The Forever Queen (72 page)

What a triumph that had been! The shouts and cheers, the bellowing of their names, Cnut! Ælfgifu! Swegen! They had accepted, without question, his choice of regent. Emma had said Ælfgifu would betray that trust and destroy the love the people of Trondheim had been prepared to give. Had said that sour could not turn sweet or rotten taste good. He had not wanted to believe her, because, for some perverse reason, he was fond of Ælfgifu, even if that fondness only went as far as sexual need.

With a sigh he admitted the truth. “Norway is regretting acceptance of her.”

“Why in particular?” Emma asked. “Because she is a woman?” It seemed the most diplomatic answer to make. The others running through her mind she kept to herself.

“The people think her too harsh and autocratic. Worse than Olaf, apparently.”

With the final touches added, Emma began selecting embroidery silks, laying samples on the linen to decide which colours ought to go where. “You knew she was like that before you sent her, Cnut; this cannot come as a surprise.” The nearest she would come to saying I told you so.

“I had hoped that to give her what she craved would appease her lust, for Swegen’s sake she would temper her arrogance. I was wrong, you were right.”

When had Ælfgifu ever shown sense or judgement or compassion, or listened to what people were saying, let alone take heed of advice? “I have sent an emissary to tell her to be more diplomatic, although whether she will take notice…” He trailed off; what he ought to do was summon out the fleet and go direct to Norway, but what signals would that send? That he had no faith in Ælfgifu? Did not trust her? The answer that, no, he did not, was not one to broadcast publicly.

He ambled across the room to regard his wife’s handiwork, changed a skein of dark blue silk for a lighter shade. “Are you going to add a few swallows in the sky? It would add movement.” He pointed at the top right-hand corner.

She had not thought of that, lied, “Yes, I forgot to add them.”

“There is gossip coming from Normandy, much of it, I believe, set deliberately astir by Duke Robert.” Selecting a stick of the charcoal, Cnut sketched in three swallows. Emma did not want them there, but said nothing, she would change it later.

“Yet you were happy to ruin your sister’s life by marrying her to him.”

“Estrith is content. She has her own palace, her own servants, can do more or less as she likes.”

“A man would say that,” Emma retorted with scorn. “She is forced to say nothing about the way her husband cavorts with his whore. He is my nephew, but he disgusts me.”

“Ja, ja, I agree with you!” Cnut snapped testily, aware he had made another mistake in forcing Estrith to marry Robert. “Do you want wine?”

Emma shook her head. Cnut poured for himself.

“There is unrest brewing in the South here. It happens every year around this month, I know; those who were loyal to Edmund Ironside mark the anniversary of his death with respect and remembrance. I have no objection to that; he was a brave and honourable man.”

“But?” Emma prompted, realising there was more and that it was deeply troubling him.

“But,” Cnut said, puffing his cheeks, sitting, his fingers automatically going to fondle the nearest house dog, the one with the white paw, who, with groans of content, immediately lay at his feet, belly up, paws in the air. “But the whispering is louder this year. Word is that I have no right to be wearing Edmund’s crown; his true heirs, his sons, reside in exile somewhere.” He paused. “Were you serious,” he asked, not daring to look across at her in case he read something he did not wish to see in her face, “when you said you would bring Edward and Alfred to England if Ælfgifu attempted to set either of her sons on the throne?”

The question threw Emma; she did not know how to answer.

That had been something she had tossed at him in a moment of piqued temper, a threat aimed at Ælfgifu, not Cnut. Rarely did she think of the two boys in Normandy; occasionally she heard from Goda, a Countess with two sons of her own, but no letter ever came from Edward or Alfred. Emma chewed at a snagged fingernail. Did it prick her conscience that for the most part, she forgot their exile? They were grown men now and could take care of themselves. Were they, she wondered, behind this rising gossip against Cnut? If so, why now, after all these years of silence? As for Cnut’s question, would she, if she ever needed to, suddenly remember them again?

Sometimes it was best to answer with the truth. “If Harthacnut were dead, then yes, I would send for Æthelred’s sons.”

“But you would give Harthacnut every chance to fight for his own kingdom first?”

She put her hands on her hips, head cocked, affronted. “I would never place them above our son!” But would she? If ever her back was against the wall?

“You do, however, want to keep your crown.”

