Lady Svana had risen from her chair and stood a head taller than Edyth. She wore a flowing robe of spring green, clasped at the waist with a simple band of amber beads, and her hair, the colour of ripe hazels, was as loose as a maid’s. Edyth dropped into a deep curtsey but Lady Svana clasped her hand, drawing her up and forward in one easy motion. Edyth caught the scent of her – lavender and meadow grass and rosemary – and drew in a deep breath.
‘Lady Edyth, is it not?’ her hostess said, her voice soft but perfectly mortal. ‘How lovely to meet you properly at last.’
Edyth attempted a smile but it wobbled slightly at the edges.
‘But you look troubled, my dear,’ Svana went on. ‘Come, take a seat with me.’
She gestured Edyth towards a beautiful willow-basket chair padded with a soft sheepskin but Edyth, looking from the near-white wool to her tattered, bark-stained gown, shook her head.
‘I’d better not, my lady.’
‘Why don’t you remove that dress then, if it’s making you so uncomfortable?’
Edyth panicked. Is this where the pagan rituals started? Had she escaped the cooking pot just to be thrown into the fire?
‘Behind here.’ Lady Svana opened out a fretwork screen. ‘You can wear my bedrobe for now and my maid can sew up these little rips whilst we talk.’
Edyth breathed again and glanced at her tattered skirt.
‘Little rips?’
‘Great big holes if you prefer, my dear, but either way the council opens soon and you’ll be in less trouble with your parents if they’re not there. Elaine has very neat stitching.’
An older lady with grey hair and kindly eyes came forward, nodding confidently. Edyth glanced at the mess of her skirts and pictured Meghan’s fury if she turned up for the most important event of her father’s political career this way.
‘I wouldn’t want to be a bother,’ she said.
‘No bother, lass,’ Elaine said. ‘I mended many such a tear in my lady’s dresses when she was your age, and most of them without her dear mother’s knowledge. Tree climbing, was it? Well now, no harm done, hey? If you’ll just . . .’
She indicated the screen and, unwilling to protest further, Edyth slid behind it and removed her dress. It was one of her better ones, made from a rich green wool her mother had bought from a Flemish trader for a ‘pretty penny’, so she could imagine the fuss if Lady Meghan saw it like this. Meekly she passed it out to Elaine and in return was handed a light robe of soft lilac. It went on, as far as she could tell, not over the head as normal, but from behind, wrapping around her and tying with a silk cord. It was far too long and she had to bunch it up in her hands to step forward but it felt wonderful.
‘This is so beautiful,’ she said to Svana as she emerged, her shyness forgotten in the joy of the garment. ‘What’s it made of?’
‘Ottoman silk. Harold brought me it from his last travels. He feels guilty when he’s away a long time so he brings me beautiful gifts to make up for it.’
‘And to be sure she’ll have me back,’ Harold added, clasping her round her slender waist and kissing her. ‘Always I fear she will tire of me.’
‘And never she does,’ Svana retorted softly.
Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. ‘Love prefers to be free’ sang the eternal words in Edyth’s head but since the sights she’d seen this morning that idea didn’t seem quite so simple. All her life her mother had talked of the great husband that, like a fine gift, would one day be hers but now she understood what that entailed – not just grand halls and beautiful gowns and fine horses but the guttural, exposed ritual of the marriage bed. She shifted uneasily and Svana sprang away from Harold and drew her firmly into the chair.
‘You still look pale,’ she said. ‘Warm wine should help. Harold!’
Harold nodded and, to Edyth’s amazement, strode to a side table, poured wine from a jug and ambled off with it, presumably to warm it over one of the compound braziers.
‘But . . . but he’s an earl,’ Edyth protested.
‘He’s a man, Edyth. He needs to feel useful.’
Edyth processed this new information. Is that what men needed to feel? Is that what drove them to . . . ?
‘Edyth? Sweetheart? What did you see from your tree?’
Svana was studying her face, not as her mother might for specks of dirt or telltale traces of guilt, but with genuine concern. Still, though, Edyth felt uneasy.
‘Nothing.’
