by Jayden Woods
The entire room was watching Queen Emma now, listening to her every breath. Why had they not been listening a moment ago, when she needed them to hear about her vision? Feeling more and more light-headed, she looked to Stigand for comfort, but his face was pale and drawn. His eyes flicked to the king, suggesting that she should carry on with her task.
Her anger returned to her and she poured it into the wooden wand, lifting it high and then slapping it against her son’s back. As she struck him, she thought of all men who had wrought ruin upon Engla-lond with their incompetence and insecurity, the worst of which being her first husband of fourteen years, King Ethelred. When she struck him a second time, then a third, she thought of King Canute, the man who came the closest to forging Engla-lond into a powerful empire, and whose legacy would soon be snuffed out by her own son with King Ethelred.
When she finished, the wand fell from her fingertips with a clatter against the stones. She stood there awhile, trembling. Then King Edward rose up, favoring his aching back, and turned to embrace her.
“It is finished,” he said, and wrapped his arms around his mother.
Emma stood prisoner in Edward’s embrace as her eyes locked with Lord Richard FitzScrob of Normandy behind him. She considered it futile to tell Edward that he was wrong, and that he had not yet finished paying for his mistakes.
*
In the cloister of Saint Mary of Winchester, Emma often managed to forget the troubles of her past and the haunting visions of her future. She sat in the garden on a warm summer day and felt the sunshine easing the aches of her aging joints. She listened to the music of the birds and the soft whisper of the wind through the trees. The sound of singing nuns echoed from the nearby church and she hoped they did not resent her absence. She silently thanked them for their discretion; when she felt the need to wander off on her own or entertain visitors, they did not question her.
A shadow fell over her and scattered the warmth of the sun from her face. But she smiled, for the man standing before her was Stigand, and she reached up to grip his hand.
“Archbishop,” she said softly, straining to make out his face within the stark silhouette. “Why did you wait so long to visit me?”
His hand squeezed back against her, but his voice carried discomfort. “Because it is unseemly for a man to step foot in a convent.”
“Never mind that.” Smiling recklessly, she yanked his hand hard, drawing him next to her on the bench. “If they question my ‘innocence,’ let them put me to another test.”
She had meant to lighten the mood, but as Stigand settled next to her, a frigid silence fell over them. The memory of the trial of ploughshares was one of her least favorites to revisit, and she had not meant to bring it up so soon.
They sat quietly for a time, acknowledging the gravity of all the memories shared between them, their many discussions of old, and the few words yet unspoken.
“Emma,” he said at last. She turned to look at him, noting the bags under his eyes, the drooping of the skin around his lips. Nonetheless, his nose still cut a handsome line, and his gaze shone with vigor. “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” She attempted a laugh. “Whatever for?”
He looked down at his clasped hands, wringing them over the soft folds of his robes. “When I came to you the night before your trial, I acted selfishly. I could not bear the thought that you might fall upon the burning blades and suffer fatal wounds. I felt I must do anything to keep that from happening, and my fear blinded me. I tempted you to do something dishonest and sinful. I led you to cheat on one of the most holy trials of our Lord God in heaven.”
“Cheat! Is that how you see what we did, Stigand?” She grabbed his sleeve and shook it, urging him to look at her, but still he did not. “I think you are wrong. I admit, there have been times when I questioned our methods that day as well. But then I realized that if God wanted me to fail the trial, then he would not have sent you to lead me through the path in the first place.”
His breath caught and at last his gaze met hers, blazing with the need to believe her.
She smiled softly at him. “I feel no shame for what happened that day, Stigand. Please tell me that you don’t regret doing it.”
“Of course I don’t regret it.” His voice cracked in his throat; tears glittered upon his lashes. “Emma, even if I knew it to be a sin, I would have done it a hundred times over to save you. And I would have prayed that God would forgive me, if only because I acted out of love.”
Her heart raced. She leaned close to him and wrapped her hands in his robes, drowning in the comfort of his closeness. Then she kissed him.
