(2013) Shadow on the Crown

by Patricia Bracewell

  So long as the king is willing. And what of her willingness to give her body to the king? That duty was demanded of her by the laws of church and state, but she could not bear to think of it. Not now. With this child she had attained a small portion of the prestige that was due to her. Now all was lost.

  She closed her eyes, numb with a weariness that she did not wish to master. She felt as though she had fallen into a deep well, and she could not convince herself that she had the strength or the will to climb out of it again.

  On Easter Monday the Winchester market bustled with activity. Folk from nearby hamlets had been drawn to the spring faire to celebrate winter’s end, and the Ceap was filled with buyers, sellers, and a fair number of gawkers. Merchant stalls lining both sides of the street displayed goods that came from as near as London and as far away as Constantinople.

  By midday Elgiva, escorted by several of her brother’s hearth guards, had been browsing the market for some time. Although the sun was bright, a chill wind blew from the south and was finding its way beneath her cloak. Elgiva felt cold to her very bones, but it had nothing to do with the breeze.

  She had sent Groa to the palace close for news of the queen, and by her reckoning, Groa should have been back long before now. Any rumors about Emma would flash through the palace like wildfire. Groa had only to wander near the bread ovens or the brewing cauldrons to glean anything of interest, so where was she?

  Nervously Elgiva fingered a length of gold-threaded silk, ignoring the mercer’s eager prattle. What if something had gone amiss? She picked up a length of russet silk and saw that the merchant—a tall, thin man with a beaky nose and the eyes of a hawk—watched her with inordinate interest. Her hands were trembling so badly that the silk rippled, and she set it aside for fear that the merchant would notice her distress. A moment later she saw Groa hurrying toward her from the direction of the palace.

  “Put this aside for me,” she said to the mercer, pointing to the bolt of silk with as pleasant a smile as she could muster. She had been here too long; it might arouse suspicion if she left without a purchase. “I’ll send someone for it later.”

  Gesturing at her brother’s men to walk several steps behind her, she grasped Groa’s arm and walked in the direction of Shieldmaker Street, where her brother’s town house lay.

  “What is the news?” she demanded.

  “The child is no more, my lady,” Groa murmured.

  So it had actually worked. She breathed a long sigh of relief. The child was dead, and she would not be the only one in the kingdom to rejoice at the news.

  “What of the queen?” she asked.

  Groa shook her head. “I could learn nothing of the queen except that she had lost the babe. The king and his sons rode to the hunt today, so we can presume that she is well enough. It may be days before we learn if she has taken any hurt from the potion.”

  “And if she does?” Elgiva whispered. “Will there likely be any suspicion about the wine?”

  “Nay,” Groa murmured. “The queen’s new cupbearer was too dazzled by the courtly glitter to take any notice of what I did near the flagon. And even if suspicions were aroused, how could anyone determine who was responsible? There are many at court who have no desire to see this queen bear a child, and that includes the king’s own sons. Be assured that no one will question this loss, or even mourn it overmuch.”

  “Then it has turned out as well as we could have hoped,” Elgiva said. “You have done very well.”

  “I have other news,” Groa’s voice was smug. “You are to be summoned back into the queen’s service, perhaps as soon as today.”

  Elgiva slowed her step a little.

  “This must be the king’s doing.” She had seen him watching her yesterday when she had been so attentive to Wulfgeat and Leofwine. She had set out to make him jealous, and apparently she had succeeded.

  “He still desires you,” Groa insisted.

  Of course he desired her. She never doubted it. He would have her back at court, and Emma could do nothing about it.

  How swiftly the queen’s ascendant star had fallen with the loss of the child, and how quickly her own, now, would rise again.

  The spring weather held fair and mild, and on the downs of Wessex the sheep and cattle grazed on thick new grass. In the forests along the river bluebells carpeted the ground with blossoms, and it seemed that there was a kind of blessing upon the land. When storm clouds did come they shed their bounty upon the earth during the night, while the days were awash with sunlight. So April slipped away, and when southerly winds brought no sign of dragon ships from the harsh northern lands, folk began to hope that this year Æthelred’s realm might be free of fire and pillage.

  For Emma, though, the beautiful spring days were almost intolerable. It seemed to her that she alone lived within a dark cloud. Her body had recovered quickly from the trial of miscarriage, but her spirit remained burdened with the pain of her loss. Each day she woke with a sense of despair and foreboding that she could not escape—a lassitude that bound her like a snare. She took little interest in the things that should have demanded her attention. Pleas for direction from Hugh in Exeter went unheeded; missives from her mother and her brothers went unanswered. She kept mostly to her chambers, imprisoned now by her own will rather than Æthelred’s. Even the children could not draw her out of her lethargy. She could no longer join in their play or be their confidante and comforter. Instead it was Hilde who, hardly more than a child herself, supervised their care.

  Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of Athelstan in the midst of his brothers and retainers, and sometimes his eyes met hers before he looked away. His face, in those brief encounters, was always solemn, and if there was any silent meaning in his grave expression, she could not read it. He never attempted to speak to her or send her any message, and it was as if the companionship that had once existed between them belonged to another life. The child that she had carried for so short a time, she believed, lay like an invisible wall between them, and that only added to her despair.

