The Forever Queen

by Helen Hollick

  Athelstan led his horse from the stall and clipped his hand against Edmund’s ear as he passed by. “You do not want to have anything to do with this Queen, boy. If she has a son, where will that leave me? I intend to be King after Papa. Me, not one of her bastards.”

  “What if I am elected King? You never seem to think of that, do you?” Edmund’s answer was hot with indignation.

  “You? King? Don’t be absurd, brother! Grandmama trained me for the title.”

  Red-faced, Edmund returned to grooming his pony, using the brush with rough, angry sweeps of his arm. He and Godwine were intending to go to the marshes with the dogs; it would be fun to catch something extra for the kitchen pots. “No one has faith in me,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll show you what I am made of one day; then you will be sorry.”

  “I doubt your father shall be over-pleased to hear that his sons are already trying the fit of his crown.”

  Athelstan and the two boys swiveled their heads sharply at the sound of the intrusive voice in the doorway, each wearing a similar expression of loathing as they identified the speaker. Eadric Streona. Edmund and Godwine wore a scowled grimace; Athelstan assumed a glower of outright hatred. What his father liked about the man, he could not understand; for himself, he had no more tolerance of Streona than a shepherd had for a prowling wolf.

  “I am wondering,” Eadric said as he sauntered into the barn, aware of the hostility but ignoring it, “whether this animosity between you and your father, Athelstan, is because you are always alluding to when the crown becomes yours? It was a bad habit your grandmother nurtured in you. Any man, particularly one such as your father, does not care to be reminded so often of his own mortality.”

  Walking to his stallion, Streona bent and picked up a hind hoof, checking whether his servant had taken the horse to the smith to have a lost shoe replaced. Nodding satisfaction, he set the foot down again.

  Indicating Athelstan’s own mount, Streona said, “You are not planning on riding out, are you? As I understood it the King wishes to see you. He has men looking for you.”

  “Then they are not looking very hard, are they? Besides, I have no desire to see him.”

  “He wishes you to escort Queen Emma’s brother to Dover.”

  “She is his Queen; he can do the escorting. I am taking my brother and his friend hunting. Hurry and saddle up, you two. I cannot wait all day.”

  Appalled at the lie, Godwine interrupted. “No, sir, we were going…”

  Edmund kicked his ankle and shushed him. The brothers fought like rat and dog between themselves, but closed ranks with the solidity of a shield when it came to opposing men like Streona.

  “The King cannot go; he has matters to discuss with his advisers. The situation with these Danish merchants is out of hand. Have you not heard? There are rumours of disruption spreading throughout the market towns. Traders are refusing to pay their due taxes on the goods they sell.” Streona sauntered towards the doorway. “Peasants making dictate to a King? We will not tolerate it, and since your father has appointed me reeve of Oxford-Shire, I intend to do something about it.”

  As far as Streona was concerned, this could be the opportunity he needed to acquire the acres of land given away as tribute to foreign incomers.

  Athelstan answered with sarcasm. “And my father wishes to portray me as his loyal son, no doubt? That makes a change. He usually treats me as something he has trodden his boot into.” As an afterthought added, “Naturally, Eadric, you would have volunteered, but I heard you recently encountered trouble in Oxford and are now reluctant to venture far from safe protection.”

  Edmund, who only a moment before had been on the verge of ramming his fist into his brother’s teeth, joined in mischievously. “I heard the market folk pelted you with rotten fruit yesterday.”

  Godwine sniggered.

  His upper lip puckering in anger, Streona snarled at Wulfnoth’s son with intense dislike. “You think it amusing?” Pride was the one thing Streona nurtured above his first obsession with self-advancement; he would allow neither to be mocked. Especially by a spot-faced boy who was the son of a God-cursed pirate.

  This expected escort duty had, although Streona was unaware of it, been the cause of the argument between father and son. His intervention only added oil to a still smouldering fire. The argument had been bitter.

