The Forever Queen (29 page)

Thetford, after the last devastation, had been rebuilt, houses, church, and trade fully restored. With everything reed-thatched and built of timber and daub, it had taken a matter of weeks to complete. It was the men who were difficult to replace; men could not be reaped from the river or felled from the forests.

An anxious week passed, a week that dragged slowly into a second. Ulfkell’s men sat cross-legged around their campfires, mending war gear or resharpening an edge that was already lethal, their voices silent but minds restless; how many of them would see the summer come? This spring was the most beautiful season of the year, with the world awakening and everything fresh and new. A sad time to die. It did not seem right to go to God when the world was so vibrant with life.

A footfall behind him, Ulfkell turned with a smile, recognising the sound of his wife’s light tread. He thought himself fortunate with Wulfhilde, for of Æthelred’s four eldest daughters she was the most comely in fairness and temperament. The pious one had taken herself off to be Abbess at Wherwell, which Æthelred had not objected to, for she was too saintly a woman for any man to stomach. Algiva had been given to Uhtred of Northumbria as reward for victory against the Scots, although no one was in any doubt the marriage was a sop to the unrest after Alfhelm’s sorry death and his sons’ blinding. Eadric Streona’s wife, Edgyth, the youngest of the four, was shy-spoken and plain. Some whispered that what she lacked in speech she made up for in bed. Ulfkell snorted laughter—and how would they be knowing?

“I thought you might have a thirst,” his wife said, offering a tankard of ale. “It has been a hot day.”

Dutiful and compliant, that was Wulfhilde. Half his age, twice as patient. A thoughtful woman who put the needs of others before her own. Huh! More than once since their marriage Ulfkell had wondered whether Wulfhilde was truly Æthelred’s daughter. He took the tankard, drank.

“Now the sun is setting, the air will cool.” He reached out a hand and tucked a strand of her hair beneath her veil. She had yellow hair, the colour of sweet-smelling hay. “I would prefer you to go to Winchester, where the Queen is,” Ulfkell said, concerned, knowing she would refuse. He had requested the same many times.

As before, she answered, “I am as safe with you as I am with any other.”

“If Thorkell comes,” he said, his voice lowered and painfully sad, “and I do not survive the battle, will you give me your vow to return to the protection of your father?”

Wulfhilde gazed towards the river and the darkening shadows of the forest beyond. How could she promise such a thing? She had spent all her twenty years wishing and waiting to escape from Æthelred. How could she return to his vindictive spitefulness? “Would you have me go where I would be unhappy? I had nothing but tears and a fear for the next day when I was at court.”

Wulfhilde had wept the day she had been told she was to wed Ulfkell of East Anglia. He was a grey-haired man in his fiftieth year, she, a young woman with her life before her. Even if that were to be a short life—as was the lot of many women, for childbirth was a wicked killer—she had wanted more than to be the chattel of an ageing man full of bad breath, wind, and the bone-ache. How wrong could a young woman be?

She took the drained tankard from him, laid her other hand over his. “I did not expect to love you,” she said, her eyes meeting with his. “But…” She gave a small shrug, a half-smile. “But I do.” She closed her fingers over his and stretched up to place a kiss on his cheek. Kindness, respect, and tenderness had worked their magic well. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, but I would ask you not to make me utter promises I know I must break. I would rather die and follow you to the next world than live again beneath the same roof as my father.”

“You have brought contentment and love to a hoar-grimed man,” Ulfkell answered, returning the kiss. “I would not see you unhappy. Do what you will, with my blessing, and if you decide to take for yourself another husband, see to it he is worthy of you. That is all I ask.”

Wulfhilde moved away from him with a light laugh. “Stay behind the battle line, keep your axe high, your shield low, and have your men hack this Thorkell’s head from his shoulders; then we may never fear for our future again.”

5 May 1010

Morale for the fyrd of East Anglia was high. Under Ulfkell Snilling they were ready and eager to fight. Overnight, the sight and sound of the Danish host, their campfires burning bright with the hot, quick blaze of gathered furze, three miles from Wretham Heath, had been suspiciously and intently watched. Thorkell was in no hurry to move. His men ate their fill, slept, awoke refreshed. Not all his warriors broke their fast, for even if they professed to bravery, stomachs often belied the truth. A fine day for fighting: overcast but with small chance of rain. Underfoot, the ground was dry and firm.

