The Forever Queen (40 page)

The hour was late, most of the royal household were rolled in blankets and asleep on straw mattresses. From the hall emanated the steady sound of snoring. Æthelred was in his own chamber and, for all Emma knew or cared, was engrossed in the pursuit of her metaphor with a whore.

Candidly Edmund answered, “The problem for my father is that he does not know how to rule. Grandmama had a hand on all its doing.” He was seated on a stool, hunched forward, his hands nursing a half-emptied goblet of Emma’s finest wine. Even so, it tasted sour in his mouth. “It is good policy,” he continued, musing his grievances aloud, “to appoint men who are solely responsible for a shire or borough. It is good because, with reliable men capable of their job, the defence of the kingdom can remain intact if something should happen to my father. But,” he added with a sigh, “it is only good policy when the right men are appointed.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. He was tired, bone tired, in mind and spirit. “Papa’s Ealdormen do not respect him, so they take what they can as often as they can, knowing they will never be challenged or punished for it. There are as many thieves and robbers among his reeves as there are outlawed and convicted felons.” He drank a mouthful of wine, wiped the residue from his moustache. “If something is not soon done to make Papa realise that his ill judgements are destroying England, the few good men at this council will saddle their horses and leave. If the morrow goes as badly as today…” Wearily, Edmund shook his head, left his dismal sentence unfinished.

Council had consisted of raised voices and bitter argument. By mid-afternoon Sigeferth and Morcar had been on their feet, ready to walk out with Lord Uhtred; Archbishop Wulfstan had persuaded them to sit, be patient. Others had been on the verge of going with them, men who had previously been falling over their feet to placate the King and procure his forgiveness.

Old Athelmar had the right idea. With Æthelred returned to England, he had quietly sought the sanctity of his monastery. At this precise moment Edmund felt greatly inclined to join him.

Leaving her chair, Emma fetched the wine jug, refilled his goblet. “What, then, do you suggest we do about your father? Slit his throat? Administer poison? I am sure, if I looked, I could find some hemlock along the hedgerows that will do the deed.” She spoke with a laugh in her voice, but there was an element of seriousness there also.

Edmund scowled, his chagrin made all the deeper because her suggestions had been swimming around in his own mind this last week.

“Or perhaps I could smother him with a pillow?” Emma quipped. “None would question a wife wishing to be alone with her Lord.” She paused, flicked her hand. “Except for his whore.” Her sarcasm was acerbic. She had no proof of Æthelred’s infidelities, only a suspicion, procured by the fact that he never wanted her in his bed. Or that could have something to do with the dagger she kept beneath her pillow. The one that, on the last occasion he had attempted to assault her, she had promised to use on his flaccid apology for manhood.

Draining his wine, Edmund set the goblet down on the table beside him and said conscientiously, “Do not jest of murder, ma’am. It is not seemly.”

“Nor is my husband,” Emma retorted with a shrug of her shoulder.

They lapsed into silence, both aware that if Æthelred were to learn of this private meeting and the content of its conversation, for all its falsehood, the climate of this Easter calling of council would rise higher in temperature than it already was.

“I am thinking it was a mistake to have brought him back from Normandy.”

Privately, Emma agreed with Edmund, but then Æthelred had been the only way of getting back herself. Whatever she did from here on, she had to ensure nothing would prevent Edward and Alfred from being accepted as Æthelings, and that, as Edmund had said, meant doing something about Æthelred.

She offered him more wine; he refused; his head was already heavy, his senses muzzy. “It is a pity there is no legal way in English law of removing an unwanted King.”

Edmund stared into the glowing embers of the brazier, at the red charcoal, the deeper yellow heat. “Only God can take away what He has given. A King is anointed with holy Chrism, that makes him above mortal men, and what mortal man has the right to remove one of God’s chosen? It would be a sin as profound as the murdering of a priest.” He added, without glancing up, “Or an Archbishop.”

“A sin that does not appear to bother the Danish,” Emma answered flippantly. “Perhaps we should take a spear out of their rack? Shall I ask Thorkell to do the deed for us?” She stared into the red liquid of her wine as she swilled it around in its cup. Not Thorkell; he had turned more pious than Wulfstan.

