The Constant Queen (50 page)

‘Surrender?’ he queried Torr now, for the English had already surrendered. He had personally driven his horse over a putrid pathway of ‘surrendered’ English soldiers
to lead a rout of the fleeing remnant of their lines.

‘The city,’ Torr said, gesturing to the great walls before them. ‘The city of York. She is still held, though only by the queen now. That is, the, er . . .’

Harald put up a hand, still gloved in chain mail.

‘She is the queen, Lord Torr, though not I trust for long. And yes, she will surrender. Edyth, I believe she is called. I met her once in Wales, a resourceful woman and no fool. Wait
here.’

Torr obediently drew rein, the rest of the core troops with him, and Harald rode forward alone, assessing the ancient stone walls of the old Roman city before him – they were weak, he
decided, crumbling. They’d need replacing, but not until Ulf’s church was built.

‘You are defeated, my lady,’ he called up to the cluster of women on the parapet above the gate.

One stepped forward and he recognised her immediately. She had been Queen of Wales when he’d seen her last and now it seemed she was Queen of England, though not, as he had told Torr,
for long. That honour would be Elizaveta’s – he had promised it to her and he would deliver.

‘So it seems,’ Edyth called down, her voice steady, ‘for this day at least.’

Harald laughed.

‘Your noble brothers are fled,’ he told her and saw, to his surprise, a flicker not of dismay but of hope. Did she think they would come again? She would not be so foolish when
she saw the weight of men sunk in Fulford’s marshes.

‘What do you want of us?’ she demanded.

‘We seek entry into York which we claim as our own.’

‘I cannot oppose you, Sire,’ Edyth said and he felt Torr twitch delightedly behind him, ‘but I can ask that you honour me and all of my people.’

She glanced to her women and he felt a flash of anger as he understood her implication; he might be a Viking but he was no barbarian.

‘We come not to pillage, my queen,’ he told her stiffly, ‘but to conquer. Today is but a step on our path.’

‘A victory on the way to defeat.’

Damn her, she was insolent. It fired his anger but also his admiration. She reminded him a little of Elizaveta and he smiled to himself. His wife would be half-mad with waiting but now he
could send good news. He would order a messenger to the Orkneys with report of this, his first triumph, as soon as he was inside York’s walls. He would tell her that she would soon be dining
with her sister in the new palace at Westminster.

‘If it suits you to see it that way,’ he called up to the English queen. ‘It makes no odds to me. I seek food, I seek wine and I seek terms – hostages.’

The women whimpered pathetically and he knew, whatever his own feelings, that he would have to keep a tight rein on his men this night. This was no Viking raid, no smash-and-grab looting. He
was here in England to be their king and he would behave as their king all the way to Westminster.

‘Maria, Maria, come and see!’

At the sound of Filip’s voice, Maria leaped up and ducked out of the broch doorway. She looked around, puzzled, and Elizaveta, knowing already what she would find, ran after her. Sure
enough, Filip was halfway up the outer wall and making steady progress towards the top.

‘Filip,’ she called, ‘come down.’

It was growing late. The sun was diving towards the darkening ocean and already it was hard to make out Filip’s fingers as they darted across the stones seeking solid holds. Elizaveta
thought of Greta, back at the hall with ailing Josef, and tried not to panic.

‘This tower is York,’ the boy called down, ‘and this time I will master it, as Harald will master that city.’

‘How do you know?’ Elizaveta asked him, for at least when he was talking he was still.

‘How? Why, because he is the biggest, strongest man in the whole Viking world.’

‘England is not in the Viking world,’ Elizaveta objected.

‘I’ll wager it is by now.’

Maria clapped her hands together.

‘I’ll wager it is too.’

‘Maria . . .’ Elizaveta warned.

‘What, Mama? Filip is right. Papa will win; mayhap he already has.’ She peered out to sea. ‘How long would a messenger take to reach us?’

