Читать книгу The Emma of Normandy 2-book Collection: Shadow on the Crown and The Price of Blood - Patricia Bracewell - Страница 23

The voyage from Fécamp to Canterbury took five days, and every one of them was cold, wet, and miserable. The heaving of the ship and the unremitting stench of fish oil that the shipmen used to waterproof their clothes and rigging sickened Emma and her companions. It was a relief when they left the open sea and finally entered the placid waters of the River Stour. As they sailed past the wattle huts and wooden enclosures marking the outskirts of Canterbury, Emma stood at the entrance of the shelter that had been rigged midship. She gazed through a steady rain at a flat, sodden, dreary landscape. In the distance, cathedral towers seemed to pierce the forbidding clouds that hung low and grey over the city.

Beside her Lady Wymarc was muffled in the folds of a woollen cloak, and as a blast of rain hit them, she pulled Emma’s fur-lined hood up to keep the rain off her hair.

‘Do you suppose,’ Emma murmured, her heart as grey and heavy as the swollen clouds, ‘that the sun ever shines in this dismal place?’

‘To be sure, my lady,’ Wymarc replied briskly. ‘It cannot always be this wet or the English would have feathers and webbed feet.’ She placed a hand on Emma’s arm. ‘Do not lose heart, I beg you. Not now, when the worst of the voyage is behind us.’

Emma could not help but smile as she looked into the wide brown eyes that regarded her with a mixture of sympathy, pride, and excitement. Wymarc was ever one to look for the sun behind the clouds. She had an irrepressible exuberance – a quality that had not found much favour with Duchess Judith but had endeared her to Emma. The two of them were much the same age, and during the mad weeks of preparation it had been Wymarc’s unbridled enthusiasm for the adventure that lay before them that had buoyed Emma’s spirits and kept her from despair.

‘I will be grateful to leave this ship,’ Emma said, ‘but I fear that the worst is likely yet to come.’ She dreaded this first meeting with the king, and she wanted it behind her. Yet even that, she reminded herself, would not be the worst that she would have to face in the coming days. There was the bedding to get through, but she put that out of her mind for now. ‘When we go ashore, do not leave my side,’ she commanded, ‘even for a moment.’

A bridge spanned the river ahead of them and led to a wide, tower-crowned stone gateway from which banners hung, limp and dripping. Emma could see a throng of folk crowded at the tower’s foot and massed upon its parapets, waving kerchiefs and hats enthusiastically in spite of the rain. A rumble of voices floated across the water towards her in a general roar of excitement and cheers. Armed men in mail tunics and scarlet cloaks lined the path that led from the riverside to the city wall, their black shields overlapping to keep the crowd at bay.

At the water’s edge, four black-clad acolytes, oblivious to the steady downpour, held a scarlet canopy over a scarlet-robed archbishop. A knot of brightly clad noblemen, their fur-lined mantles and hoods testifying to their high rank, clustered behind the prelate, their faces turned expectantly towards the approaching ship.

‘Which of them is the king?’ Wymarc asked.

Emma scanned the men again but none of them fitted the description that Ealdorman Ælfric had given her of Æthelred – a tall, well-built man with long golden hair and a trim beard.

A little shiver of foreboding crept along her spine to mingle with the anxiety already there. Was it possible that he had not come to greet her? She recalled how her brother Richard had made the five-day journey to Bayeux to wed Judith and escort her back to Rouen, and how the count of Turenne had travelled for near a month to sue for the hand of her sister Beatrice. Æthelred, though, had sent a delegation to Normandy to bid for his bride rather than come in person. Could he not even trouble himself to meet her at the city gate?

‘I do not think that he is here,’ she murmured to Wymarc.

‘Perhaps he is waiting to greet you in great state inside the palace,’ Wymarc said, ‘or at the church. Perhaps he thinks you will not wish to see him until you have had a chance to rest from the journey.’

Or perhaps, Emma thought, he is somewhat less than eager to meet his bride. Whatever the reason, it was an affront to her, and her anxiety grew.

The boat drew up to the dock, and Emma recognized Ealdorman Ælfric standing foremost among the nobles waiting to greet her. He had left Normandy some days before she had, and now the sight of his gaunt, old face, already smiling a welcome, cheered her somewhat. He helped her over the gunwale and into the shelter of the canopy, then took both her hands and bent to kiss them.

