“Pallig says,” Gunnhilda remarked, “that like us, swans mate for life; if one of them dies, the other dies of a broken heart, and before life fades from it forever, it sings the most beautiful of songs.”
“I would not suffer a broken heart were Æthelred to die.” The words tripped from Emma’s lips before she could stop them. Fortunately, the other women had quickened on ahead, and a sudden squabble from two of the children drowned the indiscretion.
Gunnhilda said nothing, but placed her fingers on Emma’s arm in mute sympathy. She shared passion and love with Pallig, and found it difficult to imagine a marriage without contentment. She was not so ignorant as to be unaware that many marriages were a tortured Hell, though, or that hers was a rare happiness.
“Do not go too near the edge!” she called to Freya as the women spread their cloaks and settled themselves on the summer-dried grass. Some of the children began picking daisies to make neck and ankle chains; two of the younger boys, no more than five years old, found a stick which they tossed for Saffron to chase, although their range was only a few yards. The dog did not mind; any game was eagerly enjoyed.
Tucking her hands behind her head, Emma lay back, gazed up at the white puffball clouds floating overhead. That one looked like a tree, that one a bird. What would it be like to sit on a cloud and stare down at the world? She closed her eyes, drifted into sleep, the sound of laughter and chatter distant in her ears, the sun warm and comforting on her face. She had not slept well during the night, as unpleasant dreams had troubled her.
A shower of cold water sprayed over her, bringing her instantly awake. Saffron, her tongue lolling, tail wagging, stood shaking her wet coat, the stick dropped expectantly by her mistress’s hand.
“Wretched dog!” Emma laughed as, sitting up, she threw the stick away, laughed louder as, landing far out into the river, the dog jumped in after it. “I swear the daft animal would follow a stick were it tossed into the fires of Hell!”
She must have dozed longer and deeper than she had realised, for the sun had shifted and more clouds had ushered in. The swans, too, were gone—no, there they were, preening their feathers a short way along the bank. Edmund, Emma noticed, was fetching in his fishing line, winding the thread carefully around the birch pole, fastening the hook. She would like to have been friends with Edmund, but Athelstan had made that hope impossible.
Scrabbling up the bank, Saffron hauled herself from the river, shook herself again, showering the children this time.
Emma stretched the ache in her shoulders, closed her eyes, and breathed in the damp freshness of the riverside air, the scent of the grass, the summer drowsiness. She liked the smell of England; it was strong and dependable, centuries of existence wrapped in its surrounding comfort, like a mantle. She sighed. A contented afternoon, quiet and pleasant, but meaningless. Could she go through the rest of her life like this, drifting from one idle day to another with no ultimate aim or focus? Perhaps when children came it would be better for her; perhaps Æthelred would have some respect for her then? Perhaps. Unlikely, though.
The dog started barking again. A girl screamed. Emma’s eyes snapped open as two of her women, shrieking with fear, began frantically flapping their hands and skirts. The cob swan had waddled along the bank in search of food, and the dog, not knowing better, had run at it, hoping to play. Enraged, the huge male bird spread its wings, lowered its long neck, and lunged at the barking nuisance. Doing the sensible thing for once, Saffron hurriedly backed away, but the girl, Freya, was not so agile. She turned to run and tripped, falling headlong into a clump of nettles, her screams rising louder as the irritant poison of the leaves burnt into her skin. The bird, annoyed by the new noise, made straight for her.
Everything was so quick! Edmund, seeing what was happening, was running along the bank, waving his fishing pole and shouting. Leofstan was running, too, but he had wandered over to a group of trees to relieve himself and was too far away. He took aim with his spear, but did not dare throw it for fear of hitting the girl. Gunnhilda was trying to lumber to her feet, the weight of the child she was carrying and her full skirt hampering her movement.
Thinking quickly, Emma bent to pick up the dog’s discarded stick and, swishing it backwards and forwards, drove at the swan, made her own threatening, hissing noises through her teeth. Distracted, the bird swung away from Freya, but before it could open its wings to beat at Emma, she darted forward and, without care of her own safety, threw herself on top of the bird, straddling its body, pinning its wings down with her arms. “Get the children away!” she shouted. “And call my idiot dog! Get away!”
