The Forever Queen (61 page)

They walked from the church, out into the sublight, acknowledging the cheers of the gathered crowd.

“I understand you have received a letter from his Holiness, Pope Benedict?” Wulfstan remarked.

“You are remarkably informed!” Cnut retorted with raised eyebrows.

Wulfstan inclined his head, offered a slight smile. “I confess, he wrote to me also, praising your foresight.”

Cnut grinned. “In other words, Archbishop, my programme of building churches and defence towers meets with Rome’s approval?”

“There are some who doubt the necessity of a watchtower at Hadstock,” Godwine, at Cnut’s shoulder, interceded, “though I admit it will oversee the Granta River.”

“Believe me, Godwine, the Granta is a strategic waterway that needs watching; we made use of it, did we not, Thorkell?”

“Ja, there are dead among the ash trees of Hadstock. It is good to lay souls to rest by the building of churches, and buying the Pope’s approval will always bring benefit. Whether God can be so easily appeased is another question.” Thorkell’s sardonic words caused everyone to turn, to stare at the Earl of East Anglia as if he had sprouted a devil’s horns and tail.

“By which, you mean?” Cnut’s brows furrowed.

“Merely that sin must be paid for, one way or another.”

The young priest of Ashingdon, Stigand, a quick-witted, intelligent man who had ambition more far-reaching than some back-of-beyond church, was the first to think of something tactful to say to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Penance for sin must always be paid. The greater the sin, the greater the atonement.”

“If I read my Earl’s attempt at subtlety correctly,” Cnut answered, scowling at Thorkell, “he asks how many churches must be founded to ensure God’s forgiveness.”

“That would depend on the depth of the sin, would it not?” Thorkell bounced back at him, unperturbed by the penetrating glare of his blue eyes, satisfied that he had correctly interpreted his ambiguous meaning.

Animosity had been rough-edged between the two men for several months now, almost as many months as the tongue-wagging, critical gossip against the King and Queen that had been systematically whispered through the trading towns and market centres of the southeast.

“I remind you, Thorkell,” Cnut snapped, losing patience, “contrary to speculation, it was not me who tossed meat bones at Archbishop Alfheah. Nor, as the gossip seems to imply, was I in command of the men who did. You were. Poor command, as it turned out—perhaps the one who began this recent spate of tongue-tattling ought think of that?”

“But you were there,” Thorkell insisted very quietly. “You watched and did nothing to stop it.”

That, Cnut could not deny.

Guests invited to the dedication were many. Cnut’s council, his Earls, Thegns, commanders of his housecarls, men of the Church hierarchy, Bishops, and Abbots. His wife, his family. Men and women who wondered at Thorkell’s outspokenness. One woman, however, stood at the chancel steps with her head high. The woman Cnut guessed to be behind the initiation of the tale-telling.

Cnut had been reluctant to invite her to the ceremony, but it would have been unwise to ignore her. Her sisters, Algiva and Edgyth, had been more accommodating women, for when their husbands were dead, they had taken themselves off into a nunnery. Granted, their circumstances were different; their husbands had been traitors who had paid the price of going against their King. Ulfkell, on the other hand, had been an acclaimed warrior. Why should his widow, King Edmund Ironside’s beloved sister, hide herself beneath the dark habit of a recluse? Wulfhilde had no intention of doing so. Nor had she the inclination to allow the stirred dust of the past to settle and lie undisturbed. Cnut, as far as she was concerned, was a usurping tyrant who had stolen her brother’s throne. A throne she wanted for the son she had borne to Ealdorman Ulfkell eight months after his death. Æthelred’s grandson.

Cnut’s lips thinned. Wulfhilde. This was not the place, nor the occasion, to rant against her. He decided to ignore her cold stare and her seeping hatred. Said simply, “It is a frailty of man to make mistakes, Thorkell. I am not God. I have done things that were wrong, things that perhaps condemn me in His sight, but I can do no more than I am already doing to set right those wrongs. The rest is not for you to judge, but for me and God to settle when I eventually stand in His presence.”

“Come!” Emma declared, trying to relieve the tension of the situation. “There is ale and wine and feasting awaiting us at the manor. Let us make merry!”

A raised cheer, the return of laughter and chatter, Thorkell acknowledging Emma’s diplomacy with a discreet bow. All the same, it was he who escorted the Lady Wulfhilde along the lane to the royal manor, also new-built. Thorkell who sat attentive beside her throughout the feasting.

