‘Perhaps if you tried to use the French words when speaking to us, even if it is only the odd one, you will get used to saying them. And we will respond solely in French. Practice is the only way, Lord.’
‘Oui, ma dame,’ Ralf pronounced deliberately, his grin of achievement making Elin chuckle again. ‘Ma demoiselle’, Lord, as I am unmarried.’ Ralf growled in frustration at the complication with something he thought he had mastered.
Abruptly, the King awoke with a snort just as Prince Ӕlfred jumped his horse over the barrier after his older brother, and the boys cheered. Ӕthelwulf looked around in bewilderment at the sudden noise and Ralf rose swiftly to reassure the monarch.
‘Au revoir, ma demoiselle,’ he uttered with a pleased smile and a dip of his head, striding over the grass towards the King.
‘À bientôt, mon signeur,’ whispered Elin, with a blush.
***
Chapter 52
During the better weather, the King rode out with Ralf and his sons, or he sat in the shade and watched the princes’ practice with the sword and shield. But mostly he slept. Judith was concerned that he dozed throughout the day, and still slept all night but the physicians that she had demanded be consulted, overruling the objections of Emer Cuikishe, agreed that sleep was the best thing for him.
Summer turned to autumn, and the golden days shortened. Judith had Adal make sure the herbs and vegetables in the palace gardens were harvested and stored for the winter, and the ladies in her solar spun thread and sewed warm winter gowns for themselves and for the poor.
As the weather turned cold, the King’s health began to worsen and he again took to his bed, although this time Judith insisted that she and Ralf supervised his care. His cough, banished in the warmer weather, returned with a vengeance, and Ӕthelwulf barely had breath to eat or drink. Prince Ӕthelberht made decisions regarding the defence of the realm, and it was he who summoned the Ealdormen and Shire Reeves for the Witan.
Still the King coughed, and his stentorian breathing could be heard around the palace at night when the galleries and halls were quiet. Judith tried to hide her worries from the nobles as they gathered for the Witan, busying herself with the tasks of feeding the throng as they joined the council meeting, the main one of which her husband insisted on leaving his sick bed to attend.
Even the commanders from the border patrols appeared, taking time away from keeping the Danes or the Cornish or the Welsh in their own lands to see and speak to their King. Judith couldn’t help but wonder if they came to say their farewell to the man who had ruled them for so long in comparative peace, or if they came to curry favour with his successor.
***
Fragrant beeswax candles illuminated the rich hangings on the wall, and the dancing flames of the fire cast lengthening shadows on the plain wooden ceiling. Sir Richeld Cuikishe poured himself another large goblet of his best wine and sat back in his chair. He put his boot-clad feet up on the hearth and swallowed the thick red liquid with an appreciative smack of his lips. Lady Emer compressed her mouth in an impatient line, doing her best to ignore her husband’s soldierly manners.
‘The King is failing, wife.’ Richeld tilted his head at Emer to invite a comment and his wife nodded her head, setting her white linen veil quivering with the motion.
‘He was much changed upon his return from his pilgrimage, Lord. We were all surprised.’ Suppressing a sigh, Emer poured herself a cup of wine from the flagon at her husband’s elbow and took a small swallow to ease the tension in her throat. She was unused to her husband’s presence, and although she obeyed him in all things, she was becoming familiar with the satisfaction of ordering her own life, without interference from anyone.
‘Aye.’ Richeld nodded his head, taking another sup from his goblet, then raised an eyebrow at his wife and grinned nastily. ‘But not as surprised as you were when he produced his infant of a wife, I’ll hazard.’
Emer stayed silent, not trusting herself to speak and for him to hear the annoyance in her voice. She had done what she had done for both their sakes, to ensure that they were welcome at court, and that they would remain recipients of the royal favour. Emer had genuinely liked Lady Osburtha, and had been happy to offer friendship to the King’s wife, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking every advantage for herself and her husband.
