The Forever Queen (45 page)

“They are digging a channel around the southern end of the bridge, ma’am. The brothels and bothies of Southwark they burnt yesterday evening, as you know. We assume Cnut is determined to control the Thames. He cannot pass under the bridge, so he intends to take his ships around it.”

With a suppressed wince, Emma pushed herself upright; her knees ached often these days, although she was only seven and twenty years old. A hazard of kneeling too long and too often on the cold stone of a chapel floor.

“Take me there,” she commanded. “I would see for myself.” Not that she doubted Leofstan’s words—he was a good soldier, quick-witted and intelligent—but she needed to think, to plan. If Cnut decided to set a prolonged siege on London, and if London then fell…She steadied her nerve; whatever happened, she would not leave England. But her sons were a different matter; if Cnut got hold of them, they would be killed. Another reason for their being out of Danish reach with Edmund.

Edmund’s own son and his again-pregnant wife were also made safe, not that Emma concerned herself with them. They had gone north under the personal protection of Wulfstan, who had promised to find them suitable lodging.

“How long will it take him to complete this work?” she asked, looking out as Cnut’s men laboured to dig a curving channel from riverbank to riverbank, in a wide arc around the end of London Bridge, a discreet distance beyond arrow range. The Ealdorman of London, standing with her, forlorn and filled with misgivings, could only shrug and woefully shake his head. No one knew. A feat of engineering such as what Cnut was attempting had never been tried before.

“What will he do once it is finished?” Emma mused aloud.

“Drag his ships through. He will then have access to all the upper reaches of the Thames.” The Ealdorman’s answer came in a patronising tone, as if Emma were only a woman, not a Queen.

“I have managed to work that out for myself.” When would these fools learn that she had as much intellect as they? Probably more, in some cases! The answer was obvious: he would ensure London submitted.

Edmund was not here to see to London’s safety, but Emma was; therefore, the responsibility had become hers, and she was determined to make a good job of it. “We must be ready,” she said with authority, “to send word to Edmund. If Cnut decides to lay siege, we will need help.” She ordered Leofstan, at her side, “Select two suitable men; have them leave now and make camp up beyond the fields of the Corn Hill. Arrange some signal that can be sent from the walls, a smoking beacon, perhaps? When it is lit, they must make haste to ford the Thames at Thorney—no, too near, Brent Ford would be more suitable—and ride with all speed to fetch the King.” She surprised herself; here she was, giving orders to men about men’s business, and they were obeying her without murmur. She liked the feel of it. If London fell, it was possible that she could die along with these good people. They had cheered her when she had ridden through the gates and ordered them barred, saying before them all that they would not be opened again to any but Edmund Ironside. They still cheered her whenever she rode along the streets, still blessed her with God’s mercy. The poor, simple fools. If Cnut attacked, what did she know of holding him off? On the dexter side of the argument, winning the admiration of the Londoners was no easy achievement, but done by showing that she, Queen Emma, was willing to die alongside them.

***

The ships took hard effort to move, but the Danes were tough, resilient men, and once on the far side of the bridge, there was more work. Cnut ordered a line of earthworks constructed outside London’s walls and then, hunkered behind their protection, settled down to what could be a tedious blockade. London was the pivot point of all England; when London fell, the rest, by default, would follow. Unfortunately for Cnut, Emma discovered that she knew more about sitting out a siege than she had realised; her knowledge gained by listening to her brother’s insistence on so often recounting his numerous triumphs.

Looking over the rampart walkway of the city one morning as the sun rose in the east, its pink fingers turning the Thames into a glow of red-tipped gold, she smiled at the irony of finally being grateful to Richard for his interminable bragging. He had come through worse situations, or so he had claimed; therefore, so would she. Emma felt frightened, apprehensive, yes, but also elated and excited, her feelings all tumbled and mixed together like a stew of varied ingredients tossed into the same pot. She was aware of the blood coursing through her veins, the beat of her heart, the breath in her lungs. Was aware, too, of that clenched knot that hung in the pit of her stomach. This was what it was to be alive, to be at the edge, facing survival eye to eye, knowing, knowing, you would win.

