The Forever Queen (87 page)

“Stigand showed faith in me and, more important, in you. I considered it my duty to promote him into the service of my chaplain.”

“Yes, yes, so you have said a dozen times.” Harthacnut patted the air, as if Emma were a larger, more annoying, horsefly. “I merely recount there are many who do not approve of him.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Harthacnut, I do not want to quarrel!” She bent, set her hands on each side of his face, and kissed his brow. She smiled, smoothed back the flop of hair that insisted on tumbling over into his left eye, said again wearily, “I do not want to quarrel.”

Harthacnut pushed her hands aside, but gently, not with irritation. “Nor do I, Mother.” He shrugged in a half laugh. “I shall be quarrelling in earnest with my council ’ere too many weeks pass, for I must raise payment for the Danish fleet I brought with me. I can only do so through raising taxes, which shall be an unpopular but necessary move.”

His expression turned sheepish. “I would have at least one friend beside me, even if she is a woman who knows her own mind too much for her own good!” He leant forward, offsetting the words that could be taken wrongly by placing a kiss on Emma’s cheek. “Forgive my sullen mood; it has been with me since I rose from my bed, has left me with a storm of a headache.”

Emma cocked her head to one side, astute as ever she had been.

“I loved your father,” she confided, “but he could, on occasion, make my blood boil like it were a bubbling cauldron of rage. He took you to Denmark with the excuse that it would be for your own good and for the security of his throne there. I ofttimes wondered then, more so now that he is gone, whether it was, in truth, to punish me.”

Harthacnut was shocked. Emma had walked a few paces from him, had turned slightly away. He stood, whirled after her, swung her round. “Why would he do that? It was me he thought to punish, not you!”

Emma had never spoken of this before—had never even allowed the thoughts to filter near the surface, especially while Cnut was alive, but so many hidden memories and troubles had surfaced since his death, and she had had so much opportunity to dwell on them while in Bruges that it was becoming difficult not to share them.

“He blamed me for Ragnhilda’s drowning,” she explained. “He never spoke of it aloud, but I could read it in his eyes. He had expressive eyes, your father, as have you, eyes that could never hide the truth from those who knew how to read them. He thought I ought to have taken better care of her.” She sighed, suddenly tired of it all, tired of the longing for him, the anger she felt at his so suddenly going away, at not saying good-bye.

Harthacnut was appalled. Not at what she had said, but at the consuming inclination to suddenly want to laugh, to toss back his head and crow his mirth to the sky. He looked out over the river, watched a heron taking off, its ungainly legs trailing behind, three crows rising to mob it as it flew over their nesting site in the trees along the far bank. “When Papa took me to Denmark, he said he wanted me to learn how to be a great and good King. When he left me there, I made a vow, one known to none but myself and God. I wanted nothing, save for my father to acknowledge that he loved me first, above all others.”

He turned back to his mother. “Do you know what he said to me as he left Roskilde, as his ship caught the tide and her sail billowed? He called out, ‘Take more care of Denmark than you did of my daughter, Harthacnut.’” He dipped his head, his body sagging. “I have been too scared of not doing so ever since. That was why I stayed, that is why I must return. I cannot allow my father to think wrong of me.”

Emma set her arms around him, and they stood, linked together, heads touching, not weeping openly but allowing the tears of shared regret to fall inside, where they could not show. “He was a man who did what he had to do, even though the doing could be harsh. He did as many bad things as he did good, but he will be remembered as a loved and wise King, and God help me, Harthacnut,” Emma concluded with a shaken laugh, “I shall never stop loving his memory, nor stop this wanting to have him with me.”

The both of them braved a smile. Harthacnut, linking her arm through his, began strolling back towards the palace. Not that it looked like anything more than a hovel of clustered deteriorating timber and reed-thatched buildings from here. “I hate this place,” he observed suddenly, with deep feeling. “It is so melancholy!”

Emma laughed. “That is what Æthelred repeatedly said—and Cnut.” Wondered, had Harold thought it, too?

“One day I will rebuild. Raze the lot to the ground and replace it with buildings of stone. A palace and an abbey to be proud of. How think you of that proposal?”

