The Forever Queen (41 page)

And how was it, alone among all others, save the two hanged men and the guard of the nightwatch, that Eadric Streona was fully dressed?

My Lady!” Godwine attempted to burst into Emma’s chamber, jamming his foot into the half-open door before Leofgifu had a chance to slam it closed. “I need to speak to the Queen!”

“The Queen is not dressed. Come back in a while.”

Stepping back a pace, Godwine thrust his boot into the door, slamming it open, sending Leofgifu sprawling. “My apologies, I must see her now!” He paused to help the winded servant to her feet.

“Do come in, Godwine,” Emma drawled from where she sat at a table, a handmaid combing her hair. “If you are seeking to break your fast, then I must advise that you will not be provided for in here.” She indicated a tray on a second table, the bowls and platters empty but for crumbs. “As you see, I have already eaten.” She had on only her chemise and a fine-woven lambswool shawl that did nothing to hide the shape of her slender body and the cleavage between her breasts. To his embarrassment, Godwine felt his manhood stirring.

“I am certain you did not come barging into my chamber to gawp at my teats,” Emma said, masking her amusement after the silent pause had lasted a little too long. “Was there something more important on your mind, by chance?”

Blushing as red as a poppy, Godwine stared fixedly at a space on the pink-plastered wall. His mind had gone blank; all he could see was a tumble of fair hair…He cleared his throat, forced himself to concentrate. By God, this was urgent; how could he let himself become distracted? “Edmund is with the King; they are amid a most heated argument. I fear things may get out of hand.”

Emma indicated her maid was to braid her hair, asked Leofgifu to fetch her gown. “Edmund is a man capable of looking after himself. I do not think he would welcome interference.”

“But madam, it concerns the Lady Ealdgyth. Edmund promised Sigeferth he would take care of her but Æthelred has sent her away. On top of everything that has happened, I do not trust Edmund to hold his sense!”

Emma had looked up sharply, half rising from her stool. “What do you mean, sent her away?”

“At dawn. He has had her escorted to the nunnery at Malmesbury; she is to remain there until he orders otherwise.”

“Malmesbury? With that bitch, Abbess Mildrith?” She was fully to her feet now, beckoning Leofgifu to hurry and dress her. Within a handful of minutes she was out of the door and striding towards Æthelred’s chamber, Godwine trotting at her heels.

Emma did not wait to be announced, but walked straight into Æthelred’s room, thrusting aside the halfhearted attempt by his guard to block her entry. Godwine judged it prudent to wait outside. He exchanged a grimace with the guard, who ducked his head towards the raised voices coming from within.

“I’m not poking my nose in there unless summoned,” he said. “Not my business to interfere a’tween father and son.”

Godwine dipped his head once in agreement.

“Do you know what he has done?” Edmund roared as he saw Emma. “He has imprisoned Ealdgyth, has sent her to Malmesbury. Malmesbury! God’s eyes, even priests and Bishops quake at going there, so unyielding is Mildrith’s view of life outside a virgin’s cell. She will destroy a fragile creature like Ealdgyth within the month!”

“Abbess Mildrith is an honourable and dedicated nun,” Æthelred countered. “I have sent the woman there for her own protection.”

Removing several of Æthelred’s tunics draped over a stool and disdainfully dropping them into a hovering servant’s arms, Emma seated herself. She straightened her gown, smoothed away a wisp of straw that she must have picked up from walking through the hall. The hem was stained, she noticed; she had worn this red dress on too many occasions this month.

“Abbess Mildrith is a depraved, narrow-minded tribade. There is no nun in her convent below old age; they are all incontinent, grey hairs with stooped backs, gumless mouths, and senile dementia. Mildrith’s young noviciates relinquish their calling or plead to be removed elsewhere within the moon-month of arriving. More than one girl, from despair, has drowned herself in the river.”

“That is a lie! You insult an esteemed woman of God!”

“As she insults God, and it is no lie, it is a truth that has been carefully hidden. There is not a woman in England who would not spit on Mildrith.” Emma spoke with precise clarity, her voice lowered and even. Shrill words, quickly spoken, aroused a temper, doing more damage than a flame set to a tinder-dry hayrick. “And why, may I ask, would Lady Ealdgyth require protection? From whom?” She finished fiddling with her girdle keys, looked up, staring directly at Æthelred, challenging him. Unable to meet her eyes, he glanced away, looked down. “Surely this palace is safe for a grieving widow?” Emma added.

