Delighted, Godwine showed her. “I think she will like it, do you not agree?” he said earnestly.
Gunnhilda smiled. “Ja, I think she will.”
Mindful of her condition, she mounted the stairway slowly, heard through the open door at the top, every word spoken by Godegifa regarding Exeter and her husband, Pallig.
“Some people, my Lady,” Gunnhilda said tartly from the threshold, “prefer the quiet and peace of the wilderness. It is more pleasing on the ear than the snarl of bitches in heat.”
Godegifa’s cheeks tinged with pink, but she made no comment as the Danish woman entered and made her obedience to Emma.
“Madam, forgive my remiss at not greeting you ’ere now, but I have been confined to my bed. I am Gunnhilda, wife to Pallig Thursson.”
Emma checked an unexpected stab of jealousy. Pallig’s wife!
Guided by her mental image of these other ladies, she had pictured a pinch-faced shrew of no consequence—ridiculous really. Pallig, so handsome a man, would not have a wife who was less than perfect. The woman curtsying before her, dressed in the Danish style with a loose-fitting embroidered tunic over her linen shift instead of one gathered at the waist in Saxon fashion, was confident and pretty. The two oval brooches at her shoulders were of engraved silver, each decorated with emeralds and rubies, both designs in a traditional Scandinavian pattern. Everything about her boasted her Danish origin, unlike Emma’s mother, who had become Norman-French to the core on the day of her marriage. Even Gunnhilda’s headdress marked her for what she was, a non-English woman, for her hair, in its single thick braid, hung down her back beneath a linen kerchief covering her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. English women wore a loose veil, while the new fashion among Norman ladies, Emma included, was to wear the veil as a wimple covering both head and neck, fastened loosely at the throat. It was brave of Gunnhilda to retain her individuality against these intolerant English noblewomen.
Indicating that the woman could rise, Emma found herself instantly liking Gunnhilda. The smile reached from her heart directly into her eyes, goodness pouring outward, like sweet honey dripping from a harvested hive.
“These well-intentioned matrons,” Gunnhilda said, “will serve you well, but Pallig believes you ought to have someone nearer your age and character to become a friend.” She put her hand on her bulge. “I apologise that my child delayed my coming to you.”
“Is that not exceedingly presumptive of you both, Gunnhilda? How can your husband know what a Queen ought to have?” Godegifa snapped a retort before Emma had a chance to respond. “Older women have the benefit of experience and wisdom. The Queen does not need friends; she requires guidance and tutoring. I doubt you are able to offer sufficient of either. We,” she indicated Ethelflad, “were here despite personal difficulties.”
Gunnhilda answered, polite but succinct, “But then those who have husbands or brothers who are falling so often from favour have a greater need than mine to prove their loyalty. Somewhat like a poorly made salver, such people often prove to be all shine and no substance.”
“Do the words loyalty and your husband fit together?” Godegifa retorted.
Emma was looking from Godegifa to Gunnhilda, enthralled. The younger woman, calm-voiced, in her mid-twenties, and beautiful, was outfacing the mid-aged, prune-wrinkled hag. A Princess opposing a dragon? This was the stuff of tales and enchantments!
“The slur of my husband being a traitor is proven a false slander, as you well know, Godegifa. Your husband, however, has ignored royal commands on several occasions. Christmas last he was not at court, as I recall. Nor the previous Easter. A King can become suspicious when his Ealdormen do not come to his councils.”
Godegifa thrust herself to her feet, dropping her distaff into the rushes, rage infusing her face. “My husband could not attend, because he was ill!”
“My father says any man who pleads sickness when faced with the prospect of a fight is not worthy of being called a man.” The boy, Godwine, who had been standing outside the doorway, as entranced by the sparring as Emma, innocently added his own halfpenny’s worth to the affray.
Unable to vent her rage on Gunnhilda, Godegifa lunged at him, striking her knuckles against his cheek, knocking him to the floor.
Enraged, Emma hurried forward. How dare this dour, miserable woman hold sway over what she wanted? Oui, she required advice and correct steering through unfamiliar tides, but to have a friend in a friendless place—oh, what she would give for that! “Leave the boy alone!” she commanded. “I will not have my guests ridiculed and abused.”
