The Forever Queen (50 page)

Godwine sighed, long and slow, pushed his chin even tighter into his crossed arms. “Then I shall find a secret way out for you tonight. We can perhaps make our way across the ice to the south bank, from there reach the coast and find a ship to take you to Normandy.”

Emma did not answer. A ship to Normandy? Oh, good God! No! If she must flee, she would go to her kinsman, Count Baldwin of Flanders. Bruges was a more attractive prospect than Normandy. She could not, could not do it! But what was the alternative? The rest of her life locked within the confines of a nunnery? Wilton would not be too bad, or perhaps Shaftesbury, but what if Cnut decided to lock her away in somewhere like Malmesbury? There was no Edmund to arrive suddenly and whisk her away to safety. She missed Edmund; he had been a good friend, and she had not been ashamed to weep for him. For Æthelred she had shed not a single tear.

She snapped her shoulders back. She could not afford to be dwelling on the past; there were things to be doing. She had been nurturing a daring—frightening—idea these last few nights. Night, she had found, was a good time for thinking.

The idea had wormed its way in, initially, some while ago, and she had instantly dismissed it, but today? Today it had begun to take tangible form. It would take an enormity of courage and strength, this thing she was planning, but it could mean an ending with dignity for London and, perhaps, England. It could go well or horribly wrong, but how much worse could things be than the years she had spent as wife to Æthelred? And, dear God, she would rather face anything than crossing that Channel Sea again!

She gazed across the frozen Thames. A few days ago Cnut’s í-víkings had been skating and sliding on it, having a day of holiday to rub salt into London’s gaping wound.

A noise split suddenly the winter-still air with an explosive sound that shot from riverbank to riverbank and boomed across the flat, frozen marshes. Godwine’s head lifted, his hand clutching automatically at his dagger; the Bishop, alarmed, crossed himself; Emma gasped, her fingers going to her throat. In a world where the loudest noise was a clap of overhead thunder, sounds were sharp on the ear; this great shuddering roar was both fearful and exciting.

“My God,” Emma said, shaken. “What was that?”

A great crack was appearing before their startled eyes, running straight as a thrown spear across the frozen water, splitting the ice in two, the widening tear shouting with the force of Thor striking a hammer blow.

Others had come running up onto the wall, fearing some awful new attack. Men and women pouring into the slush-trampled streets, screaming, weeping, expecting to find the sky torn open and all manner of fearful creatures descending to bring their doom. Beyond the walls, by contrast, the besiegers were sprinting for the river, chattering and laughing in their excitement at the ice so spectacularly parting. The phenomenon, for people used to a world of winter ice, quite accepted.

“So there will be no escaping across the river,” Emma said, shrugging her shoulders as they watched Cnut’s men hauling chunks of broken ice onto the bank. “The thaw has set in. I will have to do what I have decided and pray it will be for the best.”

***

Cnut was astonished, and somewhat mystified, to receive word that an emissary was asking permission to come out of the south gate to talk terms with him. Disappointed too, in a way, for he thought Londoners were made of sterner stuff—and he had a wager with Thorkell as to the day of surrender. His estimate was not for a further eight and forty hours.

He had been inspecting the hulls of the ships, the craft drawn up onto the high ground and upturned for over-wintering and repairs. Ships were always pulled out of the water when the season turned cold, for compressing ice could do much unseen damage to the keel, and barnacles clung to a ship’s underside during the course of a year. The task of scraping them off, a messy, tiresome business.

With the thaw coming, the snow in the encampment had turned to a muddy slush that had splashed up his boots and smeared the hem of his tunic and cloak. His beard needed trimming, too; he felt as ragged as a blind beggar. He half turned, intending to go to his tent to tidy himself, shrugged. If someone wanted to speak with him, they could speak as easily with him dirty as clean.

“I will come,” he said, feeling churlish for his lack of enthusiasm. If London was seeking to discuss terms, then it was all over—he had won, he had his crown. Was that the rub, though? Any man could set a crown on his head and call himself King, but a real King, a true King, was one loved and cheered by his people, who was mourned with genuine grief after he had gone. How was it achieved? Edmund had managed it; in a few short months most of England had turned to him with respect, admiration, and affection. How was he, Cnut, to do the same thing?

