The Forever Queen (31 page)

Emma halted her mare and gazed with disdainful loathing at the tall Danishman. “The King did not come, sir, because we considered it unworthy for him to concern himself with lowborn scum.”

Thorkell raised his eyebrows. “I am, then, not unworthy of a Queen? I am flattered!”

“Then do not be. I came to see for myself how the Archbishop fares, and my mare needed the exercise.” She kicked the chestnut into a canter, tossed over her shoulder, her words carrying, still in Danish, into the wind, “Take your silver, thief, and take yourself from this land over which I am Queen. Do not harm God’s servant, for you will pay dearly for his pain. If not by the wrath of my husband, then by that of mine and God.”

Once through the gates, Emma urged the horse into a flat gallop, her cnights thundering after her, the Viking camp cheering and yelling their aroused excitement.

Impressed, despite the cutting words, Cnut ran a hand through his hair. “I thought our warrior women were imposing, but that one…!”

“She is of Danish blood; what else do you expect?” Thorkell said, watching the riders disappear into the misted distance of the marshes. “And think on this: if her brother had not married her to Æthelred, you might have found her as wife. She is not more than a few years your senior.”

Cnut puffed his cheeks. “Then glad I am that Æthelred has her! Thor’s Hammer, I wonder if her claws are cut as sharp in bed?”

Hearing, someone called out, good-humoured, “As I understand it, Æthelred has not the balls to find out!”

***

Urging the mare faster, heedless of the uneven ground beneath her flying hooves, Emma was thankful that the tears running from her eyes could be accounted for by the sting of the wind. Her wimple had blown askew, and her hair was streaming behind, her heart thundering, body shaking. Never, never had she been so terrified. Those men! The menace, the intimidation, the utter, sickening fear. In all the good names of God, if ever, ever Æthelred made her do such a thing again, she would kill him. With her bare hands, if necessary.

Late Afternoon

Was that the wind rising? Thorkell raised his head, listening. Odd, there were few trees along these marsh-bound lees, yet it sounded as if a tempest was roaring down through wooded hills. He hoped it was not a storm coming. These last few days had been bright with spring sunshine, the warmth coaxing out the budding leaves and spring flowers, bringing a similar warmth to cold bones and flesh. Winter was long and tedious; he had been pleased to see the end of it.

He sighed, pulled his cloak tighter, set out to inspect the security of the palisade fence. Unlikely that they were in danger here at Greenwich, for the openness of the marshes and the width of the river was adequate defence, but Thorkell was a commander who never took things for granted, and men with beer in their bellies were too capable of shirking given orders.

As the Danish commander walked past, Alfheah murmured the final word of his prayer and, opening his eyes, laid his hands to rest on his lap. The knuckles were swollen, red with the pain of chilblains. These months of captivity had tested his faith almost to his limit; the squalor, the taunting, the isolation of being denied the companionship of his brethren. Gradually he had learnt to trust in his Lord God, realising this was how Christ must have felt during those forty days alone in the wilderness. The acceptance of his situation had brought a calm, inner sanctity to him, one that lifted his fear of the unknown and brought the word of God louder to his ears. If this was to be the ending of the world, then he was in the hands of his Lord, and with that he felt privileged and content.

He looked up, said in halting Danish, “I see a self-importance about that boy Cnut, one that can only come from the son of a King. I see, also, you do not like him.”

Thorkell laughed grimly. “It is not for me to like or dislike him, old man. It is my place to serve.”

In his turn Alfheah laughed, his a lower, more subtle sound. “I believe that no more than you do, Lord Thorkell. It takes a brave man to admit his King has forsaken him for an untried boy.”

Derision snorted from Thorkell’s nostrils. “Swein has not forsaken me! What makes you think that? He is delighted with what I have achieved here.”

Alfheah looked around with a puzzled frown, assessing the heaps of rubbish, the sloth, the naked foulness of the camp. “And what achievement would that be then, Thorkell the Tall? I see about me no great achievement.”

