The Forever Queen (8 page)

“Do we really want an outsider as our Queen?” Godegifa said, as she often did, in a hushed English whisper. “There is nothing of her, not in body or wit. My daughter would have made the better wife.”

Ethelflad always agreed.

Again Emma asked her question. “Où est Exeter, s’il vous plait?”

“Exeter?” Godegifa scornfully answered in English; exasperated at Emma’s puzzled frown, altered to French. “Exeter is a wilderness of midden huts to the southwest. No one who matters would wish to go there without due reason.”

Emma considered the answer to be deliberately acrimonious. Tightly she replied, “Pallig does not seem to find it so hideous a place.”

Lady Godegifa did not look up, nor falter with the drop spindle as she twisted the strands of wool between her fingers. “He does not, but then Pallig’s opinion is not worth considering, for he is a traitor who gave his service to that heathen kinsman of his, Swein Forkbeard.”

I want to see the Queen.” Godwine’s demand was succinct and to the point.

The cnight’s answer, guarding the foot of the stairs that led up to Emma’s chamber, as plain: “Get lost, urchin.”

The boy, ignoring the slur to his status, persisted. “I have a gift for her. I want to see her.”

“The Lady has gifts aplenty, ones of a higher value than the trinket you could offer. Now get you gone before I lose my patience with you.” The young man’s rough-featured face scowled closely into Godwine’s, showing bloodshot eyes, his breath stinking of an overindulgence of barley brewed ale.

“This one is worth a fortune. To me and her.”

With a head throbbing from last night’s excess of feasting, the cnight’s hand lashed out, aiming to clip the lad’s ear, but Godwine dodged the clumsy movement with ease.

“I’ll not go until I see her,” Godwine stated, planting his feet wide. “Not if I have to stand by this stairway all day.”

“Then stand there you’ll be doing. I’m not allowing you to pass.” The guard angled his spear across the first step, resting its tip on the wooden banister rail.

“I trust you shall allow me access, though, Leofstan Shortfist?”

Lady Gunnhilda’s skin was pale, her cheeks hollow from recent illness, but her eyes, as ever, were bright, and her smile dazzling. Many a man envied Pallig Thursson his beautiful wife.

Leofstan saluted her. “I trust you are recovered now, ma’am?”

Politely, Gunnhilda inclined her head, thanking him for his concern. “I had a scare over the babe I carry, and then caught a chill which has kept me longer abed than I would have wished. I am well now, however.” She pointed at the spear barring her way. Grinning sheepishly, Leofstan stamped to attention and withdrew it.

“Lady Gunnhilda?” Seizing his chance, Godwine plucked at her sleeve, hefting the bundle he carried between his arms. “I have a gift for the Queen, only this mutton head,” he darted a withering look at Leofstan, “will not let me pass.”

Gunnhilda frowned disapproval. “I will have you remember that the men beneath my husband’s command, Master Godwine Wulfnothsson, are not mutton heads. They are men due respect and courtesy.”

“Quite right, ma’am. Now clear off, you young devil, or I’ll take my belt to your backside.”

“On the opposite side of the steerboard,” Gunnhilda continued, totally ignoring Leofstan’s comments, “it is not for a guard to decide who the Queen should, or should not, grant audience to.” She tossed a quick conspirator’s grin at Godwine and indicated the bundle he was clutching. “What is this gift?”

Delighted, Godwine showed her. “I think she will like it, do you not agree?” he said earnestly.

Gunnhilda smiled. “Ja, I think she will.”

Mindful of her condition, she mounted the stairway slowly, heard through the open door at the top, every word spoken by Godegifa regarding Exeter and her husband, Pallig.

“Some people, my Lady,” Gunnhilda said tartly from the threshold, “prefer the quiet and peace of the wilderness. It is more pleasing on the ear than the snarl of bitches in heat.”

Godegifa’s cheeks tinged with pink, but she made no comment as the Danish woman entered and made her obedience to Emma.

“Madam, forgive my remiss at not greeting you ’ere now, but I have been confined to my bed. I am Gunnhilda, wife to Pallig Thursson.”

Emma checked an unexpected stab of jealousy. Pallig’s wife!