Someone was beside her, Edmund, a dagger in his hand, his intention to cut the creature’s throat.
“No!” Emma yelled. “He meant no harm,” and before the boy could react, she had somehow twisted herself and shoved the startled bird, with a crash of spray, into the river.
Grinning, Edmund helped Emma to her feet, the pair of them breathing hard, the reaction of laughter twitching at their mouths as the swan, feathers ruffled, indignantly paddled out into the safety of the current.
“That was bravely done, though somewhat foolish. I have known a swan to seriously injure a man.”
Calming her breath, Emma busied herself with brushing imaginary stains from her gown. She had known that too. One of her sisters had suffered many months of agony with a broken arm because of an angered swan.
“I would rather it was I who came to harm than the little one,” she said, nodding towards Freya, who was sobbing in her mother’s arms. The women and the elder children were hastily gathering cool, green dock leaves to put on the mass of white, stinging blisters erupting on her arms and legs.
“There is a better thing!” Edmund said as he hurriedly unlaced his braes. “Hold her still…”
“What are you doing?” Gunnhilda shrieked, appalled, dragging her daughter aside as the boy promptly began to urinate over the girl.
“It is all right!” Emma reassured, remembering a long-forgotten incident from her own days of childhood. “Urine stops the stinging. My father did the same to me once; it took the pain away almost immediately.”
Gathering the girl into her cloak, Gunnhilda nodded her uncertain gratitude, and Edmund regarded Emma with a new look of respect. Two years younger than her, he was, nonetheless, almost her height. A stocky boy, with the promise of a man’s handsome face once his features fleshed out. “I misjudged you,” he admitted generously. “Godwine said you were a promising Queen. I told him he did not know shit from shingle.” Gallantly, he held out his hand in a gesture of surrender and offered friendship. “He was right, I was wrong.”
Emma took the hand with a pleased but embarrassed smile. She felt she had to say something significant. What?
“I had no more say in this marriage than did you or your brother. It was not my wish to be married to your father, nor that a son of mine might replace Athelstan’s position.”
Not wanting to offend, Edmund rubbed his hand across his mouth and chin, was wary with his reply. Finally, with a grin, he responded, “You might have courage, but you also have the empty brain of a barnyard hen! I can see, if I am going to make a half-decent Queen out of you, I will have to start teaching you some basic rules.”
At Emma’s puzzled frown he laughed, a belly-rumble of amusement. “You must learn to look to yourself before bothering with the fate of others!”
Emma frowned, considered, said, “Is that not somewhat selfish? Is it not my duty to care for the welfare of those who require the protection of their sovereign Lady?”
“Aye, it is selfish to ignore the need of the poor or the sick, the young, old, and those worse off. But it is not selfish to grab hold of all you can—and keep tight hold of it—among the fools who inhabit my father’s court.”
“You are going to be a Queen,” her mother had said. “All will look to you for guidance and instruction.” It had not occurred to Emma, then, to ask her mother from where she was to obtain the kno
wledge, inner energy, and emotional stability to do what was expected of her. If it were to come from God, then He had, thus far, been most lax in His instruction.
“And what of Athelstan?” she asked.
“Athelstan,” Edmund countered, “likes to think that I do as he bids. For the most part, I do not disillusion him.” He grinned. “For the rest of it, he can go boil his head. Like I said, to survive you have to do what you want, not what others have in mind for you.”
14
Godegifa was almost hysterical as she entered Emma’s chamber. She strode through the door, her hands gesturing wildly. “You could have been killed, and I would have been blamed. I have always said you are a thoughtless child.”
Emma would have been flattered had she thought the agitation was for her benefit. Sitting on the bed, she continued removing her outdoor shoes, replacing them with soft squirrel-fur slippers. The toe of one, she noticed, was slightly mauled. She smiled; Saffron’s contribution. The pup was at that annoying stage when she would chew anything left lying around. She had ravaged one of Æthelred’s boots the other night; Emma had been horrified, convinced her husband would take his anger out on her, but to her surprise he had merely laughed and tossed the other boot to the dog, declaring the animal might as well have both of them. It seemed odd that her husband was so kindly disposed towards the waywardness of animals and yet was so indifferent with her and his eldest son. She assumed he was disappointed with her. Was he also disappointed with Athelstan?