Elizaveta sighed. She had discussed this with Harald before he left but neither of them had known.

‘It could be as much as a week’s hard ride if a man came overland through Scotland, though possibly more as I hear it is mountainous terrain and the local tribes are
fierce.’

Maria sighed but now Filip called out triumphantly from above them and Elizaveta looked up to see him right at the top of the broch, a dark silhouette against the purpling sky.

‘I can see England!’ he called. ‘
Our
England.’

‘Can you? Can you really?’

Maria made a dive for the broch and Elizaveta grabbed her arm.

‘Of course he cannot, Maria. There are all the mountains of Scotland in between.’

‘I can,’ Filip called down defiantly. ‘Oh!’

His foot wobbled and a stone crashed into the centre of the broch, smashing to pieces on the earthen floor. Maria dived for the wall and this time Elizaveta did not stop her but before she could
so much as hitch up her skirts Filip was sitting safely down, holding the edge to steady himself.

‘I’m fine,’ he called, though Elizaveta heard the tremor in his voice.

‘Please come down, Filip,’ she implored. ‘Your poor mother would be very vexed if she saw you up there and it grows dark. We must get back to her. And carefully,’ she
added as he began slowly to turn himself for the descent.

Maria’s hands were clasping the wall and her right foot had already found a toe-hold two courses up but Elizaveta tugged at her arm.

‘Stand back, Maria – give him space.’

Her daughter nodded and together they stood and held their breath as Filip slowly, painstakingly crawled down the curved wall towards them. When he was just a little above their heads he looked
down, his sudden smile broad in the rising moonlight.

‘I’m quite safe,’ he said and then, without warning, leaped to the ground, landing before them and steadying himself with just a slight bend of his young knees.

‘Home!’ Elizaveta said darkly and set off down the curve of the Brough towards the hall, glowing in the dusk as the servants lit the rush lights.

She set a brisk pace, more to walk off her own unease than because there was any real rush. She wanted to deliver Filip safely back to Greta and to see Ingrid, whose calm, however much it might
frustrate Maria, always soothed her. The youngsters, though, lagged behind.

‘Could you really see England?’ she heard Maria ask Filip.

‘I believe so.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘Victory.’

‘Victory?’ Maria was scornful. ‘What does victory look like?’

Filip chuckled.

‘You’ll have to see for yourself,’ was his cheeky reply and then he was running past Elizaveta, Maria hot on his tail, and Elizaveta was so glad to see her unusually sombre
daughter losing herself in a child’s chase that she did not think to warn her against doing so.

Stamford Bridge, 25 September 1066

T
he life of a conqueror, Harald had decided, was a good one. The sun was shining on him and his men as they sat in the sloping grasslands above
the babbling River Derwent, coaxing a fire into life to roast the meat the younger soldiers were even now rounding up on the pastures over the wooden bridge at Stamford.

‘Catch him, Tomas,’ Aksel called. ‘Surely you can outrun a cow, man?’

Harald smiled to hear Halldor’s rough humour running through his son’s voice. Here in the strange fields of England he had missed his old friend’s vibrant enthusiasm nearly
as much as he had missed Ulf’s quiet pragmatism. Aksel’s bright presence in his army was a balm to the wound of their absence on this, his greatest campaign, and he was unendingly
grateful that Hal’s boy had sailed with him from Iceland back when this invasion was little more than a dream.

It was a dream no longer though. He was here and he must make the most of it. Shaking off the ghosts of the past, he laughed with the rest of his men as the cow, a sprightly young heifer,
ducked Tomas’s clumsy attempt to rope her and danced off, hooves kicking high in the autumn air.

‘Jump on his back,’ someone suggested and they all laughed again.

‘Can we not stick an arrow in the beast?’ another grumbled. ‘Tomas will be all day playing tag with it and I’m hungry.’

‘It might be best,’ Harald agreed.

