He looked at her now, his eyes cold.
“Edward is in Shropshire, and Edyth’s daughter as well. I have weaned Edward from that Norman priest you set over him like a shadow and have sent him to foster parents. He will be as safe with them, you may be sure, as he would be in Rouen”—he waved the parchment he’d been reading—“as your brother here suggests.”
Stunned, almost weak with disappointment, she sought the cushioned bench that lined the wall and sat down. She kept her back straight and her chin high, though, for she did not wish him to perceive what a blow he had just dealt her. It had been a full year since she had seen Edward. How much longer must she wait? Would he even remember her when he looked upon her again?
Her hands trembling with anger and cold, she slipped off her damp cloak.
“Was it Ealdorman Eadric who counseled you to send the children away?” Of course it was. Why did she even bother to ask?
“It is far better counsel than what your brother is urging—that you send your children to him in Normandy.” He looked up at her then, and she read the anger there, behind his eyes. “He has suggested nothing of that to me. The only missives I get from him are complaints that I am causing you grief by keeping you from my court. Is it true, Emma? Do you pine for my company, sweeting?”
His tone was sarcastic, baiting her. As she refused to answer him, he answered himself.
“No. I see that it is not my company you seek, but Edward’s. How disappointed you must be. Did you hope to accompany your son across the Narrow Sea to your brother? Are you so afraid of the Danish rabble sweeping across England that you begged Richard to give you shelter?”
“All of England is afraid, my lord,” she said. In the streets of London the fear of what the summer might bring was as thick as the Thames fog. “But I did not ask my brother to shelter my children in Normandy, I assure you. Nor do I think that fostering Edward at so great a distance as Shropshire is a wise move. As your heir he should stay closer to the court. I can understand your desire to protect him from our enemy, but when word gets out that you have sent him so far away, it will hardly reassure your people—”
“I did not send Edward north to protect him from the Danes,” he snapped, “but to keep him away from you.”
He was purposely goading her, and she did not know why.
“And who, pray, will explain that to the frightened people of London?” she demanded. “Will you post a writ to claim that you sent your son away because you were afraid of what he might learn at his mother’s knee?”
“Your tongue is too sharp, lady,” he said. Yet there was a note of satisfaction in his voice, as if he was pleased to have finally sparked an angry response. “If the bishops could hear you now they would not wonder that I wish to keep you from my court.”
Ah. There it was. His bishops had sided against him in her favor, and he did not like it. She should have guessed that he would use Edward to punish her for besting him. What a fool she had been to think that he would allow her son anywhere near her.
She took a deep breath to cool her anger, for it would do her little good. He would use it as an excuse to send her away again.
“My lord, I am your consort and queen. Never have I given you cause to reproach me, yet you will not trust me even with the upbringing of our son.”
“No. Nor would I trust your brother. I would not see Edward turned against me as his elder brothers have been.” He looked past her, into the middle distance, and his eyes grew vague. “Athelstan and Edmund have left London at the head of armed troops, against my express instructions that they remain within the city. I have not yet discovered where they have gone, but I fear the worst.”
She stared at him, thunderstruck. He would think the worst of his own sons, in spite of other, far more obvious, explanations. Perhaps Athelstan was right. Perhaps the only way to earn this king’s esteem was to die for him. Yet someone must try to reason with him.
“Athelstan and Edmund have gone to East Anglia, my lord, to aid Ulfkytel in gathering the army that you ordered him to bring against the Danes. They kept their destination secret because you wisely insisted that no one must know what Ulfkytel is doing.”
His gaze snapped back to her, suspicion written in every line of his face.
“And how is it that you know all this?”
Because I am your queen, she thought. It is my business to know such things even if you would keep me ignorant.
She said, “I was one of several who was privileged with the information. The others were the bishop of London, Archbishop Ælfheah, and Ealdorman Ælfric.”
He scowled. Apparently the list of those who knew of the æthelings’ plans—a list that did not include him—did not sit well.
“I suppose you believe that this excuses my sons for disobeying my command.”
“I believe that they are not planning any action against you, my lord.”
For a time he said nothing, merely gazing at her thoughtfully, as if he would uncover other secrets that she might be keeping hidden from him. She kept her face carefully blank, for she did have one secret that he must never learn—a hopeless, inescapable yearning for a man who was not the king.
At last he stood up, glanced once more at her brother’s letter, then tossed it back onto the table.
“Richard’s concerns are baseless, of course, and his offer of refuge for the children pointless. When you write to him, tell him that what I need are men who can stand with us against the Danes. It’s a pity that he is so reluctant to offer that kind of assistance.” He strode toward her and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up at him, into eyes as fathomless as stones. “Now that I have accommodated the bishops by bringing you back to court, I would have you attend me tonight. Surely your champions will wish to see you with child again as soon as possible.”
