The Forever Queen (34 page)

Apart from Eadric Streona—he was always loyal, was always there whatever the trouble—not one single Ealdorman had come to court. Not even Uhtred and Ulfkell, married to his own daughters! God rot them! God rot them all! There were no Bishops, no Thegns, no reeves or merchantmen. No one except the eminent men of Winchester, and they were here for the Queen, God damn them, and Wulfstan. And he had only come out of duty to the Church, not to Æthelred, to lecture on God’s wrath.

“If Athelstan has something to say to me, boy,” Æthelred sniped at Edmund as he passed him, “then let him come tell it to my face, not relay messages through that harpy I am wedded to.”

He carried on walking, but Edmund was striding after him, boldly grabbed his father’s arm. “My brother has sent word to you out of love for England and his duty as Ætheling. He cannot pretend he has not heard through his informers what is being planned or ignore it as none of his business, as do you.”

Æthelred shook his son’s hand off, brushed at his sleeve as if a dirt stain had been left there. “His informants?” he hissed. “Informants? Those sly dog turds who have gone against me? Those snivelling pig-shit wallowers, the brothers Sigeferth and Morcar? They are not informants, they are traitors. If they truly cared that Swein Forkbeard intends to wed his son with that scum family of Alfhelm, then they would be here”—he pointed at his feet—“here in Winchester, planning our council of war.”

He thrust his face close to Edmund’s, the sneer as ugly as a boar’s snout. “You want to be a warrior, Edmund? If you can do something about this absurd marriage alliance, then you—and she—deal with it.” He flung his hand towards Emma, who had remained, exasperated, in her chair on the dais. “And for good measure, you can ask your new friend, Thorkell, to help.” Contemptuously, he spat in the direction of the Dane.

“Sir, I have no intention…” Thorkell began.

“No, nor have I.” Æthelred marched through the door, slamming it shut, rammed the bolts home.

Emma spread her hands. “Such is the English way of a war council. The King loses his temper because he is in the wrong, and he stamps off like a spoilt child.”

“That, ma’am, given the public occasion of this calling of council,” Eadric Streona chided with a frown of disapproval, “is perhaps disrespectful?”

“He is my husband, Streona. I am entitled to be as disrespectful to him as I please.”

Council? This was more like a mercers’ meeting called on a pagan feasting night. Only those few who preferred the martyrdom of a public display of Christian piety over an indulgence of ale and women bothered to attend.

Edmund sat, slapped his hands on his thighs in despair. “Without Æthelred’s word in this, we will not be able to summon the fyrd. My brother tried it once, if you recall. He found a handful of men who had a taste for adventure. They supported him for all of three weeks.” He dropped his chin into his cupped palm. Was defeat so easy to accomplish, so hard to accept?

“If I may suggest?” The Dane, Thorkell, pushed away from where he had been leaning against the wall.

Emma stared at him with a frozen glare of ice. She detested him even more than she did her husband and Eadric Streona put together. From the day Thorkell had stepped off his craft, his men showing hands empty of weapons, clutching only at green branches to show they came in peace, Emma could not bring herself to trust him—why was as difficult for her to understand as the question of why Edmund liked him.

So he had brought Archbishop Alfheah’s bloody and battered body to London for Christian burial, had done public penance and stood at the edge of the Thames River for baptism into the Christian faith. Did his unwavering and devout attendance at Mass, his gifts to the Church, his diligent reading of the Bible, make him any less the murderer he was? Or was it that she disliked him because he was better than any of them? Because he was a man who was prepared to give up everything he had for personal honour?

“Yes, sir,” Edmund addressed the Dane, respectfully, ignoring Emma and Eadric Streona’s scowls. “What would you advise?”

“To not underestimate the fyrd. Your brother tried summoning them once, and they did not respond, but then they knew his calling was for an argument against the King. This time it will be different. This time it is for God and England. Summon the fyrd, and march on Northampton. Cut out the pus before it sends the wound putrid. Cnut Sweinsson cannot be permitted to make alliance with this woman, Ælfgifu. Once his father has a means to come into England without risk, then all will be lost. Allow a dog to snap once at its master’s hand, and next time it will bite and draw blood.”

