4
Several goblets of wine were doing very little to ease Emma’s headache and the pain drumming behind her temples, but at least she did not have to endure the noise within the King’s hall across the rain-puddled courtyard or wear that heavy crown during the entirety of the afternoon. Complying with expected tradition, Emma and her women had withdrawn to this smaller, more sedate Queen’s hall. Abbesses and the higher-ranking holy sisters, wives, mothers, and daughters were enjoying conversation and entertainment more suited to their genteel sex. Not that a headache and several dozen chattering women, each one of them eager for a personal opinion to be expressed and heard, formed a suitable combination.
Husband and wife had celebrated the bride-ale feast together, she sitting at Æthelred’s right hand, Richard to his left, on the high dais above the packed hall. How the servants had managed to manoeuvre between the trestle tables and benches with their laden trays of sumptuous delights was a mystery. The dishes served had impressed even Richard: meats and fish of all kinds and varieties. Roasted, poached, baked, fried. Cheeses, breads, and butters; pastries, sauces, fruits, and honeyed cakes; tarts and custards; new, untried delicacies and sworn favourites; wines, cider, and the seemingly never empty jars of amber, specially brewed, frothing bride-ale. A feast fit for a new Queen.
Bellowed laughter roared from the King’s hall, disturbing the wild birds, sparrows, blackbirds, and finches roosting among the high, cobwebbed and dusty, smoke-swirled rafters. The women muttered that the men were deep into the mead, ale, and cider barrels, and would be like bears with sore heads on the morrow. Gulping her English ale, Emma drained the goblet of heady, potent stuff. The morrow? Before tomorrow must come the night. Her wedding night. She was dreading it. How could she be intimate with a man she did not know, who stank of ale and spoke barely a word she understood?
Waving a servant forward to pour more Norman cider, the Abbess of Canterbury’s nunnery, seated beside Emma, indicated that her Queen wished for a refill.
About to shake her head and say she wanted no more, Emma changed her mind. Perhaps more would help steady her wavering nerve?
Sampling the golden liquid within her own cup, the Abbess licked her lips appreciatively. Said in French, “This is a fine cider your brother has engifted us with. From where in Normandy are the apples harvested?”
“De la Côtentin,” Emma answered, appreciating the diversion of conversation. “My apples, I suppose, my cider, now I am wed. La Côtentin is my dower land; I bring its revenue with me. Mama said for that alone I am a most valuable catch.”
Kindly, the Abbess squeezed Emma’s arm, remarked, “For yourself too, chêrie. You will be a handsome woman come maturity. Æthelred must be congratulating himself over there in that boisterous and rowdy hall. La Côtentin and a lovely girl to bear him a brood of strong sons? How fortunate he is!” With careful deliberation, for the girl’s sake, she did not extend the sarcasm.
Reading Emma’s doubtful expression and guessing the thoughts behind the sudden, obvious rush of fear, she added gently, “Come tomorrow morning, you will be wondering what worried you. Æthelred has a short temper, one as brittle as dried kindling, but I have not known him to be unjust to a woman.” She spoke accurately, but not with the whole truth. As with so many wives and concubines, Æthelred’s bedmates had not complained, but had endured in silence.
Emma appreciated the well-intentioned words, but they failed to reassure her. Æthelred was a virile and experienced man; she knew nothing of wedded intimacies.
The day had been long, overwhelming, and confusing, so many emotions surging, wave after wave, like a wind-driven high tide on an unsuspecting shore. She felt as though she had been half drowned, pulled from the surf, and hung up to dry; had been left wrinkled, crumpled, and drained. And soon she would have to face this next great surge of new experience. She gulped another mouthful of ale. Were the walls moving? Why were faces blurring, the lilt of voices rising and falling? She giggled, childishly, into her goblet, aware she was drunk.
Women had been coming and going through the rear door to visit the specially dug latrine pit. Realising it would be prudent to follow their example, Emma motioned for her cloak to be brought, stood, was momentarily stunned by everyone else coming immediately to their feet, the talk rapidly subsiding into silence. Not expecting her necessity to answer a requirement of nature to be so publicly acknowledged, she blushed. Unsure how to react—should she respond to the obligation of courtesy or ignore it?—she opted for compromise. Giving a slight nod to no one in particular, she announced, “Be seated. I attend a personal matter.”
