The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  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.”

  And his first wife. And the precocious daughter of Lady Godegifa.

  “This also was agreed?” she asked of her brother, her eyes wide to hold back angry tears. Had no one, not once, considered seeking her thoughts and wishes?

  “Naturellement, it is what they want. What difference does it make? A name is a name.”

  She almost screamed, “They want; you want! What about me? What about what I want?” They had taken everything from her. Her home, her family, her innocence. And now her name.

  Well, they would not take away her pride! That, none of them could touch!

  “I agree with you, brother,” she said stiffly. “A woman has no need to read what she would not understand, but I am no ordinary woman; I am a Queen, and I can well understand what I am reading!” To herself she vowed, I am Emma. That is the name baptised upon me at birth; that is the name that shall accompany me to my grave. They may call me what they will, but in the privacy of my mind, and in my own home, I shall not, will not, give up what is mine.

  She motioned for a stool to be brought, sat and carefully read every word, steadfastly ignoring the coughs and shuffling feet. Satisfied, she wrote her new English name, writing very precisely:

  Ælfgifu Regina

  8

  The men were in the hall, the noise of their shouting and bellowed laughter drowning the toll of the cathedral bell calling to Vespers. A single star was glistening low down on the horizon, bright and shining against the darkening blue. Soon it would be night, and Emma would again have to go through what night entailed. She walked stoically on, thrusting aside the thought of sharing a bed with a man she could never see herself liking, let alone loving. Pointing along a narrow alleyway between the two enormous granary barns, she asked Pallig, walking a respectful few feet behind her, “What is down here?” She sniffed. “Stabling?”

  She had been determined to walk in the fresh air, to attempt to clear the stubborn headache that had persisted throughout the long, confusing day. She had upset them, she knew, those men who had muttered and tutted at her reading of that charter. Well, let them fuss and fume. She was a Queen now, she could do what she wanted! Only it was not all as simple as that.

  “Aye, Lady, and the kennels. It is muddy underfoot along there, though.”

  Pallig was indulging her; she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his patient voice, as if he were a father calming a fractious child. “I want to walk,” she had said, “to see something of what I am Queen of.” Politely, he had agreed to accompany her, only everything was wet from yesterday’s rain, and she had forgotten to change her soft house shoes for more robust boots, did not like to admit her error and return to her chamber.

  “Is there another way around?” she asked. “I would like to see the horses.”

  Pallig indicated she was to continue ahead, stepping forward to show the way, his head whipping up as a noise burst from the narrow path and a brindle-coated dog, a leggy, gangling pup, raced down the side path and skidded round the corner, knocking Emma sideways, almost sending her sprawling into the mud. She screamed, from surprise more than fright, and fell heavily against a solid timber upright of the barn wall, wincing as pain twanged down her elbow and tingled uncomfortably into her fingers. Directly behind the dog came a boy, fair-haired, blue-eyed, about eight years of age, and cursing as vehemently and colourfully as any grown man. “God take your balls, you cur! Come here, Loki! Damn your hide, you whelp, come here!”

  It had all happened so quickly. Pallig whirled as the dog appeared and collided with Emma, without thought raised his axe, and swung it down to protect her.

  The boy saw the glint of the blade, his shout of fear echoing Emma’s shrill cry, “No!” He darted forward, hand outstretched to push Pallig forcibly aside, throwing himself into the arc of that swinging death-bringer to save his dog.

  Emma shrieked, “’Tis but a dog, Pallig!”

  Pallig cursed, minutely shifted his balance to let the falling axe traverse through an alternate curve that missed the dog’s neck by the breadth of one of its own shaggy hairs.

  “Det er fandens, boy! By the Hammer, what the damn be you thinking of?” Angry, Pallig grabbed the lad’s shoulder, shook and shook him as if he were a rat caught in a yard dog’s jaws.

  Hitting out with his fists, the boy kicked and squirmed, demanding to be let go. The dog, unaware it had been so near death, leapt, barking and cavorting around his young master, thinking this new thing a most splendid game. Irritated, his blood rush of instant reaction still pou
nding, Pallig kicked out, catching the pup on the muzzle. Yelping, the animal cowered away, batting at his bleeding gum with an absurdly large paw.

  “Leave my dog alone, you bastard!” the boy yelled. “He means no harm!”

  “He attacked the Queen, you fly-blown slave brat! I will whip your hide raw for this—and that cur’s!”

  “I am not slave-born! You know well that I am a Thegn’s son! Let me go, I say!” The boy slammed the heel of his boot into Pallig’s shin, causing the man to curse and cuff harder.

