The Forever Queen (32 page)

“That I grant,” Cnut said. “That my father grants, but will he remain a good leader?” The question had been nagging at Cnut these last few days, had grown stronger with the onrush of today’s events, and he was not going to be sidestepped from an answer. “My father,” Cnut added, selecting another, stouter stick to riddle the fire, “is concerned that Thorkell is becoming”—he paused, considered—“distracted.”

He looked across the river at the empty marshes on the south bank that were turning dull and grey, now the day’s colour had gone. He was missing home, missing the deep blue fjords that reflected every shadow of colour. It was too flat, too empty, here in this part of England. Too lonely. “I would rather be sitting in a suitable hall on a comfortable stool, than here in this wilderness,” he confided.

“We sit here because here has a twofold advantage,” Erik pointed out. “We cannot be attacked without foreknowledge of an army’s approach, nor can London function efficiently as a trading town. Thorkell has tied a band tight round the vein that carries the lifeblood to Æthelred’s heart.”

“There is more of a restlessness in Thorkell than in the men. For him, it is not the longing to return home, but something else. He is like a man who knows he has forgotten something important, but cannot remember what.”

Erik nodded in satisfaction as the meat came away. “He has not been the same since hearing of his wife’s death. It is a sorry thing for a man to lose one woman to childbirth, to lose a second…ja, well, it must be hard.”

Cnut, a young boy with his virginity still intact, shrugged, dismissive. “Women are easily found to warm a bed at night. It cannot be that which troubles him.”

The older man grunted in laughter as he slid another chunk of roasting lamb off the spit. He juggled it between his fingers, bit tentatively, the hot juice running down his chin. “You have a lot to learn about women, then, boy,” he said, talking with his mouth open; the meat was scalding hot on his tongue. “There is the type of woman you love for your need and the type you need because of your love. The two are not the same, and only the fortunate manage to find the second. Most of us have to make do with the first.”

“Love? Where does love come into it? A man takes a woman for passion. A wife is for the bearing of his children, for the cooking of his meals, running of his household, and weaving his clothes.”

Erik sorrowfully shook his head. “Ah, the innocence of youth! One day, lad, your eyes will light upon a woman, and you will never forget that glint in her eye, that toss of her head, or sway of her hips. You will dream of her, whether you are asleep or awake. She will possess your mind, and your body will be on fire for her. Nothing will ever erase the linger of her scent in your nostrils, the touch of her hand on your body, the feel of her flesh beneath your fingers.” Erik sucked the bone, tossed it aside, and reached for another portion. The raiding had been good. “When you find a woman to love, Cnut, your life changes forever.”

Busying himself with chewing a lump of gristle from his own chunk of lamb, Cnut had an excuse not to answer. Before today he would have told Erik he was talking the ale words of drunken speech. Before today he thought of women either as suitable for possibly bedding, or did not think of them at all. That glint in her eye, that toss of her head…

“I will have no choice of wife,” he said after a moment. “My father will want a useful alliance. My fortune will be that she does not have too many rotting teeth, foul breath, and does not carry the pox.” There was a girl he had seen last Yule, a daughter of the Prince of Kiev. One year his junior, hair that was so fair it was almost silver, a slender, willowy figure, a shy smile from bright blue eyes. He would eagerly have agreed marriage to her.

“Æthelred must have the brain of a mule to not value the woman he has as wife.” He said it quietly, offhand, as he concentrated on pulling a strip of meat from the bone.

“Emma of Normandy? She was a fine match, but as you say, this English King has wasted her advantages.”

“Thorkell said I might have had her as wife, had circumstances been different.”

Erik chuckled. “At least she smells sweet, although I believe she can breathe fire on occasion!”

Ah, forget her, Cnut thought to himself. She was another’s wife, a crowned Queen. She could not be his. He swilled his mouth with ale. “She reminds me, in some ways, of a Kiev Princess I once met.”

“A daughter of the Prince of Kiev? I am no keeper of oral records, no scop, so I do not know the certainty of it but, ja, they would be similar. Their mothers are distant kindred.”

That explained the similarity of the eyes with this English Queen then.

