Not a man, a boy, with fair hair spilling beneath his cap and no hint of hair on his upper lip or chin.
Emma called out in her astonishment, “Do the í-víking fight with boys now, then, Forkbeard? Do you not have grown men to do your butchering?”
The boy rode proud, his fingers curled around the double-handed axe haft that was slung, almost lazily, across his shoulder. Returned her contemptuous gaze.
“I am no boy,” he answered, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet mist. “I am Cnut Sweinsson.”
Godric Osgodsson frowned, spoke softly to Emma. “I heard rumour that Forkbeard brought his younger son with him. He would be what age?” Godric turned to look at some of the faces clustered round, seeking advice.
“Almost twelve, sir. Swein’s eldest is fifteen; Cnut would be eleven or twelve.”
“And he lets the boy fight?” Emma asked, incredulous.
“I doubt it.” Godric shook his head. “He would be with the baggage most part, I would warrant, but how else does a King train a Prince for warfare? Not by leaving him at home to kick his heels and make mischief.” He did not add that there were plenty of eleven-year-old boys—aye, and younger—swelling the ranks of men lined along the top of these walls.
With the last of the Danish column disappearing southwards into the mist and the direction of their moored ships at Southampton, Emma forgot the boy. She lifted her skirts and whisked away down the steps, her face set in annoyed fury.
As humiliations went, Swein of Denmark had superseded all other degradations. He had deprived Æthelred of wealth and honour and was walking away with a cocksure swagger. So Æthelred had paid the demand of six and thirty thousand pounds of silver? Had allowed the Danish army to march, virtually unchallenged, through more than sixty miles of English land and had permitted them to flaunt their arrogance before his Queen? How dare he! The Danish army had been nothing more than a hotchpotch of tired, ragged men who wanted to go home. Who in all Hell’s name had advised Æthelred to pay the geld and remain hidden in London?
Oh, she knew the answer to that! Eadric Streona, new-made Ealdorman of all Mercia and recently married husband to the King’s bastard daughter. God in His Heaven, if she knew how to fight, she would dress herself in armour and lead her own army against that damned, poxed Danishman and his son. Knew for a certainty that Æthelred would not.
36
17 March 1008—Woodstock
They say a man was cured of leprosy just by kneeling before his tomb!”
“And a woman, unable to bear children for the entirety of her ten-year marriage, became with child a month after prostrating herself there.”
Shaftesbury Abbey, Emma thought to herself, turning slightly more towards the lamplight, her back to the chattering women, has much to answer for.
She was not entirely convinced that the bones of a dead man, who had been no more immortal than any of them while alive, could be responsible for the curing of all ills. And yet—she fashioned three more stitches into the chair cover she was embroidering—and yet there had been these miracles at Shaftesbury, almost from the very day Æthelred had ordered his half-brother’s remains to be transferred there seven years past. The tedium was that they went through this selfsame routine every year at the approach of the eighteenth day of March. Æthelred dreaded the anniversary of his brother’s murder, and Emma too was beginning to feel apprehensive.
Had Edward been a saint in life, a holy man, or, at the very least, liked if not loved, then she could understand these beliefs growing up around the tomb, but he had been a boy, and a foolhardy one at that. What did God gain from permitting him this accession to martyrdom and allowing his soul to perform such perfect acts?
“A blind man was able to see, his sight restored while he was there, kneeling in prayer.”
“I have heard that a woman who was desperate for a son to be born to her, took her newborn daughter and left her on the tomb steps. In the morning she had changed into a boy!”
“Mayhap you ought to take yourself along to Shaftesbury, Judith,” Emma said, folding away her needlework, “and pray for Edward the Martyr to grant you an ounce of common sense.”
The women laughed, Emma, after a moment’s uncertain hesitation, joining in. It was not their fault she was in this wretched, melancholy mood. Not their fault that she dreaded her husband’s bouts of unyielding temper.
The door opened, the children’s nurse creeping in as if she were about to enter a dragon’s den. Wymarc was a conscientious girl but short on discipline with the children, Emma thought, with young Edward in particular. On the face side of the coin, at least the boy did not whine and grizzle as much now.
