The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Fret not, cariad.’ Griffin rode up beside her and leaned over to place a great arm around her shoulders. ‘We will soon be home.’

  Home! This was her home now – this wild little outpost, four hard, cold days’ ride from England. She tried to smile at her betrothed but her lips were too cracked and frozen to curve as they should. Griffin leaned in and kissed them hard.

  ‘I will warm you, Edyth.’

  Her insides flared, making her skin feel even icier. Maybe another day’s ride would not trouble her too greatly – nay, another week’s?

  ‘Don’t be afeared, cariad. I will be gentle.’

  ‘I thought you liked to battle between the sheets.’

  The words shot out before she could hold them, but Griffin simply smiled.

  ‘I can battle, Edyth – between the sheets as elsewhere – but I do not choose to. Do you intend to fight me?’

  ‘No! Oh no, Sire.’

  ‘Griffin. And good. That is good. I will treat you well, cariad, fear not. Now come, there are too many cold toes and empty bellies to linger on snowy hillsides. We ride for home!’

  ‘My lords and ladies, let me present to you my queen – your queen!’

  Griffin pulled Edyth to her feet, holding her hand aloft like a victorious fighter and almost yanking her feet from the ground in his enthusiasm. Musical cheers rang around the great hall and Edyth felt herself flush with delight at such a welcome.

  The feast was well under way. The fires were high, the food rich and the ale plentiful. A hundred rush lamps burned around the walls throwing heady golden patterns off the shields hung between them and the leaden white of the snow was shut firmly away. Most of Griffin’s small winter court would sleep here tonight rather than brave their own frozen quarters but the king’s chamber had been prepared for him with no less than four carefully tended braziers. Edyth knew because he had shown her on the way to dinner.

  ‘See, cariad – we will be in comfort tonight.’

  ‘But we’re not yet married,’ she’d dared to protest.

  He’d just laughed.

  ‘Who’s to know out here? No Roman priest will brave Welsh roads until spring so why wait? Believe me, Edyth, you will be glad of it before the sun rises again.’ She’d nodded dumbly and he’d caught her up in his arms and spun her round. ‘You are so sweet, Edyth. God, I’d take you now if I could.’

  ‘You would?’

  Edyth had almost hoped he might – at least then it would be done.

  ‘No, the anticipation will make it all the sweeter. Come – our subjects await!’

  And now those subjects were here, roaring their approval and all she could think was that every one of them knew exactly what would happen to her tonight. Her stomach churned and she wished she hadn’t eaten the eels but now Griffin was waving his great hands for hush and his steward, John, was approaching bearing a beautiful wooden casket. Edyth stared at it.

  ‘I have a gift for you, Edyth Alfgarsdottir.’

  Griffin reached out to the casket and the whole hall stilled in anticipation. He lifted the lid and reached inside, pausing expertly for the crowd before drawing forth a crown – a beautiful, highly jewelled crown. Edyth gasped.

  ‘Is it not exquisite?’ Griffin lifted it high to show his lords and ladies before turning to Edyth. ‘Just like you.’ A tear burst on her eyelid and she brushed it away. Griffin smiled and leaned down to kiss her. ‘I ordered it made before we left for battle. Do you like it?’

  Edyth tried to focus through the mist of her foolish eyes. She took in the delicate Celtic patterns in the gold, the beautifully cut amethysts and aquamarines around the base and the four great square rubies standing proud on swirling points.

  ‘It is your father’s crown.’

  ‘It is and now, my love, it is yours.’

  With that, he bent and placed it on her head. It fitted perfectly and had been thoughtfully made with a rabbit-fur lining so it was soft on her head. Edyth put up a hand to touch it.

  ‘Does it suit me?’ she whispered, awed.

  ‘It does,’ Griffin said. ‘You look perfect.’ Then he leaned in closer and whispered, ‘And will look even better when it is all you are wearing.’

  ‘Griffin!’

