The Forever Queen (58 page)

“By God’s grace, Godwine!” Emma declared as he sheepishly escorted his new wife into the Queen’s chamber. “I allow you to go off with my husband, and you return, these months later, not only married but with a child on the way!”

The Danish woman, Gytha, blushed, but was content with the good-natured teasing. Smiling, she accepted the seat Emma indicated and joined in the entertainment of her husband’s tale-telling.

“The fleet had not been in harbour at Roskilde for, I swear, more than an hour before I saw this vision of loveliness before my eyes. Naturally, I asked her name and was delighted to discover her to be the sister of Ulf, husband to Estrith! I swept her a bow, kissed her hand, and asked if I might make her my wife.”

“It was not like that at all,” Gytha protested, batting at him with her hand. “My husband exaggerates somewhat, ma’am.”

“Oh, I know Godwine well, Lady Gytha; you have no need to tell me of his storytelling capabilities!” Emma laughed. Instantly she had a liking for this bright-eyed, smiling woman who, although mild-mannered, had an air of one who would not tolerate nonsense within her household. Stern but fair, that was Gytha.

“Does it matter how we met?” Godwine interceded, laughing, “I found the woman who has, through all my life, walked my dreams.”

“Then such a blessed find must have reward,” Emma declared. “What honour can I give you as a wedding gift?”

Gytha blushed, her hand coiling into Godwine’s. “The King has given us the manor of Bosham for our own,” Godwine said proudly. “It will be a fitting place for my wife to bear our first child.”

Delighted, Emma clapped her hands. Bosham was across the inlet creek from Cnut’s own highly favoured hunting manor on the south coast, a few miles from the town of Chichester. “Then I insist on finding something of value for you to put in it. The place is sparsely furnished, as I recall.” She thought a moment, glancing around the chamber, eyeing tapestries and wall hangings, furs on the floor, the carved chairs, oak table.

“I shall have a bed ordered made for you. Something grand, with a headboard carved from the finest elm, the faerie wood, to protect your sleep and guide in pleasant dreams.”

Godwine had always been a favourite, and Emma was content that he had found the joy of happiness. Was pleased, and relieved also, that he brought her more than the prospect of a new and treasured friend, for he brought news of Cnut.

“Your husband has sent a letter to Thorkell. It is to be read at council and then copied and repeated by each priest of each church or chapel, abbey or minster, to be heard by all people throughout the land.”

Emma folded her hands in her lap, the laughter gone, replaced by annoyed jealousy. “I see. My husband wrote to Thorkell. Does he so easily trust the man?”

For his own mind Godwine had thought it wrong of Cnut to give so much power to Thorkell, for if a man could change allegiance once, then twice again, could he not, as easily, change it on a third occasion?

Quickly he added, “I have a copy for you, with the addition of a private letter, of course.” He clicked his fingers for a servant to fetch his saddlebag, rummaged inside, brought out two scrolls of parchment, one larger than the other. Graciously Emma took them and set the private one on a table. How she wanted to break the seal and read it! To remember the feel of Cnut’s hands on her body, rekindle his scent, his voice, his touch. But she had guests, and politeness dictated she must wait for privacy.

Although only a wife of several months, Gytha was already learning her husband’s frailties. Tact was not there among his strengths. “I confess,” she said, putting her hand to the swell of her abdomen, “that the journey has tired me. May I beg your indulgence, my Lady, to retire to our chamber at the inn?”

***

The private letter was brief but sincere. After reporting that he was well, Cnut wrote:

As you once suggested, I have decided to fetch my daughter, Ragnhilda, from the Isle of Orkney. I can no longer risk her falling into the hands of the Scots’ King. I like it not that there is as much of a struggle between the Lords of the clans as there was between myself and my brother. My dear, as you will learn from the letter I ask my trusted friend and aide, Thorkell, to recite, I had no option but to be done with Harald, for the good of Denmark and for the peace of England. My fear is that there may also come a bloody ending in Scotland before long. I will not have my daughter ensnared within it.

He had killed Harald, then. She would not be shedding tears for him, an obnoxious man who deserved to die. So Cnut was to go to Orkney first. Would he then sail to York to ensure the North was aware of his homecoming? Did he intend to visit the Bitch in Northampton, as he had on the outward journey? Oh, Emma knew of the diversion! Knew he had stayed a day—and a night—at her manor.

