Last Tales of Mercia 1-10
Page 3
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In the cloister of Saint Mary of Winchester, Emma often managed to forget the troubles of her past and the haunting visions of her future. She sat in the garden on a warm summer day and felt the sunshine easing the aches of her aging joints. She listened to the music of the birds and the soft whisper of the wind through the trees. The sound of singing nuns echoed from the nearby church and she hoped they did not resent her absence. She silently thanked them for their discretion; when she felt the need to wander off on her own or entertain visitors, they did not question her.
A shadow fell over her and scattered the warmth of the sun from her face. But she smiled, for the man standing before her was Stigand, and she reached up to grip his hand.
“Archbishop,” she said softly, straining to make out his face within the stark silhouette. “Why did you wait so long to visit me?”
His hand squeezed back against her, but his voice carried discomfort. “Because it is unseemly for a man to step foot in a convent.”
“Never mind that.” Smiling recklessly, she yanked his hand hard, drawing him next to her on the bench. “If they question my ‘innocence,’ let them put me to another test.”
She had meant to lighten the mood, but as Stigand settled next to her, a frigid silence fell over them. The memory of the trial of ploughshares was one of her least favorites to revisit, and she had not meant to bring it up so soon.
They sat quietly for a time, acknowledging the gravity of all the memories shared between them, their many discussions of old, and the few words yet unspoken.
“Emma,” he said at last. She turned to look at him, noting the bags under his eyes, the drooping of the skin around his lips. Nonetheless, his nose still cut a handsome line, and his gaze shone with vigor. “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” She attempted a laugh. “Whatever for?”
He looked down at his clasped hands, wringing them over the soft folds of his robes. “When I came to you the night before your trial, I acted selfishly. I could not bear the thought that you might fall upon the burning blades and suffer fatal wounds. I felt I must do anything to keep that from happening, and my fear blinded me. I tempted you to do something dishonest and sinful. I led you to cheat on one of the most holy trials of our Lord God in heaven.”
“Cheat! Is that how you see what we did, Stigand?” She grabbed his sleeve and shook it, urging him to look at her, but still he did not. “I think you are wrong. I admit, there have been times when I questioned our methods that day as well. But then I realized that if God wanted me to fail the trial, then he would not have sent you to lead me through the path in the first place.”
His breath caught and at last his gaze met hers, blazing with the need to believe her.
She smiled softly at him. “I feel no shame for what happened that day, Stigand. Please tell me that you don’t regret doing it.”
“Of course I don’t regret it.” His voice cracked in his throat; tears glittered upon his lashes. “Emma, even if I knew it to be a sin, I would have done it a hundred times over to save you. And I would have prayed that God would forgive me, if only because I acted out of love.”
Her heart raced. She leaned close to him and wrapped her hands in his robes, drowning in the comfort of his closeness. Then she kissed him.
By most standards it might have seemed a plain kiss, soft and simple, a brief moment of their lips touching and then drawing apart. But Emma knew it was one of the most passionate kisses she had ever experienced, and it meant more than any of her rigid nights in Ethelred’s bed, or even her most frenzied couplings with Canute. When she pulled away, her body was unsatisfied, but her soul was at peace. She glimpsed the same feelings reflected in Stigand’s eyes.
She sank down against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Together they watched the flowers of the garden sway with the wind while bugs hopped amidst the petals.
“There is something else that troubles me,” said Stigand after awhile, but his voice was soft, its tone contemplative. “I have never stopped wondering about the strange words you spoke when your trial was over and you stood over your son. You said you had a vision as you walked over the ploughshares, and that thousands would die if the Normans took root in Engla-lond. Edward seems to have forgotten your strange prophecy, but I have not. Did you mean it, Emma? Or were you merely saying what you thought Edward needed to hear?”
“I meant it, Stigand.” She dug her fingers into his robes, seeking warmth as a forgotten chill crept through her bones. “We may have faked the trial, but my prophecy was real.”
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2
Last Tales of Mercia 2:
RICHARD THE NORMAN
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“Whereupon [Goodwin] began to gather forces over all his earldom, and Earl Sweyne, his son, over his; and Harold, his other son, over his earldom: and they assembled all in Gloucestershire, at Langtree, a large and innumerable army, all ready for battle against the king; unless Eustace and his men were delivered to them handcuffed, and also the Frenchmen that were in the castle.”
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1051
LUDLOW, SHROPSHIRE
September 1051 A.D.