The Forever Queen (35 page)

Alfred, Emma’s youngest son, clamped his fingers tighter to her gown; absent-minded, she lifted him into her arms, batted aside Edward, who, at his brother’s favouritism, was also demanding attention. Goda was in Leofgifu’s arms, her eyes wide, fingers stuffed in her mouth.

“Is the bridge secure?” Thorkell asked, taking up his own axe from where it stood propped against the side of his stool. Edmund answered with a contemptuous look and Thorkell grimaced, raised his hand in submission; he had only been speaking his thoughts aloud, a commander’s habit of running through a prebattle routine.

To smooth the lad’s raised hackles, he said quickly, “It is an honour to stand beside a man as competent as yourself, Edmund. You would be surprised at how many fools there are in the command of armies.”

“No, sir, I would not be at all surprised.” Graciously, Edmund accepted the oblique apology. “I have my father as good example. The first ten yards of planking beyond the gate were removed some hours ago, only a narrow walkway remains to allow passage for those defending the bridge. If they fail to hold the far gate on the Southwark side, the men shall withdraw and London will be sealed.”

“Then Swein will need to march as far as Thorney for a first fording place?” Thorkell queried, again confirming his own thoughts.

“That, too, will be difficult,” Edmund answered, giving a sidelong glance at his father, who sat, morose, at the far end of the crowded hall. It ought to be Æthelred giving these instructions, ought to be Æthelred overseeing the defence of London. Huh!

“The posts marking the firm riverbed footing have been removed. Without a knowledgeable guide, many will take a wrong step and drown. The Thames looks benign when viewed from the surface, but the river has strong eddies and currents; it is not wise to stray from where it is known to be safe.”

Men nearby, overhearing, expressed their approval.

Give them leadership, and they will follow, Emma thought. Give them nothing, and they will drift away like dead leaves blown by the wind.

“Come, then!” Edmund called. “We go to our positions to fight for London, England, and our honour!”

Eadric Streona, Emma noticed, was the last to leave the hall, making a pretence of retying his gaiter laces. Æthelred, clad in chain-mail armour, his axe, sword, and his standard bearers at his side, had pushed his way through the crowd and gone ahead of his son and Thorkell, his cnights marching determinedly in his wake. He did not relish being in the thick of a fight, but if he wished to keep his crown, he had to be out there, up on the walls, encouraging the Londoners to stand firm.

Rallying her senses, Emma passed Alfred to his nurse, his thumb stuck firm between his teeth, brushed Edward aside, and clapped her hands to gain attention. “There will be wounded. It is our duty to ensure we do all we can for them.”

Her practical words animated the women. The children were ushered to a far corner, the hearth-fires and brazier replenished with wood and charcoal, water and broth set to boil. Emma herself supervised laying out bottles and jars of unguents and herbs on a trestle table, pointed to where the rolled bandages should be placed, organised straw pallets to be set down the length of the hall. Better to be busy, to keep the hands occupied, to stop the mind from the horror of exile. She need not have worried. It all came to nothing.

A few were carried into the hall, men with arrow wounds, two boys—one could not call them men—with legs broken after falling from the steps that led to the wall parapet. Several with burns to hands and arms; fire arrows were always a curse. Nothing more. By dusk, Swein had decided London was not worth the effort and had marched away again, swinging his army about and heading back to complete his reduction of Wessex. London had withstood the aborted attack, had come through unscathed but with a hollow, inglorious victory.

The Thames had saved them, the river with its deceptive dangers. Unable to cross the bridge, Swein had sent men to the ford upriver, with orders to come about on the northern side of the city. They had underestimated the care the river took of its own. With the ford unmarked and the marshes treacherous, even at low tide, less than half his men returned, unable to cross. The dead washed, bloated, beneath London Bridge were taken by the tide downriver for the fishes to eat.

Ever the pragmatist, Swein called off the attack. Senseless wasting men unnecessarily; Æthelred was going nowhere, except into the next world or exile. Either of which suited Swein, who had plenty of time to wait.

