Last Tales of Mercia 1: Emma the Queen

by Jayden Woods

wobbled where she stood. The monk on her left gave her another yank forward. Then she found herself stumbling.

  After that, her mind disconnected from her body. Perhaps it foresaw the demise of her flesh and retreated prematurely to the spiritual realm. She did not know how else to describe the moment she ceased to feel anything and yet her feet kept moving forward.

  She saw flashing fire. She heard screams and shouts. Smoke billowed and revealed shadows amidst the orange light. The shadows took the shape of horses, riders, and slashing swords. She saw blood spatter and footmen fall.

  She looked down and saw that she walked on dead bodies. She wanted to scream, but her fear petrified her. She felt someone squeeze her hand—Stigand?—and so she kept moving.

  The smoke cleared and ahead of her she saw a Norman castle looming over the landscape. Anglo-Saxons did not build fortresses like this one; its stone keep towered high on a motte above the valleys of Engla-lond, and from that stretched a large bailey barricaded with walls and palisades. From this castle, all the blood flowed in swollen rivers to fill the pastures below. She looked down and saw that she now stood in the blood, and its level rose quickly to drown her.

  At last she panicked. She tried to escape, thrashing with her limbs. Hands gripped each of her arms and held her in place.

  Then she remembered reality. She realized that she did not swim in blood, but still walked between two bishops. She did not tread upon dead bodies. In fact, she felt cool stones under the bare skin of her feet.

  The bishops released her arms. She turned her head in puzzlement, though she still could not see.

  “Where are the rest of the ploughshares?” she asked.

  Gasps echoed around the room. Soft hands grabbed her blindfold and untied it.

  Emma looked upon the face of Stigand. Relief and wonder shone in his eyes. “You passed them all,” he breathed, his voice almost a whisper.

  The room erupted with cheers, applause, and cries of astonishment. Now that she could see again, the ocean of faces surrounding her was dizzying: nobles, peasants, monks, and laymen filled the entire cathedral with rejoicing. Each one wept for joy, laughed with relief, or prayed with humility.

  A single groan of sorrow resounded louder than all the rest, and Emma turned to find her son as the source. Now that she had crossed the path of ploughshares, Emma stood only a few steps away from him. King Edward had fallen from his chair to kneel on the floor, tears trickling down his pale cheeks and into his blond beard.

  “Mother,” he cried. “Forgive me.”

  Seeing him this way, Emma might have expected to feel relief. Instead, rage poured through her veins. God may have proven her innocent of her crimes. But Edward was still king of Engla-lond. And now he groveled at her feet like the weak, cowardly child she had always feared him to be.

  “I will forgive you,” she said, “when you correct your mistakes, and cast our enemies from your court.”

  The roar of the congregation had not ceased. Her voice was nearly lost in the tumultuous jubilation. But a few people around Edward frowned at her—people she recognized all too well. The pot-bellied Earl Goodwin stood amongst them, the man truly responsible for the murder of her son Alfred. Archbishop Robert, the judge of her trial, had slinked into a corner and lost the will to speak. A few Anglo-Saxon thegns lingered nearby, but sticking out like a rock amidst jewels sat the large Richard FitzScrob, folding his legs in an awkward attempt to hide his crooked feet. Emma faintly recalled that this was one of the many Norman lords Edward had brought with him to Engla-lond and given a great spread of land on which to make his mark—and perhaps to build a castle.

  Of a sudden her vision returned to her, and she felt the urgent need to express it. Perhaps if she had been more patient, she would have waited for the noise of the crowd to fade somewhat. But Edward could hear her, at least, and right now that was all that seemed to matter.

  “I saw something as I walked over the ploughshares,” she rasped. “I saw the Normans taking over Engla-lond. I saw their castles sprouting across the land, like weeds watered by blood. I saw their knights cutting down Anglo-Saxons and ruining the soil. Your people will die by the thousands if you let the Normans take root here.”

  Edward’s eyes were huge with astonishment. The tears on his cheeks had dried, stale atop his gaping face. When he made that expression, he reminded her of his foolish father, King Ethelred.

  Archbishop Robert swept forward suddenly, reaching out to Emma. She flinched but did not draw away as his hand brushed her forehead.

  “Dear Queen,” he said calmly, “God saved your body from harm, but I fear the trial has exhausted your mind and left you feverish.”

  She wanted to argue with him, but she worried he was right to some degree, for she swayed on her feet and could not come up with a good response. The din of the audience was fading now, but she remained dizzy, a strange ringing in her ears even as the room grew quiet. She was faintly aware of Edward and Robert nodding to each other, then the king straightening up though he remained on his knees.

  “Mother,” he said, “God has clearly saved you today. I admit to all of Engla-lond that I was wrong to suspect you of crimes that will never be mentioned again. Please help me atone for my mistake by striking me, once for each wrongful accusation brought upon you.”

  He motioned to a bishop carrying a long wooden wand. The bishop handed it to the queen. As Emma took it in her hands, Edward turned and bowed his head, presenting his back to her.

  The entire room was watching Queen Emma now, listening to her every breath. Why had they not been listening a moment ago, when she needed them to hear about her vision? Feeling more and more light-headed, she looked to Stigand for comfort, but his face was pale and drawn. His eyes flicked to the king, suggesting that she should carry on with her task.

  Her anger returned to her and she poured it into the wooden wand, lifting it high and then slapping it against her son’s back. As she struck him, she thought of all men who had wrought ruin upon Engla-lond with their incompetence and insecurity, the worst of which being her first husband of fourteen years, King Ethelred. When she struck him a second time, then a third, she thought of King Canute, the man who came the closest to forging Engla-lond into a powerful empire, and whose legacy would soon be snuffed out by her own son with King Ethelred.

  When she finished, the wand fell from her fingertips with a clatter against the stones. She stood there awhile, trembling. Then King Edward rose up, favoring his aching back, and turned to embrace her.

  “It is finished,” he said, and wrapped his arms around his mother.

  Emma stood prisoner in Edward’s embrace as her eyes locked with Lord Richard FitzScrob of Normandy behind him. She considered it futile to tell Edward that he was wrong, and that he had not yet finished paying for his mistakes.