Ulfkell drew his men into two columns, one led by himself, the other by a trusted friend and able commander, brother to his wife’s mother, a man of few words, who preferred farming to fighting.

Bending forward, Ulfkell stroked the brindle head of his dog, a great beast that stood almost as high as a pony. Hlaf had been a gangle-legged pup, quick to learn, eager to please. Loyal to serve. He was grizzled around the muzzle now, one ear torn from a fight over a bitch, one paw with two toes missing. The dog lifted his head, whined, caressed his master’s hand with his lolling tongue.

“We’ll have a day of it today, eh, my lad?” Ulfkell patted his flank, straightened, ran his finger along the blade of his axe.

Thorkell had advanced his men in line, ranked at a halt a mile to the far side of the open heath. To the left the dark reaches of the woods began; away to the right the grey ribbon of a dawdling river. Those first few moments of impending battle were always difficult. Who would move first? Shoot the first arrow, shout the first war cry? Both sides eager to fight, reluctant to begin. Often it was some small thing that would initiate movement—a pony whinnying, a dog snarling, a bird flying up, startled, from the undergrowth. On this day at Wretham Heath it was the wind.

It came up out of the forest, a gushing whoosh of breath that rippled through Ulfkell’s standards, stirring the fluttering banners into a whip-crack of life. His own banner, embroidered with a running hound, dipped as the bearer momentarily lost hold of the shaft, so strong was the gust. Those wielding the war horns assumed it to be the command they had been awaiting, and the great sound boomed and boomed out; in its wake, the Saxon fyrd shouted defiance, their fingers gripping tight onto axe haft or sword hilt, moving forward as if the columns were a single multi-legged creature. Their cry reaching to the very sky: “Ulfkell! Ulfkell! Thorkell, ut! Ut! Ut!” The words stamped to the rhythm of their marching feet. “Thorkell, out! Out! Out!

Thorkell raised his hand and his warriors bellowed their own shout, began running. “Thor’s Hammer, Odin’s strength! Odin! Odin!”

They met in the middle, a mêlée of feet, arms, elbows, and teeth as much as blade and weapon. The onrush from the Saxons halted the Danes, even made them give ground by several yards, but they were strong and determined and had more to lose than did the army of Cambridge-Shire and East Anglian men. Thorkell had not wanted an outright fight, but could not refuse this one. What was the choice? Fight, or sail away to Denmark? There was no halfway decision, not when a famed warrior raised his fist and dared you to meet him on a battlefield.

Amid his surrounding guard of personal cnights, Ulfkell sent desperate word to his right flank to push the invaders over towards the river. It almost worked, would have succeeded if a spear had not been tossed with one of those lucky throws that bring about such devastation. It struck directly into his brother-in-law’s throat; he was dead before a shout of surprise or pain could leave his mouth, and, with his dying, the men under his command wavered, a small, almost unnoticed movement, but one the Danes saw and seized upon it.

Three hours it had taken, three long hours for Thorkell to overpower an opponent that even he had to admit, after it was all over, was worthy of salute. Whether he would have been so magnanimous had Ulfkell not seen the sense of surrender, however, would never be certain, but as it was, honour had been satisfied and defeat accepted.

Leaving their weapons, but taking their dignity and their lives, Ulfkell submitted Thetford to Thorkell the Tall and withdrew. With head high, the Ealdorman led his men away; beside him, on his left side, his dog limped along, the other eye torn, a dagger wound on his shoulder. On his right, Ulfkell’s wife, her hand resting on his, her step equally proud.

Behind, the men carried the wounded and the shrouded body of her uncle. Many would not be fighting again another day, but others would. In that Ulfkell was certain. This was only a battle, not the war.

December 1011—Bath

For the second occasion these last years, Æthelred was forced to hold his winter court in the crumbling town of Bath. It had once been a proud and beautiful Roman place, Aquæ Sulis, where hot springs and the blessing of the goddess had healed the sick of their ills. But the great baths were ruined, the waters fouled with scum and debris; there was nothing left of the might of Rome and, so it appeared, of England also.