“If you please, ma’am.” Wymarc bobbed a reverence. “The children are settled into bed, ready for you to bid them a good night.”
Emma managed to make her smile appear genuine. “Thank you, girl; I shall be there presently.”
Leofgifu had found Wymarc in the Winchester slave market. A red-haired, Breton child of five and ten years of age, with eyes as large as broth bowls and the sweet voice of a summer lark. Leofgifu was an excellent judge of character and, after a few pertinent questions, had purchased the girl. Wymarc had come from a large family of a dozen children, she being the next eldest, but when her father had died, there had been no way to pay the rent for their farm, and the landlord had thrown them out. Her mother had taken the younger children to relations in the south of Brittany; for the four eldest, slavery or starvation had been the only options. Wymarc’s fortune had come when the slave master brought her to Winchester on the day Leofgifu was searching for someone to help care for the royal children.
“Little Goda is teething, I believe,” Wymarc added shyly, uncertain whether to speak. “She is fretful, and her cheeks are sorely red-spotted.”
“It is the great pity that children are not born with teeth,” Emma answered, rising from her seat. She was always reluctant to tend this pointless nightly ritual, but bidding children good night appeared to be a mother’s expected duty. “A full set of teeth would save us all many sleepless nights.” She flashed Wymarc a smile of encouragement, was rewarded with an amused chuckle.
“Aye, my Lady, but t’would be painful for the suckling nurse!”
The children’s quarters were tucked in the side of the palace complex in a separate lean-to building behind the royal apartments. Woodstock was a rambling, scattered arrangement of timber buildings with a central hall. It was as if each successive generation of Kings had added his own contribution of servants’ quarters, stabling, or kennels without caring to remove anything that already existed. Æthelred preferred Woodstock to all his estates; Emma loathed it, but then he cherished his hunting and she did not. Another nuisance, as with his Thorney Island palace, Woodstock could not boast of cobbling or paving to courtyard and pathway, the place was awash with mud. No bother to the men, who cared nothing for the state of boots and hose, but for women, with their finely made gowns and trailing sleeves, mud was a dreadful nuisance.
Gathering her over-gown of saffron wool and the under-tunic of pale blue linen almost to her knees, Emma trod carefully across the yard. The wooden planking laid as walkways helped somewhat when rain persisted in earnest, but then the wood was often slippery and dangerous. Emma was never certain whether she preferred the task of ploughing through a quagmire or risking a broken neck.
Edward was snuggled beneath heavy bed furs of wolf and bearskin in a box bed shared with several other offspring of his father’s highest cnights and noblemen. The younger two, Alfred and Goda, were not yet of a status to leave their cots. From tomorrow when the Ealdormen and Thegns arrived, the children’s chamber would be crowded with youngsters, an exciting time for them all, an opportunity to make friends and discover new games and mischiefs. Emma was glad their care went to nurses and slaves, that she would have little to do with them. Children’s play held no interest for her, perhaps because her own childhood amusements had been restricted to the point of nonexistence
. She remembered a cloth doll and a wooden top. If there had been other toys, she could not recall them.
Edward had no liking for change and unfamiliar faces. He lay, curled and hunched on the edge of the hay-filled mattress, afraid of the prospect of the next few weeks. His face was puckered and sullen, his eyes brimming with tears.
Emma stifled her impatience as she brushed her lips against his cheek. “You will have ample opportunity to enjoy yourself, Edward,” she said, sitting on the bed and stroking damp hair from his pale forehead. “The calling of council is always holiday for you boys, is it not?”
“They pull my hair and make fun of me,” Edward mumbled. “I hate them.”
“But as my eldest, you are the Ætheling, the next King. It is for you to command them not to.” Emma sighed. He was three years old. How did she instil courage and confidence into one so young? But if he was to be King after Æthelred, he would have to learn, and learn quickly, how to stand up for himself and earn respect from his peers. She glanced at Wymarc, who stood nearby.
“I will take care that there is no nonsense, my Lady.”