On Emma’s behalf, Gunnhilda answered Lady Godegifa’s bluster. “We are quite safe. My daughter is upset from the experience, but her nurse is taking care of her. We thank you for your concern, however.” As sarcasm went, it was blunt and to the point.
Indicating to one of the younger women that she would appreciate a goblet of wine, Emma accepted the drink and sipped at it. Her hands were shaking; if that swan had caught her with a backlash from one of those powerful wings…Emma composed herself. The child could have been most dreadfully injured.
“Edmund is spreading talk of it all over the place!” Godegifa retorted irritably, aware that Gunnhilda had reprimanded her discourtesy. “What will the King think when he hears? He will want to know why I was not with you.”
“There is nothing to be alarmed over,” Emma stated, wishing the subject could be dropped. “I expect he will realise that Edmund, in the way of boys, is exaggerating the incident into something it was not.”
The elder woman was not listening, her discomfort heightened by fears that had been swelling out of all proportion these last few weeks. Her husband’s position within Æthelred’s favour was becoming daily more precarious; there had been another disagreement between them yesterday evening, resulting in Alfhelm taking his temper out on his wife. Would he blame her for any harm that might come to the Queen? The girl’s well-being and education had been pressed into her care, although she had frequently stated she did not want the responsibility. Alfhelm had waved aside her protests: typical man, never stopping to consider the consequences if things went wrong.
Mindful of Gunnhilda’s sharp tongue, Godegifa expressed her relief for the girl, but added, “It is well no one was hurt, but where was your guard, madam? That fool, Leofstan Shortfist? He is slovenly and useless. I shall see he receives a flogging.”
Emma swung around, angry. “It was not Leofstan’s fault; he was too far away to help.”
Godegifa seized on the excuse she needed to shift blame from herself. “Then he should not have been! What if you had been attacked, not by a swan but by a man?”
Emma’s impatience was rapidly expanding into fury. She felt the wrath building inside her, ready to spew out like a poorly sealed jar of over-fermented beer. If this insufferable woman said one more word…
“The swan will have to be dealt with; we cannot have a rogue bird on the river. Have you thought to order its destruction? Oh, leave it to me. I will see to it.” Unaware of Emma’s building hostility, Godegifa headed for the door, was stopped short as her friend Ethelflad hurried in, her appearance disheveled, her manner as agitated as her own had been.
“There, you see.” Godegifa turned to face Emma, her arm flourishing a dramatic gesture. “Here is another in distress over your narrow escape from mortal injury.” To Ethelflad announced, “The Lady is unharmed, although she does not seem to appreciate the danger she had placed herself in.”
Ethelflad faltered, puzzled. “What in God’s name are you prattling about? It is my brother’s position that is in danger! Æthelred is threatening to banish him into exile. Go, please, to beg your husband to support Leofsige’s innocence. He has been unjustly accused.”
Gathering her gown as if avoiding contagion Godegifa stepped back a pace. “And taint ourselves with your misfortune? I think not! Alfhelm warned Leofsige to be wary of overstepping the boundary, but your brother never was one to listen to sense. He is as foolish as you are.”
For a moment Ethelflad stared at the woman she had thought was a friend, then swept past and sank to her knees before Emma. “My Lady, I plead with you to intercede, to petition your husband into rethinking this madness! My brother was but doing his duty as an Ealdorman.”
From across the room Gunnhilda said scornfully, “By hanging a royal appointed reeve in front of his wife and children? Without the legality of a trial?”
Ethalflade turned her head quickly towards the Danish woman, retorted with as much scorn, “The man refused to obey my brother’s orders and evict a family who had not paid their rent. He was insubordinate.”
Emma withdrew her hands from Ethelflad’s and wiped the intrusive feel of sweat from her palms onto her gown. How dare they? How dare these two conceited, assuming women attempt to use her so blatantly?