A long silence, each sitting with the company of their own thoughts. Then, speaking in almost a whisper, as if she did not want even the walls to hear, Emma said, slowly and deliberately, “A mortal man could not murder a King, unless the slaying was done with honour on the battlefield, but what of a woman? A woman similarly anointed? A Queen is above the law and is also chosen by God. She, too, has avowed to serve and protect her people.”

As slowly, his eyes fixing firmly on Emma, Edmund answered, “And would a Queen, then, be willing to risk burning for eternity in the fires of Hell for the sin of murder?”

Emma took a mouthful of wine, swallowed, almost gagged on it, for her throat was constricted. Was this how Æthelred’s mother had felt the night before her stepson had arrived at Corfe? Had she felt the blood sticky on her hands? Was this what it meant to be a Queen? To contemplate a decision that could blast you into eternal damnation? It would be easy to do—she could do it now, this moment. She could walk into his chamber, sink a blade into his back or across his throat. Or she could smother him, or put her fingers either side of his windpipe and squeeze…The darkness of evil gathered within her, filling and consuming her.

“Do it!” a voice whispered. “Do it and your crown will be safe!” The face of the devil leered at her, a mask of evil, grinning eyes, bright and burning. Physically she drew back, found she was shaking.

“There must be another way,” she said lightly, her heart pounding fast, her voice cracking. The demon that had been squeezing at her own throat, at her belly, fled as she rejected murder for the sin it was.

“Well,” Edmund said, rising from his stool, “mayhap God will have pity on us and solve our dilemma.” He half laughed. And mayhap the moon would rise and turn blue. “I must take my leave; it is late, and I am for my bed.” He ambled to the door, his thumb on the latch, stated, “Athelstan never liked you, because he did not trust you. It is in my heart it is a sad thing he never discovered how wrong he was.”

Emma smiled, half shrugged. “Who knows? It may yet be you who is in the wrong, not he.”

Shaking his head, Edmund answered, “I do not think so. You have England’s security as your priority, because without England you cannot exist.” He smiled. “Good night to you, Lady. God protect you.”

Emma awoke from a deep sleep and a dream where she had been running through a forest, a bloodied dagger in her hand, screams pursuing her. Or had it been her own screaming? She lay in the dark, listening to her heart thump. Leofgifu, on her pallet, was lying on her back, open-mouthed, snoring. The reed thatch of the roof rustled as some rodent scuttled about up there. A floorboard creaked.

A shout. A man running. More shouting. Dogs began to bark, noise swelled from the hall below, men waking, scrambling to their feet, hurrying into the courtyard. Were they under attack? Surely Cnut could not have returned?

Emma stumbled in the darkness towards the faint glow of the brazier, cursed as her fingers fumbled for a taper. Leofgifu, groggy from sleep, was beside her, holding a beeswax candle. Light flickered, faded, then flared, bringing brightness to the room. Leofgifu, fearing they were to be slain in their beds, ran to bolt the door, but Emma, flinging her cloak across her shoulders and thrusting boots onto her bare feet, stopped her.

“Do not skulk behind shuttered doors. If someone has come to murder us, then I would die honourably, not as a shivering whore.”

“Listen to you!” Leofgifu rebuked as she searched for her own boots. “Anyone would think you were a spear warrior like the menfolk. Like it or not, you are a woman, and women ought not get in the way of men when they are about their business.”

Ignoring her, Emma was out of the door, running, her loose hair flying.

The courtyard was full of people, mostly men in a state of half-dress, some hopping on one foot, pulling on a second boot, others drawing leather jerkins over their heads. Many barefoot, clad only in under-tunics. Chaos, confusion, no one seemed to know what was happening. More torches were being brought, lit, the smoke of the pitch turning the night air into a thick, stinking fug.

Someone blundered into Emma, trod on her foot, cursed. Recognising the voice if not the explicitly obscene word, Emma grabbed Godwine’s arm, swung him round to face her. “Godwine! What is it?”

He was one and twenty now, a fine young man with fair hair and, as with most of his rank, a trailing moustache. One of the most handsome, intelligent, and—a rarity—trustworthy of Æthelred’s Thegns.

“Lady!” he exclaimed, in turn swinging her round to hustle her away in the direction she had come from. “This is no place for a woman.”

Disengaging herself from his grasp, Emma stood firm, refusing to move another step. “Maybe not, but I am the Queen. I have a right to know what is happening.”

Godwine made one more futile attempt to steer her towards her chamber, gave up. “Treachery. Someone has attempted to murder Æthelred.”

