The Forever Queen (24 page)

Gathering her over-gown of saffron wool and the under-tunic of pale blue linen almost to her knees, Emma trod carefully across the yard. The wooden planking laid as walkways helped somewhat when rain persisted in earnest, but then the wood was often slippery and dangerous. Emma was never certain whether she preferred the task of ploughing through a quagmire or risking a broken neck.

Edward was snuggled beneath heavy bed furs of wolf and bearskin in a box bed shared with several other offspring of his father’s highest cnights and noblemen. The younger two, Alfred and Goda, were not yet of a status to leave their cots. From tomorrow when the Ealdormen and Thegns arrived, the children’s chamber would be crowded with youngsters, an exciting time for them all, an opportunity to make friends and discover new games and mischiefs. Emma was glad their care went to nurses and slaves, that she would have little to do with them. Children’s play held no interest for her, perhaps because her own childhood amusements had been restricted to the point of nonexistence. She remembered a cloth doll and a wooden top. If there had been other toys, she could not recall them.

Edward had no liking for change and unfamiliar faces. He lay, curled and hunched on the edge of the hay-filled mattress, afraid of the prospect of the next few weeks. His face was puckered and sullen, his eyes brimming with tears.

Emma stifled her impatience as she brushed her lips against his cheek. “You will have ample opportunity to enjoy yourself, Edward,” she said, sitting on the bed and stroking damp hair from his pale forehead. “The calling of council is always holiday for you boys, is it not?”

“They pull my hair and make fun of me,” Edward mumbled. “I hate them.”

“But as my eldest, you are the Ætheling, the next King. It is for you to command them not to.” Emma sighed. He was three years old. How did she instil courage and confidence into one so young? But if he was to be King after Æthelred, he would have to learn, and learn quickly, how to stand up for himself and earn respect from his peers. She glanced at Wymarc, who stood nearby.

“I will take care that there is no nonsense, my Lady.”

“Thank you. I know you have my children’s interests always close to heart.”

Alfred, when she crossed to his cot, was already sleeping, his thumb firm in his mouth, his eyes closed, with the long, fair lashes swept down to touch his cheeks. Emma felt an unexpected shudder ripple through her body as a memory of the daughter of the dead Ealdorman Alfhelm swam into her vision. Ælfgifu, a child, forced to mature and accept the hideous side of life within a few short heartbeats. Would Emma ever forget that face of vengeance? Ælfgifu had burst in on Emma, her fingernails going to claw at the face of her newborn son—thank God for the waiting women who fell upon the girl and shrieked for the guard to come.

“Why do my brothers endure the agony of mutilation and blindness?” she had screamed as they dragged her away. “Why should your sons not suffer as they do? They will one day! I shall see to it they will!”

It was an empty curse, one made through grief and fear, but Emma had ordered the girl and her family removed from court, not that any of them cared to stay. Had she been able, would Emma have done anything to stop her husband’s ordered punishment of those boys? It was the way of things; their father had betrayed his King, and the sons had defended his death and paid the price of kinship. Although it had been a high price, that blinding.

Emma slid the memory aside, touched the crown of Alfred’s soft, golden hair. Why was she fond of this youngest son and not the eldest? Why did she so dislike Edward? They looked similar, the same coloured, slight-curled hair, the same blue eyes, slender fingers, and upturned nose. Perhaps because Alfred was the more courageous and daring of the two, despite his younger age? He had toddled earlier than Edward, not minding the bumped knees and bruises when he fell. Alfred rarely cried or snivelled; he ate all put before him without fussing or pulling faces. Alfred already made it clear that he wanted to ride a pony and play among the rougher hounds. Edward picked at his food and shrank away from animals, fearing their size and noise.

As Wymarc had reported, Goda was red-faced and restless, her fist stuffed against her dribbling lips, her mouth sore and uncomfortable. “Have you rubbed essence of cloves on her gums?” Emma queried. Wymarc confirmed that she had. “Then there is no more we can do for her.”