“I think of it very well, dear, only do not take over long in the doing of it. I have heard the same avowal for nigh on seven and thirty years!”

They laughed, the animosity forgiven and forgotten.

As they walked beneath the wooden arch of the wide-flung entrance gate, Emma shivered at the sudden cold, for the watchtower and platform above threw the tunnel into dark and damp shadow; it was as if a ghost had walked across her future grave.

“Promise me,” she said, earnestly, “that you will never leave me alone to face the threat of exile again.”

“I promise I will do my best for you,” he said. “I can do no more than that, but in return you must do something for me.”

Emma lifted her face enquiringly. If he asked to be allowed to return to Denmark, the answer would be no.

“I think it best that you have assurance of your position. I intend to bring Edward back to England as King regent.”

Emma stared at him blankly. “Edward?” she queried. “My son Edward?”

“Do I know of any other called Edward?”

To Harthacnut’s surprise, Emma laughed. A long shriek of high-pitched, witless laughter.

Emma sent for Godwine.

He entered her chamber, sat with her beside the hearth-fire that did little to dispel the evening chill. It may have been a hot day outside, but these quarters were situated at the northern end of the royal compound, where no sun penetrated. Even on the hottest days it was cold here in this chamber. She indicated the wine flagon on the table, suggested he pour for the both of them.

“Harthacnut intends to bring Edward to England,” she said. “What think you of that?”

Godwine sipped his wine. A quality French grape. Answered, “Edward may not be as forgiving of me as you. His brother was in my care when we came across Harold.”

Prepared to forget Alfred, Emma sat silent. What sort of woman did that make her? What sort of mother? Cold, hard? A woman without love? Yet she had loved Cnut to the depth of her soul and cared for Harthacnut. Cared for this man, Godwine, too.

Quietly she asked, “What were you going to do with him, Godwine? With Alfred? He was just a child, a poor, misguided child. I have wanted to know these months, these years that have passed since then. Were you all along intending to hand him to Harold? To use him to save your own skin?”

Godwine was before her, kneeling, his hands taking hers, his face appalled. “No! Believe me I was not! I was fully intending to march him to the nearest river, secure a boat, and send him direct home to Normandy on his brother’s heels. Do you seriously think I considered harming the lad?”

He stood, drew away a little, rubbed his hand over his forehead. “God as my witness, Emma, for how long have you thought this?” He gripped her hands again, brought her fingers to his lips. Tears danced in his eyes.

Emma touched his face, her palm caressing, a light, tender touch. “I did not believe the lie, my friend. I only wanted to know the truth.” She paused, touched the tips of her fingers to his lips. “In another life, perhaps you would have been more than a friend.” She shrugged. “But this is the one we have, and this is the way it must be.”

She withdrew her hand. “Harthacnut does not fully know of that stupid letter Edward received from me, begging him to come to my aid,” she said, trying to remember what she had said to Godwine at the time, those years ago. The trouble with lies, it was so easy to be caught out by telling a different story later in the day.

“Is Edward likely to make much of it? That is, assuming he will come. Would you blame him if he did not?”

No, Emma would not, but Edward would come, for the same reason that he had come before. Because Normandy was in turmoil and when the boy Duke was finally murdered in his bed or in some thick forest, the fighting that would erupt would be horrendous. The English-born son of a Norman-born Duke’s daughter would not be tolerated, since he, too, would have legitimate claim to Normandy. Edward would come because of that and because Harthacnut intended to entice him with honeyed words and mellow promises.

“Then I would suggest if Edward talks of a letter, we deny all knowledge of it.”

“And if he produces it?”

“Then we claim it is a forgery penned by Ælfgifu.”

Emma nodded her head, agreeable to the suggestion.

“Edward is the last person I want to see,” she admitted. “But England needs stability. I need stability. I only hope Harthacnut soon finds himself a suitable wife and sets about breeding a ship’s crew of sons. He should not be thinking of abandoning us and returning to Denmark.”

