The Forever Queen (33 page)

“Leave it! If you try to stop this, with the mood they are in, they will turn on you, too!”

“…For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory.”

Shouting, jeering, laughing. Cnut, a grin on his face, relishing the frenzy of blood-rush enjoyment. Thorkell aghast, impotent.

A single, gasped cry. Abrupt silence.

Thorkell shouldered through the men, hauling and kicking, punching them aside, though they parted easily now that it was all over.

Alfheah lay dead. His mouth open, his hands clasped in prayer. A knee joint, a great ox bone, larger than a clenched fist, beside him, the blood and hair and bone of an old man’s shattered skull clinging stickily to it. The circle of men fell silent, those holding bones, things they had been about to throw, dropped them. The outer circle already melting away into the night, the rest shuffling, coughing, clearing throats. Ashamed.

Thorkell touched the oozing blood, eased aside a lock of matted hair and with his dagger cut through the tethering ropes. He lifted the dead man into his arms and looked up at the sullen men, tears streaming from his eyes.

“What heroes have I fought with these months? Men? Warriors? I see none such before me. I see only cowards who have no shame, men so weak they must show their feeble strength in the killing of an old and defenceless man.”

Cnut ambled forward, the light of the fires illuminating the slim features of his youthful face, shining on his blue eyes and fair hair. “You speak as if you have no respect for us, Thorkell. We are men of the í-víking; none shall call us coward to our faces.”

A few murmurs of assent from the younger men; the older ones remained silent.

Carrying the dead man, Thorkell walked up to Swein’s second-eldest son, stood before him. “When it comes to murder such as this, then I have no respect, and I call you all coward.”

He shouldered through the circle, paused at the outer edge, his brother Hemming, joining him, his face also grey-grim.

“You wish to become a King?” Thorkell said to Cnut. “Well, there is more to being brave than killing the old and the weak. A King must know of his responsibilities and be a father to all who look to him for protection and justice. A King must know right from wrong, for if he does not, how can he wisely govern the laws of his kingdom?”

“Nor can a King afford to dwell on his conscience, Thorkell, for if he did, he would never be more than a stomachless weakling.” With a sneer, Cnut added, “Like Æthelred.”

Dipping his head by way of a leave-taking, Thorkell turned, walked away towards the river and his ship, called, as he went into the darkness, “You speak right, my Lord, a King cannot dwell on his conscience, but a loved King will have an understanding of the difference between weakness and strength, and will know the word compassion. A hated King will not.”

Thorkell sailed with the turn of the flood tide; those who had not taken part in the blood-surge killing, who had felt sickened by its doing, going with him. And there were many of them. As the pull of the river began to take command, they slipped the oars, raised sail, and departed upriver towards London.

Standing tall and straight beside the steerboard, Thorkell turned his back on the old gods, on Denmark, Swein, and the boy Cnut. He wanted no more of it, no more killing of the innocent and the gratification of that poxed whoremaster, greed. He did not know how he was to accomplish it, but he was determined to take the battered body of a devout, brave, and honourable man to his own people and somehow, somehow, make amends.

When the tide had turned again and had ebbed downriver, Greenwich was deserted; only the trampled grass and detritus of occupation remained. Few of the men following the tide home did not feel shame at what they had done. As Thorkell had said, there was nothing to boast of in the drunken killing of an old man.

Cnut, standing alone, feet wide-planted on the deck of his ship, felt anger at the snub Thorkell had made toward him. He was a King’s son. No one so deliberately insulted him. Not even when the insults were justified and were the plain truth. Easier to plant your anger at the feet of someone else rather than admit your own wrongdoing.

March 1013—Roskilde, Denmark

Tempers were flaring high between two fathers and their sons on opposite shores of the cold, grey North Sea. Cnut and Edmund would have been surprised to discover they were both arguing on the same side of the fence over the proposed marriage of the daughter of a dead English Ealdorman. Swein of Denmark was irritated with the unhelpful attitude of his second son, Cnut, and Æthelred had been raging for most of the afternoon about his ingrate of an eldest-born.

