“You are nothing like Ælfgifu,” he said, “but mayhap that is a blessing.” He released Emma’s face with a pat on her cheek as if she were a favoured dog. Right or wrong decision, there was no reneging on the agreement. “You will do.” Added grudgingly, “You will have to.”
He laughed suddenly and, with more enthusiasm, kissed Emma’s cheek. Her face was fair, and she would fill out as she grew, would learn as she matured. Perhaps the teaching might be pleasurable? If not, well, she would not be the first wife to play mute to a man’s whores.
“I am thinking,” he announced to his nobles and their womenfolk gathered at either side at the base of the cathedral steps, “I may be fortunate. A wife who does not know what I am saying could be a great blessing, eh?” He paused, watched the puzzled frowns deepen. Laughed again, louder, a roar of mirth. “She’ll not answer me back, nor make comment when I mumble about other women’s bedchamber assets in my sleep!”
Comprehending the jest, the array of men and women, in their dazzle of sumptuous garments, Ealdormen, Bishops, dignitaries, and Thegns with their wives, daughters, and sisters laughed with him. Richard joined the amusement, erroneously assuming Æthelred had spoken some significant witticism. Emma alone did not laugh. She was too confused, too frightened by everything and everyone to express merriment, but she had recognised the name Ælfgifu. She glanced at the brightly dressed women. Was she among them, watching this new, timid young bride? Surely not; Æthelred had set her aside and annulled the union.
Back in Normandy, Emma had attempted to comprehend Æthelred’s previous marriage. England followed laws and customs that were older and more entrenched than those directed by Rome. The woman had been a legal wife, but had not been crowned Queen nor received any right of status. She was, therefore, in Christian eyes, nothing more than a disgraced concubine. But in English law, unlike French and Norman, the children she had birthed were not regarded as bastards. The eldest son carried the title Ætheling, kingworthy, and could become King, if thought able and elected by council, after his father. That concept alone was puzzling to Emma. In Normandy the eldest legitimate son automatically inherited the crown, the younger ones receiving next to nothing beyond a placement within the Church or finding what they could for themselves.
Emma’s mother had been dismissive of Æthelred’s common-law wife, his parade of mistresses, and the children born to them. “Dead whores are of no consequence,” she had answered curtly when Emma had asked of them. “Unlike them, you are to be Æthelred’s Christian-blessed wife and his anointed Queen. One of your sons shall become King after him. It is made so in your marriage agreement, Richard has specifically seen to it.”
Sons. Emma was uncertain about that aspect also. Oh, she knew all about the mess of begetting and birthing; life within the walls of her brother’s various crowded castles held little luxury of privacy. She had heard or witnessed all she need know about men, women, and the subsequent children. She knew it hurt, both child getting and childbirth, for she had heard the moans for the getting and the screams for the birthing. She knew also that death was often the end result. Not that she feared death. At this moment, as her throat continued to run dry and her heart pounded in her chest, she thought it might be most welcome.
The toll of bells from Canterbury’s many chapels and monasteries had at last fallen silent, and Æthelred’s laughter trilled down to the people of the town. The tide of his amusement scuttled through the sewage-strewn streets, wafted along by a slight rise of wind, echoing and rippling along the narrow, stinking alleyways. He offered his hand to Emma, and timidly she placed her own within his firm grip, set a smile on her face as he led her down the steps to introduce her to his court.
First, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was seated in a carved wooden chair and was to conduct the marriage and her crowning on the morrow. Emma wondered if he would have the strength to lift even a marriage ring let alone a royal crown, for he was thin, old, and frail; almost six and seventy years, so Archbishop Wulfstan, walking on her far side, told her. She could barely believe such a great age.
Æthelred moved on. “My son,” he announced, stopping before a tall, handsome, and quite ferocious-looking young man. “Athelstan. At one and twenty years of age he has already proved himself capable with sword and axe, but he needs to curb his impatience. I have no intention of giving him opportunity to try for my place as King just yet.”
Athelstan flickered his iron-sharp, grey-eyed gaze disdainfully at his father, then at Emma with a look that did not conceal his contempt for the both of them. So there is no love between father and son, Emma thought. Wondered why. Ambition? Impatience on the son’s part?