“She is pretty? This Princess?” Erik asked it as a question, half hesitant, not wanting to pry.

“Some would think so,” Cnut answered casually, then grinned. “I thought so.”

“Then I suggest you mention her to your father. Alliance with Kiev could be a judicious move. You may have to consider a Christian commitment before any approach can be made, though. They are as much God worshippers in Kiev as they are here in England.”

Cnut glared across at Archbishop Alfheah and Thorkell sitting beside him, deep in conversation. He would like to have believed his father’s commander was trying to persuade the old man to sanction a paid ransom. Had a gut feeling he was not.

“That is one thing I have learnt in my short life,” he observed. “There is always a snag where women are concerned.”

Erik, an older and wiser man, chuckled full-hearted agreement.

The ale skins were being brought round again; both Cnut and Erik raised their tankards for refills, laughing and jesting with the serving women. Oh, they had women with them, these roving armies; no mercenary would last more than a week without the whore camp for company and comfort. Some of them had followed from Denmark, others were Anglo-Danish or Anglo-Saxon. A whore plied her trade wherever there was a living to be made, and a winter-camped army provided good pickings. Especially once the geld had been paid and distributed.

Confidentially, Cnut said, “Father is concerned that Thorkell is no longer as devoted to his King’s cause as once he was. Watching him, I too have my doubts.” To ease the sting, for he was not fully certain on which side of the ship Erik preferred to row, added, “I think he is considering turning away from the old gods and is looking to this Christian Jesu.”

Erik shrugged. “There are plenty who are devoted Christians who love your father, Cnut. Swein’s dead sister, Gunnhilda, among them.” He gave a lopsided grin, “She never ceased attempting to convert him from his divided faith. He pretended to believe in the White God for her sake, but once she was dead, well, her God had not lifted a finger to save her, even though she sought the sanctuary of a church.”

They fell silent. Like Cnut, Erik watched Thorkell talking to the old Archbishop. The Dane was a man of honour, but honour could always be shifted if a deeper conviction overturned it. Had Thorkell converted to Christianity, Erik wondered? If he had, was there any reason to suppose he would consider deserting Swein? Erik thought not. Not without good cause.

Ah. Would a lack of King-given praise be good reason? It was well known that Thorkell had expected Swein to offer him the regency of England once it fell into Danish control, but, no, here was the boy, Cnut, come to preen over what he wanted for himself.

A King only retained his men if he held their unyielding loyalty clenched tight in his hand. If that loyalty should turn into sour vinegar, then it would trickle away like a handful of cupped water. And Thorkell was, indeed, deep in conversation with that old holy man.

Greenwich—Late Evening

The bore tide of earlier in the day had roused a feeling of exuberance, sending a thrill coursing through the men as if the surge of water had stirred a great, restless need. Many were talking of going home, a few had even made ready their belongings. Such was the way of things with a fickle mercenary army. The ripple had swelled as the afternoon had grown older and became a persistent rustling by nightfall. No one had spoken any intention aloud, but they were going to be leaving on the morrow, earlier than intended. This was the last feast in England until they next returned.

Was it the exhilaration of that bore tide, the receipt of the geld, or the longing for the open sea and the thought of home? Perhaps it was nothing more than the cumulative strength of a fine brew of ale. Whatever reason, the Danish were more drunk than usual. The air was clear, the sky full to bursting with stars; the many fires sending sparks crackling from dry timber, leaping up into the darkness, and they were going home.

Laughter from one of the groups, movement as a man rose to stagger a short way into the darkness to relieve himself. Returning, had to pass the old man’s shelter. Out of habit, he tossed a defamatory curse at him. Alfheah, intent on prayer, ignored the taunt.

“Damn you, does nothing stir you from that odious piety?” The man, drunk, aimed a kick at Alfheah; in his stupor, missed and stubbed his toe on a water bucket, sending the thing tumbling. His comrades, lazing beside the fire, roared in laughter, and, grumbling, the man sat, drank more ale, and helped himself to a rib of beef sizzling in the heat. Glancing at Alfheah, he complained, “Bloody man makes my flesh crawl.”

