The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  She entered the chamber, a room filled with men, Edward beside her, with all these eyes swivelling towards him, too scared to move. Emma dipped a curtsy at her husband, seated on the far side, and trundled her son forward as if he were an old cider barrel.

  Æthelred had his head bent over a letter crumpled into his hand and was weeping loudly. Edward glanced up at his mother to see if she was angry, was surprised to see a rare soft expression of concern. Was more astonished when she went to Æthelred and slid her arm around his waist, placed her lips to his temple. No one was sniggering, no one was slyly nudging his neighbour, or rolling his eyes and making derisory gestures.

  “My son, my poor son,” Æthelred sniffed, fumbling with his free hand for Emma’s. “How wrongly I treated him.”

  Left to stand alone, Edward was tempted to run to his father and declare that Papa need not worry; he was quite all right, he had not minded, not really.

  As well he hesitated, for someone else said, “He served England well, my Lord, right until his death. Athelstan was a man whose passing will be widely mourned.”

  Edward felt his face burn. It was Athelstan his father was talking of, then, not himself.

  “Be comforted that he did not suffer,” Emma offered, kneeling beside Æthelred, “that he did not linger in pain.”

  “But to die alone? Abandoned by all who loved him!” Æthelred declared. “It is too bad, too bad.”

  Emma swallowed a retort, retaining her carefully schooled pretence of compassion. If Æthelred had stood his ground, Athelstan would not have gone off alone to attempt to fight Swein Forkbeard; aside, Edmund had been with him, and Godwine. As for Athelstan himself, her feelings were mixed. He had always declared he would never allow Edward to come before him when it came to the wearing of the crown, but that declaration had been for the good of England, not for his own advancement. Being honest with herself, Emma would miss Athelstan far more than ever she would Æthelred, or Edward, but then she could afford to be benevolent now that he was dead and no longer a threat to her or her sons.

  “It is my wish that my son’s bequests shall be honoured and my forgiveness of him be widespread notified,” Æthelred declared, shuddering with another sob. “Tell me, Godwine, where is he buried?”

  “He is at peace in a Derby-Shire nunnery,” Godwine said. “Edmund thought it wise to offer him a temporary resting place where none could contend its suitability.”

  A feminine grave among the nuns, an honourable burial for a royal Prince, and one that gave no pretence for a right to the crown.

  Æthelred frowned. “I would have him transferred to the minster at Winchester. It is more fitting.”

  “Royal burial?” Duke Richard commented. “With Cnut Sweinsson declared as King? There will be no chance of that!” Tactless, or a deliberate provocation?

  Hastily interrupting any response her husband might make and glowering at her brother to be silent, Emma beckoned Edward forward.

  “My Lord husband, your living son, who has remained dutiful to you throughout, has come.” Surreptitiously she encouraged Edward to stand up straight.

  As she had intended, Æthelred dramatically embraced him. “Edward, my boy! Come, come here, sit beside me, lad!”

  Enjoying the unexpected delight of importance, Edward obeyed, having to wriggle slightly to seat himself on a stool, which he realised, from his mother’s frown, was rightfully hers. He squirmed, wondering whether he ought to move. Standing behind him, Emma hissed, “Sit still, smile, and, if spoken to, reply politely in English. Do not speak French.”

  Æthelred patted Edward’s knee. The tears were gone, a smile beamed across his face. “Is he not a fine boy? Will he not make a fine King after me?”

  From where he sat on his own splendid armed chair, Duke Richard listened to his interpreter. “To become a King, he must have the prospect of a kingdom,” he stated in French. “If what we hear is true, the Danish army has declared for Cnut.”

  Ah, so the barbs were deliberate. Had Emma expected anything else? Richard had been lobbing arrows at them since the first day of their arrival, tired, weary, and sea-soaked. The crossing had been more dreadful than she had feared; Thorkell’s insistence that his ship was the best ever built and as seaworthy as a dolphin had not impressed, nor held the seasickness at bay. That was the only drawback with her resolve to return to England. When I get there, she thought, nothing, nothing whatsoever shall induce me to leave again.

