The Forever Queen (83 page)

Ælfgifu resented being shouted at; it was a habit her son was growing into of late; she would need put a stop to it. The accusation of her being involved in this murder was exaggerated also, but there was no point in her denying it. When Harold was in one of these moods, there was never any way to make him listen to reason. She gave no answer, for she was not totally innocent, and, wisely, she steered clear of saying more than was prudent by saying nothing at all. He could not have proof, for she never set anything down in writing and her messengers were carefully chosen men who would not dare utter words against her.

“Who is King here anyway?” Harold exploded. “You or me, Mother? I distinctly remember the crown was placed on my head, not yours!”

“And who gave you life? Who nurtured you through the uncertainty of childhood? Who taught you everything you know?” With each word, Ælfgifu prodded her own chest. “I fed you at my breast, nursed your fevers, soothed your grazed knees. I endured the humiliation of your father abandoning me for that bitch Emma, suffering his patronising visits, pretending I welcomed him, missed him when he was gone. For you, I surrendered to his pawing and poking, acting as if I enjoyed his lovemaking. For you, Harold, for you to become King, and what do I get as reward? As thank-you? Accusations and ingratitude!”

“Oh, you make me weep! I was wet nursed. I barely saw you from one week to another, because you were always too busy with some plot or other with whomever happened to be your lapdog of the month. When you did deign to notice your sons, it was always Swegen you preferred.”

“You would not be sitting there preening if it were not for me. My voice influenced the northern nobles to back you, my bribes, my cajoling. I could as easily break you, boy.”

How often had he heard this? Every time he made some law, some suggestion that went against his mother’s grain. Would she never cease her interferences and criticism? Do it this way, Harold, sign this, appoint him. On and on! God’s breath! And she wondered why Cnut had so very rarely visited her?

Ælfgifu’s eyes narrowed. “You are a worthless wretch. You are nothing compared to your father, aye, nor your brother!”

“And you are nothing as a mother. I rule as King, and I will not allow more of your picking at my decisions.” Harold marched to the door of his private chamber and, flinging it wide, bellowed for the captain of his housecarls to be summoned. The man came running, his mouth full of cheese, his fingers hastily lacing a half-undone tunic.

“I suggest, ma’am,” Harold continued with iron coldness, “that you get you gone from my court and return to Northampton. You are no longer wanted here.”

Ælfgifu was aghast. “But council…”

“…Can function without your presence.”

Outrage was beginning to consume Ælfgifu.

Drawing herself straight—puffing herself up like a pigeon, Harold thought—she answered with disdain, “No one tells me what I must do, not since the day I saw my father carried in, covered in blood from where he had been butchered, not since I heard my brothers screaming for mercy when their eyes were blinded!”

The hunting party was returning. Harold could hear the noise and clatter filtering from the courtyard. Most of the Witan members were already arrived here at Woodstock for the Easter council, but before business started, Harold was obliged to entertain his guests. He had wanted to go hunting with them, but there had been important things to attend to that could not wait: a letter to Henry of France, another to Baldwin, Count of Flanders. Neither letter would be answered, for both men refused to acknowledge Harold. That was Emma’s doing. The stretch of her authority was staggering; she might be in Bruges in exile, but her command was as much adhered to outside of England as ever it had been. Trade was suffering, for there was an effective blockade that stretched from Normandy to the Netherlands: export could not get out and import could not come in. Unless he negotiated agreement soon, England would be facing financial ruin.

There was only one way to outmanoeuvre Emma’s meddlesome plotting, and that was by forming his own alliance. Both Henry and Baldwin had daughters, not yet of marriageable age, admitted, but readiness for a marriage bed was no hindrance to agreeing a betrothal.

Ignoring his mother, Harold busied himself with pouring a generous tankard of strong-brewed barley beer, something to do with his hands, something to break the tension that was as sharp as a whetted blade. His back to her, so she might not see his face, nor he hers, he said, “I wish you to be gone, Mother, if not on your own initiative, then on mine. My captain is waiting to escort you to your horse. It is saddled; your possessions are being packed.”

Ælfgifu looked from the housecarl to her son. The ungrateful bastard had planned this! Had arranged it all! Dignity was the one thing that had allowed her to survive through the horrors and torments that had plagued her life—dignity and a determination to ruin the lives of those who had ruined hers. She stepped over the annoying array of dogs her son insisted on keeping near him, great brutes of things that stank, particularly when their coats were wet.