The men had broken their fast heartily on board the ships, still moored at Riccall, but it had been a twelve-mile march here, to the assigned point for the English to hand over their hostages
and treasure, and a man soon worked up an appetite on such a trip, especially in this warm weather. Even in the lightest armour Harald had allowed them they had all been sweating within minutes and
many had chosen to throw off their heavy chain mail on arrival in the sweeping fields above the bridge to duck themselves in the blissfully cool waters of the Derwent. Now they sat steaming gently,
taking their ease around the landwaster banner, struck into the ground on a long stave, but they did need food.

‘Aksel,’ Harald said over his shoulder, ‘set your archers on the cattle, lad.’

Aksel rose and, taking two of his best men down the bank, waved to poor Tomas and his fellows to stand aside. The heifer was felled with a single strike, offering no more than a strangled moo
before it fell to earth with a loud thud and a call of delight from over the bank.

‘Good work,’ Harald called to the archer. ‘Save those arrows for the English.’

The men jeered obligingly then turned their attention to the entertaining spectacle of the younger men trying to drag the dead cow across to the bridge. The fire, as if sensing meat, leaped
to life and they called out to them to hurry.

Harald rose and moved aside, his eyes scanning the horizon. He had not been jesting about the arrows. The English in York had seemed docile enough, the women terrified and those men
who’d escaped Fulford in no mood to do battle again, but he still had to be careful. He had set guards on all the roads and outside York’s big south gates to watch for treachery but so
far all was quiet. It would soon be midday and the hostages should come. He flexed his wrists, his right one a little sore still from the action at Fulford. It had ached ever since Nisa but he
welcomed the reminder. He had made peace with Denmark so he could put all his energies into gaining England and he must stay alert.

‘The time draws close,’ Harald said, turning. ‘We should arm ourselves.’

His men, though, had crowded down to the river. The youngsters on the far side looked hopefully at them, awaiting help, but if Harald knew his warriors they would get none, not to tug the
beast over the bridge, nor to gut it on the other side. That was a novice’s task and they would enjoy the show. As should he. Picking up his own helmet, he gave a last glance to the horizon
– still empty – and wandered down to join them. It was a fine cow; it would be a good feast indeed, especially with English hostages to serve it.

‘An outdoor dinner?’ Elizaveta asked, frowning at her eldest daughter.

‘An outdoor dinner,’ Maria agreed, adding as she saw Elizaveta’s face, ‘it was Ingrid’s idea.’

‘And it’s a good one,’ Ingrid said unusually firmly. ‘Josef is healing and he needs fresh air, as does Greta. She is too pale.’

That much at least was true. But . . .

‘An outdoor dinner?’ Elizaveta repeated and Ingrid leaped forward to take her hands.

‘Why not, Mama? We cannot just sit around staring at walls. It could be weeks until we hear news.’

‘Of the victory?’

‘Of the victory, yes, so why should we not enjoy ourselves in the meantime? Please, Mama, it is a glorious day.’

That was true too. The winds had lessened and the sun, though low, shone with real warmth.

‘Where?’ Elizaveta asked.

‘Up at the broch,’ Maria told her instantly, tugging her towards the door, Ingrid in tow. ‘The children love to play there and it will offer some shelter if the winds
rise.’

‘As,’ Elizaveta pointed out, resisting, ‘would staying in the hall.’

‘Oh, Mama – don’t be so dull.’

That arrow hit home. Dull? Is that what she had become?

‘I’ll have you know,’ she said, ‘that I am not dull. I rode the rapids.’

‘I remember,’ Maria said, glancing to her sister. ‘Do you, Ingrid?’

‘Mother kayaking dressed as a boy?’ Ingrid wrinkled up her nose. ‘Of course I remember.’

‘I was so proud,’ Maria said defiantly.

‘You were?’ Elizaveta smiled and stepped towards the door, suddenly twitching to look out to the south, for all the use it would be. ‘The broch it is, then. We must get
food.’