The Forever Queen (5 page)

“Then she does indeed show sense. Only a blind beggar’s maid would not see how wonderful you are.” She was laughing, but inside she understood Pallig’s concern for the girl. “Æthelred is an evil toad, and one day God shall punish him for the wicked deeds he has committed. And for the way he doubted your honesty and loyalty.” The conviction in Gunnhilda’s voice was as solid as the spread roots of an oak tree.

Gathering her to him, Pallig returned the kiss. “That is all in the past. Done and forgotten. We had a misunderstanding, Æthelred and I, but it was explained and our animosity buried. If he doubted me, would he have agreed to this captaincy?”

“Huh!” was her only response.

“Æthelred is trying to become an effective King, despite the hindrance of í-víking raids and the legacy of his interfering mother. England is the better off now that she is dead. We are free of her meddling, and Æthelred has a chance to become his own man.”

“Provided he has the stomach to choose with wise care the advisers who are to replace his mother.”

“Your judgement of him is biased, my sweeting. You would never be admitting to his good points.”

“Has he any?”

“I expect, were I to think on it for a year or two, I might think of one.”

Emma’s head had not ceased its hammering since daybreak. If one more of these wrinkled baggages called her “dear,” she would…but what could she do? Kick her legs and bellow like a wayward toddler? Scowl and grimace and earn for herself more contempt? For all their twittering, fussing, and dutiful attention, it did not take intelligence to realise it was most resentfully given. Lady Godegifa did not like Emma, and as Godegifa was the matriarch among them, the women blindly followed her directive. Emma might as well be a churl’s daughter for all the heed they were paying to her counter command over what Godegifa ordered. Not that she had yet “commanded” anything. Tentatively, she had asked if she might have cider instead of ale to drink with her meagre break-fast of sheep’s cheese and fresh-baked bread. Cautiously, she had murmured she would rather wear the blue veil, not the pale rose; timidly, she had asked about the itinerary for this, her first day as Queen. But to give a direct command to someone as authoritative as Lady Godegifa? Sweet Jesu, Emma would rather face a hot-breathed dragon!

To her relief, Æthelred had already been gone from the chamber when she had awoken, muzzy-headed and aching in almost every muscle. Daylight flooded the room beyond the partially drawn bed curtains; with a groan, she had rolled over and buried herself beneath the furs, seeking sleep, but the women had surged in, chivvying her to be up and about, washing her, dressing her, as if she were a feeble child. She was a wife taken, no doubting that, for the stains on the linen and her thighs offered confirming proof. She had not missed the knowing nods as two of them had stripped the bed sheet, removing it for anyone who wished to inspect the irrefutable evidence of her lost virginity.

Necessary formalities had trundled tediously through the morning, accompanied by an endless stream of obsequious faces, the leering and slavering of men bowing over her hand. God’s breath, did none of them wash?

At least the witnessing of granted charters might prove more interesting, and the thought of flourishing her signature directly after Æthelred’s filled Emma with an intense excitement. Silly, really; they were only legal documents that would be set aside in some musty old chest, probably never to see the light of day again, but written documents were in Latin, something familiar. She could read Latin for herself, would not need to rely on Archbishop Wulfstan to translate for her. This would also be a chance to show them she was not a simpleton with no use beyond the bedchamber. Emma took great pride in her ability to read. Tutored on the Bible, she had avidly read all she could lay hands on, which was a considerable amount given Richard’s manic arrogance for proving his cultured status. His library was extensive: religious texts, histories, Greek philosophy, dramatic tragedies and comedies. He had not read one of them, always claiming he was too busy. Emma enjoyed the company a book could bring; Richard’s interest was limited to showing his collection to impressed guests and visitors. Hers had been the mental devouring of them. Not that Richard had allowed her to read legal charters, save for those destined for the fire. He said she was too young to understand legal matters. To her disappointment, she discovered these Englishmen shared his view.

The council chamber was filled with the most important men of the kingdom, who turned and bowed an acknowledgement at her entrance, an act that sent a shiver of pleasure scurrying down her spine. The thrill was short-lived, for within moments they resumed huddled conversations and she was forgotten, left standing, uncertain what to do or where to go. Æthelred was talking with his eldest son, Athelstan, his hands animated, shaking his head and scowling in disagreement. The other men were a sea of barely remembered faces to which she could not pair names.