It sounded hard and uncaring, but Emma was a Queen; she did not have the opportunity, like Wymarc, to lift the fretful child and hug her and hold her close. She dare not, for if she were to begin to love the girl, her heart would all too soon be broken. Emma realised that now, now that she had a daughter of her own, why her mother had been so cold and distant. Girl children were sent away as wives before they had a chance to grow into women; mothers dared not love their daughters for the grief of having, so soon, to part from them.

Before the urge to lift her up, hold her, became overpowering, Emma turned away and left the stuffy chamber that smelt of breast milk and soiled linen.

With her hand on the latch of her own chamber, a gruff voice from across the courtyard hailed her. She waited for Eadric Streona to come up to her, bow, although his obediences were never over-pronounced.

“Lady, I considered it best to summon you.”

“What is so wrong, sir, that you must accost me like this?” Emma did so detest this grovelling weasel. She frowned, realised Streona, usually so self-assured, was floundering out of his depth, like a man who could not swim. He had the good grace to lower his head against the red flush of embarrassment that touched his cheeks. How it must be denting his pride to come to Emma for assistance!

“It is the King, ma’am. He is in a bad way.”

The derisive laugh burst out of her mouth. “His drunkenness is not my concern, Ealdorman. I suggest you seek his body servant or physician—or one of the slaves to clean the mess he has vomited over everything.”

“No, you misinterpret me. He is ill, and I do not feel it wise to allow too many tongue tattlers to hear of it.”

Ill from too much drinking, too much eating? Let him suffer! Emma sighed. She was Æthelred’s wife, duty had its expected rules. She nodded. “I will come.”

Æthelred lay on his bed, hunched and crumpled, much as Edward had been, his arms over his head, knees drawn up. His skin, when Emma laid her hand on his forehead, felt hot, burning to the touch, yet he was shivering, his teeth chattering.

“How long has he been like this?” she asked, drawing another bed fur to cover him.

“These last two hours,” Streona admitted, aware he ought to have summoned aid before now. “We returned early from hunting; the King was in a morose mood—the day was a disappointment, a poor scent.” He shrugged philosophically. “He has been suffering a strange malaise these past days, but riding through the gates he heard this latest spread of gossip concerning his dead brother’s healing powers.”

The new Ealdorman of Mercia was baffled; there was not this guilt of conscience over other men killed in what amounted to nothing less than murder—whatever the convenient excuse publicly given. Æthelred had barely turned a hair at Alfhelm’s disposal, nor had his half-brother’s death been of his doing. That was his mother’s concern, and she had either paid her penance or was burning in Hell for it.

“He dismounted without a word,” Streona continued, “shut himself in here, and gave orders not to be disturbed. His steward,” he said, indicating a worried-looking Gilbertson, “entered to help him ready himself for supper, found him crouched on the floor, gibbering nonsense. Sensibly, he ran straight to fetch me.”

Not me, Emma thought. Does that not show how worthy I am to my husband?

“Fetch hot water and clean garments,” Emma instructed. “I will send for herbs to calm him.” As reluctant as she was to agree with Streona, it would do Æthelred great harm for word of this to leak out and greater harm were he not to appear in hall this night. A King who wished to keep his crown could never publicly display a weakness, and here was Æthelred whimpering, his thumb stuffed in his mouth.

Damn fool, she thought as she washed the sweat from his face and body, dressed him in clean garments. This was typical of Æthelred—run from the truth, hide in a jug of ale. Why could she not have a husband who faced his enemy with courage? One who feared nothing, not his failures or fears, from this world or the next?

Æthelred clung to her as if he were a child, as Edward would. Tears streaked his face, his hands trembled. “I saw them do it,” he slurred. “I watched as he dismounted his horse and walked forward to greet me and my mother. They surrounded him and killed him.” He looked at his hands, began rubbing them, wiping at something there only he could see. “So much blood! It ran down the cobbles, puddling in the cracks. Bright red blood. So much of it.”

He grabbed for Emma’s arm, his fingernails digging through the linen of her sleeve, burning into the flesh beneath. He stared at her, eyes wide, frightened. “Were you there? Did you see? Did you hear?” He let Emma go, his hands moving to cover his face, the sobs shaking his body. “He took so long to die, it took so much to kill him!”

Lifting the cup of valerian mixed with wine, Emma encouraged Æthelred to drink while murmuring soothing, childish words that she would normally use for little Goda. What a weak, useless man this Æthelred of England was!