“I cannot allow Thorkell to thrust his fist up my arse,” Swein exclaimed, exasperated. “His deserting me to aid the English was an insult I cannot tolerate or allow. I thought you understood that, Cnut? He has deprived me of five and forty ships and crew, his experience, and loyalty; has made me into a laughing stock.” Nor could Swein permit Thorkell to become Æthelred’s military commander, for if the English found themselves a capable leader, they just might decide to make a fight of things. And win.

“That I do understand,” Cnut answered, his hands spread palms upwards, pleading. “What I do not understand is why I have to wed this prawn-faced English girl!”

Swein swung away, his head bowed between his clasping hands. “Woden’s beard, boy, but I thought you had intelligence. Have I nurtured a simpleton all these years?” Abruptly he took hold of his son’s upper arms, shook him, his mind half registering that the lad, at one month short of seven and ten, was already taller than himself.

“Alfhelm was murdered because I approached him with an offer of alliance. The Danelaw, even at that juncture, was weary of Æthelred’s ineptitude.” He gave another, lighter, shake, and said, trying to explain, “It is an odd thing, son, but if a King rules for too long, his people grow bored with him. It is as if they have been rowing in the same direction, at the same speed, in the same conditions for year after year. All they have is dry biscuits for food and brackish water to drink. They want something different. A change of wind, to hoist sail, make landfall, anything. They need meat for dinner, ale in their tankards. Æthelred has been King of England for four and thirty years. Four and thirty years, boy! That is a damned long time to become as expertly useless as he has.”

“I am not an idiot, Father, I am quite aware of the English situation. I realise you are anxious to win these northern Lords to your side by faith and trust rather than by strength and killing—what I cannot comprehend is why does it have to be Alfhelm’s daughter? He is dead. His sons are blinded; they do not hold any power or use for us. What good will this Ælfgifu be to me?”

At least Swein was honest with his cynical reply. “To you? Apart from pleasure in bed and a possible brood of sons, none at all.” He lifted his head slightly, said to a man hurrying from the wharf, “Ja? What is it?”

“We have found the leak, Lord. There is a patch the size of my fist that is rotten on the steerboard-side keel.”

Swein pursed his lips, further annoyed, as he stared down towards the fjord and the ship hauled onto the ice-hardened shore, her underside exposed to the scrutiny of the shipbuilders. The Sea Serpent, Swein’s favourite dragon ship. She should not have required repair so soon after her building.

“I reckon the damage was done when she got scraped on those rocks last autumn. We were lucky not to have holed her.”

“Can you repair the damage, or will the whole of the planking need to be replaced?” Damn! With only two weeks until Swein’s plan to sail, weather permitting, this could cause an annoying delay. He could use a different ship, but since her launching he always sailed in the Sea Serpent, did not like to tempt fate by using a sister ship.

“I think I can repair it, my Lord. If I start early tomorrow, it should not take more than a few days, the week at the most.”

Swein grinned, relieved. “If you have her seaworthy by Thor’s Day, there will be an extra bag of silver in it for you.”

Saluting, the man hurried off, scowling up at the evening sky as he made rapid mental calculation. If he assembled his tools and searched for the right piece of wood straightaway, he could make a start at first light.

Cnut too was squinting upwards. A crescent moon was glowing pale silver, and the evening star sparkled, bright against the clear sky. Snow lay in deep rifts up on the higher ground and in the shadowed hollows. Some parts of the fjord, too, where the weak sunlight could not penetrate, were rimmed by ice. He loved the smell of Denmark. Crisp and intoxicating, the cold air rammed up your nostrils and hurtled into your brain, making you feel vibrant and alive. He would miss all this when they went to England. Miss it because he knew he might never come back, not after his father had his final victory over Æthelred, as he would very soon.

A bell began to clang from the outer rafter of the wooden chapel further along the shoreline. Vespers was it? Or was that a later service? He could not remember. A handful of Roskilde inhabitants came scurrying from the warmth of their houses, hooded cloaks drawn tight, five, six families? More women than men. Cnut sniggered; this Christ was a soft-bellied woman’s God, fit only for virgins, eunuchs, and peasants to worship. What was the attraction? Why had a warrior like Thorkell so suddenly deserted everything and everyone he valued to have himself immersed in holy water and baptised into the family of this Christian God? All for the sake of an old monk who had done nothing but mumble and mutter prayers, and had been accidentally killed by an over-lively group of drunken men? Unease shifted uncomfortably in his conscience. A King could not afford to have a conscience, he had said that night. But what of leadership? Compassion? Duty? Without those, of what use was a King?

