The Forever Queen (27 page)

All night he had whimpered and cried, demanding to be sat with, sung to, amused, and occupied. Much of it Emma left to his nurse, Wymarc, and the serving women, but as his mother she had to take her share of responsibility. Constantly, he had called for her when she had tried to slip away, believing him to be, at last, asleep, each time walking no more than a few yards before his screams all but woke the entire palace at Thorney Island. By dawn, Emma herself was close to screaming.

“You appear to have no concern for what you have done. No regrets, no doubts. Can you not see that the people will not take much more of this?”

“The people,” Æthelred sneered, “can go to Hell.”

“Which is where they already are! You cannot go on raising tax after tax and not give them any return, Æthelred. You are raising twelve shillings per hide, more than half a man’s expected income, and what have you shown for the use of it? Nothing, absolutely nothing!”

Æthelred pouted, aware he was not getting the better of the argument. “It is not my fault; I have not been well advised.”

“God’s truth, but you whine like Edward! Nor is it your people’s fault, yet they must pay. If they cannot pay, your reeves take in kind! How many good men have you made homeless this year alone, Æthelred? How many freeborn children, wives, mothers, and husbands, brothers, and fathers have been forced to sell themselves into slavery because of your incompetence and Streona’s greed? Reeves like him grow rich on the misfortune of the poor.”

The anger was spilling over, flushing from the overfilled pot. These people were Emma’s subjects, too, and she could no longer see their suffering ignored. It had come on gradually, this realisation that she was becoming fond of England and these Anglo-Saxon people, so gradually that she had not been aware of it until she had been on the verge of losing it all. Winchester, and standing so bold on the ramparts, had invigorated her, the cheering of the people reaching into her heart and giving her something worth living for—worth fighting for. And along with the realisation of her love for her adopted country had come the awakening of ability and the possession of power. She was not going to permit anyone to take this feeling of excitement, of being alive, away from her.

Emma’s outburst had hit several nails square on the head. Æthelred was aware he had made an almighty mess of this summer’s campaigning, but he was damned if he was going to be reprimanded for it by a woman.

Thrusting herself from her chair, Emma paced the room. That wretched child was still screeching. “You left Sandwich undefended. Despite all the money you raised to prevent it from happening, Kent is left open and vulnerable. Nor does it take sense to understand if you insult a man like Wulfnoth, he will take his ships and abandon you.”

“Take his ships!” Æthelred roared. “His ships? He has taken more than his ships! I have lost twenty craft to that traitorous bastard!”

“Were I a King, I would be recalling Wulfnoth with all forgiveness, would ask my eldest, most competent son to take command of the fleet, and, cladding myself in armour, take up my sword and personally go out there to slit Thorkell’s throat if he should as much as dare to set one foot on English soil.”

“And if I were a Queen,” Æthelred retorted, as he drained a fourth goblet of his best and strongest ale, “I would not allow my damned son to afflict the entire palace with a thundering headache!”

September 1009—Thorney Island

Eighty ships? You are telling me you ordered eighty ships, under the command of Eadric Streona’s brother, to go in pursuit of Wulfnoth?” Athelstan was incredulous. He said it again, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You have lost eighty ships because your pride would not accept the plain, simple truth of common sense?”

No such thing had been ordered. Eadric had sent his brother off after Wulfnoth with the King’s permission, but Æthelred had assumed the man would take five, eight ships at most. Not eighty. On top of all the other blunders, however, Æthelred was not about to admit to yet another mistake. Instead, he retaliated with blind temper. “If you have no liking for the way I govern, then I suggest you leave my court. In fact, until you can speak to me with a civil tongue in your head, I suggest you leave my kingdom. Time and again I forgive you and allow you back. Well, no more. You are nithing. I declare you out of law and banish you from England. You have four and twenty hours to be gone.”

For a full minute Athelstan said nothing. He had ridden into Thorney not half an hour since from Kent, with the news that Thorkell had occupied Sandwich, and what was his father going to do about it? His nostrils were flaring, his breath quickening. Rage was twisting inside him, threatening to boil over and burst in a fountain from his mouth. His fists clenched, the nails dug into his palms as he forced himself to remain calm, willing his hands not to clutch round that scraggy neck of his father’s and squeeze the miserable life from it.