Cnut, returning with a swaggering stride from the latrine pit, heard his scathing words. He was new to English ways—new to leadership. New, but keen and anxious to learn. His father showed no more than a glancing interest in this green, fertile country, and that interest ran only as far as the amount and availability of silver and gold. He wanted to annex England as part of his growing empire, but only if it could be done with the least effort possible. Cnut thought of England in a different vein; it could be a suitable kingdom for a boy who had a limited prospect of wearing a crown. That was the drawback if you were a Northman, born as the second son: the eldest inherited all with precious else left for any younger siblings, unless they used their ingenuity.

“I will achieve what Thorkell will not be able to do,” he said confidently to Alfheah. “I will make England my own.”

Alfheah smiled. “Not without the grace of God, you will not, boy. Unless you set aside your heathen ways and embrace the true faith, God and England will never accept you. Without God, you cannot be anointed as King.”

“That’s the trouble with you priests,” Cnut said, irritably striding away in the opposite direction to that which Thorkell had taken. “You mumble and mutter about your God as if there are no more important issues to concentrate on.”

Alfheah’s expression remained unruffled. “That, my son, is because there are no important issues over God.”

Annoyed that he had been so easily bettered twice in the one day, Cnut strolled down towards the river where the men were gathering in noisy excitement. The incoming tide was causing a stir; he looked out at the water, his eyes lighting up with aroused pleasure. Odin’s joy! A bore tide! A high, fast-bowling bore tide! A spectacular surge wave caused by the tide, not swelling by degrees but rolling in, roaring and foaming as if it were an enraged, gape-mouthed sea dragon hurtling up the River Thames. Cnut, as with his fellow Danes, had no idea of the scientific logistics of the natural phenomenon, although as seafaring men they realised the cause to be the combination of the wide shape of an estuary and certain tidal conditions funnelling into a narrowing, shallower channel.

The huge wave, as it sped and thundered its passage, heaved up the Thames at a rate of almost thirteen knots and a height of over six feet. As it plummeted by, men, whooping and yelling in their delight, plunged into its wake, some taking their shields to lie flat upon, enjoying the sensation of riding tumbling, pounding waves. They were like children enjoying an unexpected holiday. Cnut, stripping to his skin, jumped in as well, his exhilarated shouts as loud as any of them.

Thorkell, watching from the palisade fence, was thinking on what Alfheah had said. What achievement? Ja, he was right. What achievement?

London—Late Afternoon

The distant roar of sound from downriver alerted all of London, entreating screams of fear from the women, sending the men running for spears and axes. Had something gone amiss with the payment of tribute? Had Queen Emma been taken? Killed? Were they under attack? Was this it? Was this the coming of God?

The London militia hurried onto the wooden structure of London Bridge, alert, hearts hammering, weapons tight-held, waiting. If this was Thorkell launching a raid…aye, well, if it was, they were ready.

Waiting, standing erect on the parapet wall running alongside Queen’s Wharf, Edmund reflected on another of the bitter arguments that last night had, yet again, torn his father and brother apart. The row had flared from bitter disagreement into an outright hostility that no regret or apology was likely to erase. Sending a woman to do a man’s job instead of the eldest son? That, Athelstan could not, would not, tolerate.

Edmund winced at the memory of his brother’s ferocious wrath. He felt wrenched in two over this, as if he were being dragged each way by straining horses, honour-bound to support his father, but, oh, Athelstan was right! It was not Emma’s place to deliver the geld—damn it, it ought not be geld delivered but a full-armed fyrd!

Dismally, Edmund lifted his head, was struck straight in the face by a hammer-thrust rush of wind. Perhaps Thorkell had made further decision for them? If this was the Vikings making their attack…Suddenly, men were laughing, setting their weapons aside, thumping each other on the back, linking arms to dance in crazy circles. Edmund, too, grinned, released the tied straps of his war cap. What idiots! It was the bore! Only the bore tide! More than one of the London men, standing there or already turning to make his way home, felt a tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks. Mind, that showed how much of a dither London was in, how sense and everyday practicality had been swept aside by the presence of those heathens encamped at Greenwich. London had become as twitchy as a flea-riddled dog!

Edmund laughed with the rest of them, a laugh of relief; then, glancing at the shore where the after-waves were crashing and rippling, he cursed vehemently. Shouldering his way through the crush, he began to shout, waving his spear, pointing, but no one heard above the din of excited, chattering voices. His young stepbrothers had come into London with him from Thorney and had, when the alarm had been raised, been left with strict orders to stay inside at Edmund’s favourite tavern. Godwine was supposed to be keeping an eye on them. Where was he?