  “Then we must ensure the Witan of England overrules the wanting of a rabble of heathen Danish mercenaries,” Emma answered Richard, aware Æthelred was too engrossed in stroking his son’s hair and patting his cheek to be listening. Useless man! Did he not want his kingdom restored? But did England want him restored? Swein Forkbeard had been accepted as the better option. Could the same thinking count for his son, Cnut? And then there was Edmund; he was in England, he could be chosen in place of his dead brother. For all she liked him as a man, Emma was not having that!

  “In case of treachery it will not be sensible for Æthelred to go to England,” she announced, placing her hands on Edward’s shoulders. “But I can see no practical reason why I cannot escort his eldest, legitimate son there to plead his case.”

  And once in England, they would find it damned hard to depose her a second time. To take the crown, either Cnut or Edmund would have to kill her first.

  6

  March 1014—Winchester

  Solid, unmoving land. Thank God! Emma’s knees almost buckled beneath her, might well have done had Godwine not been there to hold her arm and support her.

  “It gets you like that,” he grinned. “After being aboard ship awhile, the ground feels as if it is moving.”

  “I do not care about the ground,” Emma answered, attempting a pale smile. “It is my stomach heaving upwards that is finishing me.”

  Thorkell’s dragon craft had brought her passengers right into Winchester, judiciously flying Emma’s personal lioness emblem, with Emma steeling herself to ignore her seasickness, standing at the bow with Edward. Her thanks to God, when setting foot ashore, heart-meant.

  The city dignitaries and gathered nobles were there to meet her on this first day of March, jubilant at her return, conveniently forgetting that not many months ago they had been doing exactly the same for Swein Forkbeard. It was so tempting to remind them, but she held her silence. If this journey was to restore her crown, she had to appear gracious and forgiving.

  Suspicious looks were glanced at Thorkell’s men, but Emma silenced the muted whispering by saying, “My escort and their commander will require accommodation.”

  The reeve of Winchester coughed, embarrassed. “I confess we are ill prepared for so many, er”—he hesitated, reluctant to say the word Danes—“cnights.”

  “Out of courtesy to my escort, we use their own term, housecarl. They are hardy men. I am sure they can manage with what is available; my manor in the High Street will suffice for their needs. The place is nothing more than ramshackle buildings, but they will give adequate shelter. Unless some kindly soul has knocked the slum down in my absence?” She paused. There came no answer. Pity, one day she would have the excuse she needed to build her fine house. “For my own comfort, my son and I shall reside at Nunnaminster.” That, Emma knew, would not cause a flurry. She and the Abbess were long-acquainted friends.

  “The nunnery will indeed be suitable, Lady; the royal residence is somewhat full,” Ealdorman Eadric Streona announced, stepping forward and staring with hostility at Thorkell. “As you see, the most eminent men of England are here at Winchester to discuss matters.” He was polite but curt, annoyed because others had shouldered ahead of him to greet the Queen, and she had, so far, ignored him.

  She knew perfectly well that everyone of importance was here. She had efficient spies. “I do not see Lindsey represented, nor Northumbria. And where is the King’s son, Edmund? Has he not been included in these negotiations?” she asked.

  A voice hailed from the lane
that ran from the minster to the river wharf, a man striding with a long gait, his cloak billowing, a gaggle of followers scurrying in his wake.

  “Madam, Prince Edward, I greet you both! You arrived before Nones was completed. I apologise for my delay.” Archbishop Wulfstan. Naturally he would be here.

  He swept Emma and her son a gracious bow. “I am here to speak for the Church, of course,” Wulfstan said, indicating Emma was to proceed before him away from the crowded wharf, “but additionally I represent Uhtred. It is impossible for him to leave the North. Too volatile a situation along the Scots border, you understand.”

  Emma understood; quite clearly Uhtred was waiting to see on which side of the fence it would be more provident to graze.

  “And Edmund?” she asked.

  “Is on his way. He should be here by nightfall.”

  She was anxious to meet with her stepson. According to the cast of his mind, he could put an end to her plans or help enforce them.