Guided by her mental image of these other ladies, she had pictured a pinch-faced shrew of no consequence—ridiculous really. Pallig, so handsome a man, would not have a wife who was less than perfect. The woman curtsying before her, dressed in the Danish style with a loose-fitting embroidered tunic over her linen shift instead of one gathered at the waist in Saxon fashion, was confident and pretty. The two oval brooches at her shoulders were of engraved silver, each decorated with emeralds and rubies, both designs in a traditional Scandinavian pattern. Everything about her boasted her Danish origin, unlike Emma’s mother, who had become Norman-French to the core on the day of her marriage. Even Gunnhilda’s headdress marked her for what she was, a non-English woman, for her hair, in its single thick braid, hung down her back beneath a linen kerchief covering her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. English women wore a loose veil, while the new fashion among Norman ladies, Emma included, was to wear the veil as a wimple covering both head and neck, fastened loosely at the throat. It was brave of Gunnhilda to retain her individuality against these intolerant English noblewomen.

Indicating that the woman could rise, Emma found herself instantly liking Gunnhilda. The smile reached from her heart directly into her eyes, goodness pouring outward, like sweet honey dripping from a harvested hive.

“These well-intentioned matrons,” Gunnhilda said, “will serve you well, but Pallig believes you ought to have someone nearer your age and character to become a friend.” She put her hand on her bulge. “I apologise that my child delayed my coming to you.”

“Is that not exceedingly presumptive of you both, Gunnhilda? How can your husband know what a Queen ought to have?” Godegifa snapped a retort before Emma had a chance to respond. “Older women have the benefit of experience and wisdom. The Queen does not need friends; she requires guidance and tutoring. I doubt you are able to offer sufficient of either. We,” she indicated Ethelflad, “were here despite personal difficulties.”

Gunnhilda answered, polite but succinct, “But then those who have husbands or brothers who are falling so often from favour have a greater need than mine to prove their loyalty. Somewhat like a poorly made salver, such people often prove to be all shine and no substance.”

“Do the words loyalty and your husband fit together?” Godegifa retorted.

Emma was looking from Godegifa to Gunnhilda, enthralled. The younger woman, calm-voiced, in her mid-twenties, and beautiful, was outfacing the mid-aged, prune-wrinkled hag. A Princess opposing a dragon? This was the stuff of tales and enchantments!

“The slur of my husband being a traitor is proven a false slander, as you well know, Godegifa. Your husband, however, has ignored royal commands on several occasions. Christmas last he was not at court, as I recall. Nor the previous Easter. A King can become suspicious when his Ealdormen do not come to his councils.”

Godegifa thrust herself to her feet, dropping her distaff into the rushes, rage infusing her face. “My husband could not attend, because he was ill!”

“My father says any man who pleads sickness when faced with the prospect of a fight is not worthy of being called a man.” The boy, Godwine, who had been standing outside the doorway, as entranced by the sparring as Emma, innocently added his own halfpenny’s worth to the affray.

Unable to vent her rage on Gunnhilda, Godegifa lunged at him, striking her knuckles against his cheek, knocking him to the floor.

Enraged, Emma hurried forward. How dare this dour, miserable woman hold sway over what she wanted? Oui, she required advice and correct steering through unfamiliar tides, but to have a friend in a friendless place—oh, what she would give for that! “Leave the boy alone!” she commanded. “I will not have my guests ridiculed and abused.”

Breathing hard, her nostrils flaring, Godegifa responded curtly, “These are not desirable people, Lady Ælfgifu. I advise you to not admit them to your chamber.”

Emma’s indignation wafted into full flame. Perhaps it was Gunnhilda’s obvious independence or the encouraging shine in her eyes—or Godwine’s tears as he scrabbled to inspect the bundle that had been knocked from his arms. Or perhaps it was nothing more than being addressed as Ælfgifu. “In private I have asked to be called by my given name, Emma. I will not gainsay what is mine.” Added, with a deep breath of wavering courage, “And I shall admit into my presence whom I please.”

A long pause of silence, with Emma aware that if she were to look away from Godegifa’s glowering stare, she would lose the day, skirmish, battle, and war together. The opportunity to be her own woman, to rule as a Queen should rule had been thrown before her, and she would be the prize fool to turn around and leave it lying, abandoned and untouched, on the floor. She kept her face passive, unreadable; breathe in, hold, release. Unclench the hands, relax the shoulders. Keep the eyes still, looking ahead. Blink slowly. Emma could hear, in her mind, her mother’s instructions for remaining calm in any situation.

