Читать книгу The Emma of Normandy 2-book Collection: Shadow on the Crown and The Price of Blood - Patricia Bracewell - Страница 24

On Easter Sunday, Æthelred of England took his Norman bride to wife, and he watched with hundreds of others as a circlet of gold was placed upon her head and she was named England’s queen. Afterwards, he presided over his wedding feast in the royal hall near the cathedral. Seated upon the dais, his new queen at his side, Æthelred looked about him and was not entirely pleased with the situation in which he found himself.

He had spent a great deal of coin over the last weeks in an effort to purchase peace for England. Some of it had been settled upon this chit seated next to him, and if her brother kept his promise, England’s coasts would be far more secure than in years past. Whether Richard could be trusted, though, was a question that niggled at him like a sore tooth.

As for the girl, he liked the look of her well enough. She had a smooth, clear complexion, enormous green eyes, and a long, straight nose. Her mouth was too wide, but she seemed to have good teeth, and her voice did not vex him – not yet. Her hair was pale beneath the silken headrail that was held in place by his gift of a golden crown.

He frowned. He should never have agreed to her coronation. His council was to blame for that. Their infernal wrangling had driven him to make a hasty decision. Within hours of signing the marriage documents he had regretted the act, but by then the official scrolls were on their way to Normandy, and it was too late.

His first wife had demanded no crown and had suffered no harm from the lack of it. This one, though, wanted assurances for any children that she might bear, wanted them first in line for the spoils after he died. It would lead to disputes as to which of his offspring were more throne worthy, and if Emma bore a son there would be bad blood between his first family and his second, all because he had given this Norman bitch a circlet of gold.

It had happened before, and his sons knew their family history well enough – knew of the factions that had formed around himself and his brother when their father died. Edward had been the elder, but men had questioned his claim to the crown because Edward’s mother had been a consort and no queen, unlike his own mother, who had bewitched the king into her bed and then convinced him to grant her a crown. It had led to years of unrest between rival nobles, who had backed either Edward or himself – and it had ended in Edward’s murder.

He closed his eyes and, with an effort of will, turned his mind from his dead brother, lest his very thoughts draw him from his grave again. He considered the slim girl beside him, mentally discarding her glimmering gown and the delicate garment beneath it until she was naked but for the pearls that hung in ropes about her neck. He imagined those pearls resting against her high, proud breasts and cascading past the delicate curve of her hips to the pale thatch between her thighs.

Soon he would be lying between those thighs, and the thought made his mouth go dry with anticipation. He emptied his cup of mead and called for more.

Be fruitful and multiply, the archbishop had admonished them when they took their vows. Well, Emma looked as though she could do that well enough, and if she should bear only daughters, so much the better.

He drank again from his cup and again he called for more. At one of the tables below him he could see old Ælfric mouthing something at him. Christ! Another duty to perform, as if taking a Norman slut to wife hadn’t been enough.

Reluctantly he pushed himself to his feet and lifted his golden goblet high, quelling the murmur of the wedding guests.

‘To the Lady Emma of Normandy,’ he bellowed, ‘queen of all England!’

The company responded with cheers, and next to him, his new young queen blushed.

As the revellers stood and raised their cups to her, Emma searched among them for her own people, but she found no familiar faces in the throng. She trusted that they would have found their way to tables somehow. Certainly there was enough food here that no one would go to bed hungry tonight. The king, she had learned, had ordered food tables set up all over the city in celebration of his nuptials, so even the poorest folk would sleep with full bellies for this one night at least. She was glad of it.

She let her gaze wander, over the heads of the guests seated at endless rows of tables, and then along the intricately carved oak columns that marched in two rows down the length of the hall and soared upwards so high that they disappeared into darkness. This was a huge edifice, far larger than her brother’s hall at Fécamp, or even in Rouen. It had obviously been built to inspire awe, and to intimidate. It succeeded on both counts, and in its massive, dim interior she felt small and insignificant … and cold. A breeze fingered its way through the roof thatch to tease the brightly coloured banners hanging from the crossbeams. In its wake, the wall torches and the banks of thick candles danced and flared, throwing shadows that loomed menacingly and then shrank to nothing. A constant draught from somewhere behind her chilled her backside, and she regretted not wearing a second chemise beneath her gown.