How to stop him? Thoughtfully Emma rolled the parchment and put it within her jewel casket, among her other personal treasures. How to stop him making a repeat visit to his whore?

***

“So Cnut is homeward bound?” Thorkell said to Leofric of Mercia, a man with whom he had found he shared much in common, a dislike of Godwine Wulfnothsson being high among the tally.

“And the Queen is to go to York to meet him?”

“We all know why she is going north, Leofric, and it is not to meet Cnut but to stop him meeting someone else.”

“Aye, my kinswoman, Ælfgifu.” Leofric grimaced. He had no fondness for Ælfgifu, a woman who came close, too often, to bringing shame into the family. “She wants her son as King after Cnut.”

“What we want and what we get,” Thorkell remarked, “are two different things.”

Leofric snorted disdain; aye, he would drink to that! He wanted to be made Earl of Mercia in the place Eadric Streona had occupied, but Cnut had sailed to Denmark before anything could be done.

“What of you, Thorkell?” he asked. “You are already Earl and regent; what more could you wish granted?” It was said as casual conversation. Leofric did not expect the answer he got.

“England. I want the crown of England.”

May 1020—Whitby

York had been a pleasant place to stay, but now the heat was increasing, Emma desired somewhere cooler and less crowded. Cnut was supposed to have arrived several weeks ago, but something was delaying him—how glad Emma was that she was here, for otherwise she would have been convinced the delay was an excuse for a planned diversion. He knew she was waiting, for Cnut insisted on keeping a close eye on the set of a sail. His letters came weekly, giving orders, making suggestions, reminding her of things she had remembered perfectly well for herself. They had been welcome at first, but Emma was at the point of tossing the next one directly into the fire. Damn the man; if he did not trust her judgement, then why did he not stir himself and come home? And if he wrote once more that he had much to tell for her ears alone, she would scream aloud!

Her choice of riding north to the abbey at Whitby had been a good one; the coast was cooler, the ride enjoyable, and the destination, hopefully, inspiring. Only there was someone at Whitby who was not pleased to see her. The coming of the Queen, in fact, briefly turned the abbey inside out.

Ealdgyth, widow of Edmund Ironside, sat on a rock watching the ceaseless movement of the sea, the evening sun warm on her face, the sea wind whispering in her ears and toying with her hair. She had removed her veil and shoes to walk along the sand, and unbound the tight braid of her chestnut hair, for she enjoyed the feel of freedom. If she had the courage, she would have stripped naked to plunge into the breakers, but someone was bound to see, and such immodesty would upset the nuns. The Abbess was austere, but the gentle nuns had been kind to her, and kindness in a hostile world was a thing to be richly cherished.

A ribbon of wet, soft sand was widening as the tide turned. She ought to return up the cliff path, for it would be Compline soon and the children would be wanting to say good night. She sat, her elbows resting on her knees, chin on her laced hands. Usually the unaltering daily rhythm of the abbey was as soothing and comforting as the regular pulse of the tide, but not this evening. This afternoon, everything had been flung up in the air, to fall again, higgle-piggle, muddled and fraught with danger.

The sky began to turn from its azure blue into streaks of reds and golds as the sun dipped lower, and was suddenly filled by a rushing of wings as birds gathered to follow the falling tide line. Widgeon whistling ahead of the wind, geese in their family groups alighting on the sand and unsettling the flocks of dunlin. Turnstones were already rooting busily among the tide-stranded lines of decaying seaweed. The air was filled with noise and the heady scent of wet sand, seaweed, and the salt tang of the sea. Still she sat there, her thoughts blank, her heart heavy. A curlew flew out over the water, its forlorn cry so eternally lonely. A second tear rolled down her cheek.

She was a fool to have thought this sanctuary would remain undiscovered forever. Someone was bound to have found her eventually; was it provident that the finder was the Queen Emma? Surely she, a mother, would understand? A man, a King, would not turn blind eyes to the sons of the King who had come before him. But would Emma?

The sun sank into the sea, modifying the sky into vibrant shades of glorious colour. If she did not go soon, the nunnery gates would be closed and the porter would grumble at her. Shells crunching underfoot alerted her—someone else was walking on the beach, another woman. Ealdgyth knew she should stand, bob a reverence, but the effort was too much; the feeling that she did not care what the Queen thought of her poor manners flooded her misery.