  The pain in Emma’s elbow was receding; the shouting, however, was hurting her head. “Pallig, please, leave it,” she implored. “I am unharmed.”

  The big man either did not hear or ignored her, for he went on with his vociferous reprimanding. Her nerves jangling, her head pounding, Emma angrily stamped her foot, shouted, “Let go of the child! I command it!”

  More surprised by the unexpected authority in her voice than the order, Pallig released the lad, who, glowering ferociously, ran to inspect the blood dripping from his pup’s mouth.

  Emma laid her hands against her bumping heart, stared at Pallig. Had she really ordered someone in so forthright a manner? And he had obeyed her! It had never happened before; the lowest servants in her brother’s castles had heeded her bidding only when it had suited them.

  Bowing his head, Pallig said by way of apology, “I feared you would be harmed, ma’am.”

  With a deep, steadying breath she recovered her composure. “For that I thank you, but as you see,” she swept her hand to the boy, “it is but a lad and his dog. Can they be so much danger to me?” She straightened her gown and the belt, with its dangle of iron keys, the symbol of her womanhood and mistress-ship of a household. “Naught is hurt save my dignity.” She smiled. “And I have little of that for it to be dented.”

  She bent to examine the dog with the boy. “The gum is split; if you bathe it with rosemary and comfrey it will soon heal.”

  “The tooth is loose,” the boy said with concern. “Look. He’ll lose it for sure As well it is only a pup’s tooth. I would not like him to be disadvantaged against the other dogs. My father’s hounds can be a bad-tempered lot.”

  “So can your father when roused,” Pallig growled, also squinting at the dog’s bleeding gum.

  The boy glanced up at him, grinned. “Aye, you’re right there! He’ll whip the backside off me if he hears of this.” He turned to Emma, bowed his head. “Forgive me, Lady. This wayward dog of mine is not yet as obedient as I would like him to be. I trust you have come to no harm? That you are not angry with me?”

  “I am angry merely at the fact you have an advantage. I have no knowledge of your name, nor of your rough-tempered father.”

  Again the boy grinned as he looked square and unashamed into her eyes, his stance and bearing reflecting nothing but pride. “You do know my father, he is Wulfnoth Thegn of the manor of Compton in the region of the South Saxons, and master of the Wessex contingent of the scyp fyrd. I am Godwine, his eldest son. We have the royal blood of Alfred in our veins.” He gave a slight shrug, admitted, “Though I confess it is somewhat diluted.”

  Wulfnoth? She liked Wulfnoth, one of the few who had made her feel welcome here in this godforsaken damp and dismal place called England. This boy did not have the beard or the sea-weathered, tanned, and crinkled skin of his father, but the likeness was there, now that she knew what to look for.

  “When I am come to manhood, I intend to serve the King and become an Ealdorman,” Godwine declared with forthright boasting.

  Emma did not doubt it! “Or perhaps you could serve me, your Queen?” she suggested tentatively.

  Chewing the corner of his lower lip, Godwine frowned. That had not occurred to him before. “Aye,” he answered after a short pause to think on the matter. He grinned, liking the idea. “Aye, perhaps I could.”

  “You speak good Danish,” Emma said to keep the conversation alive, aware she was deliberately avoiding a return to the hall. “It is most disconcerting to be unsure of what people are saying about you.”

  “My grandfather was also a sea trader before the joint ache got into his knees and forced him to stay abed,” Godwine explained, ignoring the snort of derision Pallig made. “He spends most the day complaining he would have no trouble setting the world to rights if only his legs were able to carry him again. Father says he is a mithering old goat. He taught Papa the different tongues of a trader’s world, as he is tutoring myself and my brother. My brother will probably go to the monastery before long; he has a lame leg, so he’ll not be making a seaman. Or a Thegn.” Almost in mid-sentence, Godwine changed to an attempt at French. “Je parle très bien le français, n’est ce pas?”

  Delighted, Emma clapped her hands. “Mais oui, très bien!”

  Godwine indicated her captain. “Thegn Pallig’s father was from Oxford. His father was Danish, blood kindred to King Erik of the Bloodaxe, so Pallig was able to claim a wife of the royal Danish line. Gunnhilda is a half-sister to King Swein.”

  Clipping the back of his hand against the lad’s ear, Pallig scolded, “Hush, boy, we do not want our hearing scorched by your prattling.”

  Emma had fallen silent, the smile in her eyes fading. Pallig had a wife? The man who was going to be her loyal friend had another loyalty?