Breathing hard, her nostrils flaring, Godegifa responded curtly, “These are not desirable people, Lady Ælfgifu. I advise you to not admit them to your chamber.”
Emma’s indignation wafted into full flame. Perhaps it was Gunnhilda’s obvious independence or the encouraging shine in her eyes—or Godwine’s tears as he scrabbled to inspect the bundle that had been knocked from his arms. Or perhaps it was nothing more than being addressed as Ælfgifu. “In private I have asked to be called by my given name, Emma. I will not gainsay what is mine.” Added, with a deep breath of wavering courage, “And I shall admit into my presence whom I please.”
A long pause of silence, with Emma aware that if she were to look away from Godegifa’s glowering stare, she would lose the day, skirmish, battle, and war together. The opportunity to be her own woman, to rule as a Queen should rule had been thrown before her, and she would be the prize fool to turn around and leave it lying, abandoned and untouched, on the floor. She kept her face passive, unreadable; breathe in, hold, release. Unclench the hands, relax the shoulders. Keep the eyes still, looking ahead. Blink slowly. Emma could hear, in her mind, her mother’s instructions for remaining calm in any situation.
Outmanoeuvred, Godegifa inclined her head. “Very well, madam, as you will. I shall check that the laundry has been dried and folded correctly.” She glanced at Ethelflad, who made no hesitation in leaving with her.
Emma turned to Godwine. “And you, boy,” she announced, “cannot expect me to come to your aid whenever you rile an elder with your rudeness. If you persist in this insolence, I shall have you whipped.”
His bundle retrieved, Godwine was wiping his face with his hand. The tears were gone, replaced by an impudent grin.
“You were grand! Just as a Queen ought to be!” He thrust the wrapped bundle into Emma’s arms. “She’s the last of the litter, so she’s a bit on the small side, but I am certain she has the sweetest nature, like her mother. Papa said she would have to be drowned if no one took her before the end of the week when we leave court. I thought you would like to have her?” A note of doubt crept into Godwine’s voice. Had this been such a good idea after all?
Carefully, Emma unwrapped the old cloak, the thing within beginning to wriggle and whimper. A brindled pup, fat-bellied, recently weaned, poked her head out and began to lick enthusiastically at Emma’s face. She smelt of dog and warmth and happiness.
“She is for me?” Emma queried, almost speechless. Of all the gifts and endowments she had been presented with since coming to England, this was the best and most welcome. A pup of her own! Something that would not mind that she was struggling to learn this awkward language, that she felt so useless. Did, said the wrong things.
“Does she yet have a name?”
Grinning his relief and pleasure, Godwine said, “I have been calling her Saffron for the colouring around her chest, but you may name her what you please.”
Emma hugged the pup close, putting her cheek to the soft hair of her silky ears. “Saffron is a good name. Besides,” she added, laughing, “I am somewhat averse to having a given name altered.”
12
May 1002—Sandwich
Fight them,” I say! If Forkbeard comes again with his heathens, we send them sculling back over the sea with their legs shit-stained!”
Drily, Alfhelm, Ealdorman of Deira, answered Athelstan’s misplaced enthusiasm. “And from where d
o we get the men who are going to do this fighting? How do we keep an army together when the harvest is soon to be brought in? And where do we send it?” He set both his palms flat on the trestle table and said, “We never know where the Danes will attack next. Confronting Swein Forkbeard is like attempting to chase a will-o’-the-wisp across a marsh.”
The hall was still half empty; not all the ships of the royal fleet were yet in harbour, although with the sun setting in less than an hour, the crews of those not assigned to night patrol of the Kent coast would soon be seeking the comfort of a solid bed and hot food.
From their seats close to the open window slit, Emma asked Gunnhilda anxiously, “Will he come this year?” She pricked her thumb with the needle, winced as the blood began to well. If King Swein of Denmark raided England this summer season, what would happen to the treaty made between her husband and brother? Would Richard keep his word and deny his shoreline to the Danes if they had to seek urgent shelter from either storm or Æthelred’s fleet? She sucked at the blood, careful not to stain the linen. Richard? Keep his word? Not if he was paid enough to turn blind eyes!