Tempted to flee, she half turned, found a man standing behind her, his weather-rugged face grinning, eyes sparking with delight as he held out both hands to her and declared, “By the gods, madam, you are a sight for sore eyes this rain-ragged morning! If ever there was a cure for a mead-muddled head, it is the beauty of a lovely woman, and you, my dear, must be among the loveliest!”

Emma blushed, dipped her head, flattered but flustered. She had met this man yesterday, but who was he? Oh! What was his name?

Did he read her face, realise her consternation? He bowed low, took her hand in his own, and kissed it. “Thegn Wulfnoth at your service. I am shipmaster to the King.”

Another man, not a few yards away, spun round, his nose and mouth wrinkled, sneering. “You flatter yourself, Wulfnoth, and exaggerate. This man, Lady, is a sea merchant who boasts a fleet of ships, which earn more for him through his underhanded methods of piracy than they do in providing taxed revenue for the King. I would advise you to salt his words to disguise any tainted flavour.” He spoke in Danish. She could not recall his name either.

“Thank you, sir, for your advice. I shall keep it in mind.”

The man nodded, returned to his discussion with two Bishops. How many of them, she wondered, spoke a language she knew? And then a second thought. She glanced at Æthelred, who was now shouting angrily at his son. Was he, too, perfectly capable of speaking to her in familiar words?

Wulfnoth saw her apprehensive glance and, misinterpreting her thoughts, whispered in French, “For temperament King Æthelred takes after his mother; she was a harpy. I admit I was pleased to see the back of her.” He crossed himself, added hastily, “May God assoil her.”

“I have not heard flattering things of the Lady Ælfthryth,” Emma confessed. “My mother said she was a woman determined to keep hold of power through the name of her son.”

“An astute woman, your mother. Ælfthryth was a bitch, although she had her share of supporters, men and women who wanted to shelter beneath her shade.”

Emma looked puzzled, her brows creasing downward.

The Thegn shook his head; had no one schooled this child on the more disreputable side of political necessity? “A woman can only hold status through her father, husband, or son. Without them she is nothing.” He gave a wry smile. “Unless she becomes a Queen who, even after widowhood, has nurtured enough power to keep her position. Ælfthryth retained her authority by ensuring it was her son who became King, not her elder stepson.”

Her hand going to her throat, Emma suppressed a squeak of fear. “It is true, then? Æthelred’s brother was murdered?”

“There was no proof of who ordered it, but oui, Edward was cut down as he arrived in innocence at Ælfthryth’s stronghold of Corfe.” Seeing her sudden alarm, he laughed. “Take no notice of me, ma’am. As our eminent reeve, Eadric Streona, said, I am prone to exaggeration!”

Emma laughed with him. Mais oui, Eadric, that was the other man’s name! An obsequious man whom Emma had taken instant dislike to on that first day. Thegn Wulfnoth might be a rogue, but Emma judged he was no hypocrite. “This England seems a dangerous place,” she said astutely. “If a King cannot be safe from his own, what hope of protection is there from the í-víking pirates and cutthroats who persist in their raiding? In Normandy our castles are built of stone, are defended by high walls and deep moats.” She indicated the wattle and timber of the council chamber, so flimsy in comparison with what she was accustomed to.

“In Normandy your noblemen spend their time bickering among each other over the accumulation of land and wealth. They wall themselves up behind castles of stone to protect themselves against the greed of neighbours. In England, as a rule, we prefer to negotiate our way to peace rather than shed blood.”

Emma could see an anomaly in that, but did not say so. In England, if a nobleman fell out with his King, exile or a convenient accident was often the result. At least in Normandy the fighting was open for all to see, dictated by the rules of war and battle. Æthelred’s mother had apparently gained what she wanted through vicious murder. How essential was it to ensure your own son ascended to the throne Emma wondered suddenly? Enough to risk eternal damnation?

“But what of protection against attack?” she asked, shying away from the uncomfortable thought. “I am here, entered into this marriage to prevent the Danes from using Norman harbours.” She fiddled with the ring placed on her finger, unfamiliar in its feel, resting next to the thinner marriage band. Her coronation ring, the symbol of her unity to God and England.