  “Do your own dirty work, Papa! You are facing possible trouble from the Danish merchants settled in your towns? I warned you to think carefully about raising a heregeld to pay Swein Forkbeard to go away; now you want to double the tax payments on the import of market goods as well? You cannot expect your people to pay twice over for your incompetence.”

  “It was not called incompetence when Alfred used the same tactic!” Æthelred had roared in retaliation.

  “No, but King Alfred was merely buying time to regroup and gather strength. You are buying into an altogether different option.” Athelstan had turned on his heel and stormed from his father’s hall, having the sense to leave before adding the trail of thought that the difference between Alfred and Æthelred ran deep. Alfred had been a capable, competent King. Æthelred was not.

  Pride, too, was Athelstan’s failing. Had his father asked him to escort the Duke of Normandy in a way that had flattered his son, there would have been no disagreement, but as it was, Æthelred was a poor master of tact. A severe disadvantage for a leader who, because of his mother’s involvement with murder, had begun his reign without a single mote of respect. Athelstan knew he would capitulate to his father’s wishes eventually. Equally, he was not going to take orders from a toad-spawned arse-wiper like Streona!

  “You boys get mounted,” he barked tersely as he led his stallion past Eadric. “I will not hang about like salted herring drying in the wind for the likes of you ruffians.” He said nothing more until the three of them had clattered through the gateway and had reached the open marsh.

  “Edmund, I would advise you to stay away from our father’s wife. She is not for us.”

  Grimacing at Godwine, Edmund repeated, “You hear that? My brother says you are to keep your distance.”

  Godwine’s pony had been intent on snatching at grass and was a few yards behind. Hauling at the reins and kicking the animal forward to catch up, he muttered, “Stuff your brother. I like her.”

  Looking straight ahead, Edmund grinned. He agreed with his friend, but knew better than to say so within Athelstan’s hearing.

  The hunting was good, and Athelstan’s temper was better suited when they returned near dusk with three brace of hare for the kitchens. But come nightfall, Godwine could not settle into sleep.

  Two men rolled in their cloaks near him were on their backs, open-mouthed, snoring; someone at the far end of the hall was coughing, and someone else was taking his pleasure with one of the serving girls, their coupling far from discreetly quiet. The elite and wealthy had their own chambers or had cramped rooms in the inns and taverns. For the boys and common men, the hall had to suffice, everyone squashed together, trestle tables and benches stacked to the sides, hay pallets provided for the more fortunate, the floor rushes, inhabited by fleas and lice, making do for the rest of them. Beside Godwine, his dog, Loki, was snoring almost as loud as the men, his paws twitching as he chased hares in his sleep.

  Edmund had warned him, a second time, to stay away from Emma, advising that it was best not to antagonise Athelstan. “After all,” he had reminded him, “my brother, in all probability, will be the next King. It is him you will have to serve, not her.”

  Godwine had privately disagreed. He was only a boy, but even this early in life he knew what he did and did not want to do. He adored Edmund and would walk into fire for him, but for Athelstan? No, Godwine could not see himself serving a man who filled him with feelings of apprehension.

  He rolled over, put his arms around his dog, and snuggled into the warmth of his coat. What could he do for Emma to show her he had taken her suggestion seriously? That he wanted t
o be a Queen’s man when he reached maturity? Loki licked his young master’s face; it was good to have a dog. Ah, yes, that was what he would do—and bugger Athelstan when he found out! He would be off to Dover with the Duke of Normandy on the morrow anyway, and by the end of the week the court would have left Canterbury for the coastal town of Sandwich, Godwine himself returning home to Compton, as his father would soon be out with the ships, blockading any new raiding from Danish seamen.

  The boy settled his head on the dog’s belly. Fell instantly asleep. Yes, it was a good plan.

  10

  Emma sat at the narrow window opening looking down on the busy scurrying of the Canterbury streets. Everyone was so purposeful, with somewhere to go, something to do, even the slaves. Shambling along in their rags with bare feet, bent heads and backs, they carried a sense of purpose about them, knew their place and position, even knew their value. Literally. She sighed, watched a bedraggled man beating his stubborn donkey with a stick, smiled as the disgruntled animal lashed out with a hind leg and caught the man in the privates. Good for you, little beast, she thought. Wished she had the courage to kick those who were hurting her. Her brother in particular. Damn him.