“Thank you. I know you have my children’s interests always close to heart.”
Alfred, when she crossed to his cot, was already sleeping, his thumb firm in his mouth, his eyes closed, with the long, fair lashes swept down to touch his cheeks. Emma felt an unexpected shudder ripple through her body as a memory of the daughter of the dead Ealdorman Alfhelm swam into her vision. Ælfgifu, a child, forced to mature and accept the hideous side of life within a few short heartbeats. Would Emma ever forget that face of vengeance? Ælfgifu had burst in on Emma, her fingernails going to claw at the face of her newborn son—thank God for the waiting women who fell upon the girl and shrieked for the guard to come.
“Why do my brothers endure the agony of mutilation and blindness?” she had screamed as they dragged her away. “Why should your sons not suffer as they do? They will one day! I shall see to it they will!”
It was an empty curse, one made through grief and fear, but Emma had ordered the girl and her family removed from court, not that any of them cared to stay. Had she been able, would Emma have done anything to stop her husband’s ordered punishment of those boys? It was the way of things; their father had betrayed his King, and the sons had defended his death and paid the price of kinship. Although it had been a high price, that blinding.
Emma slid the memory aside, touched the crown of Alfred’s soft, golden hair. Why was she fond of this youngest son and not the eldest? Why did she so dislike Edward? They looked similar, the same coloured, slight-curled hair, the same blue eyes, slender fingers, and upturned nose. Perhaps because Alfred was the more courageous and daring of the two, despite his younger age? He had toddled earlier than Edward, not minding the bumped knees and bruises when he fell. Alfred rarely cried or snivelled; he ate all put before him without fussing or pulling faces. Alfred already made it clear that he wanted to ride a pony and play among the rougher hounds. Edward picked at his food and shrank away from animals, fearing their size and noise.
As Wymarc had reported, Goda was red-faced and restless, her fist stuffed against her dribbling lips, her mouth sore and uncomfortable. “Have you rubbed essence of cloves on her gums?” Emma queried. Wymarc confirmed that she had. “Then there is no more we can do for her.”
It sounded hard and uncaring, but Emma was a Queen; she did not have the opportunity, like Wymarc, to lift the fretful child and hug her and hold her close. She dare not, for if she were to begin to love the girl, her heart would all too soon be broken. Emma realised that now, now that she had a daughter of her own, why her mother had been so cold and distant. Girl children were sent away as wives before they had a chance to grow into women; mothers dared not love their daughters for the grief of having, so soon, to part from them.
Before the urge to lift her up, hold her, became overpowering, Emma turned away and left the stuffy chamber that smelt of breast milk and soiled linen.
With her hand on the latch of her own chamber, a gruff voice from across the courtyard hailed her. She waited for Eadric Streona to come up to her, bow, although his obediences were never over-pronounced.
“Lady, I considered it best to summon you.”
“What is so wrong, sir, that you must accost me like this?” Emma did so detest this grovelling weasel. She frowned, realised Streona, usually so self-assured, was floundering out of his depth, like a man who could not swim. He had the good grace to lower his head against the red flush of embarrassment that touched his cheeks. How it must be denting his pride to come to Emma for assistance!
“It is the King, ma’am. He is in a bad way.”
The derisive laugh burst out of her mouth. “His drunkenness is not my concern, Ealdorman. I suggest you seek his body servant or physician—or one of the slaves to clean the mess he has vomited over everything.”
“No, you misinterpret me. He is ill, and I do not feel it wise to allow too many tongue tattlers to hear of it.”
Ill from too much drinking, too much eating? Let him suffer! Emma sighed. She was Æthelred’s wife, duty had its expected rules. She nodded. “I will come.”
Æthelred lay on his bed, hunched and crumpled, much as Edward had been, his arms over his head, knees drawn up. His skin, when Emma laid her hand on his forehead, felt hot, burning to the touch, yet he was shivering, his teeth chattering.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked, drawing another bed fur to cover him.