  ***

  “I do not want to go to a boring meeting with Edmund.” Edward, half naked, stamped his foot and, wriggling out of Leofgifu’s grasp, ran to the far side of the chamber to shuffle into a corner.

  “You come here, child, and dress yourself. Prince Edmund will be here presently, and he will not want to see your bare backside all reddened from where my hand has poached it.” Leofgifu had stayed loyal to Emma, going with the royal family to Normandy. She had never questioned her friendship, but by God this boy, on occasion, tried her patience!

  “It’s a meeting for old men.” Edward pouted. “I shall not go. No one asked me if I wanted to come to this rotten place. No one bothered to consult what I might want.”

  “That is because you are a horrid, rude child and have no say in these things,” Leofgifu answered tartly. No one had asked her either, come to that, but where Emma went, Leofgifu went. She had not thought she would enjoy Normandy, but had, on the contrary, found it to be most enchanting. Well, if truth be told, the man she had met and felt drawn to had been the more attractive. A Norman horse trader who had promised to follow her to England. Leofgifu had no illusion it would be a promise of the short-lived, easy-forgotten kind.

  The door opened and Edmund himself stepped through. He looked tired and gaunt; the past months of outlawry had taken a high toll, adding the look of older years to a young man’s face.

  “What? Not ready, boy? Come, they are waiting for us in the hall. Your mother and I have much to discuss with council; we cannot be kept waiting because you wish to piddle about.”

  Edmund’s head was thumping, and his body ached from the miles of riding he had accomplished since hearing of Swein’s death. A week, two, asleep in bed would be most welcome. It was Edmund who had chivvied old Athelmar to send an envoy to Normandy, who had visited as many noblemen as he could, persuading them it would be a wise move to call for Æthelred’s return. Even if they could not see it, Edmund knew with certainty that if he were to take the crown for himself, he would be forced to fight to keep it. Cnut on the one side and his father on the other. Strange, he had never wanted the crown in his younger days, content to step aside for Athelstan, but now? Now he wanted it because, God help him, like his brother, he passionately cared about England.

  This way, by bringing Æthelred home, he only had Cnut to contend with. As they were boys, he had dismissed Emma’s sons as rivals, although he conceded she had been clever in bringing Edward to plead Æthelred’s pledge of good intention. He must not make the same mistake as Athelstan and underestimate her capability. Better, perhaps, to make a treaty of agreement with her? Out of them all, Emma could be the most daunting to face as an enemy and, if he had not misjudged her, the most steadfastly loyal.

  “Be quick,” he said to the boy. “Æthelings do not keep their Ealdormen waiting. Not unless they wish to be permanently exiled or openly ridiculed.”

  Exile Edward wanted. Ridicule he did not. Shoving Leofgifu aside to finish dressing—he was not a child, whatever she said—he stamped out of the chamber. It was a short walk from the nunnery to the palace, but all the same, Edward found himself out of breath as they entered the crowded hall. Edmund was a tall man, and he had a long, fast stride; the boy had needed to trot most the way in order to keep up. His interest in the morning’s events brightened when everyone stood at his entrance; they were standing for Edmund’s honour, too, but were they not both sons of a King?

  Much of what was heatedly discussed within the next half hour meant nothing to Edward. He amused himself watching the motes of dust twist and dance in the sunrays slanting in through the slit windows, and studying the facial expressions of the most senior men. Old Athelmar, wrinkled and wizened; Archbishop Wulfstan, tall, dignified; and the Archbishop of Canterbury, who slept through most of it. Ulfkell of East Anglia, stern and imposing; the coward Ælfric, furtive, with darting eyes and a tongue constantly licking his lips; Eadric Streona, who insisted on being heard, bobbing up and down every few minutes from his stool.

  “My husband has sent a letter,” Emma finally announced, nudging Edward forward with her foot. “My son, as his representative, shall read it to you. Æthelred, your King, has considered all you have had cause to complain against, and he promises, henceforth, to be a true Lord, to reform everything which causes you grievance, and to forgive, without sanction, all that has been said and committed against him.”