Richeld had been aware of her activities from the beginning, and hadn’t objected to sharing his wife with the monarch. Not that he had been often at court to protest. Emer wondered if her husband would have protested, had he not been given the task of defending the realm against the Danes. She made herself listen to his words, not wishing to examine the dynamics of their relationship too closely, in case she didn’t like what she found.
‘But the power is shifting, wife.’ Richeld spoke slowly, and Emer knew the strong wine was affecting his speech. The fire glinted in his eyes as he blinked, and Emer leaned against the mantelpiece, swirling the wine in the bottom of her cup. He took another sip, and a breath.
‘We need to insert someone of ours into the life of Ӕthelbald, for when he becomes King.’ Richeld snorted contemptuously, ‘Which, by the look of his father, might be a matter of days.’
Emer began, ‘Husband, I don’t think…..’
‘I shall think for both of us,’ he interrupted quickly, and Emer hid her irritation in another sip from her cup and moved away from the fire to stand behind her husband. If she couldn’t hide her annoyance quickly enough, she would rather not be in his direct line of sight.
‘And it is my opinion that we should put Sibyl in his bed, to listen to his secrets and offer comfort in his sorrow at the loss of his father.’ Richeld smiled into his cup at his own cleverness, and try as she might, Emer couldn’t keep the impatience from her tone.
‘Sibyl?’ Emer was horrified at the prospect. ‘But she says she might want to take the veil. And I can’t think Ӕthelbald will appreciate someone as quiet and pious as Sibyl, Lord.’
Richeld closed his eyes and gave another loud snort. ‘He’s a red-blooded man, isn’t he? I would think he would enjoy someone fresh and new.’ He opened one eye and turned his head to look at Emer, sitting in a stiff-backed chair at her writing desk. Richeld smiled nastily, ‘After all, my dear, I can’t expect you to do it this time, can I? I’m sure the Prince would prefer someone with,’ he hesitated a moment, ‘a less well-ploughed furrow than yours?’
Emer compressed her mouth into a line and counted her heartbeats as she breathed slowly and deliberately. She wanted to knock her husband’s boots off the fireplace and beat him over the head with the flagon of wine, and briefly she allowed that picture to flash across her mind. How dare he speak like that about her?
She had ignored her marriage vows, her sacred promise to God, to further their fortunes, first with the father and then with the son. She had betrayed her friendship with Osburtha, and she had ignored her own code of morality to help her husband’s career. And now he had the temerity to mock her, to disparage her in this fashion and suggest that she be replaced by someone younger. She couldn’t bear it.
Suddenly, she heard a huge rumble from her husband’s chest, and she realised he had fallen asleep from the heat and the wine. Emer jumped to her feet and, slamming her goblet down on the table, she left the room, unable to bear another moment in her husband’s company. She had much to think about, and a visit to the chapel might help focus her mind on what was to be done.
***
Chapter 53
Chère Baldwin, mon mari est proche de la mort, et je ne sais pas quoi faire.
Dearest Baldwin, my husband is near to death, and I don’t know what to do.
I would that you were here, so I could ask your advice, Baldwin. Should he die, I don’t know what w
ill happen to me. Ӕthelbald hates me, and although I doubt he will have me killed, for fear of reprisals from Frankia, he will certainly banish me from court.
If I am banished, will my father receive me, do you think? Could you ask your father to intercede on my behalf, if my father’s heart is hardened against me? Truly, my husband’s illness isn’t my fault, but I fear I will be blamed.
Tell me what I should do, Baldwin. I feel you are my only friend outside the few I have here, and I might need your help. Should this letter arrive too late, look for me in Mercia. I am sure Queen Ӕlswith will give me succour until I know where I might live.
In affection and hope, I remain your friend
Judith, Queen of Wessex and Princess of Frankia
***
Ralf slumped over a trencher of meat and boiled vegetables in the kitchen, wondering if he had the strength to pick up the heavy-looking spoon. He had experienced a disturbed night with the King, his cough and the gobbets of blood bubbling at his lips requiring constant attention. He was grateful when dawn came and the Queen arrived to relieve him for a few hours.
