The Forever Queen (85 page)

A young man was sitting near the door on the end of a bench, not looking as if he had come to pray for the forgiveness of his sins. He too arose, swept Emma a low bow. “My Lady, it is not appropriate to address you at this moment of sorrow, I am well aware, yet I feel it may cheer you to hear the news my father sends.”

Emma regarded him sternly, the intention of sending him on his way with a sound thrashing hovering on her lips, yet that look about him was familiar. The set of his eyes, the jut of his chin, even the cadence of his voice.

“Godwine’s son?” she whispered. “You are Swegn Godwinesson. What be you doing here in Bruges? Are you exiled, too?” She snorted amusement. “Your father always said you would be sent in shame from England one day. I never took him seriously; ought I to have done?”

Swegn grinned impishly at her, twiddled his seaman’s cap in his hand. “I am sorry to disappoint you, ma’am; I am not here in disgrace.” He glanced aside, acknowledged the crucifix upon the altar, made a brief and hasty genuflection. “Least, not wholly,” he admitted with a grin. “I am merely at mid-journey. I thought it appropriate to rest the men before continuing up the coast; the wind was blowing hard, we feared a storm, and I had no choice but to put ashore.”

Emma detested ships and the sea, but knew enough of both to read the weather with accuracy. The sea had been benign this week around. Why did this boy lie?

He glanced again around the chapel, not in reverence or apprehension, but to ensure they were alone.

“Only God and His saints can listen to us in here,” Emma said. “We are quite alone.”

Swegn Godwinesson fiddled some more with his cap. He had been thrilled when his father had asked him to do this thing, the adventure, the risk, the excitement—he had been willing to set off there and then, months ago now, soon after his father had begun getting well after that long illness, but Godwine had held him back, sent him out with the ship to other places first: along the coast to Dover, then up to Ipswich, and as far as York. Further, to France and Normandy, taking wine and horses, grain and hunting dogs. Yes, the trading routes were under blockade, but not to those who knew how to slip past the enemy ships or had the gold to pay for closed eyes and ears. And now that Godwine deemed Swegn ready, he had sown the false trails, had distracted the scent. Now when Swegn took his father’s ship out on a trade run, no one remarked upon it. No one would notice, or realise, that his ship, this time, had gone north along the foreign coast in the direction of Bruges.

“Madam,” Swegn said, eager at last to deliver the message he had been entrusted to impart to the Queen. “England grows restless for a true and competent King. Rebellion buzzes in the air like hatching mayflies. If meaning were to be given to the English noblemen and the fyrds, then they would rise as one man. If there is a man who would be willing to replace him, then Harold could be toppled without undue argument or spilling of blood. All the South, and much of the North, is ready to rebel, for his mother interferes too often, and Harold himself is raising the tax levies too high. I am on my way to Denmark, to give word to your son, our true King, Harthacnut, that England is ripe for plucking.”

The tears seemed to fall easy this day; was it so simple to turn the depth of despair into an ember of hope?

“My father warns,” Swegn added, forgetting he was told to say this earlier, before raising false impression, “that it may be some while yet, mayhap a year or more, for the way has to be felt carefully, as if walking along a darkened passage without candle or lamp. When we rise, it must be as one, and Harthacnut must be in position with his ships and army. Arranging a war of conquest cannot be undertaken in the drawing of a single breath.”

Emma took her hands away from her face, wiping at the tears that she did not care about being noticed. “I have lost a dear friend this day. I will see about her burial and the saying of prayers for her journey to God, and meanwhile you shall go to my son in Denmark and tell him his mother awaits him here at Bruges with the greater part of the English treasury at his disposal, and I look forward to greeting him and his fleet.”

Swegn bowed, accepting her order, but did not turn to leave. “Lady, my father bids me tell you also that he begs your forgiveness for his weakness and stupidity. All this while he has not forgotten nor deserted you.”

Emma’s chin tilted higher. Forgive Godwine? Could she do so after his betrayal, after his allowing Alfred to fall into the hands of that murdering bitch and her bastard son? But if she did not have Godwine as a friend, who was there to walk with into the uncertainty of the future?

“You may tell your father,” she said, “only when I stand on English soil shall I consider his request.”

