting his way toward it. He was cutting his way through the space between two houses when he looked up and saw a Saxon in a black coat strike the King down from behind.
He gave a yell, as if the blow pierced him too. A wail went up. “The King! The King is dead—” In front of him the English scattered away like leaves.
Knut raced out toward the hillside. Up there a hundred Saxons had closed around their wounded King like a shield and got him up the hill, but the rest of Edmund’s army was fleeing into the woods. The Danes swept around the hillside, howling. Ulf ran by him, his pale eyes glaring, his sword cocked over his shoulder.
Knut stopped, lowering his sword, and looked around. His men circled the hill, many more than the Saxons packed together up there. But now suddenly the Saxons had raised their banner. They were cheering. He saw Edmund standing in their midst. He was alive, and he was going to fight.
Knut looked right and left along the circle of his men. Ulf had stopped a little way away and was watching him. Beyond him Odd, with Tronders all around him, watched him, waiting for orders. Knut turned his gaze back to the men on the hill. The Saxons who had run off could come back at any time; he had to get this done with. Edmund and his carls up there could not escape, and right now he outnumbered them. He still held his sword in his hand. But he needed to think wider now.
He lifted his left hand up. He called out in Saxon.
“Edmund, listen to me. I will end this. I don’t want to kill you or your noble men. Let there be no victor between us. Be King with me.”
Around him there was a sudden blank silence. Ulf’s mouth dropped open. For a moment the Saxons up there did not move. Among the Danes a low buzz went up. Then among the Saxons Edmund moved down hill, his blue banner following after.
The King was unsteady, his face sleek with pain. He let no one help him. Still wearing his mail shirt, his standard-bearer behind him, he came down onto the slope before his men. Blood dripped from the mail. He stood straight as the banner staff.
He said, “I doubt I will wear an earthly crown much longer, Knut. But what you offer me is noble.” He looked across the space between them, square and straight, and held out his hand. “I accept this. May you be as great a King as you are a fighter.”
Knut went up to him and gripped his hand. “Let there be nothing between us from now on but honor.”
Edmund said, “Honor. England’s honor. I am – I am—” His eyes rolled up and he collapsed.
Knut caught him before he hit the ground. He turned, Edmund’s body in his arms, and called, “Come bear the King of England away.”
The Saxons were already pouring in around him. They took Edmund from him; he was still breathing; he would live a while longer. Knut backed up out of their midst. His arms were smeared with blood. Odd walked up beside him. They watched the Saxons carry their King away down the road.
“God save our good King Edmund.”
Odd said, under his breath, “Iron Edmund.” Knut grunted, remembering who had called him that, what seemed a hundred years before. He lowered his eyes.
The Danes had gone back into the village, were breaking into houses, looking for food and loot. Odd turned to Knut. His eyes shone. He had sheathed his sword. “I have seen today what will be storied around fires for the rest of time. Let me give the order to camp.”
Knut took him by the arm and towed him out of the way. “Ulf can do that. Do this yourself. Go to Winchester and take the Queen of England prisoner. Throw her in a sack if you have to, but don’t let her get away. Don’t let her lay her hands on you. Keep her under constant guard.”
Odd said, “How long before you are sole King of England?” He struck Knut companionably on the chest. “What you did— that was King’s work, as he himself said – they fought too well to die.”
Knut said, “He’s dying anyway. Go do as I say.” He gripped Odd’s arm to give this weight. “You alone I trust with this.”
“I will do it.” The other man went off.
Knut went outside, into the street. The Saxons were moving away in a mass, bearing Edmund home. Their voices rose in a chant. Already it looked like a funeral procession. In the gathering dusk, Ulf stood there, smiling, his frizzy hair matted with blood. Broom-Orm called, and Knut waved, and he came walking across the street.
He said, “Do you have any orders?”
Knut said, “Wait,” looking past him.
Ulf said, “What’s going on?”
All the Saxons had not gone with their King. A little train of them was walking up the street. Knut recognized the black coat of the leader before he saw the man who wore it: It was Eadric Streona.
The Danes were moving around in the nearby houses. The wind was rising, and they were building a fire in the middle of the village and gathering around it. Knut said, his eyes on the men coming toward him, “We need to put out sentries.”
Ulf said, “I have done so. But the war is over, isn’t it? Honor, you said.” He slapped Knut’s arm. “That was well said. You’ve got a way about you, boy.”
Knut said, “Between me and Edmund the war is over. There’s more to this than us.” Eadric Streona was striding up to him, his face straining to smile. The Mercians had fallen behind him.
“Well done, my lord, well done.” He put out his hand to shake Knut’s. “But you could not have won here without me, my lord. May I be bold enough to say so.” His hand waggled out there between them. His voice babbled on. “If you but confirm me lord of Mercia, that shall be enough for me. And with my troops—”
Knut glanced at Ulf. “Hold him.”
Ulf leaped forward, and Broom-Orm also, and they seized Streona by the arms. The Mercians behind him turned on their heels and walked away. Knut drew his sword. The Saxon flung himself backward against the hold and cried out, “Now, wait, I’ve been—” Knut ran him through the body.