Emma’s shadow fell between Ealdgyth and the remnant of the spectacular sunset. Respecting the other woman’s silence and solitude, she seated herself on another nearby rock. Said nothing.

“Those are oystercatchers out there,” Ealdgyth said, her voice distant, blank. “Do you see them, hacking and stabbing at the mussels? The creatures in their blue-black shells try to burrow deeper into the sand to hide, but the birds find them, jab at them with their spearlike beaks, and they are devoured.” She turned her head to look steadily at Emma, her eyes, tearless now, unblinking. “I understand how it feels to be a mussel trying to hide in my shell, knowing that at any moment I shall be torn open and ended.”

Emma sat, much as Ealdgyth had done, elbows on knees, chin on hand. The surprise at discovering her here at Whitby had stunned her—the Abbess had informed her almost immediately upon her arrival, covering herself in case Cnut should be angry. Which he would. He had been wanting to know the whereabouts of Ealdgyth and her sons since the day of Edmund’s death. It was a mark of lasting respect for Edmund, and for his widow, that the silence had held so long.

“They are devoured in great quantity, as you say,” Emma said into the twilight, “yet on the morrow there will be as many more mussels in the sand. And on the day after, and the day after. As with most things, it is the strong, or the cunning, who survive.”

Through the years Emma had learnt to judge people by her first impression. So far, her initial assessment had rarely proved wrong. Save perhaps for Cnut, but then if she was to be honest with herself, her first thoughts of him had been accurate: ambitious, vain, his presumptuous brashness a public shield against his inner self-doubt. For the Abbess—if there was any compassion or pity within the woman, it had been sucked from her years ago.

“Cnut has no care for the widow of a dead King,” Emma had lied. All the same, she had seen her two children settled into their guest quarters and walked down the steep cliff pathway of cut steps to the beach.

“I was told I would find you here,” Emma explained, deliberately keeping her voice friendly and companionable. “I understand you often walk along the beach of an evening.” She laughed lightly. “The Abbess told me all this as if you were a heathen worshipping the devil or selling your body as a whore!”

Ealdgyth forced a timid smile. “The Abbess is a good woman at heart, but she worries about what others may think of her. She wants to be remembered as a good woman who did her duty to God. She has forgotten that sometimes holiness begins with the living, not the evermore of the afterlife.”

Brushing sand from her feet, Ealdgyth started pulling on her boots, then reached for her hair and nimbly began its rebraiding. Said, on an indrawn breath, “I would like to trust that now he has found them, the King will not harm my children, but I have seen for myself what he has done to the sons of other mothers. Sons with far less importance than my two lambs.” The heartache wrenched at her faltering voice, and with difficulty she swallowed the tears. All these years of hoping she would be forgotten, that no one would come looking for her. Knowing, knowing, that one day someone would.

“I did not wholly love Edmund; how could I? I barely knew him, but he was a good man and he treated me with kindness. Love would have grown between us, for it was there, in bud, ready to break into bloom. He came for me when I needed someone to pull me from the drowning mud. For that alone I began to love him.” She said it as if she had to justify herself, explain something she herself did not fully understand.

In her way, Emma knew what she meant. Had the mud, a lifetime ago, not almost choked her, too? She remembered the darkness, the sensation of being unable to breathe, to feel nothing but cold emptiness.

“I loved Sigeferth; he was my light, my life.” Ealdgyth paused, her gaze drifting over the swaying movement of the sea. “He did not deserve that hideous death. He was innocent.” She again looked at Emma, and Emma in return recognised the wild despair of hopelessness. “I see him every night in my dreams, my Lady Emma. I see that death over and over in my mind. And then I see the same death for my sons, only it is a different King laughing as they hang. I see your other husband, Cnut.” A single orb of brightness, low down on the horizon, glinted against the darkening blue of the sky. The evening star. “My husband is not with me,” Emma answered, her hand moving to cover the other woman’s. It was cold to Emma’s touch, shaking slightly. “He is in the Orkney Islands, although he will be coming any day soon. It is by chance I came to pay my respect at the shrine of Saint Hilda. I did not know you were here.”