Svana raised one elegant eyebrow.
‘You don’t trust me.’
It was not an accusation but Edyth longed to merit the woman’s kindness and the lure of answers was strong. She glanced around. Harold was still absent, Avery was outside the door, and Elaine had her grey head down over her needle. They were as alone as it was possible to be at court.
‘There was a man,’ she managed.
‘Any particular man?’
‘Lord Torr.’ She flushed as she said it; even the name sounded wanton now.
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’
‘You do?’
‘I take it he was not alone?’ Edyth shook her head. ‘With a girl perhaps? Were they naked, Edyth?’
She said it so simply that Edyth was surprised into answering directly.
‘Sort of. He had no trews on and his tunic was hitched up and she . . . she . . .’
‘Had her skirts around her waist?’
‘Yes,’ Edyth agreed though her throat felt dry and the word snagged. ‘But she was . . . She was . . .’ She closed her eyes and forced herself to say it, ‘kneeling.’
She fumbled for more words but Svana rescued her.
‘You wish to know, perhaps, if that is normal?’ Edyth nodded mutely but Svana did not seem embarrassed at all. ‘Normal is such a restrictive word, is it not? And the human body is such a wonderfully unrestrictive thing. A man and a woman can make love in any way they choose.’
‘They can?’
‘Of course, as long as they do choose – both of them. Never let a man force you to do anything you do not wish, Edyth.’
‘Even if he is my husband?’
‘Especially if he is your husband!’
Svana’s tone was playful now and Edyth looked up to see that Harold had re-entered with her wine. She felt heat flood through her body and fumbled for the goblet he held out. For years now her mother had been impressing on her that a husband was to be obeyed in all things; she would be horrified if she heard such talk. Edyth glanced guiltily to the door but Harold’s laugh drew her eyes back inside.
‘Don’t let her fill your head with nonsense,’ he said lightly, catching Svana around the waist again as if his hands were drawn to her of their own accord. ‘She’s eastern – thinks it means she can do as she likes.’
He looked down at his wife and Edyth saw his eyes darken as Lord Torr’s had done in the forest. She felt all her new knowledge and awareness collecting behind her eyes, heavy and itchy, and put her hands up to try and rub it away. Svana instantly leaned forward.
‘You’re tired, sweetheart?’
‘No!’
‘Confused?’
‘A little.’
‘That’s as it should be. It takes time to become an adult.’
Edyth sipped at her wine.
‘I think the girl was willing.’
‘Then all is well,’ Svana said firmly.
‘Even if they’re not married?’
‘Better to be married.’
‘Like you two?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But you’re not properly married, are you?’
It was something her father had told her a hundred times but her words seemed to hit Svana like arrows.
‘More “properly” than any priest can offer,’ she snapped.
Edyth flinched, horrified, and Harold stepped hastily forward.
‘A handfast marriage binds the hearts, Edyth. That, surely, is worth more than land-contracts and church threats?’
‘Yes,�
�� she stuttered, looking helplessly past him to Svana, whose supple body was rigid. ‘Yes, yes, I see. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’
But just as swiftly as Svana had tensed she recovered, visibly shaking herself free of whatever fury had held her in its clutches.
‘Nay, Edyth, I am sorry. Handfast marriages are my people’s custom and I forget that others do not see them as completely as we do. I just ask one thing of you: as you become a woman, try not to rely on others’ judgements. Do you see?’
Edyth nodded, awkwardly aware that most of her judgements, if such they were, were more her father’s than her own. Earl Alfgar had always been most free with his opinions and she had never thought to question them but if they could wound a lovely lady like Svana, maybe she should?
‘Don’t fret,’ Svana said, seeing her face. ‘There’s time enough for that too. Ah, Elaine, thank you.’
Edyth turned gratefully to the mended gown and perused it disbelievingly – the rich fabric was nigh-on as good as new. She looked at Elaine’s fingers and back to the gown.
‘Are you magic?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘Nay, lass,’ Elaine laughed. ‘Just well practised.’
Svana placed a gentle hand on Edyth’s arm.