  She rarely saw the king, except at the evening meal in the great hall when she took her place beside him at the high table. True to her promise to him, she placed Elgiva beside her there. If Emma noticed that Elgiva seemed not so content with her favored position as before—for the king’s attentions to that lady had cooled considerably—Emma gave no sign. Her heart ached with such longing for the child she had lost that she paid little heed to the tempers and trials of the other members of the king’s court. She responded listlessly to the king’s inquiries about her health and dreaded his return to her bed, knowing that it must happen soon. As spring lengthened toward summer, Æthelred sent his own leech to examine her, and in spite of Margot’s protests, the man bled her, then pronounced her well enough to attend to her lord’s needs.

  That evening Emma prepared herself for a visit from the king, but to her surprise and relief, he did not come. Instead, he sent word that the court would move to London within the week, and that she must prepare for the journey. It was a command, she knew, yet she did not see how she could obey it. She sent word to Æthelred that she did not yet feel strong enough to make such an arduous journey and begged to be allowed to remain in Winchester. Then she waited in an agony of suspense for his response. She had couched it as a request, but how Æthelred would interpret it would depend upon his mood at the time.

  His response, when it came, was scrawled on a wax tablet. She had to study it for some time before she could decipher it.

  I will grant this request, but push me no further. For too long have you neglected the duties owed to your king. My patience is nearly at an end.

  So she had bought herself a little time—perhaps a month, but no more. She must content herself with that.

  Almost as soon as the king and his court departed, the spring weather turned from sunshine to grim, unrele
nting rain. Under its spell the mood in the queen’s apartments became as somber and listless as Emma herself, and she could not rouse herself to change it. Elgiva, apparently irritated that the king had left her behind, was sullen and ill-tempered, using her tongue to lash anyone who crossed her. Servants whispered of a malignant spirit that had cursed the queen and so caused the death of her unborn child. Alarmed by the rumors, Wymarc insisted that Emma wear every piece of amber jewelry that she owned, for amber was a talisman against evil. Margot, too, sought to break the spell that held the queen, placing rosemary under Emma’s pillow to give her pleasant dreams. Yet the shadow of hopelessness that seemed to enfold Emma like a shroud refused to lift.

  In the end it was young Edward who drew Emma from her despair. An ague had kept him from accompanying his father to London, and a week or so after the king’s departure, the boy’s condition worsened. Emma ordered a servant to carry Edward into her own chamber, where she and Margot could tend him, and suddenly her days had a purpose and a meaning. Hour after hour she sat at Edward’s bedside, placing cool cloths upon his fevered skin, coaxing spoonfuls of Margot’s willow bark infusion past his chapped lips, lulling the restless boy to sleep with stories of Normandy. But Edward’s condition did not improve, and Emma’s heart ached at his suffering. She sent a messenger to London, advising the king that Edward’s illness was grave; then she waited, daily anticipating Æthelred’s return.

  It was late one May evening that a royal party arrived within the palace grounds. The king, Emma surmised, had come at last. She glanced toward the shadowy corner where Margot, who would keep the long night watch, sat dozing. All of her other attendants were abed, and she saw no reason to summon them. The king’s staff would see to his immediate needs, and it may be some time yet before he came to find his son.

  Edward lay shirtless beneath the bed linens, and Emma repeatedly bathed his face and upper body with cool water in an effort to banish the fever that held him in restless dreams. His hair had been cut short so they could tend him more easily, and he looked far younger than his eleven summers. He moaned in his sleep, and as Emma took his hot hand in hers, a servant slipped into the room to whisper that Lord Athelstan was asking to see his brother.

  She started at this, but in a moment her heart lifted, as if some great weight she had been carrying had suddenly slipped away. She bade the servant escort the ætheling into the chamber, then she tried to ignore the trembling of her limbs as she waited for him in the near darkness. There were a thousand things that she longed to say to Athelstan. Every day the pile of words that remained unspoken between them grew higher and broader. Yet the words she would speak were utterly forbidden, and so she must remain forever mute. Just to have him near, though, would be some consolation.

  She rose as he entered the room, and in the dim candlelight she drank in the sight of him—the thatch of bright hair, the startlingly dark eyebrows, the wide mouth, the beard the color of raw honey, the solemn blue eyes.

  He paused in front of her, and as their glances met she read there the same gravity—cold and distant—with which he had greeted her ever since her return to court. It chilled her like a winter wind.

  He gestured for her to sit and, drawing a stool next to her chair, took his place beside her.

  “My father received your message but matters keep him in London, and he sent me to learn how Edward is faring.” Awkwardly, he touched Edward’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Jesu, he is so hot.”

  “I am frightened for him,” she whispered, studying Edward’s face, as she had for days, looking for some sign of improvement. She did not find it. Flushed with fever, his nose thin and pinched with lack of nourishment, he barely resembled the brown-faced boy who had ridden with them along the Itchen the summer before. “My sister suffered from agues all her life, but I cannot remember that she was ever as sick as this. Edward complains of pains in his arms and legs, and of a scalding in his throat. Nothing we do eases him.”