The west gate opened and two people emerged. A man and, to Cnut’s sudden interest, a woman. The man he recognised instantly, Godwine Wulfnothsson, who had been hostage at the treaty of Alney Island. The woman? Cnut swore at the stupidity of not tidying himself—damn and all Hell, it was Emma, the Queen!

He rubbed the palms of his hands on his backside before they reached him, masked his embarrassment by bowing a slow nod of his head as she stopped and stood before him. Emma remained spear-shaft straight, not condescending to acknowledge his rank; he supposed she deserved the authority. On the other side of the shield, it was damned annoying to be snubbed by a woman. Even if she did wear jewels and a crown.

“Lady, you honour me. I was not expecting one of such beauty to beg my solicitude.”

Emma took a deep, steadying breath; this was it, then, the gamble that could save England but ruin what was left of her life. She would have given anything at this moment for a gulp at a strong brew of barley beer. She was shaking, hoped Cnut was unaware of it. She exhaled slowly, tipped her head a little higher. She was a Queen, Queen of England, and by God, this pip of a boy was not going to take that away from her!

“I have come, sir, to beg nothing. And senseless flattery does not become your rank or position.”

Cnut raised his eyebrows. So her tongue was as spiked as ever.

He smiled insolently. “Have you come to beguile me instead, then? To seduce me perhaps?” A crowd of his men, interested in the exchange, had gathered around; they laughed.

“I’d wager you’re up for that, sir!” someone shouted lewdly.

Godwine coloured at the insult, his hand going to where his dagger would be had he been permitted to carry it.

Emma ignored them. “What I intend to say is between my lips and your ears only,” she remarked, “It is not for the low-life entertainment of your slug-slimed, illiterate barbarians.”

Cnut shrugged, raised his hands in defeat, grinned as he said to his men, “It seems the Lady does not appreciate your sense of humour. I will have to instruct her on our charm and wit by myself.” The laughter increased. Cnut gestured for her to precede him to his tent.

With the dour-faced Godwine remaining outside, she ducked beneath the opening, waited for the Dane to chivvy out his ear-wagging servant then fetch her a stool. He poured her a pewter tankard of watered ale.

“Would you care for something to eat?” Cnut asked, noticing she was thin but did not look starved or hungry.

“I thank you, but I have eaten.” A broth with more water than vegetables, but that she was not going to divulge. “I will say what I have come to say without the preliminary niceties of formality, sir. Conquest by force and tyranny is never satisfactory; even the red-crested legions of Rome could not rest easy when there were those who resented their presence.”

Cnut said nothing, sipped his ale. He had heard of the Romans and their empire from his childhood tutors but had never taken heed of the tedious and long-buried history. Fighting and the tactics of warfare had been his interest.

Her nerve strengthening, Emma smiled to herself. Ah, he was not as well read or educated as she. Good, that was useful to know. “I take it you can read?” she queried, being deliberately insolent.

If anyone else had so insulted him, Cnut might well have had them hanged, but somehow he could not take offence at Emma’s blunt rudeness. “We can exchange debate on some great work of authority if you wish,” he answered flippantly, desperately hoping she would not take him at his word. “I did not bring my books with me to besiege your capital city, but I know a few of them well enough.” He rubbed his chin, fingering the curls of his blond beard as if thinking.

He could read, but he rarely did so for pleasure—where did he find spare moments to sit still and read? He plucked a title from memory, something he and his brother had studied as children. “Bede’s Ecclesiastical History I found fascinating.”

“Gregory’s Consolations of Philosophy was always my favourite,” Emma countered.

Cnut had never heard of it. “It was interesting, but I have read more that were, what shall I say, unbiased?”

He was an accomplished liar, if nothing else. “It was Boethius who wrote the Philosophy, not Gregory.”

“Ah, well,” Cnut answered, unembarrassed, “I never was one for remembering names, especially those of boring old farts who had nothing more interesting to do with their life than grind ink stains into their fingers.”

Emma laughed.