‘There is no magic, you know, Edyth, whatever they say – save, perhaps, the magic we make ourselves. Shall I help you on with the dress?’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
Edyth scrambled behind the screen, senses whirling. She was reluctant to surrender Svana’s luscious robe but out in the compound the creaking abbey bell was sounding to call people to the council and her mother would be furious at her absence. Her father too. Swiftly, she changed, folding Svana’s slippery gown as carefully as she could.
‘I must go.’
‘Indeed. Thank you so much for coming by.’
Svana made it sound as if this had been nothing more than a polite social call and Edyth was grateful but Harold . . . ? She glanced at him. He wasn’t the tallest of men but he held his shoulders strongly and seemed to have extra height in his commanding eyes. He was handsome, she supposed. His eyes were a striking midnight blue, his sand-blond hair richly curled, and his arms so broad and long they looked as if they’d wrap around you twice. What did he look like when he was . . . ? She shook the wanton thought away. She couldn’t go around assessing every man like this just because of one glimpsed moment.
‘Will you tell my mother?’ she asked nervously.
Harold looked to Svana, and Edyth saw her shake her head. She held her breath.
‘Not this time,’ Harold confirmed, ‘but, Edyth, take care. The tree might throw you harder to the ground next time.’
Remembering Torr’s challenging stare, Edyth knew what he meant and shook her head against the rogue memories now firmly embedded in her mind. Taking her leave of Harold and Svana, she stepped cautiously outside and immediately caught sight of her father’s black cloak down one of the rough walkways between the pavilions. Heart beating, she ducked out of sight, crossing round behind a series of smaller tents so that she came out behind him.
‘Father.’
‘Edyth, about time! Your mother’s clucking like a bantam. Where in God’s name have you been?’
Edyth stared up at him. She’d never lied to her father before; never had to. She’d been the victim of his ready temper many times but on the whole, whilst he was tough on her three brothers, he’d ever been indulgent to her. Now though . . . Fumbling in her pocket, still thankfully attached to her belt, she drew out the ribbons she’d bought at market and held them sheepishly up. For a moment he looked suspicious and then he grinned.
‘Really, Edie my love, only you could spend so long over ribbons! Still . . .’ He leaned in, an almost childish smile playing across his lips, ‘we’ve all had to make an effort today.’
He patted his tunic, a new one in expensive dark blue which stretched paler across his belly, then nodded ruefully to the matching bindings around his trews.
‘You look very handsome, Father,’ Edyth provided.
‘Thank you, Edie, and I’m sure your ribbons are lovely; it’s important you look your best if you are to be the Earl of Northumbria’s daughter.’
‘Father . . . !’
‘Tush, ’tis a formality, that’s all. Before long everyone will know. Come now, though, let me take you through to the moot-point – your mother has been waiting on the benches for ages and I must join the rest of the council.’
He straightened and, contorting his face into a look of studied gravity, offered her his arm. Edyth took it cautiously, worried he might sense the Earl of Wessex’s previous escort, but Alfgar seemed oblivious and, as the great and good of England gathered for the spectacle of government, Edyth was left to keep that uneasy association to herself.
CHAPTER THREE
Edyth! At last. Have you no conception of politeness? Where in the name of all the saints have you been?’
‘Sorry,’ Edyth muttered. ‘I lost track of time.’
Her mother, Lady Meghan, was sat on one of the front benches, frothed up in a new dress and three strands of amber beads and fuming with righteous anger. Edyth ducked around her and slipped in between her two younger brothers, cheeks burning at the smirks from those sat behind them.
‘You’ve been naughty, Edie,’ nine-year-old Morcar said gleefully.
‘Very naughty,’ Brodie agreed smugly from Meghan’s other side. ‘Some people just have no idea about decorum, do they, Mother?’
Edyth resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her elder brother and instead looked around her at the gathering crowds. The council was to be held, as always, on the stretch of Thorney Island between the crumbling Westminster Abbey and the low shingle beach down to the great River Thames. Servants had been working since dawn to erect a wooden dais some twenty paces long and now Edyth looked up to the two huge thrones sitting upon it, carved backs to the river, and willed the king and queen to take their places and start the meeting before her mother could complain further.