Her head came up sharp, a temporary feeling of guilt flooded through her. Edmund? The idiot had not taken their conversation seriously, had he?

None of her alarm showed on her face or quavered in her voice. Calm, she asked, “Who and how?”

Godwine tried matching Emma’s smooth control, found he could not. “Thegns Sigeferth and Morcar, Edmund’s friends.” He hung his head to hide the tears of despair. “They burst into the King’s chamber with daggers drawn, slew his body servant, and attempted to kill him.” He lifted his head, suddenly not caring that she saw him weeping. “What possessed them? How did they think they would succeed? Get away with it?”

“They probably had no intention of getting away, Godwine,” Emma pointed out. She placed her hand on his arm, a comforting, understanding gesture. “All they wanted was Æthelred dead.” As do we all, she thought bitterly.

“Shrewdly judged, my Lady. Thank God they did not manage it.” Eadric Streona, striding out of the swelling crowd, swept Emma a patronising bow. Ordered his men to clear a path through the mêlée. “The perpetrators’ execution will be carried out immediately. I would advise you to return to your chamber.”

There was a commotion at the doorway at the far end of the hall, people were pushing forward, jeering and shouting as the two men were brought out, their hands bound behind their backs, blood seeping from a wound to Sigeferth’s left temple. Both were struggling, shouting. One of Streona’s guards slammed the pommel of his sword into Morcar’s mouth; teeth and blood gushed out.

“We are innocent!” Sigeferth was pleading to be heard, then he saw Emma. He tried to pull free from the hands restraining him, tried to get to her. “Lady! I beg you, we are innocent! We were summoned to see the King—Eadric Streona sent for us!”

Streona laughed a response. “A lie! How dare you implicate me in your treachery?”

Men were bringing ropes, throwing them over the lower boughs of the oak tree that stood outside the smith’s forge. Two ponies were being led up. Excitement was expanding, rushing like wildfire spreading through dry grass.

Edmund came running, dishevelled. Valiantly he tried to stop Streona’s men from setting his friends astride the ponies; swearing and cursing, he batted at them with the flat of his sword. Streona caught his flailing arm, dragged him aside. “Justice must be done; come away!”

“Let go of me, you scum!”

“Give me the sword, boy. Or are you in this with them? Was this perhaps your idea?”

“Oh, I will give you my sword, you bastard!”

Emma stepped in quickly, placing herself between Edmund and Streona, her hand going to the Ætheling’s arm, restraining him. “Edmund, there is nothing you can do,” she commanded. At his continued struggle said again, sharper, “Leave it, I say!”

“We are innocent!” Sigeferth bellowed over and over as the noose was fitted onto his neck. “Look at our hands; we have no blood on them! We have killed no one! God help us, we are innocent!”

A woman, dressed only in her under-shift, ploughed her way through the crowd, oblivious to the fact that she could be all but naked in some eyes. Ealdgyth, Sigeferth’s wife.

“My God!” Emma cried, seeing her. “Edmund!” She shook him, her nails digging into his flesh to get his attention. “Edmund, do something about Ealdgyth! Get her away from here!”

Uncomprehending, Edmund stared at Emma; then sense registered that Ealdgyth was attempting to claw at the pony Sigeferth was seated on, her hands trying to pull him down, save him.

Thrusting his sword into Emma’s hands, Edmund ran to her, scooped her into his arms, and carried her away, thrusting through the noise of the excited crowd, his long stride loping, almost running. His ears oblivious to Ealdgyth’s frantic screaming, her fists and feet beating and kicking at him. Sigeferth’s voice echoing, “Take care of her, Edmund, for the sake of my innocent soul, take care of her!”

The combined wail of bloodlust from the crowd reached a crescendo as the ropes were tightened and burning torches were thrust into the ponies’ rumps to frighten them forward into a bounding leap that left the two men dangling grotesquely.

It was not an easy death, for the ropes were knotted so as to not break the neck but to strangulate. A long, slow, horrible death.

Emma watched, her lips pressed silently together, her hand clutching her cloak tight at her throat. A slow, contrived death of two innocent men. Sigeferth had been telling the truth. Where was the blood on their hands? The only blood Emma had seen was from the injuries to Sigeferth’s face and Morcar’s mouth. Yet there had been blood on Eadric’s hands, on his tunic, too.