Chapter 7
Jelling, Denmark
Maerleswein brushed the snow from his hair and cloak and stepped into King Swein’s hall, its ancient timbers glistening with ice.
He knew many of the Danes that were gathered around the central hearth fire.
He raised his hand in greeting as he drew near to the fire to warm his hands.
They had to know why he came. Did they look forward to sailing their ships to England once again?
He watched from that vantage as Cospatric and Edgar bowed before the king, here to answer his questions about the aid they sought for Northumbria.
The Danish king reclined in his throne chair.
He was regally attired in a crimson tunic with golden belt, his red-gold hair adorned with a bejeweled crown.
His long legs stretched out in front of him like a lion in repose.
Yet the king was anything but calm, for as he stroked his beard, his brows drew together in a frown.
Edgar appeared like a young Adonis, his head of fair curls and his wispy short beard reminding all of his youth. Still, he could have been King of England after Harold Godwinson, save for the coming of the Norman Bastard.
Beside Edgar was Cospatric, who still commanded the respect of the Northumbrians, despite the fact he no longer held the title that gave him authority over them. But Cospatric was still Earl of Bamburgh, his ancestral home north of Durham.
King Swein’s restless stirrings shouted his growing impatience. “Yea, your messages were received,” he said to the two men, “asking for our ships and men. We are well aware of what you need.”
“The uprising will fail without your support,” explained Cospatric.
The king hesitated. Did he fear the same fate that had befallen his Norwegian ally, Harald Hardrada?
Before William arrived in England, the King of Norway had sailed to York to fight Harold of Wessex but the Norwegian king never returned.
King Swein had been there to witness Hardrada’s death.
And while Swein had survived, he now walked with a limp.
It had been three years since Maerleswein had seen the Danish king.
At fifty, he appeared to have aged a decade; his red beard was now liberally laced with gray.
Mayhap he no longer relished the fight. Maerleswein was not young either, but his body was still that of a warrior and he eagerly anticipated the battle that would set Northumbria free.
“King Edward promised us the throne of England,” Swein informed them, “but we have heard he made the same promise to others. It is his fault England was left in so much confusion that at Harold Godwinson’s death, the Norman Bastard was able to claim the throne.
And now,” the king looked at young Edgar, “you ask us to carve a kingdom out of what is left and give it to this AEtheling?”
Edgar cringed.
Cospatric, looking aghast, took up the argument. “We ask only for ships and men to free Yorkshire, My Lord.”
“The heart of the Danelaw, you mean,” said the king.
Maerleswein did not have to remind Swein that while they might speak of Yorkshire and an independent Northumbria, William had claimed all of England. It was on both their minds, for the two of them had shared a private conversation before the public audience began.
“Maerleswein,” the king had said as they walked in the falling snow, their cloaks dappled in white, “We like not installing a mere youth in a seat of power with William’s unfettered ambition running wild.”
“Edgar will unite the people of England, Sire,” argued Maerleswein, “and not just the Northumbrians. Rebellion spreads in the south. Hereward, my fellow Lincolnshire thegn, has returned from Flanders, now a soldier. He is appalled at what has happened to England in the years he has been away.”
“Hereward has returned?”
“Aye. A Dane proficient with an axe.” Maerleswein was certain he detected a glimmer of excitement in the king’s eyes at the news of Hereward’s becoming involved. Both respected him.
After that, he and the king had walked together for a while, sharing stories of Hereward. It was these Maerleswein was certain the king pondered as he listened to the English nobles now arguing their case.
To Cospatric, King Swein said, “You would have young Edgar standing before us named King of England?” The king’s eyes roved over the young, fair-haired Saxon not even twenty yet heir to a throne that might never be his, and then returned his gaze to Cospatric whose noble lineage was apparent in his high forehead and firm jaw and the way he carried himself.
“Yea, we can see you do.” The king shrugged.
“We are not opposed to such an arrangement for the time being. Better you, Edgar, than the French Bastard.”
It was a large concession and boded well for the alliance Maerleswein had sought. He was glad he’d spoken to the king privately beforehand.