Her thoughts were running slow, addled by tiredness and so many years of disappointments. She needed to ensure Harthacnut’s position was undisputed, that Edward would not suddenly be remembered as one born to an older, English, King. But how to do it? Write an account of Cnut’s life? Or her own? Yes, that could be it, a record for all to read, from England to Rome and beyond! The Encomium Emmæ In Acclaim of Emma, an account of her years, her struggle and hardships. Her marriage to Cnut of Denmark, the birth of her sons—but not Æthelred, there would be nothing of him, let him be forgotten. He would have no mention in the book. Some of her life would therefore need be altered or plain left out, but that could be managed.

“And Harthacnut called his brother to come from across the sea to be regent of England, now that all was made safe and well. And good triumphed over evil.” She liked the sound of that, would ensure whomever she chose to write it used that phrase, and she would choose someone good, someone with a talent for writing history.

Excited, she explored the idea with Godwine, outlining the content, the reason behind it. “With such a written account,” she explained eagerly, “Edward would not be able to usurp Harthacnut’s place of authority, nor that of his sons once they are born, would he?”

Harthacnut lay abed, awake and alone. He no longer bothered trying to make love to whores. Nothing, beyond embarrassment and frustration, ever happened. He was impotent. His manhood refused to rise, and he had no seed to implant in a woman’s belly. There would not be sons.

He blew air from his puffed cheeks, put his arms behind his head. Beyond the closed curtaining he could hear his servants snoring on their pallets on the floor. One of his two favourite dogs, stretched across the bed at his feet, scratched industriously at a flea, turned several circles, then settled to sleep with a grunt of satisfaction.

There would be no sons to follow him as King.

From the age of fifteen he had lain with women, whores at the brothel, serving maids, farmers’ daughters; with not one of them had his piece performed its duty. He had even tried, to his shame, a boy once.

To prove he was a capable King, he had to ensure the continuity of peace for England. Denmark had Svein Estrithsson as his heir; he was a good young man, would become an equally good King. Edward was not of Cnut’s blood, but he was, at least, of Emma’s, and for the sake of his father’s memory and his mother’s respect, he must ensure England was not left abandoned again. But Edward? Beyond his piety, Harthacnut had not heard good things of Edward. Maybe God wanted a God-fearing monk as King?

Harthacnut laughed cynically. He could easily provide the celibate monk side of the bargain.

June 1040—Jumièges

Justifiably, after the last unnerving debacle, Edward was concerned about opening another letter from England, even if this one did bear the seal of Harthacnut. Abbot Robert Champart opened it, in the end, after it had sat on a side table for more than two days; he read it aloud, his jaw dropping in amazement and eyes lighting with excitement.

“You have been invited to England!” he declared, rewarded by an immediate horror-stricken response from Edward, who clutched his arms about himself and shuddered.

“Oh, no! I am never going back there! I have no intention of having my eyes burnt out and my body thrown into a pit to rot and be eaten by rats!”

The Abbot declined to correct him on the minor infringement of accuracy. Alfred had been buried in a Christian grave by the monks of Ely; the fact that had it been up to Harold or his witch mother, the body would have been left as Edward said, however, made the exaggeration significant.

“No, this is direct from Harthacnut your half-brother, my Lord.” Strange how suddenly he dropped the informality of calling the man before him by his name and inserted a more deferential title instead. Edward, however, did not notice his sudden promotion in verbal rank. “He begins with apologies for not contacting you ere now and in offering his condolences for the shameful manner of your brother’s death.”

“Does he apologise for these years of exile? For his father booting me out of my home and denying me the right of succession? No? Well, there’s a surprise!”

Retaining his patience, Robert continued, “Your half-brother begs to inform you that England misses your presence, and he wants you to consider his proposal to make you regent!” Champart’s eyes were glowing with the anticipation of possibilities for the future, his thoughts racing wildly. Thoughts for himself, not for Edward.

“And why would he want to do that?” Edward queried acrimoniously. “For what purpose? To humiliate me publicly? To lock me away in a cell somewhere, never to see daylight again?”

“Sir, if he had design to be rid of you, it would be better to his purpose to leave you here, to remain forgotten at Jumièges. I would read this”—Champart waved the parchment—“as an indication that he wishes to make peace.” He smiled placatingly. “Harthacnut is also King of Denmark. Who can he leave behind to see to the government of England? There is no one—except you.”