By most standards it might have seemed a plain kiss, soft and simple, a brief moment of their lips touching and then drawing apart. But Emma knew it was one of the most passionate kisses she had ever experienced, and it meant more than any of her rigid nights in Ethelred’s bed, or even her most frenzied couplings with Canute. When she pulled away, her body was unsatisfied, but her soul was at peace. She glimpsed the same feelings reflected in Stigand’s eyes.
She sank down against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Together they watched the flowers of the garden sway with the wind while bugs hopped amidst the petals.
“There is something else that troubles me,” said Stigand after awhile, but his voice was soft, its tone contemplative. “I have never stopped wondering about the strange words you spoke when your trial was over and you stood over your son. You said you had a vision as you walked over the ploughshares, and that thousands would die if the Normans took root in Engla-lond. Edward seems to have forgotten your strange prophecy, but I have not. Did you mean it, Emma? Or were you merely saying what you thought Edward needed to hear?”
“I meant it, Stigand.” She dug her fingers into his robes, seeking warmth as a forgotten chill crept through her bones. “We may have faked the trial, but my prophecy was real.”
**
2
Last Tales of Mercia 2:
RICHARD THE NORMAN
(back to Table of Contents)
*
“Whereupon [Goodwin] began to gather forces over all his earldom, and Earl Sweyne, his son, over his; and Harold, his other son, over his earldom: and they assembled all in Gloucestershire, at Langtree, a large and innumerable army, all ready for battle against the king; unless Eustace and his men were delivered to them handcuffed, and also the Frenchmen that were in the castle.”
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1051
LUDLOW, SHROPSHIRE
September 1051 A.D.
“I am very sorry, my lord,” mumbled the vassal. “But I’ll have the rent for you next week, once we have finished storing the harvest.”
Richard FitzScrob twisted his gloves with his large hands, finding the fabric more useful as a casualty of his anger than protection from the autumn chill. He would have much preferred venting some of his rage upon this hapless churl who most deserved it. Dougal was a so-called “free-man,” according to the Anglo-Saxon custom, which meant he could own land and entertain his own life beyond the limited duties he owed his landlord. But again and again the tenant had fallen short of his responsibilities to Lord Richard, such as maintaining the fences for Richard’s livestock or giving alms to the church on Richard’s estate. Now, for the first time, Dougal had failed to fulfill his single-most important liberty as a churl: paying rent.
Richard shifted in his chair, thinking it would be nice to stand and loom over the kneeling Saxon. Then he remembered that his crooked feet ached quite acutely today. He glanced at one of his squires, Ralph, to step forward and loom in his place. The young Norman was a promising warrior who wore chainmail on a regular basis and had a way of standing that thrust out the pommel of his sword and made it the most noticeable trait of his figure. The squire walked forward, making his feet thunder on the floorboards even though he was not a particularly large man, and assumed the proper pose. Ralph even rested his hand on the hilt of
his weapon in a way that made him look both casual and battle-ready at once.
The Saxon churl gulped and grew a notch paler. This response satisfied Richard, who overcame his rage enough to speak with a low, calm candor. “I feel I have been rather lenient with you,” said the landlord, “in an attempt to make up for my ignorance as a foreigner.” Dougal frowned a little, straining to listen, and Richard realized this must be due to the thickness of Richard’s Norman accent. Richard gritted his teeth with frustration, then raised his voice a few notches, even though this did nothing to solve the problem. “But now I think I understand your English customs well enough to say that you have abused the privileges of your freedom and therefore we should change our arrangement.”
“Please, my lord—!”
Ralph shifted slightly, just enough to remind the Saxon of his presence, which effectively shut Dougal’s mouth. But a flare of anger lit the Saxon’s eyes, and Richard recognized it immediately for its true nature. What Dougal hated more than anything was not his personal misfortune. He hated that he paid his dues to a Norman lord who had only lived in Engla-lond for a few years. He silently believed the Normans were common bullies who did not deserve their high station—just as all of Richard’s native tenants assumed.