“And what if Athelstan’s information proves incorrect? What fools we will look like!” Eadric Streona stated.

“Better fools than if you do not,” Thorkell answered simply.

Streona persisted. “It is for the King to order out the armies. And the King believes his eldest son to be merely trouble-seeking.”

Emma rose from her seat, began walking towards her own chamber. She did not like or trust Thorkell, but neither could she abide Eadric Streona, and she had her own common sense to rely upon.

“So,” she said, “we either sit here and play with our finger rings while Swein Forkbeard sails his ships into the Humber River, marries his son to a dead Ealdorman’s daughter, and calmly receives the submission of the North. Or we put our trust in Athelstan and fight. I do not see why we argue.”

She paused at her chamber door, turned, and stared directly at Thorkell. “My brother once thought there would be great advantage in marrying me into England. Remind me to ask him one day what he thought that advantage to be, for I am damned if I know what it is.”

September 1013—London

This, then, was the horror of reality; now that it was actually here on her doorstep, Emma found it hard to comprehend. Had no one in all England dared to stand up to Swein Forkbeard? Had no one even so much as thrown a clod of earth to stop him? In the North, for those with Danish blood, she could understand it, for despite their protestations, many of them remembered their Scandinavian heritage and had a justifiable grudge against Æthelred. But the South? Surrey, Sussex, Wessex? Her own Winchester? Why had they all refused to acknowledge Athelstan and given in so easily to Denmark? Winchester’s capitulation had hurt like a gaping wound in her side, leaving an ongoing ache of despair. She could feel now why Æthelred had winced on hearing that Oxford-Shire had submitted; the pain had not been entirely for the loss of a shire, but for where the submission had occurred. At Woodstock, Æthelred’s favoured palace.

She glanced across at Eadric Streona, who sat attentive to a board game with her husband—as if this were a suitable occasion to be playing taefl! Eadric had not lifted a finger to rouse the shires of Mercia, claiming he could not, that opinion ran too much against him, that if he called up an army, it would be all too easy for the men to turn against him. Huh, he had done all the running! Once Swein had marched south from his base at Gainsborough, Streona had fled to the safety of the court without waiting to lift his axe from its wall bracket. Of course no one rallied or fought! Who was there to lead them?

“You look troubled, Lady. Can I be of service?”

Emma swung her head, gazed with loathing at Thorkell. Said nothing.

Swein Forkbeard, having made rapid progress up the Winchester road, was a handful of miles from London. The rest of England, apart from the southwest, had capitulated to him. Only London held for Æthelred—and this Dane deserter had the gall to call himself Æthelred’s friend?

“The King shall not allow harm to come to you,” Thorkell said, attempting to alleviate her concern, guessing, incorrectly, it was that which bothered her. She had a pale, drawn face, and she looked tired, defeated. He felt sorry for her; it was hard to be a woman trapped in the peculiarities of a man’s world.

Emma could not resist too long the opportunity to give a barbed answer. “Which King do you mean? Æthelred or Swein?”

Thorkell spread his hands, accepted her sarcasm. “We have some of England’s best fighting men here in London. My men are also experienced warriors, and your husband’s cnights, if used correctly, are no less formidable. Nor will Swein be contemplating a prolonged siege. London is not an easy city to bring down.”

She would not be drawn into further conversation. From an attacker’s view, a siege was only undesirable if there were a possibility of counterattack. With England declared for Swein, who was there to threaten him? Æthelred was finished and they all knew it. Those here at court, Swein, and England.

Thorkell sighed, hooked a stool nearer, and sat, ignoring the fact the Queen had not given him permission. “I fear you blame me for all this. If it were not for my deserting Swein’s service, he would not have come to claim his honour rights.”

Emma snorted. “You think this is because of you? You harbour grand deception, sir! This is my husband’s achievement alone. Were he not such an accomplished incompetent, we would not be in this situation.”

“Harsh words, madam.”

“Accurate.” Ironically, she added, “Aside, I thought God was responsible for changing your allegiance? Must we therefore blame God for this mess also?”