“I have no desire to stay within spitting distance of you, even were you to beg me, but do not expect me to leave England, sir. Do not expect me to turn my back on those who will one day be my people. Unlike you, I honour my ancestors and my responsibilities. I will go from your court, but I will be going into the villages and the shires, the towns and the burghs. I will be gathering men to me, all those who can no longer stomach your indifference and incompetence. Expect to see me again, Father—at the head of an army!” He made no further acknowledgement, but turned on his heel and, with his cloak billowing behind him, swept from the hall.

Edmund, tears weeping from his eyes, met him in the stables, his grabbing hand staying his brother from setting the saddle on his stallion’s back. “Athelstan! Please, do not do this! Go back to Papa, apologise, beg forgiveness! Please!”

“I cannot do that, Edmund. Things have gone beyond repentance and clemency.”

“Then wait a few minutes, allow me time to saddle my horse. I will ride with you.”

“No!” It came out harsher than Athelstan intended. He repeated himself, gentler. “Nay, lad, as much as I would like it, you cannot come with me. Not to where I am going.”

“But…”

“No, Edmund. Father has declared me nithing, an outcast. We cannot both ride the same path. From here, you must follow your own fortune.”

“Papa did not mean it. Give him a day around, and he will change his mind. He always does. Always has before.”

“Not this time, Brother. And even if he does realise his folly, I am not going to forgive him. He has stretched too far; the insult is not merely to me, but to all England.”

There was no point in arguing, Edmund could see that. “Then take care of yourself. And I vow, on the love I have for you, that when you have need of me I shall be ready.”

Athelstan squeezed his brother’s hand. “That is a vow I shall be glad to hold you to.”

The stable door was flung open, making the two lift their heads sharply. Emma.

“Is what I hear true?” she asked, coming into the stables and standing in the pooled light of the lantern. Not caring that her house shoes trod in the horse dung on the unswept floor.

“That you no longer have to fear my presence?” Athelstan retorted. “Aye, it is true. But I warn you, I shall be taking the crown as soon as I am able; I shall not be standing aside to wait for your brat to come of age.”

Emma gave a sharp, impatient gesture with her hand. “I was talking of more immediate issues. Is it true what I am hearing about Wulfnoth and Sandwich? The one is dead, and the other is lost?”

“Both are true. Eadric’s brother pursued Wulfnoth with eighty of our warcraft. All eighty were sunk in a storm to the southwest of the Island of Wight, along with Wulfnoth and many of his men. Left undefended, Thorkell occupied Sandwich and is now ransacking the Kent coast.”

His tone had been harsh, scathing, as angry as he had been when telling his father all this. What a senseless, pointless waste! To his surprise, Emma uttered a curse beneath her breath. “The fool, the incompetent fool!” She paused, sat on a pile of empty sacks, her head dropping wearily into her hands. “Has Godwine been told?”

“I have not had opportunity to find him,” Athelstam admitted, keeping to himself that the thought had not occurred to him.

Composing herself, wiping her fingers across tear-wet cheeks, Emma straightened her shoulders, stood. “I shall find him and tell him. Thegn Wulfnoth was a good man; he was more than once kind to me when I was in desperate need of friendship. I shall take it upon myself to look after Godwine now that you cannot do so.”

“And why would you be doing that for me, eh?” Athelstan said.

“I am not doing it for you. I do it for Godwine and for Wulfnoth.” She retraced her steps to the door, mindful of the dung this time, paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light of dusk. “And I do it for the simple fact that I have no more respect for your father than do you. England is in desperate need of a strong King. Given the right assurances for my future, Athelstan, I would be as pleased as you to be rid of the present useless one.”

