The Forever Queen (75 page)

“Why not write, instead, to Cnut?” Alfred slammed back at him. “Ask him what would be his preferred way for us to die? Shall we hang ourselves or fall on a dagger? I am sure he could make a few useful suggestions.”

Chewing his lip, Edward hung his head.

“It is the lad I feel sorry for,” Alfred remarked, nodding towards William. “He is trying to be a man and keep the tears from falling; he worshipped his father, though he saw little of him. At least he should be safe. No one much bothers with a by-blow, least they will not once a new Duke is inaugurated and settled.”

Edward attempted a wan smile. “Not unless he grows like you and hankers over what he could have had.”

Alfred, missing the sarcasm, shook his head, wrinkled his nose. “Non, the boy is too base-born to rise higher.”

Privately Edward disagreed, but held his tongue. William, apart from his elder sister, was Robert’s only child, and there was no one else of the line who could boast a legitimate claim, outside of a disabled nephew and a distant cousin or two.

Noises filtered in from the courtyard, the sound of a retinue arriving, horses, voices, the chink of chain-mail armour. Someone else arrived to see for himself what was happening? To ensure the husband of Duke Robert’s whore did not pursue ideas above his status? Expecting a Count or an estate holder, Edward was surprised to see a man of far more importance stride through the door. Removing his cloak, the man bellowed for the mistress of the house to attend him.

“Where is the woman Herleve?” He gestured to a maidservant. “Fetch her; I would speak with her immediately.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy, scuttled off up the stairs.

This was a chance Alfred could not ignore. He grabbed Edward’s arm and propelled him forward. “We must speak to him and ask his protection. He’ll give it, I am sure.”

Edward was not as certain, but already dragged halfway across the hall, he could not escape. Robert of Rouen might be a holy Archbishop, but he was also styled le Comte d’Evreux and had the reputation of being as formidable a warrior as any armour-clad cnight. On the obverse side of the coin, he was their mother’s second brother, and therefore he had a duty to acknowledge his nephews.

“Sir?” Edward stammered, wary. “I give you greeting. Until the Lady Herleve can prepare herself, may I offer you refreshment?”

“Ah, oui, the exiles,” Robert said, turning to look at them through slit eyes and the length of his long nose. He was a tall man, well padded with flesh around the stomach and cheeks. A man who did not experience firsthand the leaner years of a poor harvest. “You could be useful to my purpose; stay close. I shall wish to speak with you when I have finished with Duke Robert’s woman.” Without barely a pause, his eyes flickering around the busy hall, added, “Where is the boy? William?”

“Over there, sir, in the window recess,” Edward said, obligingly pointing.

The Archbishop strode across to the lad, booming that he was to stand up and stand up straight.

Archbishop Robert terrified Edward more than a horde of besieging warriors or a gaggle of sniggering women. He was ferocious and dogmatic. There was no way Edward would volunteer to serve under him. This was it, then, his mind was made up.

“I am going to Jumièges,” he declared to Alfred. “I am going to seek sanctuary with Robert Champart.”

Alfred thought his brother a prime fool, but then he had known that ever since they were toddling children.

For most of the afternoon the Archbishop of Rouen was closeted with Herleve and her son within the privacy of the upstairs solar. As dusk began to fall, the servants were summoned and a great activity began, the preparing and packing for a journey. Alfred heard of the reason and destination first and hunted for his brother, finally tracing him in the castle’s kennels admiring the recent litter of one of the hunting dogs.

“She’s a good bitch, this one,” Edward said, looking up as his brother, holding the lantern high, walked quietly in, and shut the door behind him. He indicated the heap of straw he was sitting on, patted it, inviting Alfred to sit. Offered a wineskin and half his chunk of goat’s cheese. Gladly, Alfred accepted the sharing of this sparse supper.

“That is the only thing with entering the abbey.” Edward sighed. “I shall miss my hunting and hawking. I do so enjoy the chase.”

“Then do not commit yourself to anything permanent,” Alfred advised. “Go to Jumièges, by all means—in fact, I think the Archbishop would welcome your gesture—but go as a royal guest. That way you have the best of both lives.”

Edward frowned, suspicious. Alfred had never encouraged his desire before. “You want me to go?” he queried. “Why?”

“I agree, she is a marvellous bitch. If you were to ask Lady Herleve, I reckon she would give her to you as a gift. She’s in the mood for giving anything asked of her at the moment.”