  Richard had finally departed Canterbury this morning, leaving with pomp and ceremony, demanding that his sister’s guard, her cnights, and in particular her captain, be among the escort to Dover. Was Æthelred’s eldest son and his men not enough? If Richard were genuinely concerned for the matter of safety, she could have tolerated the request, but Richard’s motivations were always self-centered. He could not bear the thought of a sister having use of something that he did not.

  Not endeavouring to conceal his delight at the Norman’s departure, Æthelred had gone hunting. Emma was relieved, for she felt awkward in his company, unsure what to do or say, aware that after only a month of marriage he was already growing tired of her. He lay with her at night, grunting at her body, left their bed soon after sunrise, and went about his day, leaving her to see to her own amusement. In Normandy her days had been full; here, she had nothing to do. Her ladies were efficient and capable, Godegifa grumbling that it was quicker to do things herself than mess about translating and explaining what needed to be done.

  Emma cupped her hand in her chin, sighed. What would she be doing if she were at home? At Falaise, or Rouen, or Caen? Walking by the river? Riding? Discussing history or literature with her tutor? Oh, this was no good! Normandy was no longer home; this was home, England. This depressing, dull, damp palace with its wattle-and-timber walls and its mizzle-faced women who whispered behind her back and averted their gaze whenever she turned to face them. She had tried to make friends. Had abandoned the effort as a lost cause.

  They were talking now in undertones, Emma only understanding the occasional few words, although her use of English was improving daily.

  “Disgraceful, the way the King treated my brother in the matter of those thieves of Oxford,” Ethelflad, Godegifa’s constant companion, was complaining. “Giving preference to that trade reeve, Thegn Edwine. My brother is an Ealdorman; he ought not to have had his decision overruled by Æthelred.”

  Emma wandered across the room to where her books were piled on the floor awaiting a safe place of keeping. There were a dozen or so; Richard had refused to allow her to bring more than those that were her own property. Perhaps there was some compensation in being a Queen? She had her own entitlement to an income, could purchase what she wished; she would have shelving made and acquire more books. More than Richard would ever have!

  “Edwine allowed their burial in the churchyard, I believe,” Godegifa tutted as she twisted another handful of raw wool onto her distaff for spinning. “Thieves have no right to Christian burial.”

  “So say I, and my brother, but would Æthelred listen? Nay, not him!”

  Almost as if he were remembering an afterthought, Richard’s last words to Emma had been, “You will not suitably manage the dower properties your husband has gifted you with. For Winchester I have no qualms, but for this backwater pigpen of Exeter I have designated my vassal, Hugh de Varaville, as overseer. He has volunteered to remain in England. Your husband has agreed to my concerns and has augmented Hugh as constable.” He had waved his hand disdainfully. “Or reeve, as they say in their absurd language. He shall serve you well.”

  “Serve you well,” Emma mumbled aloud as she flicked through the heavy pages of parchment in one of the books. She disliked Hugh intensely. A man who would as soon spit in her face rather than obey the command of a woman.

  No farewell, no bonne chance, no endearment. Richard had mounted, spurred his horse into a canter, and ridden out of Emma’s life. She did not regret his going, but his leaving had exposed a great, gaping hole of emptiness and had left her facing the reality of a dismal eternity. She was on her own now, a stranger among people she did not know, women she disliked and who despised her. Non, she must not think like this, for she would go mad if she did not aim for a more positive and optimistic future.

  “Who is this Exeter?” she asked in faltering English.

  Exeter. To Emma, the place sounded intriguing and romantic. She pictured a busy and prosperous town that resembled her favourite childhood places in Normandy. She set the book down, her treasured copy of Virgil’s Aeneid, Of course, there would be no stone castle in Exeter like that at Falaise, but perhaps a comfortable manor house?