‘The king sends you greetings, my lady. Your bridegroom wished to come himself, but pressing matters of state have kept him from your side. I am bid to welcome you and escort you to your lodgings in the abbey precincts.’

He had barely finished speaking when the archbishop raised his hands and intoned a blessing, and the noise of the crowd hushed as the Latin words floated on the air. After that Emma was introduced to each nobleman in turn, and she greeted every man with a gracious word and a smile in spite of the misgiving that clutched at her heart. She had been anxious at the prospect of meeting the king. That he had not come to greet her, whatever the reason, only increased her unease.

‘I thank you, my lords,’ she said, in a voice as strong as she could muster, carefully enunciating the tongue-twisting English words, ‘and I thank the people of England for their welcome. May the Lord shower his blessings upon us all.’ The crowd gave a roar and, satisfied that she had pleased them, Emma turned to Ælfric. ‘I beg you, my lord, to tell me when I may look forward to meeting the king.’

The archbishop, an ancient man with a sour expression, raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You would do well to curb your impatience, my lady,’ he said gruffly. ‘Be content that the king will attend to you in his own good time.’

Stung by his rebuke, Emma had to bite her lip to keep from saying something she might regret. Here was one who disapproved of her. Was it because she was young and a woman, she wondered, or because she was Norman?

It was Ælfric who jumped in to mend the awkward moment.

‘On Sunday,’ he said, ‘the king will greet you at the church door to recite the marriage vows. Immediately afterwards he will escort you into the cathedral for the coronation ceremony.’

Not until Sunday! That was five days hence. What kind of man was this Æthelred that he would not meet with his bride in private for even a few moments of conversation before he wed her? Was this how things were done in England? The sense of panic that she had kept at bay for the last six weeks began to clutch at her again.

‘I wish to meet the king tomorrow,’ she insisted, smiling, although it was an effort. ‘Surely he can grant me a few moments of his good time.’

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ Ælfric said gently. ‘That will not be possible, for the king has not yet arrived in Canterbury. He has sent word that he will not be here before Sunday.’

She could feel the eyes of each nobleman fix upon her, taking her measure, curious to see how she would receive this unwelcome news. She said no more, but nodded to Ælfric in acknowledgement of his apology, doing her best to disguise both her displeasure at the king’s slight and her fear of what it might mean. She doubted that she was very successful. Her hands, she realized, were clenched as tightly as the muscles of her stomach. Drawing a deep breath, she made an effort to relax as she followed in the wake of the archbishop, who had started towards the city gates. She would have turned to search for Wymarc behind her, but she knew instinctively that she must keep her back straight and her head forward.

Ælfric escorted her to a litter draped lavishly with furs beneath a silk-lined canopy. Making a low bow, he handed her into it, and then she was borne on the shoulders of eight noblemen through the streets of Canterbury. She forced herself to smile, lifting her hand to the crowds of folk who lined the way or waved at her from thatched rooftops. She heard cries of ‘Welcome! Welcome to Richard’s daughter!’ over and over again as she was carried through the streets and past the great cathedral towards the abbey.

Her head ached from the noise, and from the effort to hold back tears that clouded her eyes – tears of both gratitude and dismay. The people of this realm had welcomed her with joy, yet the king who was to be her husband had not welcomed her at all. In the midst of this jubilant crowd, she had never felt so achingly alone.

That evening Emma dined with her Norman household in the guest quarters of St Augustine’s abbey. With so many familiar faces about her Emma could almost imagine that she was still in Normandy. She could not dispel, though, the anxiety that she felt at the king’s absence today. He should have been there to greet her, and he had slighted her by staying away.

She called to mind Richard’s parting words five days before, as he accompanied her to the waiting ships.

‘You are not the first bride, Emma, to go to the bed of a foreign king, and you must be very clear about what is expected of you. Bear in mind that you go to your lord not as a woman, but as a queen. In the same way, he comes to you not as a man, but as a king. He will not be father to you, nor lover, nor even friend. Do not expect it. All you can expect from his hands is what any of his subjects can expect, and that is justice and mercy. You, as queen, though, must demand one thing more. You must demand his respect. Never forget that for a moment, and never do anything that might cause you to forfeit it.’