She walked towards the door, her concentration focusing on putting one foot before the other without stumbling or zigzagging in too noticeable a wavering path. Thank God for her appointed captain of cnights, a Thegn, Pallig Thursson. Bless the man; he strode beside her, his hand lightly guiding her elbow, his face stern and serious, daring any one of these tongue-wagging gossips to make, or think, a disparaging comment. Not until the bearskin had flapped back over the opening and the outer door had closed behind them did the rumble of talk inside resume.
“It does not take a seer to predict they are taking this opportunity to talk about me,” she said, wearily leaning her head against the welcome solidity of the doorpost. She closed her eyes, let the world spin by, breathed in the coolness of the evening air. “Making fun of me.”
“In my experience, women spend more hours of the day deriding others of their own sex than on anything else. Especially women who feel wrong-footed,” he said in Danish.
Opening her eyes, Emma smiled at Pallig, marvelling at how a man could possibly be so superbly handsome. He wore his fair hair long, as did most of the English, and also like his fellow countrymen, a moustache that trailed to either side of his expressive mouth, although, unlike Æthelred, his chin was beardless. An axe rested with nonchalant ease over one hard-muscled shoulder.
Pallig Thursson, Thegn of Exmouth in the shire of Devon, had pledged his honour and service to Emma as she had sat enthroned beside the holy altar of Canterbury’s cathedral. He and fifty other freeborn landholders in turn had proclaimed their fealty and loyalty to her and her alone. They were the Queen’s cnights, a most special and elite body of men, with Pallig as their captain. Her captain. Emma alone would he obey and serve. In exchange for her gift of a heavily jewelled cloak pin, Pallig had taken his place at her side, from where he had declared, using the Danish tongue, he would not, while there be breath in his body, move by so much as one step.
Not having the courage to ask, Emma wondered whether in his enthusiasm he had meant that literally and would escort her right to the latrine pit itself, or wait at a discreet distance while she relieved herself. Wondered, too, what he thought of playing nursemaid to a girl. What would a man prefer? The company of his own kind, a bellyful of fine ale, and the teasing of the serving girls, or standing, brooding and bored, behind a bewildered child?
Something else she would have to grow used to, this necessity to be escorted everywhere. The girlhood days of freedom suddenly seemed far behind her. Dolls and games were gone forever.
“Ah, well,” she said, to break the awkward silence, “at least their gossip is providing entertainment.” She pushed herself from the door. “I can be content that they are enjoying themselves, even if I am not.”
“Lady?” Pallig, falling into step beside her, queried her meaning. “Are you not happy to be here in England?” He spread his broad hand, not understanding. “As a Queen, you now have everything.”
Emma forced a smile. “Oui, naturally I am happy to be here. It is an honour, n’est ce pas?”
“Indeed, ma’am, that it is.” Gesturing with his hand, Pallig ushered her forward. Hiding her embarrassment, she walked on, saying, with more authority than she felt, as they neared the evil stench of the pit, “I am capable of tending my own need. You may wait here.”
Turning his back, he planted himself, legs spread, arms folded, across the p
athway to ensure her privacy.
Fumbling with the wicker gate, Emma wrinkled her nose at the foul stench of human waste and, holding her breath, squatted quickly over the hole in the covering board. Rearranging her garments, she took several hasty steps away from the noisome place, gulping clean air into her choking lungs, swallowing down the nauseous churn of her stomach. Pallig was waiting patiently, his back towards her. Was she the fool to think he liked her? That they might become friends? She smoothed her gown. Pallig had chosen to serve her, she had been told, but then they had said something similar in Normandy. “It is a good choice, chérie, that you have made, to wed this Englishman.”
Choice? Hah! She had good reason to be cynical of choice!
She shivered, gathered her cloak tighter. Now the rain had cleared, a mist was rising, creeping in over the palisade walls from the sodden forest beyond. Dusk. It would soon be night, and with night would come…Closing her eyes, Emma thrust the thought aside; instead, filled her nostrils with clean, spring-scented, rain-washed evening air. England smelt different than Normandy. Damper, more earthy.