“Receive the symbols of honour so that you may shine out in your splendour, and be crowned with eternal joy.” What in the name of God could she do for England if the Danes decided to ignore Richard’s treaty with Æthelred?

Seeing the doubt, Wulfnoth paternally patted her hand. “The Vikings seek easy-come wealth; they care only to sail in on a flood tide and leave again, richer, on the ebb. You are quite safe; they do not have the balls to lay a lengthy siege to town or palace.”

Smiling politely Emma made no answer. Normans were men who lived and breathed—died—for the glory of the fight. They swaggered inside their stone-defended homes, awaiting the opportunity for a neighbour to lower his guard, and then took all for themselves. The í-víking raiders were no different. Was Æthelred aware that no stone battlements had ever stopped her father? And that the Danish and the Norman were no different when it came to the taking of easy-come spoil? God help England, and her, she thought, should the Danish King, Swein Forkbeard, ever decide to acquire more than a hoard of gold or a chest full of silver.

A man suddenly at her side startled her. Emma had not realised her attention had drifted and Archbishop Wulfstan of York was offering his arm. “It is time to sign the charter of your morgengifu, my Lady, the morning gift that King Æthelred has granted you.” He pointed to the scroll of parchment the clerk was rolling open upon the table. He indicated the close-written words. “This witnessing will be your first public duty. To you is given the town of Winchester and, in the shire of Devon, Exeter. Winchester, of course, was held by the dowager Queen until her recent going to God.” Wulfstan crossed himself, as did they all, Emma included.

Winchester? Emma recollected reading about Winchester. Had that not been the great King Alfred’s royal town? The place from where he had ruled during the first encroachment into England by the Danes? But where Winchester was, and this obscure place of Exeter, she had no idea. On the far edge of the world for all she knew.

“Did you say Devon-Shire?” she queried, recognising a familiar name. Devon she had heard of. She turned to Pallig, who stood, as ever, a few paces to her left. “Do you not hold an estate in Devon? We shall be neighbours, then; we can sit of a winter’s evening and compare the yields of our crops and cattle!” She assumed he did not laugh at her jest because it was a poor one. Embarrassed, she turned attention back to the parchment. She had, yet again, made herself look the fool.

Unaware of her discomfort, Æthelred scrawled his signature and made way for her to sign. Eagerly, she scanned the wording—voilà, it was as they said, the towns they had named and several more gifts listed. Linens and brocades, silks, spices, and jewels.

At her elbow Wulfstan coughed discreetly. “There is no necessity for you to read it for yourself ma’am. The clerks have ascertained the document is in order.”

“That they may, but I wish to know what I am being given and what I am putting my name to.” Added with a light laugh, “I know not what I might be signing away!”

Standing with his arms folded, awaiting his turn to sign, inwardly annoyed that his sister took precedence over himself, Richard jabbed his finger at the parchment. “You are signing for your lost maidenhood, girl, nothing more important than that. This is an exchange for your virginity, as was agreed between myself and England. It is only the formalities of completion to be done. Hurry and sign.”

Signing away her innocence? Emma took up the stylus, dipped its point in the ink. Were they worth it, these towns of Winchester and Exeter? These fineries and valuables? Were they worth the pain, embarrassment, and discomfort that Æthelred had inflicted on her last night? She began writing, “Emma…”

“Non, madame, not Emma, do not sign as Emma!” Wulfstan lurched forward, snatching the writing implement from her hand, causing her to gasp as the sticky ink spilled and smudged. He signalled for the clerk to blot the mess with sand and scrape the mistake away with a smoothed pebble. “Do you not recall? You are now known as Ælfgifu. You were blessed with your new-taken English name yesterday.”

Emma blanched, a swirl of sickness surging in her stomach. She did not remember that! Oui, she remembered the Archbishop of Canterbury saying the name, but she had thought it a mistake, thought nothing more of it among the confusion of that long service. So much of it had been unfamiliar and conducted in English. Stupidly, she had thought Ælfgifu to have been assigned as an honorary title.

“Emma is too Norman a name for our English taste; you are to be called Ælfgifu, the name of Æthelred’s grandmother.”