“These last two hours,” Streona admitted, aware he ought to have summoned aid before now. “We returned early from hunting; the King was in a morose mood—the day was a disappointment, a poor scent.” He shrugged philosophically. “He has been suffering a strange malaise these past days, but riding through the gates he heard this latest spread of gossip concerning his dead brother’s healing powers.”
The new Ealdorman of Mercia was baffled; there was not this guilt of conscience over other men killed in what amounted to nothing less than murder—whatever the convenient excuse publicly given. Æthelred had barely turned a hair at Alfhelm’s disposal, nor had his half-brother’s death been of his doing. That was his mother’s concern, and she had either paid her penance or was burning in Hell for it.
“He dismounted without a word,” Streona continued, “shut himself in here, and gave orders not to be disturbed. His steward,” he said, indicating a worried-looking Gilbertson, “entered to help him ready himself for supper, found him crouched on the floor, gibbering nonsense. Sensibly, he ran straight to fetch me.”
Not me, Emma thought. Does that not show how worthy I am to my husband?
“Fetch hot water and clean garments,” Emma instructed. “I will send for herbs to calm him.” As reluctant as she was to agree with Streona, it would do Æthelred great harm for word of this to leak out and greater harm were he not to appear in hall this night. A King who wished to keep his crown could never publicly display a weakness, and here was Æthelred whimpering, his thumb stuffed in his mouth.
Damn fool, she thought as she washed the sweat from his face and body, dressed him in clean garments. This was typical of Æthelred—run from the truth, hide in a jug of ale. Why could she not have a husband who faced his enemy with courage? One who feared nothing, not his failures or fears, from this world or the next?
Æthelred clung to her as if he were a child, as Edward would. Tears streaked his face, his hands trembled. “I saw them do it,” he slurred. “I watched as he dismounted his horse and walked forward to greet me and my mother. They surrounded him and killed him.” He looked at his hands, began rubbing them, wiping at something there only he could see. “So much blood! It ran down the cobbles, puddling in the cracks. Bright red blood. So much of it.”
He grabbed for Emma’s arm, his fingernails digging through the linen of her sleeve, burning into the flesh beneath. He stared at her, eyes wide, frightened. “Were you there? Did you see? Did you hear?” He let Emma go, his hands moving to cover his fa
ce, the sobs shaking his body. “He took so long to die, it took so much to kill him!”
Lifting the cup of valerian mixed with wine, Emma encouraged Æthelred to drink while murmuring soothing, childish words that she would normally use for little Goda. What a weak, useless man this Æthelred of England was!
Later, wearing her crown and her best, finest gown, Emma walked into the hall, her hand held high, clasped tight to her husband’s. His face was ashen, his lips quivered, but the strength in her fingers flowed into his, and her warning echoed in his ears.
“If you show them you are afraid of a ghost, Æthelred, it shall be your end. There are only a few nobles gathered here as yet, but from the morrow all your council will be in attendance. Do you think these few will avert their eyes and seal their lips? With the priests preaching the end of all life is close and Swein Forkbeard God knows how much closer, how long will their loyalty remain intact if they see you dribbling like a milksop because you cannot face the fact of your brother’s death?”
She was angry, the anger spilling over into a boldness that had only partially raised its head before. She found it a welcome companion. When Swein Forkbeard had paraded his strength past the walls of Winchester, she had realised the prospect of losing all she had and realised too that she would do anything, anything at all, to ensure she kept it. That realisation had been growing stronger inside her ever since.
If Æthelred crumpled, she would fall with him. This was a loveless marriage; she had two sons, one of whom she detested, and a daughter she dare not show affection to. Her only assets were her crown and her pride. She was not prepared to relinquish either because Æthelred was too pathetic to lay a ghost to rest. She could now understand why his mother had acted as she had. Why it had been imperative to have Edward killed, for the wearing, and the keeping, of a crown carried a heavy price and an even heavier burden.
They sat at the King’s table resplendent with gold plate, silver, and pewter set on a white fine linen tablecloth. Emma dipped her hands in the offered washbowl, dried them on a linen towel.
The Forever Queen Page 19