She laughed, breaking the sudden rise of tension. “I have never made any secret of that!”

A discreet knock on the door: Leofgifu.

“Lady, sir.” Leofgifu bobbed a polite reverence to Cnut. “There is a guest arrived, seeking the shelter of the nunnery. She wishes to speak with you, urgently.”

Cnut puffed his lower lip as he tugged at his beard. It was late, and he was not far from seeking his bed.

“Who is she? Can it not wait?”

“No, brother, it cannot!” A woman swept into the room, still wearing stained travel clothes, riding boots, thick mantle. She stripped off her gloves, handed them to Leofgifu, and swept the King and Queen of England a dignified curtsy.

Emma sat motionless, her mouth open in shock, as if she had seen a spirit walking from the afterlife. “Estrith!”

“Estrith?” Cnut queried at the same moment. “What are you doing here?” He peered over her shoulder. “You have not brought Duke Robert with you, I hope? I am in no mood to entertain him this night!”

“And what would I be bringing him for?” Estrith tossed back, scathing, as she unfastened the brooches of her mantle and passed that also to Leofgifu. “I have no wish to see the bastard ever again.”

One eyebrow raised, Emma exchanged a glance with Cnut, asked Leofgifu to find servants to bring food and replenish the wine. “Is a room being made ready for you?” Emma asked.

“Ja, ja, that is not important. My situation is.”

“Come, sister.” Cnut, kicking the excited dogs aside, brought a stool nearer the hearth-fire, patted its red cushion. “Sit. Explain. You look pale. What is wrong?”

“Robert has gone too far. For your sake, I put up with his adultery. For you, I bore his insults, but this, this I will not tolerate!”

Cnut hunkered to his heels in front of his sister, took her hand, rubbing it, much as Emma had done for him earlier. “Has he hurt you? I will not permit him to lay a hand on you.”

Estrith gathered her breath, gratefully accepted the wine Emma had poured, sipped. “I tolerated him because I knew a treaty of peace between England and Normandy was important to you. But I could not remain as wife to a man who is planning to invade England!”

Cnut slammed to his feet. “What?”

Swallowing her emotion, Estrith managed to stammer in her distress. “He is preparing a fleet. He intends to support Edward Æthelredsson in a bid for retrieving his crown.”

Emma was appalled. Was this why Cnut had been questioning her? Surely he did not think she was involved in this?

Pacing the room, Cnut thought rapidly, strategy, tactics, hurtling through his keen mind. England was not in imminent danger, not with the winds blowing as they were.

“The rumours are true, then?” Emma said, forcing herself to remain calm. “They have been deliberately sown to stir the blood of discontented Englishmen.”

Embarrassed at her lack of self-control, Estrith patted her face, wiped the tears. “You have knowledge of Robert’s plans, then? I was not aware you did. I came with all haste to warn you.” That was true, but the haste was also an excuse to abandon Normandy and a hopeless marriage.

“I have heard only speculation, sister, but someone has been stirring a pot of rancid stew. A Bishop, while visiting Edmund’s tomb at Glastonbury Abbey, has had a vision of God crowning the true Ætheling, Edward.”

Sucking in her cheeks, as Emma had a habit of doing when she was desperately thinking, she regarded Cnut. “Harthacnut is to be King after you, Cnut. No one else,” she stated, reassuring him, her eyes connecting directly with his. “Would this Bishop, by chance, be a man who was educated at Jumièges in Normandy?”

“The Bishop of Ramsey?” Estrith enquired, knowing him well. “He has been to Robert’s court and is a close friend of the Abbot of Jumièges, a man called Robert Champart.”

“Champart is also a close friend of my son, Edward,” Emma said, adding with disgust, “There is speculation as to how close.”

Cnut added charcoal to the brazier. Could he trust Emma? Was she telling the truth? Ælfgifu’s failure had shaken him. Was Emma, too, to let him down?

Seeing the doubt in his dejected face, Emma stated, “We have not heard of the building of any fleet. I have a network of men and women who are my eyes and ears. No word has come to me of such a plan.”

“Are you sure of this, Estrith?” Cnut asked, making an effort to shove aside groundless suspicions.

“Robert told me of it himself.” Estrith was cold, tired, and hungry. She rubbed her hands over her face, unpinned her wimple. “He could have been lying, I suppose, taunting me, to make me react as I did.” Another tear wavered down her cheek. “I have fallen for his bluff, haven’t I?”