Richard sighed, regretting the tone that this conversation had so quickly adopted. “Listen, Dougal. I want to be fair to you. Here is what I propose. You are what is known as a geneat—do I say that correctly?”
Dougal nodded glumly.
“To take care of your rent, we can change your status to a kotsetla.” Richard desperately searched his brain for all the legalities tied to this position. “You will no longer pay rent. Instead you will work for me whenever I require you. Right now, as there is still some work left to do from the harvest, I will want you here three days a week. I will either have you work in the field, or the stables; I will even let you choose which you prefer. Throughout the year, you will always work for me at least one day a week. And this service will replace your rent.”
The look of shock on the Saxon’s face pleased Richard. Surely Dougal was astounded by Richard’s kindness. Surely he would thank Richard for overlooking his past mistakes and giving him work to do, even though he had demonstrated poor skills in the past. In truth, working on Richard’s estate would give him a chance to improve his own skills, especially if he worked in the stables. The Anglo-Saxons were far behind the Normans in most crafts, but especially the training of horse-flesh.
Richard thought with certainty that these were the thoughts going through Dougal’s mind. But then he got a shock of his own. The Saxon stood up and yelled, “My land will be my own one day! You won’t take it away from me!”
Before the rage struck, Richard reeled in a state of bewilderment. “Quoi?”
Tears actually glittered in Dougal’s eyes. “I will work my own land. I will nurture it and I will buy it someday. I will become a thegn like my father before me and—”
“For God’s sake!” Richard wanted to stand and knock this churl’s teeth out. Dougal wanted to work his “own” land? Land that belonged to Richard? Land that had been granted to him from King Edward himself? His hands raked the table so harshly he felt a splinter thrust into his palm. Sensing his mood, Ralph grabbed the hilt of his sword. This was just enough to help Richard stay his temper a little bit longer. He clenched his jaws so hard his head ached, but he managed to hiss through his teeth, “I will give you one more week to pay your rent, plus a little extra for being late. Work it out with my reeve, Bartholomew, before you go home. But if you can’t pay, I expect you to be here, working in my fucking stables!”
“Yes, my lord. Yes, yes. I’ll pay you next week. I will.” At last, a cloud of humility softened Dougal’s gaze, though it was not enough to abate Richard’s wrath. He only sent Dougal to work out the details with Bartholomew because if he looked at Dougal’s filthy face much longer, he might pummel it into the floorboards. Dougal must have sensed this, for he finally bowed low and shuffled out of the hall.
Richard sat there a long while, breathing heavily through his nose, clenching the wooden table with his fingers. Ralph waited quietly by, fidgeting a little, for as long as he could endure the silence.
“Well, my lord,” quipped the squire, “I think you handled that surprisingly well. Soon they’ll be calling you Richard the merciful!”
Ralph’s attempts at optimism did not always work on Richard; sometimes, they stoked his anger to the blazing point. But unexpectedly, Richard found himself nodding with agreement, the ball of anxiety in his stomach uncoiling. “I hope that is the case,” he replied. “I hope they will see that I am not the tyrant they imagine me to be.”
“Sure, as long as this Dougal fellow doesn’t fuck up his chance at redemption.”
Richard preferred not to think about that possibility.
And so the two men remained in the dim hall, saying nothing, listening to the dogs whine in their sleep and the air grumble with the promise of a storm. The last thing Richard needed right now was rain to soak the remaining crops, muddy the fields, and lower his laborers’ spirits. But it seemed to rain a lot here in Engla-lond. Surely enough, another burst of thunder cracked above, followed by the hiss of rain through the single window of Richard’s hall. The window was covered with vellum to let in light and keep back water, but after a few moments, a drip plopped down from the ceiling above.
