The Forever Queen (84 page)

By next morning, from the floor above, Adela’s birthing screams filled the upper chambers of the castle. A short labour, three hours. She produced a girl, Mathilda, and asked Emma some days later to consent to be her godmother. Emma agreed out of courtesy to her hostess; agreed, too, that although the babe was small—she looked more like a baby rabbit than a girl child, in Emma’s opinion—she would be destined for great things.

“Perhaps a King or a Duke shall seek her hand in marriage!” Adela boasted, proud.

“Oui, peut-être,” Emma replied, thinking the child was no more than a few days old and already her mother planned her marriage. That might be the sensible option, though, she reflected when she was once again alone in her chamber, with only her dog and her despairing thoughts for company. Might it not be sensible to dispense with children the moment they were born? Aloud she said, “That way, the hurt is over and done with the cutting of the cord.” Whitepaw, with his liquid amber gaze, thumped his tail in uncomprehending agreement.

June 1038—Southwark

Godwine’s hacking cough was painful to listen to; Gytha had tried, to no avail, infusions of coltsfoot, wild garlic, and sage. His face remained grey, the cough barking and wheezing in his lungs, and still he had insisted on going out in today’s downpour of rain. The meeting of guildsmen at the merchants’ hall might have been important, but so was his health.

“If you catch your death,” she had warned, “do not expect me to be able to save you with my herbs and potions. I have nothing more to use.” Yet he had gone and had come back wet through, shivering and burning in fever. Gytha had put him straight to bed and was steeping rose petals in hot water and honey, the smell from the simmering pot sweet and fragrant, when a visitor arrived at the Southwark manor. Tovi, who some called the Proud because of his supercilious nature and extravagant, colourful, and highly expensive dress. He shook himself like a dog and crossed the hall quickly, arms outstretched to greet Gytha with a kiss on both cheeks.

“My dear Countess, I observed this afternoon that your husband is not well. I have brought you something to help,” and he ushered the servant accompanying him forward, to place a leather-wrapped package on the nearby trestle table. “Spanish liquorice root,” he announced grandly, opening it to reveal the contents. “The juice is guaranteed to cure the stubbornest of any bronchial cough.”

Gytha clapped her hands in delight. She had tried the ordinary liquorice root, but the Spanish variety was purported to be the better for medicinal value; she had intended to scour the London wharfside for it on the morrow.

There were many who scorned Tovi, for he was a wealthy man, and his office to Cnut as staller, a high-ranking court official, had been envied and, in some cases, condemned by those who claimed he had been given the position for his financial worth, not his ability. Among them, originally, Godwine himself, although that opinion had altered since Cnut’s death, for Tovi had resigned his position and excused himself from serving Harold. In consequence, Godwine’s path had crossed with Tovi’s in a more social manner, for the staller had a lavish estate on the fringe of Lambeth across the river from Thorney Island, and now that Godwine had his own manor built at Southwark, the opportunity to meet had occasionally arisen.

Tovi sniffed at the infusion of rose petals. “Use some of this, after it has cooled, to bathe his eyes, they looked most red to me. It may help to cool his fever, too.” He smiled at Gytha, took her hand in his own. “But I am telling you something you already know, and probably far better than I.”

“You are very kind, and I thank you. I confess, Godwine will not stay within doors and coddle himself for a few days.” She shook her head, concealing the deeper thoughts, that Godwine was driving himself to the grave for the want of his conscience. Alfred’s death weighed heavy in his heart—on many nights since that dreadful ordeal, Gytha had awoken to find him out of bed, sitting alone in the dark, weeping.

Suddenly making up her mind, Gytha decided to unburden herself. Who else could she talk to about this? Certainly no one of court, for everyone trod carefully in their thoughts these days, not for fear of Harold, for he was doing his best, to be fair to him. No, the wariness was reserved for Ælfgifu, who took the smallest opinion to be the largest criticism.

“It is not this cough alone that bothers me, sir.” She gestured for her guest to be seated, sank, herself, onto a bench. “But his state of mind. He frets and worries, cannot rest or sleep; always, always he thinks on Emma or Alfred. He blames himself for both, you see.”

Tovi hauled a stool close, squatted on it, smoothing the lay of his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. He was not a young man, in his mid-forties, with receding hair and a coarse-skinned face. He had vast wealth but had worked hard to obtain it, not expecting any man to take the responsibility of his merchant trading that ought fall to his own concern.