Come morning, with the ebb of the tide, the leave-taking was under way, guests dispersing for their own lands and homes, some by sea, others on horseback. Wulfhilde had gone with her retinue to her manor in the heart of Essex. Thorkell, too, had sailed north, heading along the coast to Norwich. Godwine rode with Cnut; Gytha rode alongside the Queen.

“The boy is settled?” Emma asked the young woman as their horses walked lazily in step behind the jocular banter of their menfolk. She swivelled her head to glance at the swaying litter some distance behind, amid the winding line of housecarls, militia men, and baggage carts.

“Swegn is an independent child, even at these tender months,” said Gytha. “I swear to God if a second child is as full of temper as this one, I will not be birthing a third!”

“A little warrior, I have heard Godwine call him.”

“Ja, for the way he kicks and screams when he cannot get his own way—God help me when the lad grows older!”

Emma laughed. She had recently discovered the same problem with Harthacnut, now that he was learning to shuffle his own way about. In comparison, Gunnhild was a cherub.

“What of Ragnhilda? Is she not the sweetest child?” Gytha asked. She found it so easy to talk to Emma, who had no airs of arrogance and had become a good friend.

“I confess our circumstances of meeting were not ideal.” Emma shivered, pulled her cloak tighter, although the day was warm. Shrugging aside the lurch of memory, said, “She is the happiest, sun-bright child!”

They had met on the cliff path, only an hour after that dreadful climb. Leofgifu’s nephew had ridden ahead to summon help, instead had met with the King’s retinue.

There had been uproar. Cnut shouting and cursing everyone for their stupidity, Emma included. Dishevelled and ragged, wanting only to bathe and sleep, Emma had knelt on the grass and wept. Great sobs shattering through her aching, scratched, and battered body; her hair loose, matted, and tangled; her bloodied, swollen fingers covering her face. And a hand had come out and touched her cheek. Emma had lifted her head and seen a girl standing there, a child with golden hair and a puzzled face.

“Are you to be my mama?” the child had asked. “I hope so. You are more pretty than the big lady over there,” and she had pointed to plump Leofgifu, cradling the wailing Harthacnut.

Unable to speak and only vaguely realising who the girl was, Emma had only managed to nod. Satisfied, Ragnhilda had sat herself down beside Emma and announced. “I am glad of that. Glad also you do not mind weeping, ’cos I was worried about that. My nurse says I’m too big to cry and slaps me whenever I do, which is quite often, because so many things make me sad, but you are sad, too, and you are bigger than me, and no one is slapping you.” Her chatter had been nonsense and delightfully comforting. Emma had hugged her close and laughed.

Emma’s attention was brought abruptly to the present. Leofric, at last made Earl of Mercia, was making some point of argument with Godwine. The two men detested each other, their petty squabblings building into something grander now that they were so often vying for favour.

The chance opening so conveniently before her, Emma altered the subject to one her husband had asked her to discreetly broach. “Men are always in disagreement,” she said. “Always wanting more than what they have.”

“And do not appreciate good fortune,” Gytha agreed.

“Although,” Emma said, “women are ofttimes blind to sense, especially when they are sisters of dead Kings.”

She was talking, Gytha realised, of the Lady Wulfhilde. “And your husband is concerned that Thorkell may be wanting more than he already has?” Making him regent of England while Cnut was away had been a hazardous risk and was now, this while later, stirring trouble.

Emma slowed her mount so as to not be overheard. “Thorkell wishes to remarry.”

Gytha kicked her gelding forward from his attempt to lower his head and nibble grass. “No! To Wulfhilde?”

“He wishes to take as wife the widow of Ulfkell, the daughter of Æthelred, the sister to Edmund.”

Genuinely shocked, Gytha shook her head. “And from there pursue the claim of her infant son for the wearing of a crown? Is the man such a fool?”

“It seems so.”

“My husband,” Gytha answered slowly, astute, “will not be best pleased to hear of this. Leofric is close friends with Thorkell. Godwine would not welcome such a shift in the balance of position at court.” She paused, asked, “May I inform my husband of this?”

Emma nodded. Cnut’s wishes accomplished.

Easter 1021—Woodstock

Council was nearing the end of a long and tedious day, one full of bickering and sallow temper. It was always so when the tax levies were being set.