Resting his hands on his thighs, Cnut regarded the woman sitting opposite him. He would not describe her as beautiful, not even pretty. There were lines beside her eyes, her mouth was too thin, her nose too straight. How old was she? Not far from her thirtieth year? She had been three and ten when she had come to England to marry Æthelred, when was that? He could not calculate it in his head. Did it matter?

Ragnhild had been beautiful, and Ælfgifu was irresistible, her lust for sport in bed overriding her plain features. Did she, he suddenly wondered, sleep with other men? Cnut doubted she would be so stupid.

What of Emma? Emma would never cheat on a husband, because she was a Queen and because she did not need to be beautiful or alluring. There was something more to her, more important than the surface layer that everyone saw. She was regal, stately, every inch of her shouted royal pride. Ælfgifu was uncouth, with no subtlety or gift for political astuteness. Beside Emma, she was an embarrassment. Ja, Cnut could admire a woman like Emma.

“So are we to debate history?” he questioned.

In turn, Emma had been studying Cnut. He had matured since they had first met; his face had filled out, his shoulders broadened. He carried more confidence as an adult, more self-assurance. He was one and twenty years of age, she six years his senior—what was she doing here? He had shown himself to be cruel and ruthless, to act on the impulse of the blood heat, not the cool calculation of sense. More than once he had proven that his word was not binding and that he could not be trusted. But then had Æthelred been any different? How many promises had he made and broken? Cnut had shown himself to be without conscience against those who crossed him—but was that a bad thing for a King?

All morning, Godwine had blustered, “What in God’s name are you thinking of? Have you lost your sense?”

She had made no answer to his protestations; where, for a Queen, did sense end and survival begin?

“I have not come to discuss history, but your place in it.” She inhaled, forced her mind to ignore the wild pounding skittering inside her chest and churning her stomach. “You will not last as a King of England, because you are no Englishman. Sooner or later some Ealdorman or ambitious Thegn will take it upon himself to be rid of you, and the English shall be so busy rejoicing they will fail to notice they have crowned yet another fool who does not know how to govern with wisdom and authority.”

“So you are telling me I may as well take my ship and sail away now, for I have no future here?”

“If I were to suggest such naivety, would you comply with it?”

Cnut shook his head.

“You know nothing of England,” Emma continued. “You do not know our traditions or customs. Despite reading Bede, you have no knowledge of our ways or our laws.”

“I confess you confuse me. You speak as if you are English. My education must have been sorely lacking somewhere, for I was led to believe you are Norman-born?”

“I forfeited my identity as a Norman when I pledged my vows to take care of the English peoples as their Queen. I would not compromise that vow by serving one while being obliged to the other. If you are ever to be accepted, and loved, as a King of the English, then you will have to become more English than the people you rule. As I have.”

The hairs at the nape of Cnut’s neck tingled. How had she known this had been precisely what he had been thinking these past days?

“The English,” she continued, unaware of his inner discomfort, “have been demoralised by thirty years of war and by a King who did not deserve the authority placed upon him. Æthelred did not take his responsibilities to God and England seriously.” Her ale finished, Emma set the tankard down on the floor beside her feet. She looked up, held Cnut’s stare with an intensity he found unnerving. She added sincerely, “But I do.”

Standing, Cnut strolled to the table, refilled his own tankard, offered her more. She refused. “Are you trying to tell me, in some subtle way, that I will not make a good King?”

“Do you think you will?” she countered.

Cnut faced her, eye to eye, his expression as intense as hers had been a moment ago. “Ja, I do! I do not want to be some mere blood-axe warrior who rules because he is the strongest man to wield a sword. I do not want to have my name scratched from the English Chronicle in a few months to come because I am already dead and forgotten.”

Laughing scornfully, Emma remarked, “You think you are important enough to be written into our church-kept records? I think not, sir, unless it is as a passing mention for an entry in my son’s name.” She paused, composing in her mind: “And Edward did come with a fleet of ships, and with him came his brother Alfred and his mother’s brother, Richard, and together they did drive the usurper from the land.” She smiled to herself; she liked the sound of that; she would have it written in the London Annal, if ever, eventually—by some God-sent miracle—it happened that way.