‘We’ve been here for ages,’ little Morcar told her. ‘My bum’s sore from sitting.’
‘Ssh, Marc.’ Edwin, two years older than Morcar but at least five years more serious, frowned crossly at his brother. ‘You can’t say words like that in public.’
‘Words like what? Bum?!’
Edwin raised a hand and Edyth quickly sat forward and dived in her pocket for the remains of the marchpane she’d bought at the market. She divided it between the boys and, for the moment at least, peace was restored. She gave a small sigh of relief and settled herself. She was in plenty of time, whatever her mother said. The eighteen councillors had not yet taken their places on the elegant seats below the dais and many of the lords and ladies were still filing onto the semi-circles of benches facing them. Mind you, with the earldom of Northumbria up for appointment, every last noble seemed to have made the journey to Westminster and Edyth realised her mother must have been here for some time to secure her prime position at the front. No wonder she was grouchy.
‘Not you too!’ she heard her mother mutter now and Edyth looked up, hiding a smile as her grandmother, the stately Lady Godiva of Mercia, slid graciously into a slim stretch of bench next to her.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Godiva said to her, settling her beautiful golden-coloured skirts and tweaking the richly laced sleeves of her undertunic so that they made a discreet appearance at her still slim wrists.
‘You’re late,’ Meghan hissed.
Godiva glanced lazily at her daughter-by-marriage.
‘On the contrary; I am perfectly timed, my dear. I’m far too old to be waiting around for those lazy councillors to show their faces.’
Edyth giggled but at last the ‘lazy’ councillors – all the highest men of England – were emerging from the abbey precinct and making their way through the crowds and, in a panic, latecomers were crushing into seats all around.
‘Must you push so?’ Edyth’s mot
her said now, turning indignantly to an ample woman trying to squeeze onto the end of their bench.
‘Yes I must,’ the woman fired back. ‘I can’t sit on the floor like a commoner, can I?’
She gestured superciliously to the mass of folk settled quite happily on the scrubland before the abbey’s domestic buildings to their left. They had arrived, as they always did, with rugs and sacks and straw bales to sit on and with baskets full of food to feed the mass of children who played around them. The councils were a fine spectacle and no one within walking distance wanted to miss the chance to eye up the fine clothing and see the theatre of government in action.
Edyth sometimes thought it looked like far more fun in the rough-and-tumble crowd but it wasn’t, so she was told, ‘dignified’ and clearly the pushy woman felt the same. As the king and queen emerged to huge cheers the latecomer again tried to plant her bottom on the woefully inadequate space beside a horrified Brodie, but Lady Meghan was having none of it.
‘There’s no room here,’ she said icily. ‘Perhaps, if a seat was so important to you, you should have arrived earlier?’
She fluffed up her skirts, planting her feet firmly beneath them, and the woman was forced to back away. Lady Godiva leaned forward.
‘Quite right, Meghan, my dear. Who does she think she is, sailing in at this late hour?’
Edyth peered up at her grandmother who winked at her but Meghan just sniffed and said, ‘Some people need to learn how to comport themselves. I need space. I’m wife of the Earl of East Anglia after all and very soon to be . . .’
‘Mother! Nothing is decided yet.’
‘Yes but . . .’
‘Hush! Look, the king is speaking.’
Edyth gestured gratefully to the dais as an expectant silence fell across the mass of humanity crammed onto the island. Queen Aldyth seated herself on her throne, her slim figure straight and elegant and her head held high beneath an intricate crown, whilst King Edward stepped forward to address his people. As thin as his wife, but tall and straight-shouldered in a rich cloak of deepest purple and a jewel-encrusted crown, he was regal to the core. Edyth remembered Torr talking so casually last night of his lack of heirs and suddenly she noticed how white the king’s hair was, how gnarled his hands as he raised them to the crowd, and how stooped his shoulders beneath his heavy garments. She shuddered, then swiftly reminded herself that the queen was young yet and very pretty. There was time, plenty of time. Torr had no business talking that way.
The Chosen Queen Page 3