“It is not her safety he cares about, ma’am,” Edmund interjected from where he stood, over by the narrow window, its shutters still bolted and secured. Æthelred’s rooms were never aired while he was in residence; he complained of the draughts, the cold. The chamber stank of stale hearth-smoke and sweat, of puddled urine and passed wind. “Ealdgyth was intent on slitting Streona’s throat. I was all for helping her! It is for his safety she has been sent away, to keep her mouth shut against the accusation that he murdered her husband.”

“She was distraught and spreading lies,” Æthelred bellowed, having heard enough of Edmund’s diatribe. “Eadric had no part in any injustice. He saved me from those two scum when they burst in here with daggers drawn, intent on my murder.” He stormed across the room, pointed at the fouled rushes. “Here is the blood of the servant they killed to get to me! If you care to look outside, you will also see the blood of the man who stood guard. They stabbed him through the heart. How could I tolerate the lies that woman has been broadcasting about the man who saved my life?”

“How noble of Eadric Streona to be so conveniently on hand,” Emma said, examining her nails. One on her right hand was broken; that was from riding yesterday. You could tell a lot about a person by studying their hands. A noblewoman boasted cared-for hands; women who spent much of their life cooking often showed fingers yellowed and smoke-tainted. Blood was another difficult stain to remove. Especially when congealed beneath the fingernails. Abruptly, she dropped the pretence of disinterest.

“Streona had this planned, I know for fact. What I do not know is how much of it was your idea, Æthelred. I am sincerely hoping you can assure me, in the name of the God who anointed you as a King, that none of this was done in your name.”

Æthelred turned away, growled at his servant to fetch him ale. “And make it the better-brewed stuff; the piss you brought me last evening was not fit for the pigs.” He busied himself with some rolls of parchment scattered across a table, said, with his back firmly to Emma and Edmund, “My life was in danger and its cause has been remedied; those who attempted murder have been hanged and their estates laid forfeit to me.”

With a bellow of rage, Edmund pitched over a candle stand. “You wanted the land, didn’t you? Wanted to be rid of two troublemakers and make a profit into the bargain? How low can you stoop? You and Streona together, accusing the innocent of crimes and taking all they had in forfeiture.” He flung his arm out, in a gesture of contempt. “How long do you suppose Ealdormen like Uhtred will remain loyal to you once they realise what you have done?”

Æthelred turned, a dagger in his quivering hand, its tip pointing vaguely in the area of Edmund’s midriff. “But they will not realise it, will they?”

The tension, as taut as a tent’s guy rope, was shattered by Emma. Her hands flat on her knees, she tossed back her head and laughed. “You poor, pathetic old fool.” She rose, walked towards him, and removed the dagger as if she were taking away a toy from one of the children. “Do you seriously think you could kill Edmund? And then me? For you would have to, you know. I have no more intention of keeping this from your Lords than does your son.”

She set her face very close to his, said into his ear, “And do not think to have Streona do your filthy work for you. If he steps within sword length of me, I shall have my cnights cut him down and feed him to the pigs with your pissed ale.” She handed the dagger to Edmund, who, staring at it a moment, threw it, with insipid distaste, into the floor rushes.

“You have imprisoned Ealdgyth because of the estates, haven’t you, Father? By right of law, they pass to her, unless she enters a nunnery.”

“Or unless she carries an unborn son,” Emma added. “Abbess Mildrith can be relied upon to ensure no unwanted pregnancy comes to term.”

Edmund’s face drained pale; panic flared through him. “My God, I never thought of that! I promised Sigeferth I would take care of her, I promised!” His hands were raking his hair as he strode around the room, trying to think, trying to reason.

Emma, experienced, trained to show an outward serenity through an inner whirl of chaos, made up his mind for him. “Then take the fastest horses from the stables and remove Ealdgyth from Malmesbury.”

She went to the far side of the room, rummaged in her husband’s jewel casket, and handed one of Æthelred’s recognisable rings to Edmund. “Use this with wisdom. I suggest you take young Godwine with you; he will need no explanation, for I have a suspicion he has had his ear nailed to the door throughout. Before you leave, I would see you in my own chamber.”