She took a sip of mead from the silver cup, which was intricately etched with a tracery of vines – one of several wedding gifts from the king, along with the two finger rings and the crown she wore. The sweet liquor burned her throat but warmed her from within, giving her the courage to consider the man seated beside her, whose brooding expression seemed a fit accompaniment to the cold, dark hall.

She knew that he was several years younger than her brother, but he looked much older than Richard. The long golden hair that Ælfric had described to her was streaked with grey at the temples, and the king’s face was creased and seamed across the forehead and around the mouth and eyes. It struck her, as she studied him with quick, furtive glances, that he was not a happy man. Careworn, she might have said, although Father Martin’s tale of the unpunished murder of a king made her wonder if it was guilt, and not care, that had etched the lines in his face.

On his head he wore a massive golden crown studded with gems that glinted in the firelight, and she pitied him for that. The thing looked heavy, and it must be a punishment to wear it for any length of time. His white tunic, belted at the waist, was woven of fine linen, its sleeves elaborately embroidered in bright colours. The deep blue mantle of shimmering godwebbe that he wore was lined with gold silk and clasped at one shoulder with an enormous gold brooch that was studded with rubies.

The king, taken all in all, looked a powerful and imposing figure. Yet he would have been comely even had he been clad in coarse wool. He carried himself with a fine, noble grace in spite of the weight of that daunting crown. She could not tell from looking at him, though, if he was kind or patient, if he had a sense of humour, or if he could have killed a brother in cold blood.

That last thought, streaking into her head just as she raised her drinking cup to her lips, made her hand tremble so that she nearly slopped the liquor onto her gown. She set the cup down until she could compose herself. For some time now she had been trying to think of something to say to her husband, but he looked so forbidding that she did not know how to begin. The story of the death of King Edward continued to trouble her, boring through her brain like an insidious worm. She could not forget it, and she could not very well ask the king if it was true that he was a kin slayer and king slayer.

For his part, he had said not a single word to her, and she began to wonder if he even realized that she could speak his language. But surely, she thought, Ælfric must have told him that. Nevertheless, all that had passed between them so far had been ceremony, scripted in Latin, and neither one of them had strayed from their assigned words. She had been advised that she must wait for him to initiate the first conversation, and so she had done. But the king had remained dourly silent.

Determined that she would wait no longer, she had been casting about for some topic of conversation, and now she decided to ask about his children. Some of them, at least, had attended the wedding and coronation, for she had seen a flock of gorgeously gowned youngsters, accompanied by what she presumed were nurses and tutors, in one of the side alcoves of the cathedral. She did not see any of them here, though. This was something of a surprise, for she would have expected that at the very least his older children would attend the feast.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I do not see your children here. I had hoped to meet them all today. Are they not allowed to attend the feast?’

The king, using a large chunk of bread to fastidiously mop up the juice from a thick slice of roasted lamb, attended to his culinary duties as if she had not spoken. She had begun to despair that he would answer her at all when, still attentive to his plate, he asked, ‘Why did your brother send you instead of your elder sister? Had she no taste for the favours of an English king?’

Emma froze, sensing in his words a danger that belied the casual tone of his voice. So it begins, she thought. Already she must dissemble, tell him enough truth to appease him but not so much that he could guess her brother’s intention to break the pledge he had made.

‘My sister and I,’ she said lightly, ‘do as we are commanded, whether it is our inclination or no. We do not ask for explanation, and I asked for none from my brother regarding his decision to send me here.’ In effect, this was the truth. She had asked her mother, not Richard. ‘Were I to guess, however, I would say that he feared that my sister, who suffers frequently from ill health, would not be strong enough to undertake the duties of a queen.’ She thought about what those duties would demand of her before the evening was over, and took another sip of mead.

‘Perhaps, then,’ said the king, ‘I should have insisted on your sister as my consort, so that I would not be saddled, as I am now, with a wife who demanded the title of queen.’

Stung by his discourtesy and his apparent dissatisfaction with the marriage bargain he had struck, Emma could only stare at him for a moment while she caught her breath. Then she felt the weight of the circlet upon her head as well as the weight of her brother’s final words to her. You must demand the king’s respect. She roused herself to respond.