Later, wearing her crown and her best, finest gown, Emma walked into the hall, her hand held high, clasped tight to her husband’s. His face was ashen, his lips quivered, but the strength in her fingers flowed into his, and her warning echoed in his ears.

“If you show them you are afraid of a ghost, Æthelred, it shall be your end. There are only a few nobles gathered here as yet, but from the morrow all your council will be in attendance. Do you think these few will avert their eyes and seal their lips? With the priests preaching the end of all life is close and Swein Forkbeard God knows how much closer, how long will their loyalty remain intact if they see you dribbling like a milksop because you cannot face the fact of your brother’s death?”

She was angry, the anger spilling over into a boldness that had only partially raised its head before. She found it a welcome companion. When Swein Forkbeard had paraded his strength past the walls of Winchester, she had realised the prospect of losing all she had and realised too that she would do anything, anything at all, to ensure she kept it. That realisation had been growing stronger inside her ever since.

If Æthelred crumpled, she would fall with him. This was a loveless marriage; she had two sons, one of whom she detested, and a daughter she dare not show affection to. Her only assets were her crown and her pride. She was not prepared to relinquish either because Æthelred was too pathetic to lay a ghost to rest. She could now understand why his mother had acted as she had. Why it had been imperative to have Edward killed, for the wearing, and the keeping, of a crown carried a heavy price and an even heavier burden.

They sat at the King’s table resplendent with gold plate, silver, and pewter set on a white fine linen tablecloth. Emma dipped her hands in the offered washbowl, dried them on a linen towel.

“Did you not say something of persuading your Archbishops that your beloved brother ought to be canonised?” she said to Æthelred, knowing well he had said no such thing. “I recall you musing on whether the eighteenth day of March be declared, in future, as his feast day?”

There were subtle ways of setting ideas into an anxious mind. “It is fitting that you should mourn his passing—it shows your compassion—and as fitting that you should bring about his raising to eternal holy glory.”

Æthelred’s head was pounding, his throat felt dry, and his stomach was churning. For three consecutive nights, vivid and lurid dreams of daggers and death had haunted him. In all three, a youth’s face, pleading for help as he lay dying. But if the truth were told, Æthelred had not objected to taking up the crown from that pool of blood, to putting it, straightway, on his head. Did not miss his brother, who had been a pompous brat in life. Have him canonised? How Edward would have gloated at the idea! A higher rank than King, a saint. But if Edward were to become a saint, would he forgive the losing of an earthly crown? Would he, perhaps, settle to rest in peace and leave his living brother alone?

It was a good idea. Æthelred was glad he had thought of it.

May 1008—Enham

Enham, to the north of Andover in Hampshire, had been chosen especially for this White Sunday calling of the spring Witenagemot, the King’s council. Attending, in addition to Æthelred, Emma, and the royal sons, were both Archbishops, four and ten Bishops, six and ten Abbots, six Ealdormen, and four and forty Thegns who held various administrative offices. By council standards an impressive group, only duplicated at Easter and occasionally Christmas. Spiritually and politically, England was in a state of upheaval. God, in despair, had turned His back on them all.

The assembly hoped, though doubted, that Æthelred would make some sensible decisions at this council. The resentment that Eadric Streona had been awarded all he desired while more worthy men were passed by was gaining ground, although the shrugs and whispers were not loudly voiced.

Foremost in all minds was the fear of the wrath of God. This council was for the special purpose of promoting a renewal of Christianity throughout the land. The Antichrist had been released into the world of men, and doom was fast approaching. For England, that ending would be coming in the form of the í-víking warships and in the battleaxes of death. General belief was that unless God could be appeased and Æthelred could bring sanity into his rule, all would very soon be lost.

“We congratulate you, my Lord King,” said Eadric Streona, being the next to stand and speak, “for agreeing to abolish the Danelaw custom practised in the northern lands of this, our realm. It was right to do away with a law by which a charge of murder could be brought against an innocent and not be challenged by trial of ordeal once any one person had sworn an oath on behalf of the victim against the accused. It is to be hoped that further disreputable Danish iniquities shall also, soon, be gone?”