  “You are wed?” she asked lamely, her large eyes imploring him to deny it.

  “Aye, and a daughter of three years, with another child due come the autumn.”

  “But you are my captain!” she blurted, dismayed and disappointed.

  “I am well capable of doing my duty to you and remain loyal to my wife.”

  Emma swallowed tears. There had been so much that was new and bewildering. Everything of her life had been tossed high into the air and had landed again in a higgle-piggle muddle where she could find nothing, not even herself. Nothing was familiar, nothing was safe. “I thought you were going to be my friend,” she mumbled lamely. “I do so need a friend.”

  Pallig laid one finger beneath her chin, tipped her face upwards, said with gentle kindness, “If I did not intend to be your friend, never would I have agreed to being your captain.”

  “You will like Gunnhilda,” Godwine interrupted eagerly. “She is one of the few women around here who is not stuffed as full as a nag’s nosebag with her own importance. She’s nice.”

  The man guffawed and ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “What is all this? Straying from your wife, eh, Pallig?”

  Athelstan! Pallig turned, his brow furrowing. Emma took a step backwards, her face flushing crimson, aware the newcomer had seen the way her captain had tilted her chin and smiled at her. There had been nothing untoward in the gesture, but Æthelred’s eldest son was the sort of man who would see chalk where there was gold if it suited him.

  Holding his silence, Pallig bent to retrieve his axe, wiped its blade edge with his thumb.

  “My brother is searching for you, Godwine,” Athelstan said gruffly. “Edmund will not be pleased to discover you consorting with the enemy.”

  Godwine wiped his hand under his nose, sniffed. He was wary of Athelstan, who could be short-tempered and humourless, unlike his younger brother, who was a good friend and as adept as Godwine at getting into mischief.

  Casually inspecting the edge of his axe blade, Pallig answered for the boy in English. “Spite is not a fitting companion for a future King, my Lord. Especially when it is directed at a lass who cannot defend herself in word or action.” He nodded at Emma. “This marriage was your father’s doing, not hers.”

  “I have nothing against the girl,” Athelstan growled as he stalked away. “As long as she proves to be barren.”

  Aware she had been the subject of an unpleasant exchange, Emma looked from Pallig to Godwine. “I think,” she said, “Æthelred’s son does not like me.”

  Pallig shrugged, making light of things. “He will come round.”

  Emma gave a shy but knowing smile. “No, I think he will not.”
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  9

  May 1002—Canterbury

  Athelstan was not in the best of moods. Too much ale last night had kept him late abed, so the porridge in the cauldron was all but gone, and he had been obliged to eat the burnt lump at the bottom. And he had lost his temper with his father. Again.

  He could never do right as far as Æthelred was concerned. If he stayed away from council, he was called lazy; if he asked to attend, he was accused of stepping in his father’s shadow. What did the man want from him? His blood?

  Striding into the stables, Athelstan paused at hearing his brother and Thegn Wulfnoth’s boy, Godwine, talking together. To his annoyance, they were talking of Emma.

  “Good God, boy!” Athelstan barked as he selected his saddle from the rack. “You speak of her as if she were the Madonna, not a Norman interloper.”

  Edmund scowled. “I only said she was learning English quickly; what is wrong with that?” Why was his elder brother always so tetchy and belligerent? He never seemed to laugh or jest these days, nor have a good word to say of anybody, save for their dead grandmother.

  Clicking his tongue at his stallion to make it move over, Athelstan busied himself with harnessing the animal. “The way you speak, anyone would think Ælfgifu was God-gifted.”

  “She prefers to be called Emma, you know that. You’re only jealous because she is in our grandmother’s place.” Edmund’s retort was as bloody-minded as his brother’s. “Well, Grandmama is dead. You should be forgetting about her.”

  “If it had not been for her, I would have had nothing!”

  “Aye, and because of her, I have nothing!” Edmund’s response was abrupt. He was tired of having to compete with a memory, for, unlike his brother, he had every reason to be indifferent about the woman who had shown affection only for Athelstan.

  Embarrassed at the argument, Godwine, brushing at the shedding winter coat of his pony, bent to clean the animal’s belly. He was not yet nine and appreciated Edmund’s friendship, realising that because of it he was more often at court than most boys his age. Out of loyalty to his friend or from his own precocious opinion, he had as little as possible to do with Athelstan. Godwine did not dislike the elder of the two brothers, but openly admitted he was afraid of the man. He never seemed to do or say the right thing whenever Athelstan was near.