The Saxon slumped down and died. Ulf said, “I like your decision here.”
Knut said, “It’s the country’s evil that no man knows what side he’s on.” He wiped the blood off his sword on Streona’s shoulder and thrust it back into its sheath.
Chapter Thirty
Edmund lay dying in London, and Knut went there to see him. All around the hall of the Saxon King, people were gathered, praying and weeping. He went in among them, and they hardly saw him. He walked into the long hall.
Edmund lay at the back of it on a pallet, under a cross. Knut thought at first he slept, but then he said, “Knut. I am glad you came. Sit.”
There was a stool by the bed. Knut waved back the servants who came sprinting forward and sat on it, stretching out his legs. Edmund was flat under the blankets, his face pale as wax. He said nothing for a while.
Finally Knut said, “I am here.”
“Yes. I heard you killed Streona.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Edmund lay still a moment, but Knut could see he was not done talking. He said, “You will be King of it all, when I am dead.”
Knut said nothing; he knew this.
“You must honor the Saxons.”
“I will not be here long if I honor only Danes.” He studied the pale face on the bed. Iron Edmund, he thought. You should have been a Viking. He blurted out, “I will be su
ch a king to England as you would have been, Edmund. I swear this.”
Edmund’s eyes moved, just his eyes turning, as if he had no strength to move his head. “God keep you as you keep that promise.” He smiled, and he let his eyes close. “God keep England.” He was falling asleep, his wrecked body slack. Knut looked for the servant, got him back to the bed, and went out.
* * *
Edmund waited until Knut had gone and opened his eyes again. The quiet space of the hall comforted him. He was glad to have seen Knut but glad also he was gone. He was too alive, and Edmund was almost dead now. He looked around toward the far corner.
She was there, as she had been since he came here, in her dirty coif, her wooden shoes, her dark eyes fixed on him. She smiled at him, her eyes warm. No one else could see her. He understood now why only he could see her and why she was waiting for him. The servant murmured and drew his blanket up.
* * *
Knut got on his horse and rode back down toward the river. Edmund, he thought, might not live through the night. Everybody died. But some died better than others. Edmund had given his life for England. Who even knew what England was – Saxon, Dane, and in between? Yet Edmund had seen something and followed it. Now Knut had pledged to follow it also, when he scarcely knew what it was.
First he had to deal with his enemies.
There was his brother Harald, King of Denmark, but he had his own plans for Harald. Thorkel was nothing. Good men Knut would keep fast beside him: Odd; the Trondejarl, Odd’s father; Ulf Thorleifsson; Broom-Orm and the rest he would bind to him, tight as iron hoops. And Saxons too, the men who had stood with Edmund. He saw now he should have done this with Uhtred and let Thurbrand go by. Godwine, for one, he would make his man. If he gave the Saxons peace and justice, they would follow him as they had followed Edmund.
There was Richard of Normandy.
Of them all Normandy was the most dangerous, with his mailed and mounted thousands. Horse Vikings. His sister, Queen of England, and her sons, the Aethelings, gave him any excuse he needed.
His sister, Queen Emma.
Now Knut brought into his mind everything that Raef had spoken to him about the Queen and her demon. His belly tightened; he had to do this, although he quailed from it. He had grown up in an eldritch house. He knew he had no power there.
He rode down toward the river. Emma was held fast in a tower near the bridge, and there he went to see her.
They had made the big, shadowy room softer for her, with hangings on the walls and fresh rushes, but it was a prison still. The air felt raw. He saw her, and he almost stopped in his tracks.
She was years older than he was, fat, not pretty, already the mother of two sons. She flew at him when he came in, and at once he saw the demon in her eyes.
She said, “I will not be treated so. I demand you let me go to Normandy.” Her voice crackled. She swayed when she walked, as if she were much taller. “At least, give me my whole household, as your father did.”
He kept out of her reach, circling past her into the middle of the room. Some of her women hovered in the corners, all in pale gowns, like seashells hollow to the wind. He said, “My lady, hear first what I intend for you.” He could not let her go to Normandy.
She wheeled toward him. Pudgy and plain, yet she gave off a ruddy flash now and then, like small lightning, as if she could not quite keep herself down, and for an instant he thought he saw something, a vast shadow around her. Her eyes glimmered, red; he imagined something he could not see reaching toward him with open claws.
He had trapped himself. She was between him and the only door. His skin tingled. He saw his death in her eyes. But he knew what he could offer to both of them, the woman and the power that possessed her, what would keep her here, and him alive, and maybe solve the whole problem.
She said, “What then do you intend for me?”
Knut said, slowly, “I want to marry you.”
That struck her all at once: so she had no gift such as Raef’s of knowing minds. She faced him, calmer. The long reaching claws drew back. He saw in her face, around her like a shimmer of light, the demon in her, calculating, hungry.
She clasped her hands together, holding all this close. It was not Emma who spoke to him now. The voice deeper, harsher. “I will marry you. But I will have one gift of you.”