Before Christmas, Bath fell to him, and the last of the western Thegns sent their hostages and submitted. Swein returned across central England in triumph to Gainsborough and his waiting ships, while his seventeen-year-old son rode to Northampton and the estate of his English wife’s mother. Ælfgifu had become his bride within the first week of Swein’s landing. As a woman, she meant nothing to Cnut; she was neither plain nor pretty, passionate nor frigid, but she had conceived a child from their first union, and that had pleased her young husband. By the time he reached Northampton, the child would be born. All the more pleasing, should it be a boy.

Swein was not concerned about London. Once the worst of the winter weather became more favourable, it would be a simple task to sail down the coast and attack again from the river, as a seafarer would prefer to do.

As he had hoped, however, there was no sense in prolonging the death agony. Best to cut the poison out with a knife and have done with it. A few days after the Nativity, London surrendered.

Æthelred, following in the wake of his wife and her children, had fled, in fear of his life, to Normandy.

Edmund

Anno Domini 1014–1016

All the councillors chose Edmund as King, and he stoutly protected the kingdom during his time.

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

February 1014—Derbyshire

Yet again Edmund squinted through the swirl of snow at his brother. Athelstan was slumped along his pony’s neck, his white fingers frozen onto the shaggy mane that glistened with frost. The pony was steady and sure-footed, but still a moan of pain left Athelstan’s blue-tinged lips. They had three hours of light left, although it was only a short while past noon. Edmund wanted to kick on into a trot—a canter—but Athelstan was having difficulty coping with this slow walking pace. He would not survive anything faster, but then if Edmund did not get him to warmth and shelter by nightfall, he would not survive anyway.

It had been nothing more stupid than a fall, an everyday tumble. The pony had slipped on ice, going down on his knees, and Athelstan had pitched over his shoulder, landing with a laugh to cover his embarrassment and, as it turned out, his injury. He was bruised, shaken, nothing more, he had declared, brushing snow off his mantle and inspecting the pony’s knees for damage. Beyond wounded pride, neither of them hurt, he had assured Edmund, waving aside concern. Three days ago, that had been. Three furtive days of stealthy riding through hostile territory, starting at every sound, every movement beyond the quiet, lonely tracks that filed through forest land and open moors. Twice they had backed into the trees, gripping the ponies’ muzzles with clamped fingers to keep them from whinnying; had squatted, breath held, as Danes passed by. Forkbeard’s men, or those loyal to him, seemed everywhere. Was no one remaining steadfast to Æthelred? A stupid question. Even Athelstan and Edmund had deserted him.

Then, last night, Athelstan’s captain of cnights had woken Edmund, told him he was worried about his commander. Rightfully, for Athelstan was sweating with fever, although the ground and air were hard with ice. Now Edmund regretted the decision to stay in England and fight, if opportunity arose. Had he and Athelstan gone in Thorkell’s ships to Normandy, then they would be safe, dry, and Athelstan would not be dying.

Thegn Sigeferth’s manor was only six or so miles ahead, but there was another valley and a few steep hills to negotiate yet. A river to cross, too. They had to push on!

Alfwine, Athelstan’s chaplain, urged his weary pony into a reluctant trot and came up alongside Edmund. Like the rest of them, he needed a shave, a wash, a change of clothes. When you were on the run, nothing more than outlaws, there was not opportunity for the niceties of court luxuries. Barely time to find food to eat. Aye, that was something else Athelstan desperately needed: hot, nourishing food inside his belly.

“Forgive me for saying, my Lord Edmund,” Alfwine faltered, “but can you be sure of a welcome at Sigeferth’s hold? He gave hostages and pledged alliance to Swein with the rest of the northern Lords, did he not?” Alfwine, along with a handful of cnights and servants had remained loyal to the two brothers. The boy Godwine, too, was riding with them; Edmund was grateful for that; they had come a long way together from childhood.

Riding in silence, he shielded his thoughts. For the various Ealdormen there had been some soul-searching before defecting to Swein Forkbeard, but what had Æthelred done to deserve the keeping of loyalty? Streona had gone over to Swein of Denmark once London fell. God’s judgement, but if ever a man deserved the fires of Hell, then it was Eadric Streona!

***

“There are some men,” Edmund said, “who will raise an angry question if Swein embraces Streona too close into his confìdence. Sigeferth and his brother Morcar numbered high among them. It was Sigeferth who sheltered Athelstan on many an occasion when my brother was sent from court, Sigeferth who told of Swein’s plans for Cnut to wed Ælfgifu of Northampton. He and his brother have always been good friends with us.” He turned slightly in his saddle and attempted a brave smile. “At least, I pray to God they remain good friends.”

