The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2010 by Helen Hollick

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Susan Zucker

  Cover images © Ricardo Demurez/Trevillion Images; Mr_Khan/iStockphoto.com; rdegrie/iStockphoto.com

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally published as A Hollow Crown in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2005.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hollick, Helen.

  The forever queen / by Helen Hollick.

  p. cm.

  1. Emma, Queen, consort of Canute I, King of England, d. 1052--Fiction. 2. Queens--Great Britain--Fiction. 3. Vikings--England--Fiction. 4. Great Britain--History--Anglo-Saxon period, 449-1066--Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6058.O4464F67 2010

  823’.914--dc22

  2009051067

  Table of Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Family Tree 1

  Family Tree 2

  Map 1

  Map 2

  Pronunciation Guide

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  Part Two

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Part Three

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Part Four

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedication

  To Towse

  for her friendship and support.

  And in memory of my Grandma Turner—Emma—

  who had the courage to do as this Emma did at Robin Hood’s Bay, Yorkshire.

  I wish I had known her better; she was a remarkable woman.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Æ has the sound as in “cat”

  Ælfgifu Alf-yivoo

  Ælfgar Alf-gar

  Ælfgiva Alf-yiva

  Æthelred Athel-rad

  Æhelnoth Athel-noth

  Cnut K-noot

  Deira Day-ra

  Gytha G-eetha

  Mercia Mer-see-a

  Swegn, Swein, and Sweyn are spelling variants of the same name and are pronounced Swain.

  My thanks to Steve Pollington for his assistance.

  Part One

  Æthelred

  Anno Domini 1002–1013

  That spring, Richard’s daughter, the Lady Emma, came to this land.

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

  1

  April 1002—Canterbury

  Emma was uncertain whether it was a growing need to visit the privy or the remaining queasiness of mal de mer, seasickness, that was making her feel so utterly dreadful. Or was it the man assessing her with narrowed eyes from where he stood at the top of the steps? A man she had never seen until this moment, who was four and thirty years to her three and ten, spoke a language she barely understood, and who, from the morrow, was to be her wedded husband.

  Did he approve of what he saw? Her sun-gold hair, blue eyes, and fair skin? Maybe, but Emma was uncomfortably aware that he was more probably thinking her nose was too large, her chin too pointed, and her bosoms not yet firm and rounded.

  Her eldest sister had laughed when Emma confided that this Æthelred of England might be disappointed with his bride. “Pleasure him in bed, ma chérie,” had been the answer. “In bed, no husband will remain disappointed for long.” Here in England, Emma remained unconvinced.

  Hiding her discomfort as well as she could, she stared at this King’s sun-weathered face. His blond hair, curling to his shoulders, had silver streaks running through it. His moustache trailed down each side of his mouth into a beard flecked with grey hair. He looked so old!

  Her long fingers, with their bitten, uneven nails, rested with a slight tremble on her brother’s left hand. Unlike her, Richard appeared unperturbed as they ascended the steps leading up to the great open-swung doors of Canter
bury Cathedral. But why would he not be at ease? It was not he, after all, who was to wed a stranger and be crowned as England’s anointed Queen.

  She was aware that Richard of Normandy had agreed to this marriage of alliance for reasons of his own gain. He ruled Normandy and his brood of sisters with an iron will that imaged their father’s ruthless determination—their father Emma had adored; her brother, who thought only of his self-advancement and little else, she did not.

  The drizzling rain had eased as their Norman entourage had ridden through Canterbury’s gates; the mist, hanging like ill-fitted curtaining across the Kent countryside had not deterred the common folk from running out of their hovels to inspect her. England and the English might not hold much liking for the Normans and their sea-roving Viking cousins, but still they had laughed and applauded as she passed by. They wanted peace, an end to the incessant i-víking raiding and pirating, to the killing and bloodshed. If a union between England and Normandy was the way to achieve it, then God’s good blessings be upon the happy couple. Whether this marriage would be of lasting benefit and achieve that ultimate aim no one yet knew. The Northmen, with their lust for plunder, were not easy to dissuade, and the substantial wealth of England was a potent lure. For a while, though, when Richard, in consequence of this wedding denied winter access to his Norman harbours, the raiders would search elsewhere for their ill-gotten gain or stay at home. Unless, of course, they elected to offer Richard a higher incentive than the one King Æthelred of England had paid.