September 1009—Sandwich

Thorkell was immensely pleased with himself. Nor could he believe his good fortune. In the first week of September, Sandwich, apart from the residents and a handful of rearguard wastrels, had been deserted, and the Danish sea host had swept into harbour on a high night tide, their ships illuminated by the eerie light of a silver, three-quarter-full moon. After two days the land for five miles around had been secured, with minimal loss of life or blood on the raiders’ side. Hemming, Thorkell’s younger brother, who commanded half of the three-hundred-strong fleet, was forced to admit the landing had been easier than he had anticipated. Their luck would not hold, though; there was bound to be an English army awaiting them soon. But then Hemming was noted for his pessimism.

“Canterbury will not fall so easily to us,” he said, his short, stubbed fingers automatically touching the Hammer of Thor pendant suspended from a thong at his neck. It was a special talisman, for it was made of an iron that possessed the magic power of Odin himself. If held aloft it would spin round and around, then settle, with its pointed tip always towards the North Star. No matter how often or where he tried it: a clouded night, daylight, during storms, or in perfect weather; without fail it located the direction north.

His folded arms set comfortably on the top rung of the closed gate, Thorkell remained quiet in his contemplation. Hemming had been foretelling danger since before they had set sail. There were some who said he was predicting doom from the day he fell out of his mother’s womb, too early by a full month.

“That it may not,” Thorkell eventually answered his brother’s bald statement evenly. “But we did not come here believing we would face nothing more enterprising than an afternoon stroll.”

Resting his own arms on the gate, Hemming stared into the field. Most of the ponies were happily grazing; only a few remained unsettled, their heads up, ears back, ready to squeal and kick, unsure of each other and this unfamiliar territory. A few more days together as a herd and they would relax, once the squabbling for supremacy was established. Hemming grinned to himself. Were animals any different from men? Gather together a group of strangers, and always there was bickering and snarling until one among them proved his capability as a leader. For the ponies, it looked like the dun mare with the four white socks and the white face was to become the matriarch. She was a madam if ever there was one! Thorkell had claimed her for his own three days past, after they had taken her and several other ponies from that farm back down the valley. What they had not wanted they had killed or destroyed, the farmsteader and his sons included. A pity there had been no women, but any man of sense would have ensured the vulnerable were hidden away out of danger when Danes were within marching distance. Personally, if Hemming had farmed that steading, he would have sent that mare off with the women, too. His grin quirked higher. In the case of his own nag-tongued, prune-faced wife, he would have sent only the mare and not bothered with the woman!

“Have you decided?” he asked, reaching down for a grass stalk to chew. “Do we march direct to Canterbury?”

Deliberately, Thorkell avoided the question, for no other reason than he was uncertain what to do to retain this best advantage. He had been expecting more resistance, to have faced the Æthelred and his army head-on, soon after landing. All he had met so far were frightened villagers and farmsteaders intent on saving their property. Poor bastards. What chance had they against Thorkell’s host?

Instead, he commented, “We will need more ponies if we are to raid further afield than Kent. I will not have the men march on foot, for we can too easily be separated from our ships.”

“We will get the ponies.” Hemming casually flicked his left hand at the grazing animals. “We’ve not done so bad this far with our acquisitions.” He turned his head, refusing to be ignored. “Canterbury?”

“Canterbury will surrender before we reach its walls.”

“You are certain?” To Hemming’s mind, Canterbury would hold fast, if not for the English King, then for the English God. Sincerely hoped his brother had not misjudged things.

Dusk was enfolding the Kent countryside, the sky blending from a cornflower blue into a lazy purple, the meandering river, over to their right, a lavender ribbon of reflected mallow. Thorkell pointed at the far bank, directing Hemming’s attention to the ghostly white shape of a barn owl hunting on silent, gliding wings. It disappeared into a copse, the men listening for a while for its call. Nothing. Was her hunting successful? If not, was this a sign? Men, like ponies, were sometimes uneasy in strange terrain, and the owl was the messenger bird of the gods.

Pushing himself from the gate, Thorkell checked the latch was secure. He laughed. “Hemming the doubter! Canterbury will not resist us. I wager you my new dun mare it will not.”

Without hesitation, his younger brother spat on the palm of his right hand, thrust it out for Thorkell to take.

Three days later, Thorkell kept his mare. And the three-thousand-pound weight of silver that Canterbury prudently paid to see the í-víkings host pass in peace.