“And Edmund,” Æthelred continued as he introduced another, much younger lad, barely waiting for Archbishop Wulfstan to translate his words into French. “Edmund is but eleven; I have strong hopes for him.” Æthelred playfully swiped at the boy’s head, buffeting him round the ears. “My other sons are taken to God. My gaggle of unmarried daughters are over there.” He waved his hand in the direction of a group of tall, aloof women. “The last-born child I sired is a sickly brat. I have sent him to the monastery at Ely. I doubt he will live long.”
Emma had not dared to attempt eye contact with Athelstan, but Edmund was nearer her own age, of her own height, and not so daunting.
“Gode fortune be wythe ye,” she said in halting English, feeling confident enough to mimic the phrase tossed at her by all those folk who had lined the road north from Dover. To her disappointment and acute embarrassment, she had misjudged him. Apart from the disdainful glower he gave his father’s new wife, Edmund, as with Athelstan, ignored her.
Richard walked straight past them, his sneer more pronounced than their own, remarking only, “Normandy does not acknowledge bastards born from a whore’s spread legs.” Always the diplomat, Wulfstan said nothing. This marriage had been his idea; for the sake of England, for his own reputation, and the mortified look of embarrassed horror that swam into this slip of a girl’s eyes, it had to succeed. If it failed, it would not be through the fault of Wulfstan, of York!
As Æthelred escorted his bride-to-be along the line, Emma greeted each new face with courtesy and gestures of friendliness, repeating her few English words to each and every one of them. Dieu, how was she to remember them all? The Ealdormen: Alfhelm of Deira, Leofwine, Leofsige, Ælfric, Athelmar. Important nobles: Uhtred of Bernicia, Ulfkell Snilling, Thurbrand the Hold (a northern term for reeve), and the reeves of shire and port. Thegns: Morcar, Sigeferth, Eadric Streona and his brother…Là! Too many to remember. But she would have to, for tomorrow, after her marriage and crowning, these men would, one by one, kneel before her to pledge their service and loyalty. Another thing they did so very different here in England. Normans, if they wished to hold land, were obliged to swear their troth as vassals to their Duke’s will—swear, or lose all. Whereas these English held their estates by right of legal tenure, their land could not be forfeited on a King’s whim without grounds of legal justice. With free-given choice, an Englishman honoured his King as overlord, the highest-ranked among them combining into a council, the Witan, formed to advise and direct the King, even to elect the next King when death claimed the reigning monarch. Emma thought of Richard; had there been a choice, would he have been chosen as Duke? Hah! She very much doubted it!
Tomorrow also, robed in all her regal finery, Emma would greet and give her favour to those men who had agreed to become her own elite bodyguard of cnights. That any warrior would deem it worthwhile to serve and protect a skinny, awkward girl child was beyond Emma’s comprehension. As was this English notion that these men were free to offer their pledge of loyalty and military service in return for keep and comfort. What was there to bind a vow? Honour, she had been told. In Normandy a man’s honour could be out-bought. Did that not happen here in England? Ah, there was so much for her to learn!
On the outside, at least, these noblemen were approving of her, several showing smiles that were n
ot based on a smirk of lust for a ripe bud, as many of Richard’s Lords had often done. For all that she was a mere girl, these English, excepting Athelstan and his brother, were treating her with polite formality and respect. The women, perhaps, were not quite so forthcoming, more than one eyeing her as a potential threat; but women, she knew, were often kindred spirits to a kennel full of snarling bitches.
One Thegn among the row of many—Wulfnoth his name, a bearded rogue of a sea dog; she could tell by the saline tang that clung to his body and clothes—raised both her hands to his lips and placed a lingering impertinent kiss there.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he crowed. “This pious lack-laughter monk, Wulfstan, told us you were a comely lass, but the old bugger never let on you were on the verge of becoming a rare beauty! You are a healing balm to sore eyes, my Lady. Well come to England.” He spoke, to Emma’s delight, in fluent French.