Thorkell chuckled. “I would assume Archbishop Wulfstan would have stout recrimination against that theory. No, King Swein is a proud man, as are all Kings. He would not have easily accepted the news of my desertion. My conscience obviously outweighs his. I will not serve with those who think it entertaining sport to pelt a holy man to death with animal bones. Nor will I serve those who condone it.”

“Although you are content to serve a man who is happy to accept the conquest of his entire realm without the slightest attempt to prevent it? And should you not have examined your squeamishness before taking our Archbishop prisoner?” Emma was terse, deliberately provoking. This was their first conversation, beyond the minimum of public politeness, since Thorkell’s change of allegiance. There were some, Emma among them, who still queried the Dane’s motives. Would he turn to bite as soon as the chain was unleashed?

“Had your brother known the outcome of your marriage, would he have pursued its blessing?” Thorkell asked in retaliation. If she had but known it, Thorkell did not fall asleep at night before asking himself similar questions. Why had he come? When battle came, to whom would he give his loyalty? Swein or Æthelred? He shrugged. While this English King offered him respect, he would stay. “It is easy to be wise after the event, is it not?”

He looked suddenly so remorseful that Emma found herself smiling. “It is a novelty,” she admitted, “for me to hear a man willing to admit his mistakes.”

“Oh, I will not admit to anything. If I were to do that, my throat would run dry and my lips blister from excessive use.”

Emma had the graciousness to laugh. She did not approve of this tall, imposing man, for loyalty laid ought to be paid, but on the other side of the door, she admired him for his courage. In that, she did truly regret there were not more like him.

She fell silent, chewed at a hangnail. One of the advantages of being a Queen was having nice hands. As a child she had bitten her nails; she felt an urge to gnaw at them now, at four and twenty years of age.

The question most prominent in her mind was one that so far had remained unanswered. If God had so easily deserted one of His own, if He had thrown no thunderbolt, brought no flood, plague, nor pestilence at the torment and death of His Archbishop, a holy and revered man, then how likely was He to do anything to save the miserable wretches who were the rest of His servants?

“If London surrenders,” she said, troubled, very quiet, knowing the if was, in reality, when, “what shall become of me?” The question had been bundling through her mind these last few weeks, had leapt higher and more insistent at Winchester’s capitulation. “I am not afraid for myself, of course, but I fear for my daughter and sons.”

Thorkell was taken by surprise, a little puzzled. “Has the King not informed you of our plans? He, you, and the children are to go into exile. I will be personally taking you. I do not have a death wish; it will not be sensible for me to remain here in England.”

“Exile? My husband is to run away?” Dread congealed in Emma’s stomach. Bile rose; she wanted to be sick. No, Æthelred had not told her. Her voice shook as she asked, “And where are we to go?”

“Lady, London has not surrendered; you speak as if there is an inevitability in this.” Æthelred stood beside her, arms folded, face frowning in disapproval. She had not heard him approach.

“And is there not an inevitability? Why should London be any different from the rest of England?” She stared at her husband to give direct challenge. He glanced away. Æthelred was not a man who could look into another’s eyes for fear of what would be reflected of his own.

“The North gave way to Swein without murmur because he has made promises.” Thorkell answered for him; Emma was grateful for that, as she could try to believe Thorkell. With Æthelred, so very little was the truth. “He is a clever man, Swein of Denmark. He gave orders that there was to be no looting or the spilling of blood of those who surrendered without resistance. And he has kept his word. Not until he crossed Watling Street into Mercia did he allow his men free rein, and once homage was paid there too, his men were curbed. What man of sense would choose conflict over the bending of a knee?”

“London has the balls to stand firm,” Æthelred interrupted sharply. “It shall hold for me, for the simple reason that my men are here to defend it.”

Thorkell held his council. Equipping a man with a sword or a spear was not sufficient to ensure he fought. Not if orders were inconsistent, not if families, wives, and children could suffer terrible consequences. Men have the courage to face death on the battlefield, but not to witness their loved ones being brutally slaughtered. And if inevitable defeat looms too close, men lose the motive to fight. They shrug their shoulders, lay down their weapons, and simply go home.

Edmund burst into the royal hall, breathing hard, his helmet straps swinging, his axe clenched in one hand. “They are come!” he panted. “They are on the far side of the river. Many, many of them.”