“But with no threat from Denmark,” Leofric grumbled, “why must the cost of the fyrd levy rise yet again? Are we now under new threat? If so, by whom?”

“Norway is not secure,” Cnut said, justifying his reasons.

Thorkell got to his feet, Leofric sitting to allow his turn to speak. “But Norway will not send ships to England. Olaf would not risk leaving himself so exposed.”

“You, too, oppose this, Thorkell?” Cnut asked less than mildly. He was finding it difficult to keep his temper in check. Would these imbeciles never understand that England had been left wide open to attack because Æthelred had not always ensured the fyrd was ready, well-armed, well-trained, to be called into action whenever required? Peace was the occasion to ensure your defences were maintained at full strength. Why shut the stable door after the horse had galloped out?

“I ask only an annual rise of one penny on every hide of ploughland per household. Dependents are also to give one penny extra, and Lords are to pay for any who cannot afford it. Is that so unreasonable an expectation? In return I offer safety and peace.”

Leofric again: “But we have that with what is already raised. Why do you need more?”

Cnut was beginning to regret promoting the man into the position of Earl. Godwine had warned him…ah, well, the thing was done, and in other respects, outside of his tight purse, Leofric was an honest and dedicated man.

“Can we be certain,” Thorkell interrupted, “that this raised tax is for the benefit of England? Can you assure us this extra geld will not be used for subduing Norway? Does not Denmark, after all, bring you sufficient finances for doing so? We, some of us,” he indicated the men of the Witan, “do not believe you can successfully be a King to both Denmark and England.”

“Yet you had no such qualms when you fought with my father,” Cnut answered quietly, annoyance slithering into his voice. “It was accepted that he could reign over both lands. But then you were expecting to be made supreme over England, were you not, Thorkell?”

The mood had turned; Thorkell felt it. The disagreement of the afternoon’s debate had veered against him like a temperamental wind. Had he been at sea, he would be ordering the sail reefed, anything loose roped down, and waterproof sealskin jerkins pulled on. The squall hit him side-on.

“You have been doubting the King’s intention since his return from Denmark,” Earl Godwine of Wessex said. “On how many occasions now, Thorkell, have you disagreed with his decisions, queried his proposals? Do you wish me to tally them?”

When Thorkell made no answer, Godwine tossed at him, “And for how long have you nursed a blackened heart because you have not been rewarded with a King’s crown?”

Thorkell had sat biting his tongue for most the day, could not remain silent at that last. He leapt to his feet, his arm raised, fist clenched. Angry. “I served with loyalty and honour while Cnut was away abroad. As I will always serve if asked. I have nothing more than a wish to serve him to the best of my ability whenever and whatever he asks of me.”

Godwine remained seated, his legs spread before him, thumbs hooked through the bronze-embossed belt at his waist. “How noble of you,” he said sardonically. “A pity it is all lies.”

“How dare you…”

“And how dare you?” Godwine countered, coming alert to his feet, his arm also waving, his fist also clenched. “Just when, Thorkell called the Tall, were you proposing to inform us of your recent marriage?”

Consternation, muttering, the men exchanging glances, whispered questions. All eyes on Earl Godwine of Wessex and Thorkell of East Anglia.

“Your marriage,” Godwine continued, his eyes boring into Thorkell, “to a daughter of the royal line, a daughter who, as wife, could give you the right to be elected King. A marriage Cnut forbade.” Uproar.

Godwine sat, his arms folded, watching the slow smile come across Cnut’s face. It had been nicely and so completely done. None had known of the marriage; at least, Thorkell had assumed none had known. Even the priest who had married them had been dispatched a day or so later, quietly poisoned. None could have known. Could they?

She had said it would not work; Wulfhilde had warned him that Cnut was not the man her father had been, was not the man Thorkell judged him to be.

Thorkell laughed, cynical, half bowed to his King. “Is there any point in denying it?”

Cnut was stone-faced, disappointed. Why could men not accept what they had been given and be thankful for it? Godwine, for instance, cherished his role as Earl of Wessex. Why did men like Thorkell, men who already had power and status, have to prove they were better than others when they were already the best? Why could they not just do their job with goodwill and an eager heart, prove themselves by Christian acts, not those of hate and evil? Resigned, he said, “No, my friend, there is no point.”