  Emma had rehearsed with Edward over and over the reading of this letter, determined that he should make a good and honest impression.

  Aware of the importance of his performance, Edward wanted to piss himself with fright—all those faces staring at him! He fumbled with the parchment, cleared his throat, began, “My Lords…” No one could hear him. Several men tutted and grumbled.

  “Quiet for the boy!” Edmund demanded. “Who among you has had to stand before such great company as a child and be expected to speak as a man? Let us show our respect to one who has not yet learnt our wisdom!”

  Edward smiled shyly; perhaps he liked Edmund after all? Athelstan would never have been so nice to him. He swallowed a steadying breath, began to read. He could read well and, gaining in confidence, began to enjoy showing his prowess.

  Archbishop Wulfstan, sitting at the foremost row of noblemen, listening intently, hid a smile behind a covering hand. Æthelred could not have written this letter; Emma must have had the doing of it, for it held her style, her character. Had also direct quotes from his own written works. Æthelred had never cared to read them in depth; Emma, with her intellectual cleverness, had used them to best advantage.

  “People are made prosperous under a prudent King,” Edward read, “but are made miserable under the misdirection of an ill-counselled one.”

  Those words, ill-counselled, confirmed to Wulfstan that Æthelred had not written, nor read, the missive. Never would he have alluded to the detrimental mocking of his name.

  “As your King, I, Æthelred, second King of that name, must be held responsible for injustice and hateful practices. I must govern justly and listen to my counsellors, even if their words do not please my ears. To command fair taxation and not extol profit for my own gain. It is my duty to protect my people against any attacking army, to meditate on wisdom and suppress evildoers.” Edward spoke clearer, slowing from the nervous pace he had started with, putting emphasis where it was required.

  “Every merchant ship that passes the mouth of my rivers shall have peace, unless it is driven ashore by the wishes of God, who alone controls the waves of the sea and the wind of the air.” He read out several adjustments to laws that Æthelred had been known to abuse, his words bringing approving nods from the men listening. “If a man is accused of stealing cattle or killing another man, and the accusation is made by any man who pays taxes who is not an Englishman, then the accused is not allowed to deny the charge unless proven innocent by trial.”

  Wulfstan also nodded. Clever woman, to have written that, for it had been a bone sticking in the Danelaw throat for many years. If
an Englishman accused an Englishman, then justice had to be done through the process of law. If the same accusation was brought by a Dane against an Englishman, then it could be denied and acquitted. Laws all well and good for the English but prejudiced against the Dane settlers were, understandably, not welcome throughout the Mid Lands and northern boroughs of England.

  There was impressed applause when Edward finished and bowed. Æthelred, it appeared, would be coming home an apparently reformed and wiser King.

  Emma sat, her hands folded in her lap, pleased and proud of her son’s heroic effort. Perhaps there was hope for him? Relief broadened her smile, and the motherly kiss she placed on Edward’s cheek was one of rare affection.

  Edmund did not believe a word of the letter that he, too, had guessed had been written by Emma, not his father, but as Emma had politely indicated earlier in the day, her sons had the backing of Normandy which, in turn, had affiliation with the military might of France, Germany, and Flanders.

  “Would it be wise,” she had said, with a charming smile, “to consider taking on such strength?”

  Edmund had agreed that no, it would not. “But neither would it be wise for a King to break the promises he has made.” It had been most satisfying to receive from Emma a similar nod of agreement.

  7

  April 1014—Northampton

  Cnut will not thank you for joining him in Gainsborough.” Alfhelm’s widow, the Lady Godegifa, stood with her arms folded, barring the exit from her daughter’s bedchamber.

  Thrusting her best gowns into a chest, attempting to squash them tighter so she could close the lid, Ælfgifu answered with venom, “And what would you have me do instead? Sit here and wait for Æthelred to ride through the gate with a belated Christening gift for my son, Swegen? I wonder what it would be, Mama? A dagger blade, as with his own brother? Or perhaps he would prefer to have my babe’s eyes put out, as he did with my brothers?”