He said, “What?”
“I want your foster sister for my maid of waiting,” she said.
Knut lifted his head, surprised. The woman before him went on. “Jorvik’s daughter. He fostered you. He will do this for you. And it is an honor; make him see that. It will heal the rift between us.” The voice smooth as butter. The eyes slick as oil.
He said, “I will ask him.”
“Insist on it,” she said. “There is some rumor she may be turned against him. That should make it easier.” She stepped aside. “You may leave me now.” She sank down into a Norman bow. “My husband and my King.” She simpered, rising, Emma herself again, the shadow deep, hidden away. Knut went by her, almost fleeing.
* * *
Godwine stepped down from his horse; he had left his men behind in Derby and come out alone to Lark Hill. He looked around the little cobbled courtyard, uncertain, and then the door from the hall opened, and Ealdgyth came out.
She was taller than he remembered, her hair hidden under a coif and her cloak clasped in gold. She said, “Godwine. I dread what you have come to tell me.”
He took his hat off and faced her in the doorway. “Edmund is dying,” he said. He kept his voice steady. He had rehearsed this all the way here. “He told me to bid you stay here. Better not to remind people about you.”
Her face was pale as wax. Her eyes swam suddenly with tears. She jerked her head to one side. “I knew this would happen. He gave me up for a dream. I should have realized that things you can’t see are impossible to light.” She laid her hand on her belly. “What will become of this?”
Godwine lowered his eyes; he thought, Ah, God, I would you had not told me that. He said, “Pray it is a girl.”
“Oh, well,” she said, “so that’s how it is.” She was turning to go inside again, her body stiff; she put one hand out to the doorjamb, blindly, as if to hold herself up. She said, “I always knew better than to love him.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. The door shut between her and Godwine. He put on his hat and mounted and rode back to London.
* * *
Laissa never left the hall anymore, and Edith seldom, since Miru could come in and out as she pleased and bring them what they wished, but Leif walked abroad nearly every day, wandered around Jorvik, and saw his friends in the crowds. At first they looked a little different and stared at him oddly, which he expected, but that passed. Day to day, the time went by inside the same as it did outside. Nobody said anything about the priest, and he avoided seeing Gemma.
On the river bar three ships were already being caulked that he remembered only as frames, keels just laid, and men then still hunting the right shapes in the trees for the strakes and ribs. He skipped over what this meant.
He met Goda on the river bar, the townsman looking very well in a nice coat, but his face seamed with discontent. He said, “Leif. For God’s sake. When is he coming back?”
“I don’t know,” Leif said. “You’re doing well enough without him, it seems to me.” The council had its new hall, and the harbor was very orderly.
“It doesn’t feel like it.” Goda bit his fingernails. “It’s hard; he always knew who was lying, who was telling the truth. He always knew what was right. There are so many more people now.”
“He only did what you would have done, really,” Leif said.
Goda laughed, unbelieving. Then, both at once, they saw the ship coming up the river.
Everybody turned and watched. The big golden-headed dragon rowed neatly up the channel, turned, and tucked into the river bar. Half a dozen men there ran to help them beach her. Leif stood back a step. It was Knut getting off.
Leif h
ad not seen him in more than two years. He was still lanky, big boned, but he had grown into his size. He had his hair braided up Viking wise, but his wispy young beard grew long like an Englishman’s. On his arms he wore golden rings, and his belt was of gold, as was the clasp of his cloak. He walked with a longer stride. He walked as if no power on earth could stop him. He tramped up the bar toward Leif and Goda. His eyes were sharp; he saw everything.
“What are you doing here?” Leif asked.
“I’m the King of England now,” Knut said. “I go where I please.”
Goda said, “If you’re looking for the King of Jorvik, he’s gone.”
“Gone,” Knut said, startled.
“Maybe he never existed.”
Knut turned to Leif. “I need him. He promised me.” His voice was keen. “He has cursed me, if he is gone.”
Goda said, “Well, he’s gone.”
Leif said, “Let’s go talk this over.” He jerked his head at Knut and started off up the river bar. Goda watched them go, frowning.
* * *
Knut followed the fat Icelander. He was fumbling out ways to take back his promise to the demon, but there were all sorts of stories about doing that, and none of them ended well. The fat man led Knut on up through the Coppergate, past the shambles, and up the slope toward the hall. Knut strode beside him.
“This is bad, if he is truly gone.”
Leif said, “He’s still here. But they’ve disowned him, and you know how he is. Even Gemma.” Then they came up toward the top of the hill and the oak tree, where the hall should have been, and Knut stopped and let out an oath.
“Where is it?”
Leif said, “No, come on. Follow me, on the flags, step in step. He’ll let you in.” He gave Knut a curious, amused look. “Are you afraid? Let your breath out, all the way, before you come in. Don’t breathe until you’re inside. Otherwise you can get really sick.” He turned and went up through the grass; onto the bare, windswept crown of the hill there beside the oak tree; and in midstep he vanished into the air.
Kings of the North Page 36