“I say again. Why?”

Drawing a long, slow breath through his nose, Alfred sat up straight, pulled his tunic more comfortably through his waistband, stalling. “Because I am to ride into France with the Archbishop and William, so that the boy may lay his claim and pay homage as vassal to King Henry.”

“William?” Edward echoed, incredulous. “William is to be Duke?”

“It seems his father arranged it before he left for Jerusalem. Henry owed him a favour, after all, for the months he spent in exile here with us. If it were not for Robert, he might never have climbed onto his throne. Robert apparently called in the debt.”

Suspicious again, Edward asked another question. “Why are you to go with them?”

Alfred puffed his cheeks, embarrassed, rubbed his thighs. “I have offered my sword to the Archbishop Comte d’Evreux.” He cleared his throat, continued, “He is to inform our mother of her great-nephew’s inheritance and is to ask her to ensure no foreign Prince shall take a lustful eye to Normandy as an expansion of an already large empire while Duke William remains a child.”

Edward’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean he is warning Cnut off? That’s taking a risk, is it not? Such a direct approach may be misconstrued as an insult and give cause for Cnut to act!”

“Archbishop Robert thinks not. Cnut will be busy with Norway—Magnus Olafsson has laid claim as heir to his father and is making overtures to annex Denmark as well.” He grinned. “Our poor half-brother, Harthacnut, could soon find himself in serious trouble.” Added vehemently, “My heart bleeds for him.”

Edward picked up one of the pups that had crawled over to investigate the scent of his boots. At three weeks old, his eyes had opened and he was beginning to take an interest in the world beyond his mother’s milk teat. A fine, sturdy dog, good legs, good head.

“You still have not explained why you will be going to France.”

“Have I not? If Cnut is to agree not to interfere with Normandy, King Henry and the Archbishop, acting together as guardians to the young Duke, will agree not to interfere in any way with England’s politics.”

“In particular with an inheritance issue?” Edward asked, his head lifting, eyes brightening with relieved delight. No more expectation to claim a kingdom? God be praised!

“Oui.” Alfred paused, added, “I also get a captaincy in the army.” For Alfred, that was all he had ever wanted: recognition.

Edward set the pup down and ushered him towards his siblings. “I may ask Herleve if I can have the pup. I like him.” Then said thoughtfully, “Though William is but a boy. Will he survive do you think?”

Alfred stood, brushed the straw off his woollen tunic. “We survived, why shouldn’t he?”

11 November 1035—Shaftesbury

Cnut’s horse went lame a mile from Shaftesbury. “A stone, I reckon,” he said, jumping from the saddle and lifting the offside foreleg to inspect beneath the hoof. With his dagger, he scraped at the dried mud accumulated between the shoe, prodded at the exposed sole. “Ja. Here, it is bruised.”

Godwine had dismounted and, passing his mount’s reins to a servant, bent to look, agreed. “Will you take my horse instead, sir?” he offered.

Straightening, Cnut laughed. “No, Godwine, it is but a short walk up the hill to the abbey.” He patted his belly. “And to lose some of this will do me no harm!”

“My Gytha says it is my appetite for ale and honey cakes that has caused mine,” Godwine grinned as he ruefully examined his own extended paunch.

“Funny, that.” Cnut grinned back, clicking his tongue at his horse to walk on. “Emma believes the same!”

Out of respect, Cnut’s housecarls had dismounted, offered their horses as Godwine had done. Cnut dismissed them with the same reply.

“If we stay the night here with the good nuns, then proceed on our way at sunup, we shall reach Sherborne in good time,” Cnut declared as he started up the hill. The nunnery was at the top of the plateau, the climb steep. At least the road was cobbled and dry underfoot; to slog up here in deep mud was never a welcome experience.

“I only hope the Abbot at Sherborne does not intend to keep us too long. Sign these charters of covenant and be on our way home, I say. The skies are gathering too grey for my liking. It will rain by the morrow’s dawn, you mark my words.”

Godwine agreed; he sniffed at the air, swore he could smell the moisture.

“If I did not know you better, my friend,” Cnut chuckled through panting breath, “I would say you are having second thoughts on granting land to the abbey.”

“What? No, no, Sherborne needs that manor more than I. It is the journey here that irritates, not the deed. I had hoped for the Abbot to come to me, not the other way around.”