Early June 1016—Sherston

Cnut had not expected an organised and effective counterattack on his overall strategy. Had he been a fool not to think of the possibility that Æthelred’s son might be the opposite in character to his father? Everything had all seemed so easy when he had talked and planned with Erik around the hearth in Norway. Ah, plans always sounded simple when discussed as hopes and dreams. You never looked for the pitfalls, the things that could go wrong, or even when you did think of the counter side, there was always something else unexpected lurking in the shadows, waiting to leap out and surprise you. Like that damned woman in London. A woman! Ja, she was also a Queen, but women were supposed to content themselves with weaving and spinning and suckling brats at their breast, not defending cities from siege! If it had not been for her rallying London to stand firm, the place would have fallen by now; as it was, he had been forced to leave half his army sitting below the walls arse-scratching the interminable days away, while he hurried southeast to deal with Edmund.

Slamming his boot into a molehill, Cnut sent a spray of earth scattering over the summer-heated dry grass. Edmund, the one they were calling Ironside, was not the King—he was; Cnut, son of Swein Forkbeard, Cnut Sweinsson, was King! He kicked again at another mound of earth, taking his temper and frustration out on the habitat of a creature no larger than the palm of his hand.

Damn him—damn him! Cnut stamped the disturbed earth flat. Wessex had reverted to Edmund, along with East Anglia, Essex, and Kent. What did Cnut have? Eadric Streona of Mercia and a sullen, resentful Thegn called Thurbrand! He walked on down the hill, heading to where he could hear men bathing in the river that wound between a copse of trees. It was all right for them; they could take an afternoon to enjoy themselves in the summer sunshine, could wash away the grime and the sweat and the cares. How could he shrug off this weight of frustration?

It had been a mistake ridding himself of Uhtred. He realised that now, now that it was too late. The motive had been to show he was not a man to be gainsaid or betrayed by broken promises. Instead, he had established that he was a man of dishonour, who courted lies and deceit, and who extolled murder over negotiation and compromise. Uhtred’s death may have been essential, but not the way of doing it.

Ducking through the trees, Cnut walked from the dappled light into the full sun, found himself grinning at the men, stripped naked, playing like children in the curved meander of the river. He had a sudden flashed memory of walking with his father along the shore of a fjord back home in Denmark. He had been a child—seven, eight years old? What was it Swein had said? “Everyone makes mistakes, boy, but not everyone cares to learn the lesson.”

Using Thurbrand the Hold of Holderness to dispatch Uhtred had been Ælfgifu’s suggestion. Another mistake, listening to and trusting that woman.

Damn it, the water looked inviting. Cnut sat, began pulling off his boots. A lesson to remember? No one, ever, did something for nothing.

Thurbrand had been anticipating reward for his services. Cnut had intended a rich payment of gold and the hand of friendship. Whether Ælfgifu had made promises without consulting him, Cnut did not know; probably she had. A full week after Uhtred’s disposal, a storm had broken loose with Thurbrand; he had expected to be made Jarl of Northumbria, or Ealdorman, as they called the title here in England. That favoured distinction Cnut had awarded to Erik of Hlaðir, Earl Erik—these English always did turn the Scandinavian tongue so quickly into their own pattern! Jarl in English pronunciation became Earl. He made a mental reminder to use the term.

So here he was, skulking in Wilt-Shire, waiting for his scouts to inform him of Edmund’s whereabouts, and Thurbrand, in a mood as black as winter clouds, refused to leave Holderness to support Erik, who was struggling to establish his claim on Northumbria. What a God Almighty mess!

Naked, Cnut dived into the water, plunging down into the cool greenness, his strong arms propelling him forward. He came up again several yards from the bank, gasping for breath and tossing water from his hair and eyes. He lay back, allowing the gentle current to rock him along, giving only the feeblest of paddles with his hands and feet. Above, the sky spread into infinity in an unbroken stretch of sapphire blue. Nearly all England was clamouring for Edmund. No one, beyond Mercia and Northumbria, was shouting for Cnut.

“My Lord! My Lord Cnut!”

Startled from his reverie, Cnut lost his buoyancy, coughing and spluttering, went under, then ploughed to the surface and, regaining his bearings, struck out for the bank with strong, swift strokes. Pulling himself from the water, he indicated for his clothes to be brought.