  ‘Edyth. You are mine – all mine. Come.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  He leaped up and swung her into his arms, carrying her down the length of the great hall to raucous cheers. Edyth hid her face in his broad shoulder and was grateful, despite the sting of the iced air, when they left the court’s knowing jibes. Within moments, however, they had reached the bedchamber and her whole body seemed to flare with the heat of the fires and with her own pulsing awareness. Griffin sent his brazier-men scuttling away and set her gently down.

  ‘We are alone at last, cariad. Nay, don’t speak. Don’t speak and don’t think – just feel. It is time for pleasure.’

  What is life without pleasure, Edyth Alfgarsdottir?

  Earl Torr’s words drifted across Edyth’s mind as Griffin pulled back her headdress and lowered his lips to her neck, but she pushed them aside. She was here, in Wales, and must look forward not back. Griffin’s kisses whispered across her skin and, despite her nerves, she felt her blood rise to meet them. She sighed gently and he kissed harder, moving his lips down to the dip between her breasts. His fingers found her laces and expertly untied them, loosening her overgown so he could tease the neckline downwards.

  Edyth’s body began to pulse. Griffin’s lips never stopped moving, pushing across the curve of her breast as if following the rising beat of her heart. She gasped at the thrill and buried her hands in his hair and now Griffin began to flick his tongue across her nipple before tweaking at it with his teeth.

  ‘Griffin, I—’

  ‘Don’t speak,’ he said huskily, ‘not this time. Don’t speak, don’t think, just—’

  ‘Feel,’ Edyth whispered.

  ‘Beautiful girl.’

  He stepped back, bent and lifted the hem of her overdress, peeling it effortlessly over her head so that she stood in just her shift. He smiled then swung her into his arms and placed her on the bed, kneeling up at her feet. He licked his lips and bent slowly, taking one of her feet in his great hands to slide off her shoe and kiss her ankle. Edyth swallowed. In all the conversations she’d listened into in the bower over the years no one had ever said anything about ankles.

  ‘Feel,’ he murmured and now he began to move upwards, lingering over each leg in turn, rolling the hem of her shift higher and higher. Edyth felt sensations rushing down her thighs and back up again – all the way up. Desire pooled between her legs as he moved closer and closer and suddenly his tongue – his tongue! – was there and she cried out with pleasure. Now she knew why the serving girl had pushed herself so eagerly towards Torr. Her body felt as if it was cracking at the edges, opening up beneath his touch, and she wanted more. Much more.

  When he stopped, she longed to grab at him and pull him back. She squirmed on the bed and he smiled wickedly.

  ‘Don’t fret – I’m not done with you yet. Your shift . . .’

  He went to remove it but Edyth was there first, ripping it over her head so that she was naked before him. She felt no shyness, no nerves, just desperate anticipation.

  ‘Ah, cariad!’

  Griffin’s voice was rich with appreciation. He was shedding his own clothes now and Edyth watched in awe as his great body was unveiled to her. It was firm and hard. His chest bulged with muscle but his waist was as slim as an arrowhead, pointing down. Edyth’s eyes widened but now he was over her again, kissing her lips, her eyelids, nibbling at her ears and her body was falling apart beneath him.

  ‘Now,’ he murmured.

  She felt his hands on her thighs, gently parting them and then he was inside her and a sharp tear of pain unfolded into waves of pleasure.

  ‘Harder,’ she said.

  He chuckled and obliged and she felt the waves build until she had no control ov
er herself and could only buck against him. Vaguely she was aware of herself crying out and Griffin responding. Vaguely she felt him pulse inside her and realised he must be releasing his seed but that seemed as nothing to the sheer joy of his touch.

  Eventually he shifted off her and lay at her side. She curled against him.

  ‘Good?’ he asked.

  ‘So good.’ She raised herself up and looked at him, suddenly anxious. ‘Did I do it right?’

  ‘Oh Edyth, you were perfect.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Thank heavens. Can we do it again?’

  Griffin groaned but his smile was splitting his face apart.

  ‘Soon,’ he agreed, kissing her, ‘but first I want to see you in your crown.’