They were taking care of the King between themselves, but Ralf had insisted that he remain with the King during the hours of night, so the Queen might sleep. Once she had risen, she would come to the King’s chamber and be served with food to break her fast whilst in there. At some point during the morning, the Archbishop would come to pray, sometimes with the King, and sometimes over him. The elderly monarch slept much of the day, and it was pure luck if he was awake to listen to the prayers the clergyman said daily.
Ralf knew that once he had eaten the food, he could go to his chamber and snatch a few hours’ sleep, if only he could lift the spoon to his lips. But it felt so heavy.
A light tread on the stone floor of the kitchen made him turn his head to see Elin entering. She smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling beneath the fine linen veil and silver filet she customarily wore, and he gave her a tired smile in return.
‘I have come to collect some food for the Queen,’ she spoke the words to the cook, but kept her gaze on Ralf, and he slid further up the bench as an invitation for her to sit. He reached out an arm and slopped some ale into a cup for her, mouth twisting in a wry apology.
‘Forgive me, Lady. It has been a long night, but I am so hungry I would not sleep without something inside me.’ Ralf nodded at the chunks of meat glistening in the thick, dark gravy, but he still could not face picking up the spoon. Elin grasped the spoon and dug into the meal, allowing the handle to protrude near Ralf’s fingers. He chuckled and lifted the laden spoon to his mouth, tasting the stew. Suddenly, the spoon didn’t seem as heavy as his hunger overcame his weariness, and he took another spoonful with relish.
‘The King is failing, Lord?’ Elin’s voice was low, and he was grateful that she wasn’t allowing the kitchen workers to hear their conversation; there would be time enough for that when the King died. Ralf felt a twist in his stomach as he contemplated the death of his old friend. He nodded silently as he ate.
‘What will happen to us, when he does, Lord? The Queen, and Alys. And me?’ Elin watched the cook prepare a tray for the Queen and Ralf gazed at her profile, delighted to be able to scrutinise her without her knowing. Her lush, creamy skin had a delightful smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks, and he could see wisps of copper curls escaping from beneath her veil. He couldn’t explain why her wearing the veil over her hair pleased him so; he had no issue with Ghislaine following the fashion set by the Queen and leaving her hair uncovered. But she, like the Queen, was merely a child. Elin was a woman.
Abruptly he had an uncontrollable urge to see her with her auburn hair unbound, and he swigged his cup of ale to distract himself from taking that thought any further, of creamy freckled skin and slender bare limbs and…...
‘Lord?’
He remembered she had asked him a question about her future, and he blinked slightly, meeting her clear green gaze.
‘I should imagine the Queen will return home to her family, Lady. And you with her, should you so choose. But…..’ He stopped, wondering if what he had been about to say would have been welcome, or spark indignation.
‘But, Lord?’ He dropped his gaze to Elin’s pink lips, and he could have sworn she was suppressing a smile.
‘But if you should choose to stay, Lady, I am sure you would find a husband easily enough.’ He cursed inwardly; that had not been what he wanted to say. He was a coward.
‘That statement assumes I would want a husband, Lord,’ Elin rose as the cook placed a laden tray on the table in front of her, and he saw a sparkle in her eyes as she regarded him.
‘Do you, Lady?’ He waited in trepidation, and berated himself for being a fool.
‘I might,’ she laughed, ‘if I found a man who wanted me enough to learn to speak to me in my own language.’ She bobbed her knee and picked up the tray. ‘Au revoir, mon signeur.’
‘À bientôt, ma chère,’ he replied easily, and was rewarded by a giggle that echoed around the high-ceilinged kitchen until her footsteps had faded.
Perhaps he didn’t feel so tired after all.
***
Chapter 54
Judith soaked the linen in the bowl of cool water by the side of the bed and wrung the cloth out, placing it on her husband’s forehead. The King had drifted into a fitful sleep after she had convinced him to take a spoonful of broth, but his chest continued to rattle with each hard-won breath.
