The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  The wick untrimmed, the candle began to smoke, then gutted out, the only light coming from the strip beneath the doorway.

  “Do not shed tears in public,” Mama had instructed. Well, she was not in public; there was no one here to see her weep.

  Beside her, Æthelred began to snore.

  6

  Pallig undressed quietly, not wishing to disturb the woman in the bed or the child sleeping like an innocent angel in her cot. All the same, he could not resist a peep at the girl, her thumb stuffed into her mouth, fair hair framing her cherubic face. No doubt she had led her nurse in a merry dance before settling to sleep. The little imp always did. He touched a kiss to his fingers, placed them tenderly on her forehead, then, snuffing out the candle stub, climbed into bed beside his wife.

  Gunnhilda stirred, disturbed by the ice coldness of his feet. “Was it a good feasting?” she asked, her honey voice drowsy with sleep.

  “Very good, but would have been all the better had you been there.”

  She snuggled closer to him, her arms wrapping around the solidity of his muscled body. “But you were too busy with your other woman to have noticed or cared about me.”

  Her husband did not rise to her teasing. Gunnhilda was proud that her man had become Queen’s captain. There were few men who could outshine Pallig, despite the ugly rumours still rumbling concerning that awkward incident in Devon-Shire last summer.

  He had set eyes on her eight years past. A girl of five and ten years and royal born, half-sister to Swein Forkbeard, King of Denmark. Swein had brought her to England to find her a husband, but had not quite foreseen the one she managed to find for herself. Pallig had been one of Æthelred’s Thegns taking the raised tribute to pay the Danes to go away and leave England alone.

  King Swein’s plan, in 994, had been to ally with one of the northern Lords, find himself a toehold for the next year’s raiding, and, if fortune smiled the year after, that year’s also. Had reckoned his scheme without the unexpected passion of young love.

  It had been instant, their liking for each other. Pallig’s gaze had met Gunnhilda’s as she had served the cup of welcome to her brother’s guests, and when Pallig rode away the following morning, she had ridden with him, perched behind his saddle, her arms tightly woven about his waist. Swein had bellowed his disapproval, raged, ranted, pleaded, and cajoled, but Gunnhilda had listened to none of it. Even the threat that he would think of her as dead were she to make the fool of herself with this Englishman had held no sway.

  “How are you feeling?” Pallig asked, smoothing his hand over her forehead to see if it was cool, brushing back the corn-gold hair that his daughter, asleep in her cradle, had inherited.

  “I am well,” his wife answered, her own hand caressing his chest. “Tired, that is all. I intend to start going about my normal life in a few days.”

  “You most certainly will not! I forbid it!”

  Gunnhilda batted her hand at him. “Oh, don’t fuss! The bleeding and the pains have not been with me these last five days. I cannot lie abed for the rest of this pregnancy! October is too many months ahead for so much idleness.”

  “But you nearly lost the child!” Pallig’s protest was silenced by Gunnhilda touching her fingers to his lips.

  She pulled him down into the warmth of the bed. “My breath smells sweet, and my urine is clear. I have rested, and I am well. So is the child.”

  Grinning into the darkness, Pallig kissed her forehead and settled himself comfortable. After a long silence he said, “I feel for her, you know.”

  Gunnhilda was almost asleep. “Mm? Who do you feel for?”

  “Our little Queen.”

  After all this while of marriage, of bearing the three-year-old daughter who slept in the cot and losing two others before they saw more than four months of life, Gunnhilda thought she knew Pallig’s moods. If nothing else, she knew when to guess something was mithering at him and he would not sleep until he had talked whatever it was through to its end.

  “What is she like, then, this Emma of Normandy?”

  “Fair-haired, fair-faced. Eyes that sparkle in a certain light, eyes that will one day, I am thinking, have the ability to look into a man’s soul.”

  “You liked her?”

  Pallig answered slowly, uncertain. He felt pity for the lass, without question he would serve her with loyalty and honour, but did he like her? “Aye,” he at last said, “I do. She’s lonely and apprehensive at the moment, more naive than ever my sisters were, but”—he rubbed his hand over the bristles of his chin—“there’s something about her that has alerted my interest.” He paused, thinking. “It is like looking at a tight-curled bud on a tree. You know it will blossom when the sun warms it through, but will it flower as pink or white? Will it develop into a succulent fruit or wither away, get burnt by the frost or parched by a lack of rain?” He shifted his arm, grimacing as cramp niggled the muscles. “Or the bud can be broken before it blooms, brushed aside by a clumsy beast to die unnoticed by the wayside. It will be a great pity—and a loss for England, I am thinking—if this particular little bud is not nurtured into fruition.”

  “And you do not consider Æthelred to be the right man to do so?”

  Pallig snorted. “Do you?”

  Gunnhilda made no answer. Her husband knew well her contemptuous opinion of Æthelred. “I would have liked to have been there to greet her,” she said, after a while. “Do you think she would give me audience on the morrow?”

  Alarmed, Pallig said too quickly, “When you are stronger!”

  “So you do not want me to make a friendship with this shy bud who may turn into a plump fruit worth the plucking? Why is that, I wonder?”

  As hastily he answered, “It is not that I do not want you to meet her, elskede, my beloved; just not yet, that’s all. Later, when you are not so likely to tire yourself.”

  “I see.” Gunnhilda half turned from her husband, folded her arms across her breasts.

  “Oh, woman!” Pallig locked his hands around her wrists, tried to force her defensive arms apart, relented, and kissed her with a husband’s passionate feeling of love. He wanted her. Rolling aside, he lay quiet, breathing evenly and deeply, willing the need to subside. He welcomed the coming of this child, hoping for it to be a son, but missed the intimacies of lovemaking.

  “I am worried you might do too much too soon,” he said. “You nearly lost our child; you must take care. This new Queen of ours will be here for some long years, trust to God. There is no great urgency for you to meet her.”

  “It would not be that you wish to keep me from her because you fancy plucking her for yourself, then?”

  “No, it would not!” The answer came hot and indignant. “How could you suggest such a thing?”

  Gunnhilda chuckled, her voice like the merry trickle of a mountain stream. “I suggest it because you are hot for a woman, and I have a suspicion you are besotted with her!”

  On the edge of denying that also, Pallig realised she was jesting.

  “It is the other side round,” he admitted. “The lass has taken a shine to me.” He laughed. “Poor, misguided little whelp.”

  Gunnhilda touched her lips to his, her taste cool and sensuous. If the truth were known, she wanted her husband as much as he wanted her, but dared not risk the safety of the child.

  “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 resp
onse.

  “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.”

  7

  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.”

  Em
ma 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.