Today Æthelred of England had not shown her the respect that she deserved, although she did not know why. She wished that one of her brothers had accompanied her to England. Surely Duke Richard or Archbishop Robert would have been able to give her some insight into what might be going on in the mind of the king. Instead she was without counsel, and she felt as if she had been thrown rudderless into high seas. She could not reach safe haven, even if she knew what it looked like.

In the meantime, the people in this room depended upon her for direction, and she had very little to give. What she needed was information – not the history lessons that Ealdorman Ælfric had given her but news of the court and of the people in it. If she were at home she would send someone to the kitchens to listen in on what was being said, but she could hardly do that here.

She considered the men and women around her. Only a few members of her household could understand English, much less work their mouths around it well enough to speak it. Wymarc was one, for her stepmother was the daughter of a Kentish lord. Young Hugh of Brittany, who had been one of Richard’s stewards, was another. Her bard, Alain, could recite their poetry, but she was not sure how much of it he actually understood.

And there was her priest, Father Martin. She did not know him and had had little time to speak with him in the weeks before they left Normandy, but he had served her mother well. She knew that he was a scholar, good with languages, and that he had studied for a time in an abbey somewhere here in England. Her mother had said that he was an excellent clerk, for he wrote a fair hand.

At the moment Emma did not need a clerk. What she needed was a spy. Father Martin, clad in fine, dark-coloured wool and with a crucifix hanging at his breast, was the likeliest candidate to gather news within the cathedral precincts. The community there would likely welcome a priest and scholar who was part of the Norman retinue.

She called the priest to her side, and then, after some thought, she summoned Hugh as well. As they knelt before her, she studied their upturned faces, both of them clean-shaven in the Norman style. Apart from that they were a study in contrasts. Father Martin’s lined face and grey hair bespoke his age, and his solemn brown eyes studied her with the gravity of experience. Hugh was youthful and dark, strikingly handsome, with an engaging charm that, she had reason to believe, had captivated Wymarc on the voyage here. Her friend had spoken of him with such admiration that Emma had warned her to have a care for her heart. Still, Hugh’s genial manner was well suited to the task she had in mind for him.

‘I am in need,’ she said, ‘of information about the English. I must know what their concerns are, what they think, what they believe, and, particularly, what they fear.’ She looked at the priest. ‘Father Martin, I want you to mingle with the cathedral community in any place where you can engage them in conversation. Hugh, I want you to go into the market square tomorrow, down to the port and into the alehouses. Find out what the people of England think of their king. Discover what is being said about his marriage. You must not be afraid to tell me what you learn, even if you fear it will displease me. Do you understand?’

When she had dismissed them she felt more composed. She had set something in motion, and soon she would have results. She reminded herself that she was not alone here, and that she had resources, if only she took the care to use them.

The next evening Emma met Hugh and Father Martin in a once barren abbey chamber that her attendants had transformed into a quiet retreat suited to a queen. A brazier burned in the centre of the room, and embroidered hangings covered the cold stone walls. Emma sat in a high-backed chair with cushions behind her shoulders, furs on her lap, and a stool under her feet. As she considered the two men before her, she saw that the priest looked particularly grave, so she turned first to him.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘There are … evil rumours, my lady,’ he said slowly, ‘… about the king, and how he obtained his throne.’

Emma frowned. ‘But surely Æthelred inherited the throne from his father,’ she said. ‘Ealdorman Ælfric said that King Edgar died young, and that his son was crowned after that.’

‘That is true,’ the priest said, frowning, ‘but the boy who was crowned after King Edgar was not Æthelred. It was his elder half brother, Edward. In the cathedral scriptorium there are chronicles that report,’ he paused, ‘unsettling events that occurred in those days.’

So Ælfric, whom she had liked so well, had told her only part of the truth. Could she not trust anyone in England then?

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘King Edgar had three sons by two different wives. The middle son died very young, while his father still sat the throne. Some years later, when King Edgar died of a sudden illness, no heir had been named, and the two sons who survived him were born of different mothers. Edward, the eldest, was crowned, but many of the great men in the land questioned his right to the throne, for his mother was not a consecrated queen, and Æthelred’s mother was.’ He paused and heaved a weary sigh before continuing. ‘After he had ruled but three years, King Edward was murdered – brutally, the chronicles say. He was young when he died – only sixteen. It was then that his half brother, Æthelred, was named to the throne by the witan, the group of nobles who advise the king.’