Thorkell had returned to Kent. The total of men, women, and children slaughtered during the first months of winter had risen to 804, not that the figure could be verified, as many peasant farmers could not count beyond the number of their fingers. It was a figure close enough to a truthful reckoning, though. The Dane was unstoppable. From his victory at Thetford he had bypassed Athelstan waiting in Essex and had marched down into Wilt-Shire, ensuring Wessex ran with blood while Æthelred huddled behind the walls of London, sheltering himself in King Alfred’s old palace, built on the southeastern corner beside the river embankment. A better place to defend than Thorney Island and easier to leave secretly or in a hurry, should the unforeseen arise.

For Canterbury, there was no similar escape route, either by road or sea. Thorkell had chosen to over-winter his fleet at Sandwich—and why not? Æthelred was not making use of it. The Dane himself was encamped with half his men outside the walls of the cathedral city, laying siege.

Emma could imagine the horror the people were enduring once all the food had been eaten and disease had begun to kill more than Thorkell’s arrows and spears had. “If we do not send an army into Kent,” she stated, uncharacteristically stamping her foot, “then Archbishop Alfheah will be forced to submit. Can you so readily accept the loss of Canterbury?”

“Look about you, woman!” Æthelred yelled back. “How many of my Ealdormen and Thegns have answered my summons to court? I can count them on two hands and still have fingers left over!”

“Well, mayhap if you were to string Eadric Streona up by his balls, as he deserves, then more would come!”

“I cannot aid Canterbury. It is the wrong time of the year to put an army into the field. How would we feed them? Tell me that. How do we march through this knee-high snow, through the thaws that will follow? The Medway is in flood, Athelstan cannot get into Kent from Essex, and storms prevent us from launching ships. So tell me, how do I do it?”

Emma could make no answer, except, damn it, Thorkell had his men encamped outside the walls of Canterbury and winter weather had not sent him scuttling for shelter.

“All Alfheah can do is negotiate terms and buy his way out, and that the silly old fool is refusing to do, despite my ordering of it.”

“All right, I accept your reasoning,” Emma capitulated, reluctant, “but you must assure me you will send men as soon as may be possible.”

“Yes, yes,” Æthelred answered testily as he stamped from the room. His private chamber would be warmer than the hall and less noisy. Would not have the nagging of this woman hammering at his ears.

He had no need to promise. Someone in Canterbury grew tired of waiting for a slow death by starvation and took matters into his own hands. During the quiet hours of darkness, Canterbury’s gates were opened and the Danes poured in.

At least Archbishop Alfheah was spared the distress of seeing his brethren hacked to death and his cathedral burning. He was captured and taken prisoner; secured with rope and chains, and thrust, semiconscious, into a donkey cart and taken away from the town. Sick of heart and stomach, he lay for four days in a stinking hovel, listening to the carousing of his captors and Thorkell’s boasted achievement.

Eight and forty thousand pounds’ weight of silver was the demand for peace in Kent and, on top of that, the wanting of a separate ransom for the old man, Alfheah.

The old man, stripped of vestments, freedom, and dignity, closed his tired eyes and prayed for God’s deliverance. Only God could offer that, for it would not be coming from the King.

19 April 1012—Greenwich, Morning

What was the point of it all? The question tumbled through Thorkell’s mind as he sat spooning porridge from a wooden bowl. It was coarse stuff, with a bland taste, agreeable to eat only because of the hunger that rumbled in his belly. Seeing the second half of the winter out, here at Greenwich, the ships pulled up along the riverbank for cleaning and mending, had seemed a good idea after the Yule festivities had been enjoyed, when hope and enthusiasm had run high, but now? He scraped the last spoonful, swallowed, and set the bowl down at his feet. Now that the snow was receding and a new spring was blooming, the spark had gone out of the fire. The men wanted to go home. Damn it, he wanted to go home.

Thorkell glanced across at the young man sitting opposite him, a fair-faced youth, brash and full of self-confidence. Six and ten years old. By Thor’s Hammer, Thorkell had been as confident at that age! He had arrived in England two weeks past. Was also anxious to return to Denmark, but for differing reasons. This boy had much to prove and was impatient to be doing it.

“King Swein is expecting to receive the English tribute of geld,” the boy said, finishing his own break-fast porridge. “It is needed to pay his men for the summer’s campaigning. Are you certain it is today they are to bring it?”