  Godegifa was a woman of high status; her husband was Ealdorman Alfhelm of Deira, his guardianship extending from the hills and dales north of York down to the Humber River and across to the wild mountains of the western coast. Ordinarily, she would have scorned the duty of playing nursemaid to a girl, but Godegifa loathed the barbaric North and dreaded the months she was forced to endure York, a crammed, stinking hovel of a town, with its only boast of civilisation the cathedral and Alfhelm’s palace. Though “palace” was an exaggerated description of the complex of buildings that skulked in the shadows of York Minster. Godegifa was wealthy, a dutiful wife, and an efficient mother. She was also annoyed that Æthelred had chosen this Norman as wife over her own daughter. Ælfgifu was younger than Emma, not yet ripe for bedding, but she was English.

  “Do we really want an outsider as our Queen?” Godegifa said, as she often did, in a hushed English whisper. “There is nothing of her, not in body or wit. My daughter would have made the better wife.”

  Ethelflad always agreed.

  Again Emma asked her question. “Où est Exeter, s’il vous plait?”

  “Exeter?” Godegifa scornfully answered in English; exasperated at Emma’s puzzled frown, altered to French. “Exeter is a wilderness of midden huts to the southwest. No one who matters would wish to go there without due reason.”

  Emma considered the answer to be deliberately acrimonious. Tightly she replied, “Pallig does not seem to find it so hideous a place.”

  Lady Godegifa did not look up, nor falter with the drop spindle as she twisted the strands of wool between her fingers. “He does not, but then Pallig’s opinion is not worth considering, for he is a traitor who gave his service to that heathen kinsman of his, Swein Forkbeard.”

  11

  I want to see the Queen.” Godwine’s demand was succinct and to the point.

  The cnight’s answer, guarding the foot of the stairs that led up to Emma’s chamber, as plain: “Get lost, urchin.”

  The boy, ignoring the slur to his status, persisted. “I have a gift for her. I want to see her.”

  “The Lady has gifts aplenty, ones of a higher value than the trinket you could offer. Now get you gone before I lose my patience with you.” The young man’s rough-featured face scowled closely into Godwine’s, showing bloodshot eyes, his breath stinking of an overindulgence of barley brewed ale.

  “This one is worth a fortune. To me and her.”

  With a head throbbing from last night’s excess of feasting, the cnight’s hand lashed out, aiming to clip the lad’s ear, but Godwine dodged the clumsy movement with ease.

&nbs
p; “I’ll not go until I see her,” Godwine stated, planting his feet wide. “Not if I have to stand by this stairway all day.”

  “Then stand there you’ll be doing. I’m not allowing you to pass.” The guard angled his spear across the first step, resting its tip on the wooden banister rail.

  “I trust you shall allow me access, though, Leofstan Shortfist?”

  Lady Gunnhilda’s skin was pale, her cheeks hollow from recent illness, but her eyes, as ever, were bright, and her smile dazzling. Many a man envied Pallig Thursson his beautiful wife.

  Leofstan saluted her. “I trust you are recovered now, ma’am?”

  Politely, Gunnhilda inclined her head, thanking him for his concern. “I had a scare over the babe I carry, and then caught a chill which has kept me longer abed than I would have wished. I am well now, however.” She pointed at the spear barring her way. Grinning sheepishly, Leofstan stamped to attention and withdrew it.

  “Lady Gunnhilda?” Seizing his chance, Godwine plucked at her sleeve, hefting the bundle he carried between his arms. “I have a gift for the Queen, only this mutton head,” he darted a withering look at Leofstan, “will not let me pass.”

  Gunnhilda frowned disapproval. “I will have you remember that the men beneath my husband’s command, Master Godwine Wulfnothsson, are not mutton heads. They are men due respect and courtesy.”

  “Quite right, ma’am. Now clear off, you young devil, or I’ll take my belt to your backside.”

  “On the opposite side of the steerboard,” Gunnhilda continued, totally ignoring Leofstan’s comments, “it is not for a guard to decide who the Queen should, or should not, grant audience to.” She tossed a quick conspirator’s grin at Godwine and indicated the bundle he was clutching. “What is this gift?”