Outmanoeuvred, Godegifa inclined her head. “Very well, madam, as you will. I shall check that the laundry has been dried and folded correctly.” She glanced at Ethelflad, who made no hesitation in leaving with her.

Emma turned to Godwine. “And you, boy,” she announced, “cannot expect me to come to your aid whenever you rile an elder with your rudeness. If you persist in this insolence, I shall have you whipped.”

His bundle retrieved, Godwine was wiping his face with his hand. The tears were gone, replaced by an impudent grin.

“You were grand! Just as a Queen ought to be!” He thrust the wrapped bundle into Emma’s arms. “She’s the last of the litter, so she’s a bit on the small side, but I am certain she has the sweetest nature, like her mother. Papa said she would have to be drowned if no one took her before the end of the week when we leave court. I thought you would like to have her?” A note of doubt crept into Godwine’s voice. Had this been such a good idea after all?

Carefully, Emma unwrapped the old cloak, the thing within beginning to wriggle and whimper. A brindled pup, fat-bellied, recently weaned, poked her head out and began to lick enthusiastically at Emma’s face. She smelt of dog and warmth and happiness.

“She is for me?” Emma queried, almost speechless. Of all the gifts and endowments she had been presented with since coming to England, this was the best and most welcome. A pup of her own! Something that would not mind that she was struggling to learn this awkward language, that she felt so useless. Did, said the wrong things.

“Does she yet have a name?”

Grinning his relief and pleasure, Godwine said, “I have been calling her Saffron for the colouring around her chest, but you may name her what you please.”

Emma hugged the pup close, putting her cheek to the soft hair of her silky ears. “Saffron is a good name. Besides,” she added, laughing, “I am somewhat averse to having a given name altered.”

May 1002—Sandwich

Fight them,” I say! If Forkbeard comes again with his heathens, we send them sculling back over the sea with their legs shit-stained!”

Drily, Alfhelm, Ealdorman of Deira, answered Athelstan’s misplaced enthusiasm. “And from where do we get the men who are going to do this fighting? How do we keep an army together when the harvest is soon to be brought in? And where do we send it?” He set both his palms flat on the trestle table and said, “We never know where the Danes will attack next. Confronting Swein Forkbeard is like attempting to chase a will-o’-the-wisp across a marsh.”

The hall was still half empty; not all the ships of the royal fleet were yet in harbour, although with the sun setting in less than an hour, the crews of those not assigned to night patrol of the Kent coast would soon be seeking the comfort of a solid bed and hot food.

From their seats close to the open window slit, Emma asked Gunnhilda anxiously, “Will he come this year?” She pricked her thumb with the needle, winced as the blood began to well. If King Swein of Denmark raided England this summer season, what would happen to the treaty made between her husband and brother? Would Richard keep his word and deny his shoreline to the Danes if they had to seek urgent shelter from either storm or Æthelred’s fleet? She sucked at the blood, careful not to stain the linen. Richard? Keep his word? Not if he was paid enough to turn blind eyes!

She fashioned a few more stitches along the hem of what would become a new veil, had the confidence to say, “I do not much like my husband, but I do not want to be set aside, be forced to return to Normandy.” She shrugged, laughed, as if making a jest of her fears. “I have my pride to consider.” Did not add that her stomach would not survive the sea crossing. It seemed absurd that with her Danish blood she should be so afraid of ships, an embarrassing absurdity she was not willing to share with anyone, not even her friend, Gunnhilda.

Gunnhilda bit off a thread and held her own sewing high to inspect it. “Your marriage will not fail because of the Danes.” She selected another skein of coloured silk, threaded it through her needle. “The annual assault on England is not all my half-brother’s doing, you know. There are many who are capable of gathering a crew, eager for an easy opportunity to better themselves. It has been the way of men for many hundred years. Sail a ship, make a fortune—acquire a duchy.” She added the last with a teasing smile. Emma’s ancestor Rollo had been a Viking. Normandy his prize. “Men from Dublin are inclined to harry the western coast, not Swein.”

Looking her straight in the eye, Emma challenged Gunnhilda’s statement. “It was not the Normans nor the Irish who raided Devon last year, so I hear.”

The men gathered before the dais were launching deeper, and louder, into their argument, Æthelred sitting among them, morose, nursing a head cold and a tankard of mead with equal attention.