“They’re all like that, these Christian monks,” observed the man opposite as he wiped grease from his mouth, unconsciously spreading it into his thick, lice-riddled beard, “It’s because they have no balls.”

“Figuratively or literally?” someone else quipped.

“Both, I reckon,” answered the first man. “They shrivel up with all that kneeling on the floor to pray.”

“Is that why they all sing so sweetly?” asked another.

“Ja, high-pitched, like little boys!”

Alfheah, had he chosen to listen, would have heard every word. Did these imbeciles not understand the power of God when He entered your soul?

“Was this Christ a eunuch also?” someone asked.

“Well, he didn’t have the guts to fight—all that ‘turn the other cheek’ nonsense! How are men supposed to earn the reward of eternal honour by loving thy neighbour?”

“I love my neighbour.” The conversation had returned to the first man. “She has teats like a new-farrowed sow! Wasted on her dotard of a husband. I see she’s well suckled, though!”

Thorkell had sensed the restlessness; no words, no gestures, it was like scenting rain coming in on the wind. They were tired, homesick; the geld had been delivered, there was no reason to fight again, for there was nothing more to take. He had talked with Alfheah, but found no answers to his questions and had returned to the solitude of his hearth. Picking over his own meat bone, he sat silent, watching the men. Normally, he would have been laughing with them, enjoying the sharp, exchanged wit, the jesting. Not this night. Why did he feel so remote? Because there was nothing of worth to go back to, only an empty house and cold graves?

He tossed the bone into the fire, watched as the fat hissed and spat. Why could they not leave the English priest alone? It was not as if they were all Odin’s men; several among them were Christian. Ah, but then that was Danish Christianity, faith packaged in a different cut of cloth. It had been a mistake taking this man as prisoner, Thorkell realised. The old man had been right; nothing had been achieved except that his quiet dignity had stirred Thorkell’s interest. The Dane had expected him to preach and attempt to convert his captors, to declare woe would come upon them, the wrath of God, the evils of all that was bad and dark in the world, but he had not. He had sat there, day after day, calm, content in his meditation and prayer, impervious to the outer world.

The men this night were, as often they did, jeering at him, their ribaldry growing noisier, and Thorkell, sitting there watching, also realised, suddenly, how much he admired the English monk. It took courage to believe. To truly, unwaveringly, believe.

On impulse, Thorkell made his decision. What had this man to do with them? There was enough grief to bear without punishing those who were guilty of nothing more than a devout belief. He set his legs under himself, making to rise, was halfway up when it began.

“Want a bone to suck?” that first man jeered at Alfheah. Cackling, excited, he tossed a rib bone at him, an idle throw, not especially aimed, but it hit Alfheah on the cheek, its sharp edge cutting the flesh, immediately drawing blood.

“Good throw—I’d wager you could not do it again!”

Another bone, another hit. Thorkell leapt forward, angry, his arms waving. “Stop that!” he yelled. “Where is your respect?”

No one listened, no one heard. Men were on their feet, flinging the remains of their meal, tossing anything that came to hand. More and more men, throwing rib bones, chop bones, leg bones, lumps of gristle. Stones.

“Stop it, I say!” Thorkell was shouting, attempting to bat aside the missiles, taking several injuries to his own face and hands.

Cnut was there, on the outskirts, cheering and applauding any good throw. “Leave it, Thorkell,” he shouted. “Come away!”

Hemming, glaring at the boy for not attempting to stop the indiscipline, ran to his brother Thorkell’s side, shielding his face with an upraised arm, grabbed at him, and forcefully dragged him beyond the circle of men and the flickering firelight. “What in the name of sense are you doing? Leave them; they are drunk, beyond reasoning with!”

Blood dripping from a cut eyebrow and lacerations to his cheeks, Thorkell stared blankly at his younger brother. “They do not obey me,” he said, baffled. “If they do not obey me, then am I finished?”

Alfheah knelt in the centre of the menacing, expanding circle of hostile men, his head lifted, hands clasped together, his lips moving in prayer. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

A leg bone struck his shoulder; he half toppled, steadied himself. Continued praying.

“I cannot let this continue!” Thorkell bellowed, again trying to dodge in to protect the old man, but his brother grasped his arm, roughly swung him aside.