Angrily, fear heightening his temper, Edmund lashed out at someone to urge him to move aside. Those stupid boys were down on the shoreline, jumping in and out of the waves, the silly fools! Where in Hell was Godwine? 

***

It had been Alfred’s idea. The ideas were always Alfred’s, even though he was only in his sixth year. Edward, a year older, did not have ideas as bold as Alfred’s, but somehow he was always the one whipped twice as hard when they went wrong. As they usually did.

“Come on!” Alfred shouted as he jumped over another incoming wave, soaking himself further. He was already wet through from head to foot, so what did it matter? “Try it! This is fun!”

Alfred had been the one wanting to come down into London. Edward would have been quite content to have remained at Thorney Island. The monks were practising the singing of a new psalm; he would have liked to have sat and listened, but no, Alfred wanted to come to London with Edmund. And what Alfred wanted, Alfred usually got. Edward did not like Alfred; he was only young, but already he realised his brother was a troublemaker who had no realisation of the meaning of fear.

“When I grow up, I am going to be England’s greatest warrior!” Alfred often boasted. Edward had abandoned answering that it was the other Alfred, his brother’s namesake, who already had claim to that title. As he had also abandoned answering what he wanted to be when he grew up. An Archbishop.

“Do not be silly,” Alfred had taunted with that scathing harshness only children could appropriate. “You are going to be the King; you cannot be Archbishop as well.”

Caution always rallied Edward not to reply that he did not want to be King. No one seemed to like the present one, and being King meant strutting about shouting at people. Edward did not like shouting. In fact, there was not much Edward did like, except the singing of the monks in church. Particularly, he did not like water, especially not this angry, boiling, and churning River Thames. Bad enough to go out on it in a ship or coracle—but this! To step into this raging madness? Ah, no!

“Come on!” Alfred repeated. “If you don’t join in, I will ask God to set Thorkell the Tall on you!”

What was worse? That evil, yellow-eyed monster Thorkell or this rampaging river? Edward hesitated, took a tentative step forward, slipped, and fell beneath the echo of the surge tide, a wave slurping over him, covering him and rolling him several yards upstream. He tried to scream, to shout for help. Water bubbled into his mouth, choking him. He could not see, could not hear…Something had hold of him, was dragging him, trawling him like a fisherman’s net. Edward had seen men drown, a vision he vividly remembered. He had been four years old, and a ship had run aground in a storm. He could not remember the location, but he could still see the men crying for help, the ship breaking into pieces, the waves gulping and gnashing, eating the thing up as a dog rips and tears at a hare or wild fowl.

The sun hit Edward’s face, something, someone was pounding his back. He felt sick, scrabbled forward onto hands and knees and vomited up the contents of his stomach. Beyond his watering eyes, Edmund’s boots swam into view. The boy looked up at the tall, angry man, who stood with his hands on his hips.

Aye, Alfred’s ideas always went wrong and were always blamed on Edward.

Greenwich—Evening

Cross-legged and deep in thought, Cnut sat before the fire, poking at the glow of burning wood with a stick. He watched its end catch light and the flames lick up the shaft, then tossed it into the heat. Watched it burn.

The men were feasting, eating and drinking their fill. There had been a special raid yesterday, taking three of the ships up the Lea River as far as the small Waltham monastery to acquire provisions. Dusk had barely settled, but already most of them were drunk. They were going home, mayhap not tomorrow, nor the next day, but soon. Very soon. When the ransom had been dealt with.

Prodding a log with the toe of his boot, Cnut shifted to a more comfortable position. “What do you think of Thorkell?” he asked his father’s friend Erik Håkonsson, who had accompanied him from Denmark. “Will he remain loyal?”

Erik was picking at a strand of meat caught between his teeth, alternately worrying at it with his tongue and fingernail. “Thorkell is a good leader,” he answered, noncommittal, was uncertain why Cnut should be doubting the man. Jealousy perhaps? It was possible: Swein had always held great respect and admiration for Thorkell; if the boy was trying to shine, he would have to eclipse the brighter star first.