“There is naught so pleasant as a pretty face at court to rattle those jealous old biddies,” he jested, nodding his head at the women. “Their poor, shackled menfolk might not admit it, but I am wife-free, so I can safely acknowledge I am afire with envy for our King. He is a fortunate man indeed to be getting one as sweet as you for his own. You let me know if you decide you do not want him, lass. I will be more’n happy to keep you warm in his stead!” His exaggerated, playful wink was youthful and boisterous, belying the fact that his grizzled hair and beard made him appear older than he was. Emma laughed at his outrageous informality, surprised and pleased at the unexpected arousal of humour from within her.
The scowling women did not share his gallant jesting. Did they truly fear she might seduce their husbands away from their beds? She had better not let them realise their fears were built on shifting sand; as far as seducing a man went, Emma did not have the faintest idea of where, or how, to start.
And then, as Æthelred brought her back along the long line of people, someone spoke, plain and bold, in French. “She might attempt to pleasure our father in his bed, she might even give him more sons, but here in England the most worthy is chosen as King. When the time comes, I defy any of her half-breed runts to prove stronger than I!”
Emma faltered, forced the smile to stay on her lips, and steeled herself not to look round. Athelstan! If he could speak French, then he had understood every discourtesy her brother had let slither from his tongue. How Athelstan must hate her! She felt a new wave of vulnerable fear seep through her bones. How was she to survive this? She had no choice but to hold her chin high, ignore Æthelred’s eldest-born, and remember her mother’s advice to shield her thoughts from marking her face.
God help her, she would, would, survive here in England. She had to.
3
Emma became Æthelred’s wife as the Heavens opened in a downpour of hail and thunder, their voices drowned by the grumble of a turbulent, lightning-split sky. The folk crowded into Canterbury to witness the occasion did not appear to notice, or mind, the drenching.
Surely all England had come to see Æthelred take Lady Emma of Normandy as wife. The narrow streets were crammed full of people, right up to and beyond the very gates of the town. Directly in front of the cathedral in the marketplace, empty of its stalls for this occasion, onlookers were packed as tight as salted pilchards in a barrel. There could never be any doubting the authenticity of this marriage, for too many eyes witnessed the public exchange of vows beneath the cathedral’s arched porch-way. The outburst of cheering vied with the storm booming overhead as Æthelred took her hand and began to lead her inside. Mass, the formal blessing, and Emma’s anointing would be conducted within. Always ready, on these crown-wearing days, to acknowledge his status, Æthelred turned to the crowd and raised his arm in salute, the enthusiastic response so great, Emma wondered whether these English would cheer anything if it appeared splendid enough. Dress a lop-eared mule in fine silks and parade it before them, would they applaud that too?
Impulsively Emma also raised her arm, the response staggering, the cheering louder, wilder. All these people, men, women, children; well-off and poor; traders, shopkeepers, farmers, all of them acknowledging and greeting her. She risked a shy glance at Æthelred. Would he mind that her acclaim had been bolder than his own? She relaxed. He was smiling, laughing almost.
“It seems they approve of you, girl. Not that it matters, the populace detested my mother. It made not the slightest difference to her; she cared nothing for them either. Nor for my father. Still, it helps to be liked.”
Emma understood one or two of his words, as for the rest—ah, well, perhaps they were not important.
Inside the cathedral, her shoes, expensive leather slippers, scuffed gently on the red and black patchwork of tiles that led from the great western door to the altar steps. Prestigious men dipped their heads as she passed by, her hand resting lightly on Æthelred’s arm, the women sinking into deep curtsies. The interior was a haven of quiet and calm, a serene opposite to the storm outside. Candles burnt from every sconce in wall, rafter and freestanding candelabra, each an individual flickering halo of yellow flame, joining and merging to make a shimmering glow of light. The heady aroma of incense mingled with the scent of tallow and the spirals of smoke, the whole conspiring to overpower the rain-damp, musty smell of men’s cloaks and women’s gowns.