  If Emma minded being so blatantly used for political gain, it was of no consequence to anyone. Except to Emma herself. What if I am not a pleasing wife? What if he does not like me? The questions had tumbled round and around in Emma’s mind these three months since being told of the arrangement, had haunted her by night and day. She knew she had to be wed; it was a woman’s duty to be a wife, to bear sons. Either that or drown in the monotonous daily misery of the nunnery, but there would be no Abbess’s veil for her. Her brother needed the alliances his sisters brought, the silver and the land. Normandy was a new young duchy with no family honour or pride to fall back upon, only the hope of a future, which Richard was too impatient to wait for. This, Emma had understood from the day their father died. Richard wanted all he could get, and he wanted it not tomorrow or next year, but now. One by one his sisters had been paired to noble marriages, but they were all so much older than Emma. She had not expected to be bargained away so soon.

  Æthelred was stepping forward, reaching out to take her hand, a smile on his face, crow’s-foot lines wrinkling at his eyes.

  She sank into a deep reverence, bending her head to hide the heat of crimson suddenly flushing into her cheeks. At her side, Richard snorted, disgruntled that she should be greeted before himself.

  He had not wanted to escort her to England. On that dreadful sea crossing he had vociferously balked at meeting face to face with this Englishman, King Æthelred. “I do not trust a man who was involved in the murder of his own brother to gain the wearing of a crown,” he had stated several times over.

  If these were his thoughts, then why, in the name of sweet Jesu, had he agreed to this marriage? Why was she here, feeling awkward and uncertain, fearing to look at the man who would soon be taking her innocence of maidenhood?

  Non, Richard had not wanted to come to England, but he had wanted to ensure that the agreed terms were honoured. Dieu! He needed the financial gain and the respectability, the prestige of having his youngest sister wed to one of the wealthiest Kings in all Europe.

  From somewhere Emma had to gather the courage and dignity to raise her head, smile at Æthelred…She clung to the talisman of her mother’s parting words: “No matter how ill, how frightened, or how angry you might be, child, censure your feelings. Smile. Hold your chin high, show only pride, nothing else. Fear and tears are to be kept private. You are to be crowned and anointed Queen of England. The wife and mother of Kings. Remember that.”

  Emma took a breath, looked at the man who was to be her husband, and knew, instantly, that she disliked him.

  2

  Dismay gripped her with such force that she found she could not move. Her throat was dry, her heart jolted beneath her ribs; she felt as if the very air she was breathing had been stolen away. How could she go through with this? Suddenly she wanted to run back down the steps and flee from all these people staring at her, to be anywhere but here with this old man who was bending forward to brush her cheek with his lips. He had a smile on his face that reached no further than the slight curve of his mouth, that did not touch the empty coldness of his grey eyes. She wanted to go home, wanted her mother’s arms, the security of places and people she knew.

  Not that Gunnor had ever been the sort of mother to comfort her children. Emma could not remember the last time Mama had cuddled or kissed her. Not even when she boarded that wretched ship had her mother shown any outward sign of affection. No farewell embrace, no wishing of good fortune.

  Summoning bravado, Emma stretched her mouth into a responsive smile. To a girl of three and ten years, four and thirty seemed as ancient and worn as the hills. His beard had scratched at her skin, and his teeth, she noticed, were yellowing. Two were missing. His hand, holding hers, was large and clammy, the pads of skin at the base of his fingers calloused like unyielding, poorly oiled leather. The hands of a man used to wielding a sword or axe, or long hours in the saddle.

  “Wel cume in Engla Lond,” he said, his voice low, gruff. “I have arranged for you to stay at the nunnery this night, my dear. On the morrow the good Abbess shall escort you here to the cathedral for our exchange of vows. From then, of course, you shall reside within the Queen’s quarters of my palaces; what is mine is yours.” Æthelred pointed in the direction of the town’s walls, to where a large timber-built hall dominated the squat, reed-thatched commoners’ cottages and workshops of Canterbury.