After the Witan, all the nobles had returned to their own homes, choosing to spend Yule with their own families rather than at the court of a sick King. Judith had done her best to make sure those who stayed had enough to eat and entertainment to enjoy, but she had been in her husband’s sick room as much as she could, taking turns with Ralf to sit with the King, feeding him and making sure he was clean and comfortable.
Archbishop Ceolnoth came daily, prayed over the sleeping monarch and anointed him with holy water on every visit, just in case it was his last. While her husband slept, Judith wrote brief notes to Ӕlswith, Ӕthelstan and, more reluctantly, Ӕthelbald, telling them that their father was worsening, and that they should prepare to return to Winchester as soon as the weather allowed. The cough in the King’s chest and the blood on his lips convinced her that the end would be soon.
A light tap sounded at the door, and Ralf entered the room with some simple victuals on a platter for Judith, a little cheese and some soft bread along with a tankard of milk.
‘You must eat, Highness. You cannot nurse him if you yourself are ill.’ He put the platter beside her and stood behind her chair, gazing at his friend.
‘I don’t think it will be long, Ralf. Could you send for the Archbishop? I am sure the King would want the last rites performed properly.’ She smiled up at Ralf, lashes sparkling with unshed tears for the man in the bed.
‘He would, Highness. His God was always important to him.’ Ralf nodded and moved toward the door to give the guard a message.
‘His God, Ralf? Not yours?’ Judith took a bite of the soft bread, and then popped a piece of the crumbly white cheese in her mouth as she gazed at her husband’s most trusted companion.
‘I never had his piety, Highness. To him, God was an entity that guided his every decision. His appeasement of the Danes was a direct result of his belief that God looked down on everything he did, and would approve of making peace, rather than encouraging war.’ Ralf’s voice was so low that Judith struggled to hear the words.
‘I didn’t see that side of him, Ralf. Perhaps by the time I met him, so much of him had faded away, only his kindness remained. And he was always kind to me.’ Judith sipped at the cool milk to try and dislodge the emotion that clogge
d her throat. She had never loved her husband as a wife should, but she had liked him, and had enjoyed spending time with him despite his vagueness of thought. What might happen to her after he was gone caused the pit of her stomach to knot in apprehension, and she replaced the tankard on the table, unable to swallow anything else.
The door thrust open and Archbishop Ceolnoth entered, carrying a gilded box under his arm. He placed the box on the table beneath the window and opened it, taking out his funereal stole and placing it around his neck. He lifted a stoppered bottle from the casket and came towards the bed, reciting the prayers for the dying. Judith and Ralf bowed their heads as the priest duly anointed the King with the holy oil, making the sign of the cross with each action.
Ralf and Judith dutifully genuflected at each pause, murmuring the appropriate responses. Then the Archbishop fell silent and Judith wiped the King’s face with a piece of moistened linen before sitting back on the chair and holding her husband’s hand while he struggled for every breath.
As the interval between breaths lengthened, Judith rubbed the ring on her thumb with her knuckle reflexively, unaware that she was holding her breath as she waited for the King to drag more air into his lungs. It wasn’t until the lack of oxygen forced her own chest to rise did she become aware that, for her husband, there would be no more breaths.
The Archbishop made the sign of the cross and began intoning another prayer as Ralf pulled the linen sheet up over the King’s peaceful face. Judith brushed the tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers and wondered what would happen to her now.
***
Chapter 55
Baldwin excitedly broke the seal on the parchment and scanned the contents eagerly. Then he waved the letter at his friend with a worried frown.
‘She says he is dying, Goz,’ Baldwin re-read the words and glanced up at Gozfrid with a shrug. ‘I need to speak to my father, ask if I can go and bring her home. The old man might be dead by now, and I cannot think of her at the mercy of that…mignon!’
Judith, Twice Queen of Wessex Page 18