She fashioned a few more stitches along the hem of what would become a new veil, had the confidence to say, “I do not much like my husband, but I do not want to be set aside, be forced to return to Normandy.” She shrugged, laughed, as if making a jest of her fears. “I have my pride to consider.” Did not add that her stomach would not survive the sea crossing. It seemed absurd that with her Danish blood she should be so afraid of ships, an embarrassing absurdity she was not willing to share with anyone, not even her friend, Gunnhilda.
Gunnhilda bit off a thread and held her own sewing high to inspect it. “Your marriage will not fail because of the Danes.” She selected another skein of coloured silk, threaded it through her needle. “The annual assault on England is not all my half-brother’s doing, you know. There are many who are capable of gathering a crew, eager for an easy opportunity to better themselves. It has been the way of men for many hundred years. Sail a ship, make a fortune—acquire a duchy.” She added the last with a teasing smile. Emma’s ancestor Rollo had been a Viking. Normandy his prize. “Men from Dublin are inclined to harry the western coast, not Swein.”
Looking her straight in the eye, Emma challenged Gunnhilda’s statement. “It was not the Normans nor the Irish who raided Devon last year, so I hear.”
The men gathered before the dais were launching deeper, and louder, into their argument, Æthelred sitting among them, morose, nursing a head cold and a tankard of mead with equal attention.
“My half-brother is a proud man,” Gunnhilda acknowledged, ignoring the raised voices. “He took it hard that I chose Pallig over him. We were fond of each other.” She rested her hands across the bulge of her pregnancy, smiled wistfully, remembering her childhood. “Swein would do anything to keep me from harm. It was because of me that he rebelled against our father, Harold Bluetooth.” She stabbed her needle into the linen. “I hated Father, a spiteful man who wanted all for himself. I was six years old, and I had committed some minor, childish thing that enraged him.” She shrugged. “I cannot recall what it was now, but never will I forget that brute grabbing hold of my hair and hitting me with his fist. Swein intervened. He stood there with his warrior’s axe, a great double-handed weapon. It must have been a sun-bright day, for I clearly recall a shaft of sunlight coming in, spear-straight, from the open door, to flare against the silver inlay of the haft. It sent little patterns of coloured light dancing over the floor.” She laughed suddenly, glanced up at Emma. “I cried louder when my father stumped towards my brother and broke that sunray, chasing away what I thought to be a host of faery people!” She grew serious again. “Swein hoisted me beneath his arm, called for his horse and his men, and rode away. He took me to safety and returned within the two-month with an army, defeated our father, and claimed Denmark for his own. He was twenty years of age.”
Emma was not going to be diverted. “And Devon, last year?”
At the far end of the hall, where the servants were beginning to set the trestle tables for the evening meal, Gunnhilda watched her daughter toddling after the hens scratching in the dust and debris. If she tried to clutch at their feathers, as she had yesterday, she would earn for herself another set of pecked fingers.
Drawing her breath, the woman related the bare truth. “Because our estate was left untroubled, my husband was accused of aiding Swein when he raided Devon. Pallig did not join with my brother, but he was seen on his pony; he was not going to the Danes, but to warn the villagers. There are those who dislike my husband for the royal-born Danish wife he has taken. They are always eager to discredit him. We were nigh on impoverished, buying our way back into royal favour.”
Emma flickered her gaze towards Ealdorman Alfhelm, husband to Lady Godegifa, raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“Spite is a wicked vice. Those two are vindictive people.” Gunnhilda fashioned a few industrious stitches, smiled. “I would like to believe my brother came into Devon to see his niece, but I think I am being fanciful.” Then she added something startling. “He is Freya’s godfather.”
Emma gasped, blurted, “Given his tendency to steal from abbeys and churches, I would not have singled King Swein to be a Christian man!”