  Emma took another steadying breath, retained her smile. She guessed the meaning of the first few words, but the rest? For all she knew, he could have been insulting her beyond redemption. Some of the English tongue sounded similar to Danish, but the grammar and the lilt of speech were not what she had expected. Danish was her mother’s tongue, but this English was so different! She was on the verge of panic. Sainte Marie, mere de Dieu, Holy Mother of God, what was she to do? Was she to wed and bed with this man, give him children, be his Queen, and not fully understand the words he spoke?

  Confused, alarm beating her heart faster, she glanced up at Richard. Not noticing her silence or her increased grip on his arm, he was addressing Æthelred in court French. He rarely used their mother’s native speech, claiming it was uncivilised and uncultured. That was another of Richard’s faults: his self-opinionated arrogance.

  “Mon Seigneur, je vous donne la garde de ma sœur.” Irritably shaking aside his sister’s gripping fingers, Richard offered Æthelred a false smile and an elaborate embrace of kinship. Received no answer beyond a blank stare.

  Perplexed, he tried again with not such a wide smile and in his mother’s tongue. “I have brought to your good care my sister. As was agreed.”

  Emma glanced at her brother again. Had it not occurred to him, either, that Æthelred might not speak French?

  Æthelred glowered. Danish. He had no liking for the Danes, a loathsome people with a pagan culture, an unreasonable temper, and a damned language he could not abide. Murdering barbarians, the Danes. Disrespectful louts who thought no one else had an ounce of ability when it came to ships and the sea, and who took a perverse pleasure in raiding and looting; í-víking was their term for it. Taking that which was not theirs, be it land, property, or women

  He had not been overpleased that the girl the Archbishop of York, Wulfstan Lupus, had persuaded him to marry was half Danish, but alliances, like healing medicines, often came with a bitter taste. At least the dowry she brought with her compensated somewhat. Belligerent, Æthelred folded his arms and stared at Wulfstan, waiting for a translation. For good rea
son had he been appointed to the diocese of York. As senior Prelate of the wild, untamed land and people north of the Humber River, his attributes included diplomacy and tactfulness, patience and a dignified humility. He was also a highly literate scholar and orator and had an even better flair for government. A formidable man to deceive or gainsay.

  Speaking in fluent French, Wulfstan welcomed the Duke and Emma to England. “Few at court embrace French, nor, my Lord, while they raid our coasts and estuaries, burn our crops, murder our men, and rape our women, do we listen kindly to the Danish tongue.”

  “You made no mention of this”—Richard searched for an appropriate word—“inconvenience when you came to bargain for my sister.”

  Wulfstan shrugged. “It did not seem of consequence.” With a placating smile, he proceeded to translate Richard’s greeting and his own response into English.

  Æthelred interrupted tersely. “What of the girl? Does she not speak English either?” He glared suspiciously at Richard through narrowed eyes. Normans! Damned Hell-spawn, bred of Danish pirates and pox-tainted whores. For all his protestations of piety and devotion to Christ, this pinch-mouthed Duke’s ancestry was too closely connected to these present-day plundering whoresons for comfort. The grandsire had been nothing more than a raiding Viking himself, although, admittedly, one with a few brains between the gristle of his ears. Rollo had sweet-talked his way into favour with the King of France and thereby acquired a corner of France for himself and his followers. Northman’s Land. Normandy, they had called it. Aye, well, as long as this present upstart had no ideas for extending his lands and grabbing a corner or two of England.

  Cupping his hand under Emma’s chin, Æthelred’s rough-skinned fingers pinched into her cheeks as he tipped her head up and sideways to inspect her more closely. God’s breath, but she was young! And there was nothing of her—all skin and bone! He liked his women well padded, something to get his hands around, fingers into. Athelflade, his mistress, he had been moderately fond of, but then she had been a quiet, dutiful woman who did his bidding without murmur. A pity she had given him all daughters and only the one son, and he a sickly thing that had caused her death. His hand-fast wife, Ælfgifu, had anticipated his wants and needs, too, although with her sharp tongue and constant nagging he had not been sorry to set her aside when her cursed father had turned traitor. She had been chosen for him by his mother—to wed with Emma of Normandy had been his decision. Already he was wondering whether it had been a wise one; what would this infant know of a man’s needs?