Beneath the warmth of his mantle, Alfwine made the sign of the cross, murmured a heartfelt “Amen.”

Neither of them need have worried. Sigeferth embraced Edmund with open arms and a wide, welcoming grin, his young wife, Ealdgyth, hastily organising the servants to carry Athelstan into her own bed, a separate chamber to the southern end of the hall, the warmest and best room on the estate. Edmund had first met her when invited to the wedding feast, two years past, in happier days. She was quiet-spoken, capable, and authoritative. If seeing a group of snow-matted outlaws riding through her gate alarmed her, then her face gave no sign of it. Indeed, the brief, chaste kiss of welcome that she placed on Edmund’s cheek showed nothing but pleasure.

Edmund was chilled to the bone; he had removed his mantle several miles back and buckled it on over Athelstan’s own to give him double warmth and protection. His hair was wet, his boots and clothes sodden from attempting to rescue a pack pony that had slithered on the ice and fallen into a river. The pony had drowned, the effort to save its pack a waste of energy.

Chivvying everyone into the hall, Sigeferth sent servants to feed and rub down the horses, shouting, as he steered Edmund through the doorway, for stew to be heated, bread, cheese, ale to be brought.

Two strides within the inviting, homely warmth, Edmund halted, took hold of Sigeferth’s arm, his expression earnest, anxious. “My friend, I thank you for this hospitality. I assure you I do not intend to remain longer than necessary. If I may leave Athelstan in your care, I shall be on my way come tomorrow’s dawn. I have no intention of putting you and your good lady in danger.”

Sigeferth laughed, slapped Edmund’s shoulder, and drew him nearer the hearth. “You shall do no such thing, Edmund. You are always welcome beneath my roof, whoever designs to style himself King.”

Refusing to sit, Edmund persisted. “If Swein discovers us here, Sigeferth, you will be hanged, and your wife with you.” His body felt heavy, the ache in his limbs almost unbearable; he could sleep where he stood, were he permitted. He spread his hands, resigned. “Yet, I confess I have no where else to go.”

“You have no need to go elsewhere; here is sufficient. Swein is entrenched at Gainsborough; he will not be leaving his camp while the snow falls. Did you hear, Ælfgifu has given Cnut a son? Swegen she has named him, but if its grandfather wishes to hold the North, then he must do more than prove his son knows how to make use of his manhood.”

Edmund looked up sharply. “There is dissent?”

“There is. Swein could well find himself wearing the English crown for a very short duration if he continues to welcome men like Eadric Streona to his court.”

“Streona is at Gainsborough?” Edmund was astounded, both at Streona’s audacity and Swein Forkbeard’s trusting stupidity.

Sigeferth’s nod was grim. “He is. With several chests full of silver, a gift for the newborn Ætheling, so I hear tell.”

“Buying his way in. The slimy, belly-crawling, shit-faced bastard!”

Laughing, Sigeferth answered, “I could not have put it better. For God’s sake, man, can we not sit? What with one thing and another, I have been on my feet most of the day; my boots are killing me!”

Edmund cracked his ice-stiff face into a smile, sat. It was good to have men who, despite all difficulties and dangers, remained stalwart friends. A pity his father had never discovered and utilised that fact.

Ealdgyth awoke Edmund from a sleep where he had been dreaming of snow smothering him. He had tried to get out by pushing with his arms, kicking with his feet, but the more he struggled, the deeper he fell. He was relieved to be shaken awake, to find he was tangled only by a blanket.

“Edmund?” Ealdgyth’s voice was low, whispering in his ear, reluctant to wake any of the others curled on their pallets in the hall, those of rank nearest the hearth. “Your brother is calling for you.”

Edmund sat up, plucked a few strands of dried bracken from his hair, said eagerly, hopeful, “He is awake? He is better?”

The woman shook her head, laid her hand on Edmund’s arm. “I am sorry; there is nothing more I can do for him. He is dying.”

On his feet, the bedding tossed aside, Edmund lurched across the hall, barely mindful of the sleeping bodies, several of whom he kicked or tripped over in his haste. Left behind him a trail of grumbled curses.