17 March 1040—Thorney Island

AElfgifu of Northampton was two months dead. She had died from a cause unknown, although the physicians were certain it had something to do with the lump that had been swelling on her breast for several months. No one mourned her. Not a single Earl or Thegn. Nor did her son. She had been buried, had been forgotten.

A roar of shouted laughter as the two wrestlers in the centre of the hall fell heavily in a tangle of arms and legs, accompanied by several derogatory insults from the jeering crowd. At the side of the hall a juggler was entertaining the ladies by keeping six eggs in the air at once, skilfully tossing them from one hand to the other; at the far end the lesser Thegns concentrated on the beer. A normal Easter of feasting at court. Huh, what was normal about it? In appearance it was, but if the undercurrents could be seen, if the whispers could be heard, the quick, flashed looks interpreted? If all that could be done by some means of magic, then there would be nothing normal about this gathering of council.

Ælfgifu’s death had changed everything, scurrying a charge of energy through everyone as if they had been struck by lightning. Because of his mother’s death, something had altered within Harold’s Earls: they were less wary, talked louder, and appeared more at ease in his presence; he knew not why, although he could guess at it. Rebellion, the wind said, as it slithered through the grass and rustled through the bare branches of winter-clad trees.

Rebellion and conquest. The sea rippled and murmured its own warning, swishing onto the sand and rattling through the shingle. Harthacnut is coming! Harthacnut!

But the whispering had subtly altered since Ælfgifu had died. Were men not so sure, not so eager to overthrow Harold after all? Were they now willing to give him a chance, try him as his own man, not as a moulting songbird, caged by his mother?

“We are to have horse racing on the morrow, are we not?” Earl Siward, sitting on his right-hand side, asked, breaking Harold’s gloom-bound thoughts. “Across the marshes? I have a fine grey. I would suggest there will be few beasts able to outrun him at flat gallop.”

“Godwine has a grey, too,” Harold answered affably. “I have seen him, a superb beast, dappled at hocks, knees, and hindquarters. His stallion master has groomed him to perfection; his coat glistens as if it has the sun shining full upon it.”

Siward was impressed. “It is no easy thing to gain a gleam on a grey’s hide. I must have word with him, find his secret.”

Overhearing, Godwine, seated to the other side of the King, guffawed. “It is no secret, Siward. It is nothing more than good feed and hard work with the grooming brush.”

“I will gladly lay a wager with you for the morrow—my grey against your horseman?” Siward offered hopefully.

Godwine chuckled. “A wager that would be painful to lose! Good horses can be bought anywhere, not so with good horsemen. Let me think on it.”

Amused, Siward agreed.

“I would hazard,” Harold eased himself from his chair, patted Siward’s shoulder, “this will be a risk our friend Godwine here will not be fool enough to take!”

The atmosphere was convivial with pleasant banter and good-natured jesting, giving Harold hope that the tide had turned and his kingship was being accepted. Dare he hope for that? Was it yet too soon? He could gain their trust now that he was a free man to do things as he wanted. To gain their friendship as well, though? Ah, that could be a harder task.

Leaving the hall to visit the midden, Harold verbally batted aside the jibes at not being able to hold his bladder with the same quantity of ale as everyone else. Several of his Earls watched him go, a moment of silence suspended in the air as each man nurtured his thoughts, wondering whether to speak, hoping it would be someone else to say the thoughts aloud.

Godwine raised his goblet, said quietly, “So? Do we still send for Harthacnut?”

His mind concentrating on what he was doing, Siward cut a chunk of soft white mare’s cheese, offered some to Eadwulf of Bernicia. What better place to discuss treason than at the King’s own table with all England observing? To meet in secret, where suspicion might be roused, was foolhardy; best out in the open, where conversation would not be remarked upon.

“Now the mother is gone, mayhap he will make a better job of things,” he ventured with a quick look along the table to ensure Leofric was engaged in earnest talk.

“Or mayhap he will show the true extent of his incompetence. Had he the balls, he would not have been all this while impotent against her,” Godwine countered.

“I vote we give it longer. Give him the year, let him prove his worth.” Eadwulf, who had no love for either Harold or Harthacnut, was happy to wait, to let wyrd—fate—choose the path.