“I shall return to Northampton,” she said, “but do not come whining to me for aid when something goes wrong and you are suddenly in desperate need for my wealth. You will find my coffers are locked against you. As will be my door.”

“I will not come whining, Mother.”

“You will,” Ælfgifu jeered as she swept from the room. “You will.”

Alone, Harold drank the ale down in one gulp. Found his hands were shaking. “I will not,” he muttered. “I would rather take my own life before groveling to you.”

May 1038—Bruges

What had been worse? The panic in fleeing Winchester? The leaving of virtually all she possessed? Or the sea crossing? Her kinsman, Baldwin of Flanders, adored the sea, was always expounding the virtues of his prized warships, exclaiming about the talent of his crewmen. Rivers and the sea might be a part of Baldwin’s heritage, and his future too, for all Emma knew, but if he attempted to entice her aboard that cursed ship of his once more…!

Flanders had been the natural choice for exile. Normandy, with its boy Duke, was unstable, and Baldwin was the stepson of one of Emma’s favourite nieces and, more to the point, powerful. Baldwin, fifth of that name, ruled control of the Flanders sea-lanes, held the key to the silver trade, and was nigh on independent of any other country; and Bruges was a suitable base from which Emma could court allies to aid her return to England. France and Boulogne were worth cultivating, although she doubted Count Eustace would be willing to aid her, not after Alfred’s bungling. King Henry of France Emma did not know personally, whereas Baldwin had been a guest at Cnut’s court on several occasions and his Countess, Adela, was distant kin to the King of France. The two had been married for eight years and had an expanding brood of children, the first two boys, the last a girl, Judith, and another one due any day.

Cnut’s hound, Whitepaw, nudged Emma’s hand with his nose. He had not been an especial favourite of Cnut’s—a pup of his best hunting dog, Liim, he was smaller than the others, less bold—but Whitepaw had been the dog to stay at Cnut’s side, to lie at the foot of the bed; Whitepaw had always been there when the other dogs were more interested in chasing hares or scenting deer, squabbling for the heat of the fire or nosing after food. Whitepaw’s first love had been Cnut, and he had pined almost to death after he had gone. Stupid to have bothered with the animal; it would have been kinder to slit its throat and end its misery, but Emma, too, had been pining; she knew what it was to not want to eat, to want to hide in a corner and grieve. Knew what it was to want only the fond touch of his hand, hear the laugh in his voice. Through their mutual despair, she and Whitepaw had become inseparable friends, down to both being dreadfully sick for the entire sea voyage to Bruges.

Entering the doorway to the upper first-floor hall of the stone keep, Emma almost collided with Adela. They apologised in the same breath, laughed.

“You had no hope of missing me, my dear,” Adela chuckled, resting her hand on the bulge of her belly. “I am almost as wide as this entire hall. The next time Baldwin comes near my bed, I swear I shall cut off his manhood.” Adela threaded her arm through Emma’s. “I am about to walk along the river. I have a headache, and I thought fresh air might clear it. Will you stroll with me?”

Emma agreed, for she found the confine of Baldwin’s castle oppressive. Was it the castle, or the overbearing good intention of its occupants? They made her so welcome, bade her treat the place as her own home, but neither Baldwin nor Adela understood. She was safe, she was comfortable, but she wanted her crown and position. She could not make Baldwin realise that here she was his guest, obliged to the whim of others; in England she was the one to be deferred to.

“I hope the child is a boy,” Adela said. “A boy shall mean so much more to Baldwin. Girls are for marrying; they grow and are gone. Sons bring their wives to court; they do not leave.”

Saying nothing, Emma allowed Adela to walk ahead through the narrow gateway that led to the river path. She was not a woman to enjoy the feminine chatter of wives and mothers; children, as a conversation topic, had limited value to Emma. But what else was there to talk about in this dull place? The weather?

“Sons, too, have a habit of deserting you, I have discovered,” Emma said mournfully. She was feeling sallow this day; why was that? Her monthly courses had entirely ceased, although the symptoms of losing her womanhood irritatingly persisted, the hot flushes, the feeling of being as swollen as Adela, the so-annoying loss of memory. She even found, occasionally, that she forgot what she was saying in mid-sentence, and as for remembering where she had put anything—God’s grace, she was beginning to believe were it not fixed to her neck, she would one day soon forget her head.