She had not accounted for the deep breath mixing with the surfeit of ale, and her head whirled and spun. “Dieu!” she gasped, feeling herself toppling forward, the nausea that had been churned to the surface by the stink of the latrine rising higher into her throat. She put out her hand, intending to steady herself against the granary wall, and was promptly sick.
Pallig was there, supporting her, the great axe dropped, forgotten, to the muddy ground. “My Lady?” he asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”
Sagging against him, Emma laid her pounding head on his shoulder, feeling as if she would lose consciousness, but the swirl of red passed, and her stomach sank down to where it belonged.
Fumbling to untie the linen kerchief tucked into the neckband of his hauberk, Pallig dabbed at her mouth, wiping away the unpleasant residue.
“I fear,” she said, attempting to lighten her embarrassment by a weak jest, “that I have drunk overmuch of my bride-ale.”
Pallig laughed, the sound deep and friendly. “No bad thing for a wedding feasting, I am thinking.”
Her mouth twitched into a grateful smile, and he smiled back at her. “Unfortunately,” he said with a grin, “it may be a good thing for a feast, but too much drink can be bad for the head and stomach.” He bent to retrieve his axe. “Although there will be more than a few sore heads on the morrow, I am thinking.” He stuffed the soiled kerchief through his leather baldric, rubbed his nose with his fingers, and added, “And if you forgive my outspokenness, Lady, a shy maid such as yourself may be better off on the wrong side of sober this night.”
She blushed, embarrassed, ducked her head, and walked relatively steadily back towards the hall, Pallig following dutifully a pace behind.
He had his own young wife. He loved Gunnhilda, and she him, yet their first bedding had been an anxious time for her. It was no easy thing for a maid to put her trust in a man so completely. Was it so surprising? Too many men gave their wives no more regard than the hounds in the kennels and blatantly abused that given trust by caring nothing for the woman’s part in the doing of a wedding night.
Poor lass, he thought as he escorted Emma back to her chair on the high dais. The less well-off thought it must be wonderful to be born of the nobility, to be the daughter or sister of a Duke. To be wedded to a King. Aye, well, that depended on the King, didn’t it?
5
The men entering Emma’s bedchamber were drunk with wine, cider, ale and laughter. It was a small room, perched above the eastern end of the hall, reached by a narrow wooden stair, and seemed smaller with the great bulk of lewd-minded men crowding in. Furnished simply, it held two chests, one for bed linen, one for garments; two stools; and a table, on which stood a pewter bowl of dried fruit, a jug of wine with two attendant goblets, Emma’s jewel casket, and her personal toilet equipment, combs, and hairpins.
The wooden box bed, with its goose-feather mattress, linen sheets, and piled animal furs was draped by heavy blue woollen curtains to provide privacy and to keep out the cold and draughts. Tomorrow or someday soon, Emma intended to set about making the room more homely, hang on the walls some of the large embroideries that were becoming fashionable in France. Tapestries they were commonly called, though they were not woven, but stitched by hand. She would find some suitable skins to place on the floor too. Bear was best, as it was thick and hard-wearing. Perhaps a clay pot to put some spring flowers in? Add her modest collection of precious books and the rest of her personal possessions to the few that her women had already unpacked—with imagination and skill, she could make this a pleasant place for herself. A royal bower, where her command ruled, and solitude, should she require it, could be paramount. For tonight, though, command stood for naught and solitude was as far from her reach as were the stars in the sky. She would be obliged to share this bare place with her husband on most nights during the customary honey-mead moon-month of celebration. He was as raucously drunk as the dozen men who had escorted him here.
This was the way of things, Emma knew, for her sisters had been put publicly to bed with their new husbands on their wedding nights. But, stupidly, she had thought that being a crowned Queen and wed to a King, she would be exempt from the humiliation of it all. Sitting hunched and naked in the bed, her arms clutched around her knees, with the bed furs pulled up to her chin as much for warmth as modesty, she chided herself for being so naive. Being a Queen would make it more necessary to be seen bedded with her husband. She had to provide him with legitimate sons, had to be seen to become Æthelred’s consummated wife.