Edmund stood a moment, bewildered and confused.

“Hurry, man!” Emma said impatiently, shooing him towards the door.

He bowed to her; except for a curt, contemptuous glance, ignored his father. They heard him calling, a moment later, for his cnights and horses to be saddled.

“I will send men after him,” Æthelred announced. “I shall order a galloper to race ahead of him. I shall…”

“You shall do nothing, Æthelred, for if you do, I shall not guarantee my silence. If your Lords only guess at half-truths, you have a chance of survival. If they learn of facts, you will be dead before the summer. And I, for one, shall not regret your passing.”

***

What she had to say to Edmund in private impressed him, but did not come wholly as a surprise. Emma spoke forthright. “I suggest, after you have secured Ealdgyth’s release, you find a priest and witnesses and take her as your legal Christian-blessed wife, then ride north. As her lawful husband, her estates become yours. With Sigeferth’s men joined with your own, you can also claim what was Morcar’s. From there, I suggest you rally the North to your own banner.”

“Civil war, you mean?” Edmund puffed his cheeks. How often had he talked his brother out of doing exactly what Emma was proposing? From where he now stood, too often. Perhaps he ought to have let him get on with it?

As if she had been planning this for some while and not just thought of the idea, Emma took her crown from its casket. It was a band of purest gold, two inches in height and studded along its centre with sapphires and rubies.

“It is not in my power to give you Æthelred’s crown,” she said, holding it out to him. “That you must win for yourself, but it is in my ability to give you mine. I charge you to take it, for the good of England and the welfare of my people.”

Puzzled, Edmund had not understood. “You are relinquishing your queenship?”

“Of course I am not! I am asking you to take care of this kingdom, as its King clearly cannot, to protect the laws and justice of England in the name of the Æthelings, Edward and Alfred, and myself, the Queen.”

“I could decide to sidestep you, take Father’s crown, and keep it,” he answered honestly.

“And there would be none who could stop you. Except my sons will not always be boys, and, as I have often said to your father, you do not have the strength of Normandy to call upon to aid you. They, and I, do.”

On every occasion she mentioned this threat, Emma said a silent prayer: Please, God, do not let my brother fail me if ever I need to ask help of him. After the weeks of purgatory in Normandy, she feared her threat was emptier than a dried well. Richard was too mean-minded to be helping anyone, but the bluff came with no one besides herself realising that the Duke of Normandy was as contemptibly useless as the King of England.

In the courtyard, ready to leave, Edmund mounted his horse and saluted her, not a mocking gesture but one of admiring sincerity. She stood in the doorway, her cloak gripped tight by her fingers so none might see the tremble in them.

“I will rule as King with your sons as Æthelings to come after me. Is that sufficient for you?”

It was not, but it would have to do.

June 1015—Hlaðir, Norway

Summers were warm in Norway; in, Hlaðir the fields were sweet, flower-strewn meadows or fertile, rich, arable land. The Jarls of Hlaðir were wealthy men, their jurisdiction lusted after by those in search of wealth-making.

Cnut was fishing with Hakkon, Jarl Erik’s son. They were good companions, these two men, of almost the same age, give a month or two, similar build, height, wit, and temper. Hakkon was also much like his father, a warrior, who lived and breathed for the excitement of the fight. Since his fourteenth birthday, he had gone í-víking with his father, both of them serving with King Swein. Their regret: they had not been in England when he had died. Had Erik been there, Cnut would have been honoured as King, there would have been none of this waiting in Norway for men. Not that they had done too badly, for the harbour bobbed with ships; Erik’s hall and the numerous taverns bulged to bursting. But it was not enough, it was still not enough!

“You are not concentrating on this fishing, are you, Cnut?” Hakkon commented, seeing his companion’s line dip below the surface, bob a few times, then go slack. “We are supposed to be catching your supper, not sitting here feeding them theirs.”

Startled, Cnut jerked his line, which promptly broke, and laughed apologetically. “No, I admit my mind is not here.”

“In England with that fool of a King? Ah, you will not have long to wait, lad! We almost have the ships and the crews, and even if we do not, I hear that Æthelred is despised more than ever. He might be dead now for all we know.”