“To you, son, this Ælfgifu will be nothing more than a concubine. When you are King of England in my stead”—Swein, unaware of his son’s troubled thoughts, held up one warning finger—“and mark my word well, I do not intend that to be for many years yet, so do not be tempted to think much on it too soon—when you are eventually King, you will need a more fitting wife, a daughter of another King or Prince at the very least. For now, you must wed this northern girl because I need the Lords of the English Danelaw to take the crown from Æthelred and put it on my head instead.”

To do so, he needed to show the North that he intended to replace Æthelred as King, ease the burden of exorbitant taxes, bring peace and respect for law and justice all at the one time. He almost had them, but the best, surest way to capture a wild animal was to lure it in with tempting bait. Go slowly, slowly, make no sudden movements, speak calmly, croon; offer comfort, not fear or pain. Eventually it would come round.

“When we land in England, we must be certain we will not face hostility. I have given assurances that if I am not hindered, not a farmsteading, not a man, woman, or child, shall be harmed. Not one sheep or cow shall be butchered without fair payment; no hayrick shall be fired, no barn pulled down. We want to be welcomed with open arms. I want the English crown secure on my head before my feet leave the deck of my ship. To do that, it is imperative I give the Lords an assurance of my honour. I once made agreement of this marriage with Alfhelm of Deira; I intend to show my agreements hold good. By doing so I am making a statement both to Æthelred and his Ealdormen: that I support, and have full sympathy with, the family of a wrongly and unjustifiably murdered Englishman. For that alone the North will flock to me.”

“You want a lot. What about what I want?” Cnut was turning sullen, his bottom lip pouting. “I may not want to become a King of England after you. You are assuming my elder brother will become King of Denmark; what if I want that crown for myself?”

Swein choked down amusement. “You will have to take it from him first!”

“I could do so easily, with one hand tied behind my back!”

Swein did not doubt it, but he did not say so aloud. Cnut, for all that he was the younger of the two sons, showed the better promise as a warrior and a leader. Swein was proud of him. He did not say that aloud, either.

“I do not want Ælfigu, Alfhelm’s daughter, as wife. A Princess of Kiev will make a better Queen.”

Swein tipped his head back and laughed, “You aim high, boy! The Grand Prince of Kiev is a powerful man.” He set his arm firmly along his son’s shoulders and steered him towards the welcome of warmth that glowed from the inside of the royal hall. “If that is all that bothers you, lad, then it is easily settled. As Prince of Denmark, you take the Kiev girl as wife; as the future King of England you take Ælgifu as concubine. Once crowned in England, you set her aside and take your legal wife as your English Queen.”

Petulant, Cnut countered, “But I may prefer to have the one wife. I might turn fully to Orthodox Christianity, as you so often urge me.”

Swein guffawed. “That you would have to if you want the Rus’s daughter for wife! He is foot in boot with that pious Byzantine emperor, Basil.” Swein shrugged. “Should you decide to embrace Christ, it would give you adequate excuse to divorce Alfhelm’s daughter when it suits. It is a silly thing to jeopardise my conquest of England just because you prefer one woman over another, though, boy.”

Glowering, Cnut allowed himself to be seated before the blaze of the fire, took the ale his father placatingly offered. “And, of course,” he said sullenly, “if I were to wed this Ælfgifu, it would bring you the benefit of no uncertain amount of gold as dowry from her grateful mother.”

Conceding the argument, Swein grinned. “Well, ja, there is that to it also.”

March 1013—Winchester

You must investigate the rumour of this marriage,” Emma insisted. “If you allow it, it will constitute outright rebellion, a declaration of civil war.”

Æthelred, already halfway across the hall heading for the sanctuary of his private chamber, continued walking. It would not be sensible for him to abandon council like this, but then it would not be sensible for him to put his hands on either side of his wife’s throat in front of these snivelling southerners.