“I have heard what happened,” she stated. “I have learnt enough English to comprehend the whispered conversations and aggrieved protests rustling through my husband’s court. Is it not equally as insubordinate for your brother to presume the duties of an anointed King?” She looked across at Gunnhilda. Announced, “Word appears to be spreading of our afternoon’s excitement, Gunnhilda. Your husband will most assuredly hear of it and grasp the wrong end of the spear.”
Ignoring the woman kneeling on the floor, she stood, went to her friend, said, “You look exhausted. Until my physician arrives, rest on my bed. I shall personally seek Pallig and send him to you.”
Walking to the door, Emma smiled at the apprehensive Leofstan, hovering on the threshold, his hands clenched, hopping from foot to foot. He was eight and ten years old, anxious to please, scared to offend, and mortified to have failed. His worry turning to a radiant grin as Emma laid her hand on his arm, her words leaving him uncompromisingly devoted to her service.
“I am more than satisfied with your ability, Leofstan, and I am full aware that neither you nor any of my men would knowingly allow harm to come to me. You shall escort me to find Pallig.”
Appalled at being ignored, Ethelflad scrabbled to her feet. “But you cannot…”
Swivelling on her heel, Emma interrupted, furious, “What can I not do, madam? Your brother took it upon himself to hang a King’s man. The King’s reeve, not your brother’s. He hanged a man who had the right to a trial of judgement. Aside from that, why come to me for aid? You and Godegifa have often expressed the opinion that I am a child with no sense or intelligence, and that Godegifa’s daughter would have made a better Queen than I. I suggest, therefore, you seek her aid, not mine.”
15
Darkness had fallen an hour ago. The shutters had been closed at dusk, candles and lamps lit. Emma sat before her table, dressed only in her under-shift, with a soft lamb’s-wool mantle draped across her shoulders, her hair hanging unbraided. She had been combing it, but her hand had paused at the sound of the door-latch lifting, the tread of boots coming into the room. Æthelred. What would he say about her afternoon’s escapade? Despite the bravado she had shown to Godegifa, she had been aware of the probable disapproval by her husban
d. She smiled at the only serving maid, a girl of no more than her own age.
“Merci bien, you may leave me now the King has come.”
The girl, with a wary glance at Æthelred, bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
Æthelred helped himself to wine, sat on the edge of the bed to drink it. There was something different about him tonight, something less intense. He bent down to fondle Saffron’s ears, then rub at her belly as the dog rolled onto her back, her absurdly large paws waving in the air.
“Dog’s as daft as a mooncalf,” he said. “She’ll have no sense for hunting.”
“But I do not intend to use her for hunting,” Emma answered, surprised at her audacity. “You have better dogs for that task.”
Draining the goblet, Æthelred agreed affably. “You are right there, plenty far better than this runt.” He glanced up at Emma, looked away. “Would you like to come hunting with me? I’ve not had a chance to show you much sport yet, but now it is unlikely that bastard pain in the backside, Forkbeard, will be troubling us, I can devote some of my time to you.” He set the goblet down, started to unlace his tunic. “I heard of your exploits today,” he remarked casually, without raising his eyes. “There has been talk of nothing else. You are quite the heroine.”
His fingers stopped their fumbling; he looked at her from across the room, his eyes meeting hers, aware he had treated her poorly these short months of marriage. He had not meant to; it had been the pressure of that damned Danishman nagging at him, the knowing it would be impossible to gather an army together and see him off, once and for all. He felt inadequate and useless when those Viking longships were prowling the coast, and had a desperate need to prove his power and importance. He had never been permitted the initiative before, not while his mother had lived. Power? Importance? What did he know of either? She had held the reins of both in her talons, tossing him a chewed bone occasionally as compensation. Him? King? The only thing of kingship he had held were the symbols, the sceptre and the crown. Ælfthryth had taken everything else from him and used it for her own gain. From childhood she had controlled and commanded him, down to choosing which women should share his bed and bear his children. And when the first son came, had taken him too. Oh, he knew they whispered and sneered behind his back, mocked him, insulted him because of it. As a counter, he blustered and shouted, ruled his kingdom by pretence of wrath. Then he got drunk and took his impotence out on those who could not answer him back. Proved his manhood where he could, in bed.
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