Tuesday Talk - King Cnut Again...

Previously I wrote about that story of King Cnut and 'Turning the Tide' (click here to revisit). Cnut was Danish but he conquered England in 1016, converted to Christianity and eventually came to be known as 'more English than the English'. Once the early part of his initial unstable reign was passed he ruled well, maybe could have become one of England's greatest kings, but he died young in 1036 - leaving England, yet again, in chaos. 

In my novel The Forever Queen (US title, it is titled A Hollow Crown in the UK) I had to use my imagination for many of the events that contributed to his conquest: we have names, dates, consequences but not the detail of facts. (Very annoying that no one kept  diaries back then!) 

Here's an excerpt from the novel where I tried to get into Cnut's mind: as far as he was concerned he was now King of England, but his common-law wife, Ælfgifu was proving a bit of a problem, murder had been committed in his name and the eldest son of Æthelred (the Unready), Edmund Ironside, was proving to be a wee bit of a nuisance...

Early June 1016 - Sherston, England

Cnut had not expected an organised and effective counter-attack to his overall strategy. Had he been a fool not to think of the possibility that Æthelred's son might be the opposite in character to his useless father? Everything had all seemed so easy when he had talked and planned with Erik around the hearth in Norway. Ah, plans always sounded so simple when discussed as hopes and dreams. You never looked for the pitfalls, the things that could go wrong, or even when you did think of the counter-side, there was always something else unexpected lurking in the shadows, waiting to leap out and surprise you. Like that damned woman in London, Emma of Normandy, Æthelred's widow. A woman! Ja, she was also a queen, but women were supposed to content themselves with weaving and spinning and suckling brats at their breast, not defending cities from siege! If it had not been for her rallying London to stand firm, the bloody place would have fallen by now; as it was, he had been forced to leave half his army sitting below the walls arse-scratching the interminable days away, while he hurried south-east to deal with Edmund.

Slamming his boot into a molehill, Cnut sent a spray of earth scattering over the summer-heated dry grass. Edmund, the one they were calling Ironside, was not the king — he was. Cnut, son of Swein Forkbeard, Cnut Sweinsson, was king! He kicked again at another mound of earth, taking his temper and frustration out on the habitat of a creature no larger than the palm of his hand.

Damn him - damn him! Cnut stamped the disturbed earth flat. Wessex had reverted to Edmund, along with East Anglia, Essex and Kent. What did Cnut have? Eadric bloody Streona of Mercia and a sullen, resentful thegn called Thurbrand! He walked on down the hill, heading to where he could hear men bathing in the river that wound between a copse of trees. It was all right for them, they could take an afternoon to enjoy themselves in the summer sunshine, could wash away the grime and the sweat and the cares. How could he shrug off this weight of frustration that lay heavy on his soul?

It had been a mistake, ridding himself of Uhtred. He realised that now, now that it was too late. The motive had been to show that he was not a man to be gainsaid or betrayed by broken promises. Instead, he had established that he was a man of dishonour, who courted lies and deceit, and who extolled murder over negotiation and compromise. Uhtred's death may have been essential, but not the way of doing it.

Ducking through the trees, Cnut walked from the dappled light into the full sun, found himself grinning at the men, stripped naked, playing like children in the curved meander of the river. He had a sudden flashed memory of walking with his father along the shore of a fjord, back home in Denmark. He had been a child, seven, eight years old? What was it Swein had said? ‘Everyone makes mistakes, boy, but not everyone cares to learn the lesson.’

Using Thurbrand, the Hold of Holderness, to dispatch Uhtred had been Ælfgifu's suggestion. Another mistake, listening to and trusting that woman, even if she were his common-law wife. She was more trouble than she was worth, that one.

Damn it, that water looked inviting. Cnut sat, began pulling off his boots. A lesson to remember. No one, ever, did something for nothing.

Thurbrand had been anticipating reward for his services. Cnut had intended a rich payment of gold and the hand of friendship. Whether Ælfgifu had made promises without consulting him Cnut did not know, probably she had. A full week after Uhtred's disposal, all hell had broken loose with Thurbrand; he had expected to be made Jarl of Northumbria, or Ealdorman, as they called the title here in England. That favoured distinction Cnut had awarded to Erik of Hladir. Earl Erik - these English always did turn the Scandinavian tongue so quickly into their own pattern! Jarl in its English pronunciation became earl. He must learn and use that term.

So here he was, skulking, useless, somewhere in Wilt-Shire, waiting for his scouts to inform him of Edmund's whereabouts, and Thurbrand, in a mood as black as winter storm clouds, refused to leave Holderness to support Erik who was struggling to establish his claim on Northumbria. What a God-Almighty mess!

Naked, Cnut dived into the water, plunging down into the cool greenness, his strong arms propelling him forward. He came up again several yards from the bank, gasping for breath and tossing water from his hair and eyes. He lay back, allowing the gentle current to rock him along, giving only the feeblest of paddles with his hands and feet. Above, the sky spread into infinity in an unbroken stretch of sapphire blue.

Nearly all England was clamouring for Edmund. No one, beyond Mercia and Northumbria, was shouting for Cnut.

‘My Lord! My Lord Cnut!’

Startled from his reverie, Cnut lost his buoyancy, coughing and spluttering, went under, then ploughed to the surface and, regaining his bearings, struck out for the bank with strong, swift strokes. Pulling himself from the water, he indicated for his clothes to be brought. 

‘What is it, Thorkell? I can see from your face it is urgent.’ Perhaps it was the invigorating cold water, or the sudden heart-beat excitement of something happening at last? Whatever, Cnut's dark mood lifted as swiftly as a hawk snatches upwards with her prey.

‘Edmund has come. Two, maybe three miles to the north of here.’

The north? Gods curse it! The north of us? How in Thor’s Name has he managed that? ‘He was to the south, Thorkell. We fought a skirmish with him not two weeks past at Penselwood, that is to the south, in Dorset-Shire. How in the name of the Gods has that whore-poxed Englishman managed to get to the north of us?’

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(it seems that The Forever Queen has a slightly different cover - spotted in Barnes & Noble [I didn't know it has been changed!]  At the moment I only have this photo of it!