Emma was enthralled. This homage paid to her without hesitation, the sheer beauty and atmosphere of the building with its painted walls of swirling patterns or religious scenes. How could she have believed Richard’s prejudices? This whole thing was wonderful! Although, as she knelt before the altar to pledge her marriage vows, a tiny voice niggling in her mind whispered that the splendour of the occasion could be distorting her senses.
Her brother’s derogative assessment of England had prepared her to expect Canterbury Cathedral to be nothing more than a wooden chapel with a mud floor and leaking roof.
“The English are poor builders,” he had declared to his companions before leaving Normandy. They have not the capacity of imagination or skill to create buildings of beauty for the glory of God. Dieu,” he had added with scorn, “they even defend themselves behind timber—incroyable! I would have this Æthelred come to Normandy, see our fortifications! Sans doute, how can a man proclaim his power unless he builds in stone?”
Æthelred’s palace did indeed comprise of a cluster of buildings constructed in wood and thatch. But not the cathedral. Christ Church could compare with any Norman church of distinction. Emma’s delight at seeing it yesterday had been twofold: England was not the uncouth, uncivilised land Richard had vociferously declared it to be, and for the first time ever, she had realised her brother could be wrong.
With the marriage ceremony completed, Æthelred seated himself on his throne and Emma stood alone between the two Archbishops. Wulfstan, tall and upright, and the old Archbishop of Canterbury, with hunched shoulders and bent spine, his hand to his ear so he could hear her words, his eyes squinting and peering through the fog of failing sight.
The choir was singing, the beautiful blended voices of the monks raised high in musical prayer, the sound rippling and echoing up into the vaulted rafters and bouncing off the gayly painted stone walls. She understood these words, for the singing, as with the service, was in Latin, familiar and safe. “Let thy hand be strengthened and be exalted. Let mercy and truth go before thy face.” The soaring descant of the younger novices rising like a lark, high, to the very feet of God.
Prostrating herself, Emma lay flat along the tiles before the altar, their hard coldness seeping through her gown, the fine-woven linen beneath an overgarment that was elaborately embroidered with precious stones and pearls glittering in the candlelight. Wulfstan intoned the prayers and blessing, and it was he who raised her, showed her to the congregation, and asked, in a stentorian voice, whether she was acceptable as their Queen.
The shouted answer shook the roof and quivered through the building, to be taken up and echoed outside by the people of Canterbury.
“Aye! Aye!
Aye!” Even the flames flickered, as if a wind had rustled through the nave.
“Do you, Ælfgifu, promise to keep good faith to God and peace to your people?”
Emma hesitated; these words were intoned by the elderly Archbishop of Canterbury, who spoke in a mumbled English, Wulfstan, at his side, translating into French. Had the old man said the wrong name? She raised her head, glanced quickly at him then at Wulfstan, but nothing seemed amiss to either of them. Perhaps she had heard wrong?
“Oui, I do so avow.” Her voice was quiet and solemn, barely heard.
The Chrism, the holiest of oils, was poured onto the crown of her head and trickled down her forehead. With a gnarled and bent finger the Archbishop of Canterbury traced the sign of the cross on her skin in symbolism of her change from a mortal woman to that of a Queen. A ring was slipped onto her finger, the royal ring, signifying her union with the kingdom, as her marriage band had signified her union with her husband. The ring of eternity, a seal of Holy Faith. As Wulfstan placed it there, she repeated his words, that she would shun all heretical depravation and bring barbarian peoples to the power of God.
The crown was heavier than she expected, gold, encrusted with jewels, pressing onto her temples, into the back of her head.
“Receive the crown of glory and the public honour of delight so that you may shine out in your splendour and be crowned with eternal joy.”
Overwhelmed, dazed, Emma felt her throat tighten, tears flood into her eyes at the enormity of Wulfstan’s words. She bit her lip, bowed her head as the choir’s united voices lifted into the Laudes Regiæ. She was Queen! Her life, her spirit, her very soul, given to England and God. Forever.
Æthelred was beside her, escorting her along the nave, and her vanity reached a new height of pride, the ceremony completed by her brother’s bow of obeisance. No other event throughout the passing of her life would impress upon her more the worth of a royal crown.
The Forever Queen Page 2