  ‘Of course. I am, after all, yours to command.’

  Griffin groaned again.

  ‘Why does it feel as if that is not going to be true?’ he said as Edyth, giggling, rose to retrieve her beautiful crown from the floor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rhuddlan, September 1056

  My dearest Edyth,

  Thank you for your latest letter. I am so glad the summer has been warm and hope that you are seeing as beautiful an autumn on your western shore of our island as we are in the east. The vines are laden here and the corn piled high in the barns and we all grow fat.

  Our ram, devil that he is, got in amongst the sheep and God has chosen to bless the poor creatures with winter lambs. They look most bemused. Just last night a ewe, a mother many times over, struggled and I had to pull not one but three lambs from her womb. All were hale and on their feet in moments and though it was fully dark I felt blessed to have been with her for the birthing. However many times I see a new life come into the world it still feels like a miracle.

  I am so pleased to hear that you have your own miracle on the way and that the begetting of it has not proved too arduous. As we discussed once before, so very long ago as it now feels, the act of love can be a wonderful thing and I am pleased the king treats you so tenderly.

  Edyth paused in her reading and grinned. The king was not always, these days, as tender as those first times and, Lord forgive her, she encouraged him in his delicious devilry. It had grown tougher as her belly had swollen but they had managed.

  As the summer sun had shone on the fields, however, it had seemed that the newly green grass needed soaking in blood and Griffin had ridden to war. He’d been gone almost two months and she was aching for him. Being with child seemed, if anything, to have increased her appetite and now, as she grew near to her time, she felt itchy and cranky. Shaking herself, she turned back to Svana’s welcome letter.

  I was so sorry to miss your wedding, though your father has talked of it so much I feel almost as if I were there. The Whitsun court rang with tales of your beauty and your gowns and your crown. I hear it is magnificent, as is only right. I must practise my curtseys before I see you and your little prince or princess.

  My own blessed daughter grows fast and I am quite hopelessly smitten with her. We have called her Crysta, after Harold’s mother, and she is the sweetest thing – so small compared to her brothers and not nearly as demanding. She wants but one thing, a godmother, but Harold and I agree that must wait until you are visiting as I will have no one else but you for my baby girl. Harold dotes on her already and I can see that she will have him wrapped around her little finger. I fear I am no longer the first woman in his life but I am content.

  Or I would be, but he is gone. Off fighting, as men will insist on doing. What would happen, I wonder, if they all just stayed at home with their wives? Would the world stop? Would the crops not grow and the babies not be born? Would the land change shape? Men, it seems, are obsessed by borders and the one between our countries seems the most enchanting

  of all. I can only pray our husbands will not kill each other and trust, my dear friend, to our charms to lure them home to us unscathed.

  Your ever loving,

  Svana

  Edyth read Svana’s last line over and over. The barely suppressed melancholy contained within it spoke to her own and was both an irritation and a balm. Griffin had left her in command of his palace but it was a command that was proving hard to assert. The courtiers who had paid such respect to her when the king was at her side treated her with contempt in his absence. It was only the support of old John the steward that was keeping her afloat. For the rest – the women – it was like trying to control haybarn cats. Only this morning John had come to her complaining that his supplies of beeswax were being run too low.

  ‘It’s Lady Gwyneth,’ he’d confided. ‘She’s asking for new candles every day. The king is due home any moment but at this rate he will return to dark evenings and we’ll all have to be a-bed the moment the sun dips.’

  Edyth had thought that sounded perfect but John had clearly been in distress at the prospect and she’d forced herself to put her sulky, demanding body aside.

  ‘I will talk to her,’ she’d promised but she’d been stalling all morning. Svana’s letter had provided a welcome excuse to duck the confrontation but she had read it several times now and she knew she had to go and find Gwyneth.

  ‘You’re the queen,’ she told herself sternly, reaching for her crown. ‘You’re in command – Griffin said so.’