‘And what happened to the murderers?’ she asked. As a brother and a king it would have been Æthelred’s particular duty to punish such a terrible crime.

‘The murderers were never discovered,’ Father Martin said. ‘No one was punished and no restitution paid.’ He hesitated, his expression grim. ‘I persuaded one of the brothers here, an old man now, to tell me what he recalled from that time.’

Again he hesitated, clearly unwilling to burden her with his knowledge. Emma waited, her heart filled with misgiving, and at last Father Martin continued his tale.

‘It was believed by many that Æthelred’s mother, the dowager queen, plotted the murder of her stepson. That was a terrible time, with bloody portents in the night sky that even the priests could not ignore. I am told that last autumn, just before the dowager queen died, the night skies ran with blood again, although the old man I spoke with did not see it.’

Emma sat very still, pondering his words. She knew well the power of rumour and superstition. When her father was alive, Rouen had buzzed for a time with tales that he wandered the streets at midnight, going into darkened churches to battle phantoms and demons. Indeed, it was true that her father had visited the churches by night, for his final illness had bereft him of sleep, and he sought the intercession of one saint after another in his search for healing. But the duke had wrestled with no demons, only with the knowledge of his own coming death. The rumours about him had contained a kernel of truth that had been misshapen by wild conjecture. Perhaps this was the same thing.

‘How long ago did this happen?’ she asked the priest.

‘King Æthelred has ruled England for twenty-three years.’

She did the sums. Æethelred, who was now in his thirty-fifth year, could have been no more than a child when his brother had been murdered. What possible role could a child play in such a heinous act?

‘Tell me, Father Martin,’ she said, ‘do you believe that the king had a hand in his brother’s death?’

The priest fingered the cross at his breast as he pondered her question. At last he said, ‘This is a Christian land, my lady, yet through all the years of Æthelred’s reign, godless men from across the North Sea have raided and burned and tortured this realm. Why would God allow such a thing, unless there was great sin in the land?’

And what greater sin, she thought, than the murder of an anointed king? Was this the truth about Æthelred that no one had been willing to reveal to her?

Her anxiety about the man she was to wed grew, yet troubled as she was, she would rather be armed with knowledge than go to him cloaked in ignorance. She murmured her thanks to the priest. Then, as an afterthought, she reached down and touched his hand. ‘Please pray for me, Father,’ she said, ‘and for the soul of the king.’

As she turned her attention to Hugh she wondered what horror story he might have to tell.

‘The word in the marketplace,’ Hugh volunteered, ‘is that the king has just sent nearly thirty thousand pounds of silver to a Danish host camped on an island off the southern coast. I’m told that the Vikings spent all of last summer burning and robbing in the southern shires, and that the silver,’ he paused and smiled wryly, ‘is meant to discourage them from picking up where they left off when the weather turns fair again.’

‘So the king bribes the Vikings to leave his lands,’ she said. ‘Jesu, it is a vast amount of money.’

‘Aye, my lady,’ Hugh agreed. ‘And the common folk, and even the nobles, it seems, begrudge having to pay the high taxes that the king has imposed to raise it. They complain that first the Danes raid the land, and then the king’s men come and take whatever is left to bribe the Danes to go away.’

‘But where are the warriors?’ she asked. ‘This is a rich land with a wealthy king. Can Æthelred not defend his people?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘The king has his personal guard, as do many of the nobles, but in times of great need he must summon warriors and arms. By the time word of an attack is spread and the levies called up, the Vikings have taken their plunder and made their escape.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘It is whispered, too, that the king is unlucky. Whenever his soldiers meet the enemy some hapless thing occurs to sway the battle in favour of the outlanders.’

Was it bad luck, she wondered, or, as Father Martin believed, was it God’s curse? And, merciful heaven, what was the difference?

‘My lady,’ Hugh said, ‘my news is not all dismal. There is general rejoicing over your nuptials. The common belief is that the arrival of a new queen can only bring good fortune to England.’

‘I expect the new queen’s dowry will not come amiss, either,’ she said, ‘if the king defends his land with silver instead of steel.’

She dismissed the men and sat a while, pondering all that she had heard. Where was the truth in the rumours, and what secrets lay hidden in the soul of the man she must wed? Even if the king was innocent of his brother’s murder, his throne was bathed in his brother’s blood. She must share that throne. Whatever the fate that lay before Æthelred the king, as his queen she would share that as well.