“My lord, it is Lent,” she protested, flinching from his touch yet unable to escape it. “Abstinence is—”
“If you think it a sin to lie with your king, that is between you and your confessor. But sin or no, you will attend me tonight and every night as it pleases me.” He released her and started for the door, then paused to add, “We might send the girl to Normandy, I suppose. She is too young to be of any use here.”
After he was gone, his words echoed in her mind, filling her with apprehension and rage. She could see what he hoped to do. She could even glimpse, to her disgust, what it was that drove him.
He wanted her pregnant again so that he could remove her from court without having to defend his action to the bishops or to her brother. That was policy.
He would mold Edward in his own image, using him in whatever manner suited his purposes. That was vanity.
He would make the Danish raids an excuse for taking her daughter from her, sending Godiva across the Narrow Sea, perhaps forever. That was pure spite.
He could accomplish all of it, if he wished. He had the power. But he had made a grave error in allowing her to see what was in his mind. There were ways of circumventing his power, and he would discover that a queen was not without resources. For the time being, at least, she had episcopal support that he dared not oppose. His threats, for now, were mere words, but they were words that could be shared and thus made impotent.
She watched her servants enter the chamber in the wake of Æthelred’s departure. How many of them were the king’s spies, and which of them had brought him the coffer of letters that she had kept so carefully locked away?
It did not matter. Soon she would have most of her trusted household members about her, including Father Martin. With their help she would see that certain of the king’s magnates were made aware of his threats.
Æthelred would not find her a willing victim, and she would do her utmost to make sure that he did not use her children as weapons against her.
A.D. 1010 This year came the army, after Easter, into East Anglia . .
. where they understood Ulfkytel was with his army. The East-Angles soon fled. There was slain Oswy and his son, and Wulfric, son of Leofwin, and Edwy, brother of Efy, and many good thanes, and a multitude of people. Thurkytel Myrehead first began the flight; and the Danes remained masters of the field of slaughter. There were they horsed; and afterwards they took possession of East-Anglia, where they plundered and burned three months; Thetford also they burned, and Cambridge; Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and so along the Ouse till they came to Bedford, and so forth to Temsford, always burning as they went.
Then all the privy council were summoned before the king, to consult how they might defend this country. But whatever was advised, it stood not a month; and at length there was not a chief that would collect an army, but each fled as he could: no shire would stand by another . . .
When the army had gone as far as they would, then came they by midwinter to their ships.
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Chapter Twenty-Seven
December 1010
Gloucestershire
Emma had been told that the view from Ciresdune was beautiful, and as she stood on that hilltop and gazed into the distance, she had to agree. The scene below her, though, was deceptive, for it made her almost believe that England was at peace.
She had walked a little away from her companions, and now she turned around slowly, taking in the fields and forests of Mercia and the distant hills that marked the northern edge of Wessex—all of it covered with the glittering veil of a recent snowfall. It was as if God’s finger had touched all the burned and broken things in this land and made them whole again.
But she knew that was not so. In the spring, or perhaps sooner, the snow would disappear, and the ruins that lay beneath would be revealed—broken villages and broken lives.
Broken trust. The people of England had placed their trust in their king, and he had failed them. It had not been for want of trying, but it was failure just the same.
She drew in a deep breath of the clear, chilly air. Above her, the sky was a brilliant blue, awash with sunlight. She tried to find hope in all this dazzling brightness, but she could not. The knowledge of all that had been lost in the past months was too oppressive.
“I am afraid,” she said, admitting the truth to herself as well as to Wymarc and Father Martin, who had come here with her.
They joined her now at the very crest of the hill. Father Martin folded his hands, resting his chin upon them before he spoke.
“Everything has its season, my lady,” he said. “This, it seems, is the season for fear and for weeping.”
“You have been afraid before, Emma—we all have.” Wymarc placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Yet we are safe here, for now at least.”
Emma gave her a grateful smile, for her friend was ever one to find some trace of gold even in a world of gloom.
“It is not for myself that I am afraid,” she said, “but for my children and for your son. I am afraid for the king’s children and for the English out there who are facing a bitter, cheerless winter. I can foresee no happy resolution to the trials that they are facing—that we all are facing. As hard as I look for it, I cannot discover any hope within my heart.”
“Then do not look within,” Father Martin urged. “Look to God. And ask not for hope, but for courage and acceptance.”
Likely there was wisdom in those words, she told herself, yet she could not quite bring herself to trust them. He would have her bow to God’s will, yet she could not accept that England’s ravaging was the will of the Almighty. It was the will of men, and it came with all the cruelty that men could inflict on one another. Sometimes it made her so angry that her prayers were not petitions for mercy but howls of rage.
She could say nothing of this to Father Martin and Wymarc, though. They must each of them find whatever comfort they could. It was true that there were many things for which she should thank God. Her own household had been with her now for some months—Godiva and her nurse, Wymarc, Father Martin, and many of those who had escaped with her from the Headington palace and who wished to remain at her side.