Emma blinked aside tears. Her headache had worsened and her stomach was feeling queasy again; she bit her lip as Lady Godegifa, appointed as her lady-in-waiting, stretched forward and, with a flick of her hand, exposed Emma’s nakedness. “Show yourself, girl. Let your husband see what he is getting.”
Lady Godegifa, wife to Alfhelm, one of Æthelred’s Ealdormen, made no attempt to conceal her dislike of this Norman-born girl. Able to speak both Danish and French, she had agreed to do her duty to the best of her ability, but refused to step any further. She disapproved of this marriage and, in her arrogance, cared not who knew it, for her daughter, not this foreign incomer, ought to have become Æthelred’s wife and Queen.
Embarrassed, Emma wanted to cry out, to curl herself tight and hide from the men lasciviously inspecting her breasts and body. It took courage for her to stare straight ahead, to straighten her legs and bring her arms away from covering herself. More courage to stop the cry of dismay from reaching her throat when her wretched brother, as drunk as the rest of them, said scornfully, “Her teats are as flat as unleavened bread, but they should swell once her belly bloats with child.”
His words stung. In this vulnerable situation, could he not have offered her support? Tears welled in her eyes. Her one comfort, Æthelred and his Lords would not have understood him.
“By God, there’s nothing of her!” Æthelred declared, spreading his hands in dismay. “I will be spending half the night trying to find her.”
Someone, answering with a great bellow of wit, indicated Æthelred’s already rising manhood. “Just point your pizzle in the right direction; it has the sense to find its way into harbour!”
With more laughter and tawdry advice they put Æthelred into the bed beside Emma, tucking the furs around them as if they were babes needing swaddling. Æthelred’s priest, the only man who had stayed mute in the background, sprinkled holy water over them both and muttered a few liturgies about fruitfulness and the duties of marriage. Then her women were snuffing out the candles and chivvying the men from the chamber, the laughter and the increasing lewd advice to aid Æthelred’s performance diminishing in volume as the door closed. Not that they went away. From the noise, it sounded as though all of them were huddled on the landing beyond the door, although, with the night guard, there could be no room for more than three.
“My other wife was
barely older than you when I bedded her,” Æthelred said, stretching out his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind Emma’s ear, “but she knew of the world, knew already how to pleasure a man.” He snorted. “Once I took her into my bed, she remained loyal to me, so it mattered not.” He did not add his private thought, that it was a simple thing to ensure: keep a woman busy with a child at her breast or in her belly, and she would not have the chance to stray. He sighed. This girl was so young; what was he to do with her? More to the point, what could she do for him?
His hand dropped to cup Emma’s breast. This had to be done; for the child’s sake he would get it over and finished as soon as possible.
Emma closed her eyes, and whether it was the ale or her fear, both perhaps, she found her conscious self drifting into a mist of unreality, a waking dream, as if the discomfort was happening to someone else. Vaguely, she was aware of the stink of his breath, his weight on top of her, and that it hurt as he pushed himself in, but otherwise it was as if her whole being had become numbed. Pleasure sated, he rolled from her, turned away, and was instantly asleep.
She lay still, aware of an uncomfortable soreness between her thighs and the feel of a trickle of wetness. Was that it? Was this what she could expect whenever he came to her bed? She let her breath go, unaware that she had been holding it in.
“Tears are to be kept private,” her mother had said. What of pain and despair? Were they also to be shut away out of sight like soiled linen? How was she to endure this night after night?
Only one candle burnt, flickering as a draught toyed with the flame. Emma turned her head, watched the yellow glow flutter dark shadows along the walls. From down in the hall, the noise of celebration rumbled up through the floor. Some of the men had joined the women, resuming the dancing and pleasures of earlier in the evening. A crash; the shriek of a woman’s drunken laughter; the deeper bellow of a man’s voice. Had a trestle table been knocked over? From the clatter of pottery and metal it sounded as if it had.
The Forever Queen Page 3