“What is it, Thorkell? I can see from your face it is urgent.” Perhaps it was the invigorating cold water or the sudden heartbeat excitement of something happening at last? Whatever, Cnut’s dark mood lifted as swiftly as a hawk snatched her prey.

“Edmund has come. Two, maybe three miles to the north of here.”

The north? Gods curse it! The north of us? How in God’s name has he managed that? “He was to the south, Thorkell. We fought a skirmish with him not two weeks past at Penselwood; that is to the south, in Dorset-Shire. How has that whore-poxed Englishman managed to get to the north of us?”

Cnut cursed again, lengthily, colourfully, and explicitly. Why, in all the names of all the gods, was Edmund not an incompetent fool like his father had been?

Thorkell could only shrug. “I told you he was one to be reckoned with, although I had no insight to him being this wily.” Personally, in Thorkell’s opinion, the brain behind the English campaign was Godwine Wulfnothsson. Now, there had been a schemer! His father, Wulfnoth, would have been able to outwit the most cunning wolf. Had he passed his skills on to his son? Thorkell would be most surprised to find he had not.

Cnut dressed, not bothering to dry his skin. He pointed angrily towards the river. “Get them out, get them armed, and set them ready.” His eyes screwed against the sun, he estimated the hours of daylight left.

“At least we are keeping Edmund occupied and away from London,” Thorkell said after he had passed on the order. “While he is pursuing us, our men there are not disturbed.”

Cnut’s answer was saturated with frustration. “I came into Wessex to remind the nobles that I will not tolerate their defection to Edmund. What have I achieved? I have been harassed and tormented, chivvied and chased. I feel like a man on the run, watching my back at every move.” He pulled on his boots, wrinkling his nose at the uncomfortable feel of wet feet sliding into sweat-soaked leather. “Well, no more. Edmund will not make the fool of me. Make formation. We go to fight him here and now, and whatever way this goes, we use the coming darkness to disperse.”

Thorkell frowned, drawing his bushed eyebrows close together.

“Do not look at me like that, Tall One. I know what I am doing,” Cnut barked. “I intend to forget about Wessex and concentrate on London. As I should have done in the first place.”

Thorkell, Cnut’s second in command, made no comment, but his grunt of satisfaction spoke his approving thoughts for him.

Late June 1016—Brent Ford

The longest day had come and gone; it was all downhill now to winter. With the sun blazing in a clear sky these last weeks, the short nights held only a few dark hours, and even then the horizon remained a dusky, purplish blue. Ideal for an army on the march, especially an army avoiding all the familiar roads and taking, instead, side-lane trackways and scarce-known paths.

The skirmish by the river at Sherston had not any great outcome, but it had wounded a good few of Cnut’s men and tired many more. Edmund had the advantage of being able to call on several different fyrds; Cnut had only his Danes and Streona’s personal cnights. The fyrds of Mercia would not fight outside their own boundaries, not for Streona, nor Cnut. The pity, from Edmund’s view, was that they would not fight for him, either.

Deliberately, Edmund had ordered the clash of arms at Sherston to be limited and at half scale. The only way he could beat Cnut was to grind him down, smaller and smaller, as a woman takes patience to grind corn into flour on the quernstone. He could not be having all his men out into the field at once, and, cleverly, he had used only the Wilt-Shire fyrd, those willing to fight for their own in their home territory. They had enjoyed the contest, winning no honours but gaining no disgrace. His cnights, those of his permanent army, he had held at bay, ready should things go bad and they be needed in a hurry. Come dusk, Cnut had melted away into the woodland and Edmund had let him go; let the Danes run, he had time on his side, the leisure to pick his way via the quiet routes to London. The Wilt-Shire fyrd he dispersed; his cnights he scattered into small groups and ordered them to travel as secretly as possible.

“We meet in the last week of June in the woods up behind the Clayhill Farm at Tottenham, north of the Thames. Make your circle wide and keep well to the north of London. Cnut will be returning by the familiar roads; he will not be knowing the lesser tracks as do we.”

“What if London cannot hold out once he reaches there?” someone had asked.

“London will hold,” Edmund had answered. “I have sent word to the Queen that we are coming. She will see London sits tight. Like a broody hen on her nest.”