They had come with her to the king’s winter council in this far western corner of England, a place as yet untouched by the enemy and the havoc that they had wrought. The king’s daughters and their husbands had arrived already. Ælfa’s retinue included her little girl, who was two winters old now. Hilde, too, had made the long journey with them from Northumbria, accompanied by a young retainer of Uhtred’s named Godric, who had sought and been granted her hand in marriage. Their wedding feast would throw some welcome joy upon the Christmas gathering.
Three of the æthelings, though, had yet to answer the king’s summons, and that added to her dark mood. Even now she peered into the distance, first north then south, half imagining that she might catch some sign of them. It was foolish, of course. She was too far away to make out the road that Edward would take from Shropshire or the route that would bring Athelstan and Edmund from London.
It was Athelstan’s absence in particular that filled her with misgiving. He was not yet reconciled with his father, had not even spoken with Æthelred for a full year. He had kept the promise that he had made to her in London before Ringmere, though—had not died in battle to please the king. He had been wounded, though, an injury that had been slow to heal but had done nothing to appease his father’s wrath at his son’s disobedience. The king demanded word of him daily and glowered when he could learn nothing. They knew only that he had left London and should have arrived here already—only he had not.
She imagined a hundred things that could have delayed him, but the most likely, it seemed to her, was that his bitterness toward his father might have goaded him into ignoring the king’s summons altogether. She prayed that she was wrong. She prayed that he would come, and soon. His father needed every clear voice of reason left in the kingdom if he was to find a way out of the strife that had engulfed them this past summer—strife that would surely begin again in spring unless something was done.
And if Athelstan did not obey the summons, then his father would see it as the act of an enemy.
Even Edward had been sent for, although the king, wishing to keep her son from her side, had resisted doing so at first. She had won that battle—had presented her arguments with cool deliberation, one after the other, garnering support for each from the churchmen who advised the king. Eadric had argued against her, but when he recognized that she had the more powerful faction on her side, he reversed his opinion. Eadric apparently preferred to change his allegiance rather than lose, no matter what the conflict.
And there was so much conflict now within the royal halls! She and Æthelred lined up arguments between them like shield walls, and she sometimes wished that, years ago, before her brother had sent her across the Narrow Sea to bear arms against a king, he had thought to school her in the arts of war.
• • •
When they returned to the king’s hall, riding past scores of tents that sheltered the small army of retainers accompanying the members of the witan, she saw that a new banner had been raised above the entry gate.
Edward had come.
She looked at Wymarc, who met her gaze with glistening eyes and a bright smile. Robert, too, would be among Edward’s company. Both of their sons had arrived.
The cloud of fear and tension that had hovered over her for months lifted. She quelled the urge to hasten into the royal apartments to find Edward, for he must pay his respects to the king first, and she had no wish to be reunited with her son beneath Æthelred’s disapproving gaze. She would wait in her quarters for Edward to appear, as she knew he must. Æthelred could not hope to keep them apart, even though he might desire it.
After what felt like an eternity her son at last entered her chamber, and she wanted to weep at all the changes that two years had wrought. She remembered him as a plump, sunny little boy who
had loved to curl up in her lap while she told him stories. Now he was six winters old and he stood before her tall and straight, but stiff and unsmiling. His hair was still fair and fine, but the curls that she had so loved had been shorn away, making his thin face look thinner still.
He was the image of her sister, Mathilde, she thought with a pang, right down to the hollow cheeks and narrow mouth.
Edward made no move toward her. He offered a stiff bow and merely gazed at her in silence, studying her just as she was studying him.
He wore a silver-gray tunic embroidered with golden thread, and under it a saffron scyrte. He looked every inch the heir to a throne, the expression on his face so carefully composed that she thought he must have been made keenly aware of his standing as first among the æthelings.
Would he have any idea how perilous a privilege that was? Edmund would be livid at seeing his half brother robed so extravagantly, especially when the rest of the court was in mourning.
She guessed that this was Eadric’s doing, intended to cause strife among the brothers. Edyth, too, would likely have had a hand in it, for she had of late taken a great interest in Edward. Her once staunch defense of Athelstan’s claim as the king’s heir had been cast aside the moment that she finally resigned herself to permanent enmity between her husband and her eldest brother. Should desire for the crown ever bring Athelstan into conflict with Edward, the support of Edyth and her husband would go to Edward.
Dear God, she prayed, please do not let it come to that.
And then she dismissed the king’s other children from her mind and focused only on this silent boy before her. Was Edward shy? Or was he searching his memory for some image of her?
Leaving her chair she knelt in front of him and gathered him into her arms. He suffered her embrace, but clearly it was unwelcome. It was as though she’d wrapped her arms around a child made of stone. When she sat back on her heels to look at him, he returned her gaze with cool politeness.
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