by Jayden Woods
*
She felt brave until the blindfold wrapped around her eyes.
Until that moment, she conducted herself with the utmost dignity and courage. She strode into the wondrous nave of Winchester Cathedral. She faced the roiling crowds of laymen, bishops, and nobles. She stared down her son from the other side of the room; she could not see him well now, but she knew his face well enough to imagine it. The crown would be weighing heavily upon his gentle face, golden hair, and lanky limbs. He would frown a little to see that his mother had chosen to go through with this dangerous trial, though he still believed her guilty. Then he would listen to the whisper of Archbishop Robert in his ear, that foul Norman, and his frown of concern would become a scowl of condemnation.
The crowds were even denser than she’d expected. Bodies stuffed the church in every corner she looked. More strained to watch through the windows and doorway. Their murmuring voices created a roar in her ears that grated down her bones. Her head grew dizzy as her eyes searched the multitude, trying to find a familiar face.
Then she saw Stigand, and all her courage returned to her.
Archbishop Robert called the mob to order and read to them her charges. The crowd surged with rage at each accusation, especially the last, claiming that she’d had impure relations with Bishop Alwyn. “May she cross four ploughsares to prove her own innocence,” said the Norman, “and five more to prove Bishop Alwyn’s.”
The congregation rumbled with a combination of assent and discontent. It warmed her heart that at least a few who had gathered here today did so to cheer for her. Nonetheless, she was gladder still when the room went silent as she stepped forward.
“My king and son,” she said, staring down the nave of the church to King Edward. As the entire audience went still, her voice reverberated down the stone walls, demanding the attention of every living creature in earshot. “I, Emma, who bore and brought you forth—as well as my dear son Alfred—invoke God to bear witness to me this day. May I perish if what has been charged against me ever even entered my mind.”
Her guilt slammed her stomach after that last line. She referred primarily to the charge of murdering Alfred. As for the other crimes … perhaps she had considered supporting Magnus at one time or another. Perhaps her heart had strayed temporarily from her husbands. But she remembered her conversation with Stigand, and this gave her strength. She had done nothing she regretted. And in the end, it would be God who judged her today; not Edward. Only God knew her heart and soul, and only God could judge her accordingly.
Servants finished sweeping the nave of the church of any and all debris. Then King Edward waved his hand, and in walked monks carrying the nine ploughshares, each glowing red with the heat of the fires from with they’d been plucked.
Even then, Emma stayed strong. A bishop standing next to her gently took hold of her and turned her around so that she would not see the placement of the blades. She heard the scraping of the hot iron as it slid over the pavement. Her heart raced against her ribcage, but she took a deep breath and calmed herself. She knew that even though the blades would lie very close to each other, there would be at least a small amount of space between them—barely enough to walk through unscathed, if everything went according to plan.
She reached up and peeled off her outer robes until she stood in nothing but a soft linen shift. She pulled off her shoes and pressed her bare skin to the cold grains of the floor. A little chill went through her, but she stifled it with her resolve.
Then the monks wrapped the cloth around her eyes, plunging her into darkness, and her fear rose up to suffocate her.
Her heart thundered in her ears. Her knees threatened to buckle. Two hands grabbed her shoulders and turned her back around. Her frantic imagination rushed to occupy the darkness of the blindfold with the most terrible visage of what lay ahead. She saw herself stepping onto the blades and scorching her flesh. She heard herself screaming and tumbling and tearing her feet to shreds as she hastened to run over the remaining ploughshares. She imagined the people laughing, or else cheering for justice and her ongoing demise. She swallowed back a whimper before it could resound from her throat.
Then a soft touch brushed her right hand, and even though she could not see him, she knew who it was. Stigand. She squeezed back against his fingers.
“Are you ready?” he asked her quietly.
Before she could respond, another grip seized her left hand and yanked her forward.