“He was devoted to Queen Emma—begging your pardon for any misunderstanding in my saying that,” Tovi added with haste, “as, similarly, I was devoted to Cnut.” He shook his head regretfully at the memory of what had once been. “I understand Harold is attempting to rule with dignity, but until he gains the courage to bar his mother from his court, I fear England will suffer the consequences. He expresses good ideas for the making of laws and legislations, but each and every one is shredded by her superior authority. It is a King of substance we want, not a man too weak to demur to a dominating mother. He banned her once. Should never have capitulated to and allowed her back into his presence. The woman is a viper.” He shrugged. “Until Harold learns that yea and nay are words to be adhered to, England shall continue to spiral into decay.”

He sympathised with Godwine, for the decision to abandon Emma and serve Harold had been a hard one, one many shared in different degrees. Aye, Tovi was independent and concentrated on his merchant business—primarily the buying and selling of wool, a useful excuse for not being close concerned with King Harold—but for all that, he had to tread carefully and bend his knee when it was required of him. Had he been a braver man, he could have stood by his conviction of support for Harthacnut and taken himself off in exile to his other estates in Flanders or Normandy, but he had elected to stay, another man among the many disappointed and disillusioned at Harthacnut’s failure to claim his crown.

“If only Harthacnut would come to our aid!” Hasty, realising what she had said, Gytha covered her mouth. To speak thus was treason; if said before the wrong person, it would mean certain death by burning alive, a barbaric execution Ælfgifu favoured. And what if Harthacnut did come? How would he value the men who had turned their backs on him in support of his rival?

Gytha was saved from embarrassment by the noisy entrance of two young men who burst into the hall amid a cloud of sodden cloaks and barking, excited dogs. They were arguing, although the tone was amicable banter more than bad temper.

“And I say the peregrine is the better bird than the gyrfalcon!”

“Nonsense! How can you compare any plumage with the gyrfalcon’s appearance of royal ermine? I have seen the most beautiful birds, snow-white with flecks of black, reminding me of letters upon a bleached parchment.” Swegn, older by two years, sparred with his younger brother, Harold, the two similar in appearance and already taller than their father.

“Beautiful, I grant, but merely decorative against the speed and grace of the peregrine,” Harold persisted; he noticed Tovi and immediately came over to him, his hand extended in welcome as he hailed a third opinion. “Hie, brother, here is a man who shall settle our disagreement! What be the bird of your choice, Tovi? Peregrine or gyrfalcon?”

Tovi the Proud had not been in Cnut’s employ without reason; his sense of diplomacy was unequalled. He answered promptly, “For my mind, my young adventurers, you cannot beat a plump roasted duck basted with herbs and served with new-baked bread and thick, golden butter!” The jest went well, the laughter whirled to the rafters.

Leaving her sons to talk with their guest, Gytha went to tend to her husband.

“We have visitors?” he said through a fit of coughing. “Anyone of import? Had I best come?”

“It is Tovi, brought us some Spanish liquorice; I am much obliged to him.”

Already Godwine was thrusting the furs from him, swinging his legs from the bed. “Kind of him, I must thank him.”

“Where do you think you are going?” Gytha scolded, pushing him backwards and covering him again. “If you think you are leaving this bed until I give you say so, then you can have a second thought!”

“But we have a guest…”

“Who saw you not two hours past and could not possibly have anything further to say to you, nor you to him. You are ill; you remain where you are.”

Later, much later, Godwine awoke from a fitful, sweating sleep, Gytha stemming the heat flowing from his body with cold water and linen flannels. The liquorice had helped, easing the cough, but the fever was growing worse. She was worried, but what more could she do?

Godwine caught her fingers, his thumb brushing the smooth skin across the back of her hand, his smile feeble but earnest. “I need nothing more than God-granted peace from this troubled mind,” he said after another heavy fit of coughing. “Constantly, I see Emma’s face in my dreams and my sons’ eyes being blinded.” His breathing was harsh, and tears spilt down his cheeks. “What physic have you for a drumming conscience and heartfelt grief?”

Gytha stroked his wet hair, admitted she had none. “All I can suggest,” she said, “is for you to get well and think of a way to put the many wrongs aright.”