Gunnhilda laughed. “Let us say he prefers to place one boot on either side of the fence regarding Christ and Odin, and that he gets distracted from his faith by the lure of material gain over the spiritual.” She shrugged, stated, “Many Danes follow both beliefs. Swein’s children are all baptised, although it is only his daughter, Estrith, and myself, his half-sister, who follow God with conviction. His eldest son, Harald, is more conscientious, but Cnut, my younger nephew, is inclined to the old gods. It is natural in a boy who sees nothing beyond the sharp edge of a blade, I suppose. Swein, whether Christian or pagan, will always follow the practicality of being a King; he must pay his men, or they will melt away and follow someone else more worthy.”
“And it makes more sense for him to accept tribute payment than to risk an outright fight?” Emma asked astutely.
Gunnhilda inclined her head. Why risk bloodshed when there was a preferable option? “Unfortunately people have a limit to the payment of taxes, and because of it there is unrest growing among the Danish settlers of the Mid Lands and the North, among those who do not fear Swein.” She pointed her needle at the group of men: Ealdorman Alfhelm, Eadric Streona, and Athelstan. “Some men believe it is cheaper, in the long run, to pay an enemy to go away and not fight, but young blood is always eager to initiate their swords into battle.”
Sitting quiet for a while, Emma concentrated on her sewing, her thoughts busy. Finally, she confided what was troubling her. “Gunnhilda?”
“Mm?”
“Is my husband a coward?”
How to answer? Gunnhilda chose the truth. “No, he is not a coward, but he is a fool. He listens to the advice of those preoccupied with their own interests, because he does not have the ability to follow his own thinking. And that, in the eyes of some men, makes him close to being a coward.”
13
August 1002—Sandwich
With the afternoon warm and sunny, Emma had urged Gunnhilda to walk with her beside the river. She was bored. As a town she liked Sandwich; the people were pleasant, the market stalls interesting, but it was a male domain centred around the fleet and fishing. All she had seen of England was Dover, Canterbury, Sandwich, and the roads between. England, both Gunnhilda and Pallig assured her, was a wondrous variety of landscape: open, wind-whispering reed marsh, and gorse- and heather-clad moors, deep forests, soaring mountains, and winding valleys. Idling her time away in her stuffy chamber, Emma was beginning to wonder if she would ever see anything different from these four walls.
Kent she thought to be delightful, but what had she to compare it with? In its summer array the countryside looked beautiful, but probably so did the rest of England. She wanted to do something, go somewhere; to explore,
to see exactly what she was Queen of.
The river seemed an appealing idea; a path wandered along its tranquil bank, an inviting place for the pup to run. Saffron was growing rapidly, all paws, long legs, and boundless enthusiasm. The only enchantment to break the monotony of endless empty weeks.
Once cloaks were found and outdoor shoes donned, a small party of her serving women and their various children walked down through the water meadows, swishing aside the long grass and shooing away over-inquisitive cows. Gunnhilda’s daughter, Freya, clutched tightly at Emma’s hand as one particularly shaggy beast loomed too near.
Reprimanding Saffron for barking at the animal, Emma was flattered that the child should trust her. She had limited experience with children, for as the youngest child born it had been she who had received the mothering and cooing from a host of older siblings. She smiled down at the fair-haired child, squeezed her chubby hand.
“It is only a cow come to see you. I expect she is thinking, Who is this pretty girl crossing my meadow? I wonder if she wants a drink of my milk?” To Emma’s pleasure, the girl giggled.
Ever helpful, Leofstan Shortfist shooed the cattle away, prodding them with the butt of his spear and waving his arms about. The placid beasts regarded him balefully a moment, before shambling off to find a comfortable spot to chew the cud.
Edmund was fishing upstream, his crude pole and line dipping into the solemn water. He scowled at having his peace disturbed, gathered his things, and moved further away from the noisy interruption.
“Oh, look!” one of the women cried as she stepped carefully over a fresh cowpat buzzing with flies. “The swans have come downriver—are they not the most elegant of birds?” The majestic creatures were floating with the current, cob, pen, and a trail of four dowdy grey-clad cygnets.
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