She doubted it was Archbishop Robert himself, though it might as well have been. When she last saw her Norman enemy, he had been standing next to the king, eager to witness her humiliation. He must have decided he would rather witness her trial and deal judgment upon her than lend a hand to her demise. He had probably sent a bishop as equally dedicated to her failure as himself to lead her over the blades.
Stigand could only slow down the pace so much as they proceeded forward. Emma could already feel herself tripping over her reluctant feet. Why were her legs so stiff? She had felt courageous only a moment ago. Now she knew that she walked towards her doom, and it required all of her willpower not to pull away from the bishops and run as fast as she could from the cathedral.
A roaring sound filled her mind, and at first she thought this was her own terror, deafening her as equally as she was already blinded. Then she discerned people’s voices amidst the cacophony and, after that, words.
“Long live Emma!”
“God save our Queen!”
She knew that not everyone yelled in her favor, but perhaps God allowed her to hear the people who did, and this gave her enough courage to continue. She managed not to stumble as the unknown bishop gave her another tug forward. She felt the heat of the blades warming the air near her toes, and she knew she was about to step upon them. She must not lose heart now, though another tremble shook her knees.
The voices fed her strength. She lifted one foot and prepared to place it forward. Stigand tugged her little finger. She lifted her face heavenward even as she rotated her raised foot slightly left. “Oh God,” she said aloud, “who saved Susannah from the malice of the wicked elders, and the three children from the furnace of fire, save me from the fire prepared for me, for the sake of your holy servant Swithin.”
Then she planted her foot on the ground and her skin met stone.
Sounds of lamentation arose from the crowd, making her wonder if she had actually stepped upon a blade while her own shock and denial kept her from realizing it. Then she felt the sting of hot metal brushing her ankle, and she knew she judged her situation correctly. She had stepped into a safe crack between the blades, so small that she probably seemed to stand upon the scorching iron to everyone watching.
She lifted her other foot while listening to the ongoing moans of the congregation. They were so certain of her peril that they did not watch her closely enough. Either way, their concern for her came as a great encouragement. She would prove herself today, not only for her own sake, but for those who still loved her.
Stigand gave her wrist a slight push upward.
Her foot came down again, and the bishop’s tug on her left hand gave her no time to second-guess herself. She pushed her foot a little further forward then sank her weight onto the leg.
When she realized that she had stepped into safety once more, she nearly cried out with triumph. She felt like she could float into the air with glee. She had altered her movement exactly as needed, almost as if an angel guided her.
But an angel did not guide her. Stigand did.
Last night, they had gone over his plan in great detail. Stigand had figured out a way to hold her hand and make small movements with his fingers—such as squeezing one part of her hand, or pulling another—that would indicate whether to move her foot forward, left, right, or backwards as she took each step. He had gone over it with her again and again, even practicing it with her, until the movements felt like second nature.
At one point while they practiced, Emma felt s
o elated by the growing taste of victory that she allowed herself to fall back into Stigand’s arms, listen to his deep breathing, and look up so that her cheek brushed his chin. A jolt of heat rushed through her, so intense she felt like a young woman again, meeting King Canute for the first time. But this man was not Canute. This was a man she cared for even more.
Stigand had stiffened suddenly, perhaps sensing her change of mood, and looked away from her. His touch had grown cold. “I think we’ve practiced enough,” he said. “Perhaps we should pray now.”
And so they had. They had prayed and prayed, or at least gone through the motions of doing so. For once, despite all the riches and holy items that Emma had bestowed upon this cathedral and many others, she could not put her heart in the act. She could only think of Stigand, and during the few moments in which she prayed sincerely, she found herself thanking God for sending him.
Now, standing amidst the burning ploughshares, Emma remembered the graveness of Stigand’s voice and wondered if she should have paid heed to it. She had sensed, for a moment, that he felt ashamed of what he was doing. Ashamed that he cared so much for Emma. Ashamed that he would come up with a dishonest scheme like this in order to save her.
Then the guilt seized her too, and it did so all at once, like a fist closing in her stomach. She