March 1039—Bruges

Emma’s maidservant and friend, Leofgifu, was dying. At three and sixty her passing was no unexpected surprise, and, indeed, the pain that was creeping through her emaciated body caused her to welcome death. It was Emma who could not let go. How could she face life without her good friend? What would be left her? Emma now rented her own house, a modest manor a mile distant from Bruges; had sufficient wealth to see her living comfortable for many years to come, loyal housecarls who refused to leave her, and the goodwill and opinion of Count Baldwin and his lady wife. What more could she want? Oh! Her friend—and her crown!

Emma massaged the tiredness from her aching eyes and face; the night had been long, with little sleep for either herself or Leofgifu, who had suffered much pain during these hours of darkness. At least she was sleeping now, the herbal draughts at last releasing her from consciousness. The priest had come at dusk, Leofgifu’s last lucid moments, to hear her confession and to write her dictated will. To her nephew she had left land in Suffolk, land Emma had generously given her as reward for dear service. To Emma various sundries and the return of gifted land near Sudbury, also in Suffolk. She had nothing more to leave, no one else to leave it to.

“Shall I empty the night bowl, madam?” the serving girl asked, indicating the piss pot. Leofgifu’s urine had been brown and bloodied, the flux emanating from her bowels more water than solid. “Can I fetch you anything, ma’am? You have not eaten this past four and twenty hours.”

Emma smiled. The girl was young and immensely loyal. If she were ever to go back to England, Emma would take her with her. “No, child, I do not want for anything.”

“A bowl of chicken broth, perhaps? That will tempt you, surely?”

Relenting, Emma nodded. She really did not feel like eating, but the girl was trying her best to be of help. “Broth, then, and some watered wine.”

Alone, Emma bathed Leofgifu’s hot face. The skin clung to the bone, making her appear as if she wore a skeleton mask, the breath rasping in her throat. Emma did not wish her to suffer so and through much of the night had prayed for God to be generous in His compassion. Had He heard? Did He care? How often had Emma prayed these last years, begged and pleaded for His aid? On empty and desolate dawns such as this, she found herself doubting God paid heed to women.

She sank into her chair, a wicker, high-backed affair softened by feather-filled cushions, closed her eyes to ease the ache that throbbed behind them. There were those who said she was vain and contemptuous; perhaps she was in public. But those same people had never had opportunity to see her where she need not put on a show of pretence, people who would never believe this same woman would sit through a night comforting a cherished friend in her last hours, no matter the stink, mess, or abhorrence of it all.

Emma exhaled with a weariness born of despair. Why chase a rainbow’s end when she knew it would always be moving those few yards ahead of her? To clutch at moonbeams, gather the stars? All of it was as impossible as regaining her crown. Perhaps Edward had been right, perhaps she should consider a nunnery; if she took the veil she would know what the morrow would bring, and the day after. And the day after…and she was weeping, her face buried into her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Leofgifu stirred, a gasped moan, and Emma was on her feet, hurrying to the bedside, her hand wiping at the tears then going to clutch desperately at the cold fingers. Breath was rattling from Leofgifu’s throat, the rattle of death. Emma ran to the door, flinging it open, crying out for someone to come, to fetch the priest, fetch help. “Please, please, God, do not take her! I am not ready for being alone and friendless. Do not take her!”

Leofstan Shortfist, Emma’s captain, burst into the room, followed by others of her guard, the maidservant, and a stranger Emma did not recognise, although he appeared vaguely familiar. She pointed to Leofgifu, her hand covering her mouth to keep in the second scream that wanted to be let out.

Quickly Leofstan sent the maid running for Emma’s chaplain and, bending over the woman in the bed, felt for the life beat in her neck, bent his head to her open mouth. He crossed himself, said quietly, “I am sorry, Lady, she has gone to God.”

***

The stranger found Emma in the church within a short walk of the manor. It was quiet within the solitude of the stone-built chapel, the heady perfume of incense and beeswax candles filling the still air; only the sound of birds twittering outside and the murmuring of Emma’s prayer disturbing the silence. She knelt at the altar, aware someone had entered but ignoring the intrusion. This was a holy and public place, any were welcome to speak to God within this sanctuary, but she wished he had chosen another time. Finishing her “Amen,” Emma rose, dipped God a reverence, and walked, head bowed, down the nave.