Richard thought longingly of the castle where he once dwelt in Normandy. He had taken for granted the stone walls of his keep, free from the stench of wood, be it pungently fresh or bitterly molded. The structures of his homeland were cleaner and stronger, built from the ground up with great care and skill so that they did not constantly require maintenance or repairs. How he ached sometimes for the security of his old home, the strength and nobility of its foundation, and the confidence that it was his own and he had earned his place despite the curse of crooked feet. He also missed the warm presence of his wife in his bed, though he hastily brushed that thought away. He knew now more than ever that she had been right to choose Normandy over Engla-lond, for her own sake.
The door of their meager hall swung open, spraying rain across the threshold. Richard turned to see one of his Norman knights, Sir Geoffrey, walking in from the downpour. He was a quiet man who generally did what he was told and never asked questions, which Richard appreciated, even if the knight’s sharp golden eyes and mysterious demeanor sometimes unsettled him. His presence was unexpected, as he had his own meager piece of land and Saxon churls to do his bidding, such as carry messages to Lord Richard FitzScrob.
“What brings you here on a day like this, Geoffrey?” grumbled Richard.
The knight dripped as he walked to Richard, though he seemed undisturbed by the rain as a smile wound up his face. He pulled a scroll from his tunic, still dry and unwrinkled. Richard’s eyes widened as he recognized the king’s seal.
“The letter will explain further,” said Geoffrey, “but I can tell you this much: King Edward has summoned us to war.”
*
Dark brown hair fell in chunks into the grass as the servant swept the knife over Osbern’s skull. The twelve-year-old endured the scraping with a firm expression, never flinching, even though his nose had turned red with the chill of the autumn breeze. By the set of his jaw, the young Norman already seemed to picture himself on top of a horse, wielding a sword, and glaring down at the rebellious churls underfoot.
Osbern’s maple eyes widened when he spotted his father approaching. Richard usually did not roam around his estate unless on horseback. Normally, if he wanted to talk to someone, he sent a servant to bring that person to him. Walking with his clubbed feet on uneven terrain could lead him to fall and embarrass himself. Today, the morning after he had received his letter from King Edward, he used his cane to aid him. He felt as if he could go anywhere and do anything. A gust of wind made him grunt and stagger slightly, but soon enough he righted himself and kept going.
“Father! H
ow do I look?” asked Osbern FitzRichard in Norman.
Richard moved closer to survey his son’s haircut. The Saxon who trimmed it clearly did not know the Norman fashion, but he had tried his best to follow Richard’s instructions. The front half of Osbern’s head still possessed a dark mop of hair slicked backward; meanwhile the back half of his skull formed a clean sweeping line down his neck, wholly hairless. Richard smiled, then answered him in English. “You look like a man ready for battle.”
Osbern grinned from ear to ear, then jumped up from his stool, brushing severed locks of hair from his shoulders. Like Richard, he was born with imperfect legs, but only one of his feet was crooked, so he stood sturdily enough on the other. He still had the body of a boy, but he was growing tall quickly, and he possessed the broad shoulders and thick bones of his father. “So I will get to fight, then?”
“English, Osbern. English!” Richard waved at the Saxon servant, who gladly scurried away. Richard leaned forward on his cane and lowered his voice. “If you don’t learn to act and think like one of them, they’ll never see you as one of them.”
“But ... then why did I get this haircut?” Osbern spoke in awkward, halting English, made even more clumsy by the fact he grew anxious.
“Because it serves a practical purpose. Normans wear shirts of chainmail with coifs covering their neck and heads, unlike the Saxons. If you had long hair like the rest of them it would get stuck in the links!” Explaining it this way made Richard more frustrated. Most Norman customs served a practical purpose, so this argument would not work for everything.
Osbern did not realize this, however, so he lowered his head and looked duly chastised.
Richard sighed. “You asked if you will get to fight. I’ve decided you can ride with us to Lundenburg. If there is battle, I will want you to stay far from danger. But you’re of age now. It is time you saw true combat.”