  She glanced at Athelstan and saw a shadow cross his face. Her words had alerted him to his brother’s danger, and it pained her to be the one to deliver such evil tidings. Yet it was better that he know now what may have to be faced all too soon.

  “My father,” he said, his eyes still on the boy, “has asked the bishop and all the clergy in London to offer prayers for his recovery. Do you hear that, Edward? All of London is praying for you now.”

  She, too, had prayed for Edward, but her prayers had sprung from a bitter heart, and God had not answered her.

  “Perhaps God will listen to them,” she said. “He has not listened to me.” The rage that had lain coiled within her, suppressed in silence and in bitter tears, sprang suddenly to life. “Why is God so cruel?” she demanded, fisting her hands and beating them impotently against her knees. She longed to weep, but she would not give God the satisfaction. “Why does He punish innocent children for the sins of others?”

  Athelstan heard the despair in her voice, and it smote his heart. She was his father’s wife, and for that reason he had schooled himself to look upon her with a stern regard that showed neither pity nor compassion. He could not do so now. Her anguished eyes, bruised with weariness, were fixed upon Edward, but he guessed that she must be thinking as well of the babe that she had lost. If God was cruel, then Emma was as much a victim of His cruelty as poor Edward. She had lost her own child, and now she lived in fear of losing a son that she had embraced as her own.

  He searched for words that would give her consolation, but what did he know of the mind of God? He was a warrior, not a priest. His duty was to fight, and it was up to the priests to sort things out with the Lord. Yet how was anyone to fight and win against the will of the Almighty? How was one even to recognize God’s hand at work in the world when there was so much darkness and misery?

  Emma, though, needed consolation, however clumsy it might be.

  “We are God’s instruments for vengeance or for mercy, are we not?” he asked gently. “So if you would look for the hand of God in Edward’s illness,” he took hold of her hand, and held it before her, “look to the hands that have given him relief from pain and have tended him with a mother’s care.”

  It did not content her, though. She shook her head, drew her hand from his, and gently ministered again to Edward. His brother’s thin face was no longer flushed but eerily pale now in the flickering light.

  What if Edward should die? He had never thought much about death, in spite of the hundreds of sermons he had heard detailing man’s ultimate fate in the most harrowing terms. Even now he could not reconcile himself to the prospect of a world without Edward, for he was but a boy. It seemed impossible that he should die. Yet children, even the children of kings, did die. His own father was the only one of three brothers to survive to manhood.

  Unbidden, the words of the seeress at Warwick sprang into his mind. She had predicted that he would not inherit his father’s kingdom. He could not fathom such an outcome—unless he were to die before his father did. Was that what she had been trying to tell him? Was that to be God’s will—his destiny as well as Edward’s?

  He scrubbed his face briskly with his hands, trying to rid his mind of such morbid thoughts. At the same moment, Emma gave a small cry. When he looked he saw her leaning forward, her palms pressed against Edward’s breast.

  “What is it?” he demanded, tense with foreboding.

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “Something has happened. Margot!”

  In an instant the old Norman dame appeared from out of the shadows and shooed them away from the bed. She bent over Edward, setting her ear against his mouth, then touching his neck with her fingers. Athelstan held his breath.

  Dear God. Had his mortal thoughts somehow beckoned Death to his brother’s side?

  When the old nurse called for a servant and turned to Emma, placing her hands on the queen’s shoulders, he felt a chill run fr
om his spine to his fingertips. He closed his eyes, and through a fog of despair and grief he heard the old woman rattle something in a burst of Norman French. Although he could not comprehend her words, he knew that Edward must be dead.

  He drew in a heavy breath and opened his eyes to find Emma before him, her face lit with joy and relief. She took his hand.

  “The fever has broken, my lord,” she said. “God has answered our prayers at last.”

  He looked past her to where Edward lay profoundly asleep, oblivious to the women who now went about the task of changing his damp, tumbled linens.

  “Can it be true?” he asked, hardly daring to believe it. “Could the tide of his illness turn so swiftly?”

  “He is far from well yet,” Emma murmured, “but Margot says that now he should begin to mend.” She smiled, but her eyes were filled with tears. “Perhaps he heard you when you spoke to him, and it was your voice that drew him back to us. He would do anything for you. You are his hero; did you know that?”

  He shook his head, wondering what else Emma knew about Edward that he did not. She still gripped his hands, and for his part, he had no wish to let her go. He wanted to pull her close and enfold her in his arms as if he had the right to do so. But he did not have that right, and the awareness of it tortured him so that he loosed her hands and frowned at her.

  “Edward’s recovery is none of my doing,” he said. “It was your care that saved him, and so I will tell my father.” He glanced again at the bed. “I will leave for London in the morning. May I visit him again before I go?”

  “Of course,” she said, “but I cannot promise that he will be awake when you come. Can you not send a messenger to your father? It will do Edward good to have you here for a time, however brief it may be.”

  “I cannot stay. The king would have me return to London tomorrow.” He saw that his curt reply had wounded her, but he could think of no way to dull the sharp edge of duty that must always lie like a sword between them.