“Mayhap we ought to let Harthacnut decide?” Siward suggested, finishing the cheese and brushing the crumbs from his moustache. “We have indicated we might be interested in supporting him if he finally plucked the enthusiasm to do his duty and come to England. I am not intending to hold my breath in anticipation of it. He will receive nothing from me until he steps onto English soil.”

“You are backing out?” Godwine answered, annoyed, his anger directed at Harthacnut as much as the man sitting beside him. If Harthacnut did not get off his backside and come soon…Harold was winning them over now that Ælfgifu was dead. Huh! Her fault again! If it were not for her dying, none of this loss of impulsion would be happening. “Harthacnut will not be pleased to hear Harold is gaining popularity. He is in the process of assembling a fleet. I have good authority on that—may even now be sailing for Bruges.”

“It takes more to conquer a kingdom than set a few ships bobbing in a harbour, Godwine,” Siward answered placidly.

Earl Godwine scowled, probed Eadwulf. “You think along the same course as Siward? We abandon Harthacnut?”

The Earl of Bernicia shrugged. “I had no love for Ælfgifu; she was a bitch, and I trust she is burning in Hell. But I have no love for Harthacnut either. I would not grieve to learn his father is dancing to the same jig as Ælfgifu. I am for giving Harold a chance to prove himself, now that he is his own man.”

“Harold has been our King for four years and…” Godwine paused, worked out the exact date. He was quick with figures, as were most merchant-trained men. “Four years and sixteen weeks. If he has not shown us his worth already, is he likely to show us now?”

To himself, Siward agreed, but he liked not the thought of opening raw wounds. England had been at peace, excepting the regular skirmishing across the borders from Scotland. “I say we wait,” he said, nodding a warning towards the side door and Harold returning. “We wait and see.”

“By Christ, it is cold out there!” Harold declared as he sat, rubbing his hands. “There is a sharp frost, the stars pock the skies like a thousand eyes watching us.” He clicked his fingers at a servant, signalling for the next course to be brought in.

“What? There is more?” Siward guffawed, rubbing his already bulging belly.

Always difficult to present a feast worth the eating during the lean days of Lent, but the royal cooks were expert at their job, and so far no King had ever been let down, even with a menu that consisted almost entirely of fish.

“We have pike served in a wild garlic and butter sauce, I believe,” Harold remarked, looking critically at the servants beginning to file in with silver serving platters held high. He was not much impressed by pike, but some men were fond of it, and the cook had assured him the sauce would be the finest ever tasted. These last days before Easter had to go well in all areas, from discussion to dinner. This was all Harold’s doing; none of it could be claimed by his mother. Nor blamed on her if things went awry.

Earl Leofric pricked the fish set before him with his eating knife. He, too, was not keen on pike. “Pike gives my lady wife bellyache,” he observed.

“That’s you poking at her that does that,” Harold mocked, his voice loud and carrying, more than a little drunk, drawing laughter from the rest of the table. Leofric scowled; he disapproved of lewdness.

Another of those awkward pauses, when men had nothing to say.

“I have decided to search for a wife,” Harold declared as he cut the steamed fish open and began to separate the meat from the bone. “A pity your daughter is not of age, Godwine.”

Godwine’s head shot up, as did Leofric’s and Siward’s, all three for differing reasons.

“My Edith is in her eleventh year,” Godwine answered, barely able to conceal his excitement. “She is not long from marriageable age. At present she is receiving education at Wilton. She is an apt and careful student.”

“Ah, but is she pretty?” Harold asked through a mouthful of hot fish. “I will not take a hag to my bed, you know.” He picked a bone from his teeth, swallowed.

“Could there not be some objection on grounds of kindred?” Siward offered, alarmed at the prospect of Godwine being so closely allied. Working alongside him as an equal was one thing, but this was not at all acceptable. “Cnut’s sister was wed to her mother’s brother. Might the Pope, therefore, not object?”

“Even if he does not, I most certainly shall!” Leofric railed, slapping the table with his palm.

“It will be nothing to do with your decision.” But Godwine got no further; Harold was rising from the table, tipping over his chair in his haste, his hand clutching at his throat. His breathing was gurgling, his face turning red, his fingers clawing at his neck, trying to cough, trying to spit out the fishbone caught there.