“He has not been well, Godwine; we can hardly expect him to travel abroad with heavy rain expected!”

Godwine laughed at the jest—the Abbot of Sherborne was known for his reclusive ways—was grateful when Cnut halted halfway to catch breath. “I could run up here when I was a lad, you know,” Godwine puffed. “Can scarce walk it now!”

“Old and fat,” Cnut gasped, his hand on his chest, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, “that is our trouble.”

Cnut found he had to stop a second time before he reached the abbey gate, and was pleased to be made welcome with a comfortable chair and a goblet of the Abbess’s best imported wine. The nuns served good food, well cooked with a variety of menu, but he found he was light of appetite and, as evening fell, felt an extensive tiredness creeping over him.

“Are you not well, my Lord?” Godwine asked. “You look pale.”

“Ready for my bed, I think, Godwine; it has been a long day and I have an uncomfortable touch of indigestion. I will send for a herbal draught and get some sleep. Ensure I am woken an hour before dawn, for us to be on our way by sunrise.”

But his heart failing while he slept, Cnut was never to see the morning sunlight flood over England again, and Godwine, galloping his horse to return to Winchester, did not see the dawn for the blur of tears that scalded his eyes.

Emma

Anno Domini 1035–1041

And men advised that Emma, Harthacnut’s mother, stay in Winchester with the housecarls of the King, her son, and hold all Wessex for his hands. And Earl Godwine was her most faithful man.

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

12 November 1035—Winchester

Emma knew from the grey pallor on Earl Godwine’s face and by the way he stood, one step within the threshold, that something was horribly wrong.

“My Lord, you are wet through?” she said, a question in her voice, although the statement was obvious. A second question, of why he had come to Winchester so unexpected in such torrential rain, hovered unspoken. Rising from her chair, set for comfort beside the fire, she indicated with her hand that he could enter into her private chamber, come closer, warm himself, but Godwine remained at the door, his thumbs depressing the iron latch. How could he repeat news that would break this good lady’s heart like shattered pieces of glass?

“Lady,” he finally stammered, “I have ridden at the gallop since dawn.”

He shook his head slowly, held out both hands, palms uppermost, pleading for her to read what was in his mind to save the pain of having to say this thing aloud. How could she guess? No one in England could have foreseen this. No one. His arms fell to his side, a tear slithering down his cheek. His hair was rain-matted, his cloak and boots sodden; he said in despair, “Your husband is dead. God took him from us during the night.”

Emma stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her face draining of colour. She licked her lips, shook her head, denying what she had heard.

“No,” she said, backing away from Godwine and stumbling over a footstool, her voice rising to a scream. “Oh God! No!”

He hurried after her, took hold of her shoulders. “We could not rouse him from sleep. His physician, who knows of these things, believes it to have been a seizure of the heart. I assure you he looked to be at peace, did not feel pain or discomfort.”

Emma, Regina Anglorum, Queen of England, remained silent for several long moments, her mind, eyes, and heart blank. Empty. Numb. Then, with a steady calm returning, graciously thanked Earl Godwine for his trouble in riding to her on this wet day. “It was good of you to come to me personally, not send a mere messenger. You have always been loyal.” She spoke with a smile. “I am grateful for that and for your friendship. Attributes which may, I fear, be sorely tried in the weeks ahead of us.” She faltered, the control collapsing into the sham it was; her lip trembled, tears welled.

Snatching up her cloak from where it lay across a chest, she muttered, “Please, dry yourself before the fire. I would walk alone awhile.” Pride had been her only comfort and salvation for too many years; she was not about to alter her schooled endurance now.

Before Godwine could remind her of the bad weather, she had disappeared from the chamber and was running down the wooden stairs. Ignoring the sudden hush of the crowded hall below, she flung on the cloak and stepped out into the rain. She did not mind the rain; rain masked scalding tears and the pain of gut-wrenching, heartbroken grief.

Godwine made to follow her, reached as far as the hall’s outer doors, but there he halted and watched Emma walk across the mud-puddled courtyard towards the shelter of the stables. Retracing his steps inside, called for food and mulled wine. He had not waited to break his fast at Shaftesbury, nor barely eased his stallion from the punishing gallop he had set. The horse was ruined, of course, his wind and legs beyond repair, but what mattered one horse when the King was dead? When so many more horses, and men, might soon be beyond saving?