Fatigue caused it, Adela said, an opinion confirmed by the physicians. It could be; Emma had barely slept these months, dozing, gaining two hours at the most, only to wake, fretful and soaked in sweat, longing for England and Cnut. For her own mind, Emma was convinced her memory and this baffled fug that clamped her brain into a stupor was the result of boredom. There was nothing to do here! Nothing to stimulate her, except the interminable walks. Adela was content with her domestic chores and her children. Emma, who had ruled a kingdom as regent, never had been, never would be.

Relinking her arm, Adela gave Emma an affectionate squeeze. “I am sorry. I forgot your Edward in exile in Normandy, and your poor, poor Alfred.” Overcome, Adela wiped at her eyes. “How that lad suffered, how you, too, must be suffering for his soul.”

“I thank you for your sentiment, my dear friend,” Emma said diplomatically, “but I was thinking of Cnut’s son, Harthacnut.”

Maternally, Adela patted her arm, although she was younger by fifteen years. “So difficult to have control of more than one kingdom. Baldwin does never find the hours to govern Flanders. How Cnut managed three is comparable to a miracle.”

She said nothing directly of Harthacnut; Emma did not expect her to. The Count despised him, for reasons of disagreement over trading and control of the sea routes, and what Baldwin thought, Adela unwaveringly echoed.

“Madam?” a voice called from behind. Adela and Emma turned round, the Countess assuming the hail to be for her, but it was Leofstan, Emma’s dear, loyal, sensible captain. He was running, waving a parchment. “Lady, there is a communication for you!” he called, his voice caught and tossed by the playful wind.

Adela found a fallen tree as a seat, invited Emma to sit beside her while they waited for the man to catch up, but Emma shook her head, walked forward to meet him, patting her side for Whitepaw to follow. A letter? From Harthacnut? Please, Holy God and Mother Mary, let it be from Harthacnut! She ran a few steps, controlled the foolishness, forced herself to stop, stand, wait. Whitepaw whined, sat.

Leofstan, breathing hard, bowed, handed her the scroll. He was putting on weight, his hair starting to show the first frosting of grey. Emma smiled to herself. Gods! Had they once all been young?

Eagerly she took the thing, her hand almost grabbing it, her eyes going straight to the seal—her joy leaping. Harthacnut! Yes, it was from him! Her fingers fumbled at the seal, broke it open, her eyes scanning the words, looking for when he was coming, how many ships he would be bringing.

The anticipation dwindled and faded. There was not much written there, a few lines of hastily scrawled script. Emma handed the parchment to Leofstan. “It was kind of you to bring this to me. Please, read it.”

Frowning, puzzled, Leofstan did so, his face falling into concern as he read the words. He did not finish reading it, though; there was no need. “Lady,” he said, tentatively reaching out to touch Emma’s arm, “I am so sorry. So very sorry.”

Emma attempted a brave smile. “Thank you, my friend,” then, “I think I would be on my own. May I ask you to convey my apologies to the Countess? Offer to escort her either to the burgh or on her walk. Explain to her?”

Leofstan nodded reluctantly. “You shall be all right, my Lady?”

She smiled, so sadly. “I shall come to no harm. I have Whitepaw with me; he is all the company I require for a while.” She ran her hand across the smoothness of the dog’s head, was rewarded by licked fingers. “Inform the Countess I shall retire directly to my chamber once I have walked, and I would be grateful for only a light supper to be brought to me.”

Again Leofstan nodded. He would do anything for his Queen, if only he could protect her from this new grief.

“There is bad news?” Adela enquired of him as he saluted.

“Oui, madam,” Leofstan answered in French, the prime language of Baldwin’s court. “Lady Gunnhild, my mistress’s daughter, Harthacnut’s sister, has died of a pestilent fever.”

Adela shook her head. Was there no end to Emma’s grief?

Emma wept private tears for Gunnhild, called for that other woman from so long ago, Gunnhilda, wife to Pallig. Wept for the loss of a child, the loss of all that was dear. Wept for this new tearing of her heart. Whitepaw lay beside Emma on her bed, occasionally licking her face, his warmth and presence comforting, not minding if her arm was heavy, her hold too tight, or that her tears soaked his coat.