Emma put her arm comfortingly around her sister-in-law’s shoulders, knowing well her inner grief and pain. “Let us get you fed and to bed. Once you have rested, you will feel better.”

Putting the distraught woman into the capable hands of Leofgifu, who was all too willing to use her talents of comfort and care to best advantage, Cnut sat silent, brooding. “Is it a bluff?”

Emma had been considering the same question. “If his fleet is assembling along the Breton coast, then we could well not have heard of it. He may also know of the trouble brewing in Norway and have hopes that you will be otherwise occupied.”

Cnut sucked in his cheeks, considering. Exactly as he assumed. “The question is, how do I outmanoeuvre Robert?” And how do I know if I can trust you? He might not have said the last, but Emma read it in his eyes.

She crossed to him, knelt, took his hands in her own, kissed the fingers that were not as supple as they were when first she had known him. The joint ache was etching into the knuckles, particularly on the right hand, the sword hand.

“Edmund willed England into your capable hands, Cnut. You were ruling as King alongside him before he died. By right of strength, by right of law, you hold England. I would suggest,” she added, putting her palm to his cheek, “that you pour cold water on sparking embers. Soak the kindling and the blaze will not catch.”

He kissed her. “I burnt a witch once, because I feared she had the power to turn the minds of men to her will. Ought I burn you also?”

“No, dear heart, just Robert’s scheming plans.”

“Edward’s you mean!”

Feeling the sudden crisis begin to ebb, Emma laughed, her head back. “Edward could not organise a drunken spree in the brew house. If it were Alfred, I would be more concerned. He at least knows which end of a spear to hold.”

“So what do I do?”

Emma returned to her chair, sat, crossed her wrists and ankles, Cnut marvelling, as he often did, at how elegant she always was.

“Make some grand, public show of your affection for Edmund,” Emma suggested after a moment of thought. “You regarded him as your brother, you loved him, and you mourn his death and his memory. We must remind the populace of that.”

“I was considering attending the service at Glastonbury to pray for his soul on his death day. Would that be enough do you think?”

Emma shook her head; it needed something more. “You could take a suitable gift to place on the tomb. A sword perhaps?”

“No, not a sword.” Cnut’s spirits rose as he rubbed his beard, pinched his nose, thinking. “I have it!” He hurried across the chamber, knelt at one of the great chests, and, lifting the lid, began rummaging inside, pulling things from it—cloaks, tunics, a folded bolt of expensive silk. “Where is it?” he mumbled, his head deep inside.

“What are you seeking?” Emma tutted, retrieving the strewn items, many of them elaborate, precious, and irreplaceable.

“That cloak, that splendid embroidered cloak Conrad presented me with in Rome. Remember? The one with the peacocks?”

Her face glowing with pride and pleasure, Emma knelt beside him, helped him find it. It was there at the very bottom, crushed, musty, but not damaged by moth or mice.

Cnut shook it out to reveal its detailed intricacy. In golds and blues and greens, the bird, a peacock, its sweeping, bright-coloured, eyed tail resplendent, bragged of its glory. It was a cloak that could never be worn, for the decoration was too heavy, its opulence too great, but as a statement it was superb. The peacock, the symbol of the resurrection of the flesh. The transferring of sovereignty from a dead King to his chosen successor.

“I shall weep for Edmund and mourn his passing and his greatness, then I shall place my crown on the crucifix of Glastonbury’s altar and declare that who, aside from Edmund, was worthy to wear it?”

“And, of course,” Emma added with a wry smile, “there shall be those among the pilgrims and congregation to declare immediately that they remember Edmund loving you as a brother, and that he entrusted his crown and his kingdom to you and only you.”

Cnut grinned sheepishly. How could he be so stupid? At every step she was there, beside him, supporting, encouraging, and approving, giving herself and her love. Æthelred? What a fool that man had been!

“So,” Emma said, leaning forward to put her hands on either side of his face, giving it a gentle shake, “you no longer doubt my loyalty, or my love?”

He agreed, no, he did not. “I still think you are inclined to be smug, though!” He laughed as he kissed her again. “I shall send to Robert, protest his insulting my sister, and demand he repay her dowry.”

“That he will not do.”