  Griffin, however, was not here and everything seemed so much harder without him, especially his supercilious ex-mistress. As if sensing her distaste for the task, the babe kicked out, sudden and strong, and Edyth put her hand to her belly. She could actually feel the shape of its determined little foot and she stroked it softly. She was the queen and she was carrying the king’s child, so Gwyneth and her caterwauling women could learn to do as she said.

  Decided, she let herself out of her elaborate bower and crossed the courtyard to Gwyneth’s far humbler rooms in the cold western corner of the compound. The guard on the door bowed low but the women were slow to rise and even slower to curtsey. Edyth strode forward to where Gwyneth was seated on a grand chair, almost a throne. She stood before her in silence and eventually the lady curtseyed but, like those of her maids, it was the briefest of dips, more an insult than a courtesy.

  ‘John tells me you are running our supply of candles dangerously low, my lady,’ Edyth said in her now-perfect Welsh.

  ‘John is a fool.’

  ‘John is a skilled steward and one of the king’s most trusted servants.’

  ‘The king is not here.’

  ‘No. He is fighting for the honour and wealth of our country.’

  ‘Our country?’

  The mutiny was low but Edyth’s sharp ears caught it. She turned to the speaker, a sultry, dark-eyed young lady.

  ‘If you have a problem with Wales, Lady Alwen, I’m sure we can arrange for you to live somewhere else. Ireland perhaps . . .’ The girl’s berry-stained cheeks paled; everyone knew the Welsh court was a picture of civilisation compared to the barbarous Irish one. Edyth smiled grimly. ‘As I was saying, the king, my husband, is fighting for our country and will not wish to return to a dark hall. John says we can afford twenty candles a week for the bowers, of which ten are for my own. That seems fair.’

  ‘Fair? There are more of us here.’

  That much was true. Most of the time Edyth only had her maid, Becca, for company whereas Gwyneth’s bower was bustling with ladies, gossiping and sniping and, as far as Edyth could see, living off the royal purse for no service in return.

  ‘You are right,’ she said coolly, ‘perhaps some of you should return to your own estates.’

  ‘You can’t tell us what to do.’

  Edyth put a quiet hand to her crown.

  ‘I am not seeking to do so, simply suggesting that your husbands will be disappointed if they return from war to find their farmlands poorly tended for your want of attention.’

  ‘That’s what stewards are for,’ Gwyneth spat.

  Edyth kept her face straight.

  ‘Quite right, my
lady, and our steward says ten candles. See he is obeyed, please.’

  She turned to leave before any of them could challenge her further but as she took a step towards the door she felt a sharp pain shoot across her belly. She stopped, clutching at it. The women watched, impassive. Another pain griped at her, this one stronger than the last. Edyth reached for the wall to support herself but misjudged the distance and stumbled. No one moved to help her.

  She closed her eyes against the cramps. It was too soon, surely. Even as she thought this, though, the babe kicked out, as if to escape, and she felt something inside her burst. Fluid gushed down her leg and Gwyneth’s women glanced to their mistress. A couple moved forward but stopped dead, as if at her signal. Edyth stood panting, alone, gathering her strength. Fear was rushing through her as fast as her womb had emptied but there was no way she would give any of these cats the satisfaction of seeing it. She drew herself up and faced them.

  ‘I will tell my husband what a great help and comfort you were to me in the birthing of his heir. Good day.’

  Another pain was clawing at her but she forced herself to walk to the door. Wrenching it open, she broke free and stumbled into the courtyard. John was at the far end rolling a barrel towards the hall but the moment he saw her he came running.

  ‘My lady, what is it? Is it the baby?’

  Edyth nodded, clenching her teeth against a new spasm.

  ‘Can you help me to my bower? And fetch Becca and send Lewys for the midwife?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He swept a strong arm around her waist and she leaned gratefully against him. Behind her she was vaguely aware of some of Gwyneth’s clowder emerging nervously from the bower and knowing they were there gave her the power she needed to keep walking away but it was hard.

  ‘Oh God, John, it hurts.’