King Swein leaned forward. “What will you do if we agree to send our ships?”
“Once we have your assurance,” said Cospatric, “we will go to Scotland to seek allies in our cause, men who will fight with us, mayhap even King Malcolm.”
King Swein’s gaze fell upon Maerleswein, his brows raised in question.
Maerleswein stepped forward. “We have many allies there,” he assured the king, “including Cospatric’s cousin, young Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon. King Malcolm, too, has been most encouraging.”
The king sat back, his chin in his hand as he rested his elbow on the arm of his throne. “You shall have the ships you seek,” he said, stroking his beard. “But I will not go.”
“Then who?” asked Cospatric in disbelief.
The king surveyed his hall, well decorated with weapons of war and his many sons, fifteen in all but only one born in wedlock.
His gaze paused on a man with his same red-gold hair and beard, standing to the side.
“I will send my brother, Osbjorn, and my sons, Harald and Cnut, with enough men and ships to assure we have our vengeance for the death of my warriors who fought in King Harold’s war. ”
Osbjorn stepped forward from the shadows, a lesser man than the king in Maerleswein’s opinion, for he doubted the brother’s resolve.
But the two sons in their third decade, who came forward to stand before their father, had his same appearance and were considered worthy fighters.
Maerleswein would have to content himself with three blood relatives of the king to vouchsafe the strength of the alliance, though regrettably, the king himself would not attend.
Osbjorn bowed. “It will be as you say, my brother.”
“Take with you Christian, the Bishop of Aarhus. He can pray for your venture’s success.”
Before they left for Scotland, Maerleswein had the king’s promise he would send at least two hundred ships by summer’s end that would carry his Danish warriors and weapons to York.
“It will take that long to see so many built,” King Swein had told him. “Longships of solid oak are not made in a day.”
Maerleswein departed with his companions, pleased. It might just be enough to rid the North of the hated Normans.
* * *
York, England
Surrounded by a field of yellow and white flowers, Emma stood with Inga on the hillside outside the city walls as the twins happily frolicked nearby with Magnus.
Both Ottar and the hound had recovered from their injuries and now wore no bandages.
Magnus’ movements were as lithe as before yet his leg bore a scar from the snare.
Emma relished the warmth of the morning sun on her face as it rose above the trees of the distant forest like a great beacon. In the distance lay pastures planted with new seed and the apple orchard that would bear a rich bounty in the fall.
A soft breeze blew loose strands of her hair across her face and she brushed them away to watch the flock of curlew birds circling overhead. Spring had finally come to York.
It had rained last night and the ground was still wet.
Emma loved the smell of the damp earth and harvest time when that same earth brought forth the life-sustaining grains and fruit.
She was a creature of the land, she admitted with a smile, not the sea as Halden had been, yet she had loved him with a young girl’s passion.
In the far distance, Emma could see the ewes with their lambs. Just that morning, her villein, Jack, had come to tell her of the new lambs dropping each day. “’Tis a bountiful crop this year, m’lady.”
“We will pay you and your good wife a visit this afternoon to see them,” she had told him. “They always bring the children great delight.”
Weeks had passed since the Norman king had left with his army, raising the spirits of all in York.
Yet despite the warm sun, the calm meadow and the promise of seeing the lambs, a passing cloud brought Emma a sense of foreboding, reminding her the peaceful respite could not last, not with her father and Cospatric gathering forces to seize York.
Not with the people still chafing at the Norman rule, anxious to join him.
But today she was determined not to think of those things.
Finna, her basket in hand, left Ottar and Magnus and ran to Inga, tugging on her arm. “Come pick flowers with me, Inga!”
It was clear Inga wanted to go but was reticent. She had been particularly shy since the rape. But in some way Emma could not explain, Finna understood Inga’s sadness and her need for some lighthearted revelry.
Inga looked to Emma as if seeking her assent. Emma nodded enthusiastically. “Go! But beware, Finna will not be satisfied until you have picked half the field!”
The two ran off together laughing and bent their heads to the task. It cheered Emma to see Inga smiling again. Finna could make anyone feel treasured by her little girl ways. Inga was not immune.