‘I expect my brother would have made the same demand, whichever sister he sent you. And as you did not insist upon my sister,’ she said, hiding her displeasure with a smile, ‘instead of a wife who might have been a burden to you, you have a queen who can share any burdens that fate may send you. Such is my wyrd, I think.’ She purposely used the term that Ealdorman Ælfric had taken such great pains to explain to her, hoping that it would goad her husband to courtesy, if not respect.

Finished with his bread and gravy, the king took up his goblet, and she wondered how many times he would empty it before the night was over. Still he did not look at her but trained his eyes out over the throng of folk in the hall below them.

‘You are but a child,’ he murmured. ‘What can you possibly know of the burdens of …’ He stopped in mid-sentence, and his face blanched.

Emma followed his gaze and saw that a newly arrived group of several men and a lone woman were striding now up the central aisle.

Æthelred stared at the apparition coming towards him, at his brother’s wraith striding through the smoky haze of the hall. His heart seemed to shatter in his chest, and then, to his even greater terror, he realized that this was no phantom sending. This was a man of flesh and blood. Sweet Christ, this was Edward come alive again from the grave to condemn him. His brother’s familiar visage pinned him with merciless accusation, and although he mouthed a protest, the menacing figure did not stop.

His grip tightened on the goblet in his hand, and his heart pounded so hard that the girl at his side must have heard it, for suddenly he felt her fingers clutch his wrist.

He thrust her away from him, passed a hand across his eyes, then looked again. Edward still advanced upon him through streaks of light and shadow, and Æthelred rose to his feet, poised to summon his guards. But even as he raised his hand he grew uncertain, and he checked the cry upon his lips.

The figure neared the dais, and he saw, bewildered, that it was not Edward who approached but one very like him. And then his confusion cleared and he recognized his son, Athelstan, who, by some trick of chance or the devil, had assumed an uncanny resemblance to the dead king.

He mouthed a curse at the bitter irony of it. Surely this was another punishment sent upon him, to see the wraith that haunted him in the dark looking back at him now from the countenance of his eldest son. His mind flicked to his queen’s assurance that she would share his burdens. What would she think if he were to share with her the burden of his dead brother’s vengeance?

Athelstan reached the dais, and Æthelred hauled in a breath. Good Christ! How long had it been since he had last seen the boy? It must be near a year, yet in that brief space of time his son had matured, in looks at least, from boy to man. Why in Christ’s name did he have to look like that man?

At last he dragged his gaze from his son’s face, and only then did he mark the others who attended him.

‘Ælfhelm,’ he murmured, for it was the ealdorman who stepped forward now to bend the knee with the others and speak.

‘My lord king,’ Ælfhelm said, ‘I beseech your pardon for our late arrival on this auspicious day. We were delayed upon the road.’ He looked up then with not the least sign of regret evident upon his craggy face. ‘I return your sons to you,’ Ælfhelm said, but he was casting an appraising glance now on the young bride, and his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘They would greet their new … mother.’

Æthelred did not reply. His eyes were drawn again to Athelstan, for he still marvelled at his son’s resemblance to the dead Edward. Finally he considered the others. Ælfhelm’s cubs he knew – the two sons and the daughter. He let his gaze linger on the girl briefly before he fixed his attention on his own whelps.

They should all have been at the ceremonies today. This tardy arrival in the midst of the feast and the scowling faces of his three offspring were meant to underscore their opposition to the marriage. He had been right to think that granting his bride a crown would lead to friction. It had already begun, and Ealdorman Ælfhelm had no doubt fanned the flames of dissension. The old devil would like nothing better than to pit his sons against him, setting them upon him like a pack of hounds.

Well, let them howl their outrage to the moon for all the good it would do them. The deed was done. They would have to live with the consequences, just as he would.

He fixed his eyes upon the thunderous face of his eldest son and said, ‘You are welcome to our feast. It would have done my queen greater homage had you arrived in better time, but go, refresh yourselves. We will speak of this another time.’

He resumed his seat as the whispering began among the guests. There would be rumours in the city tomorrow about the king’s strange behaviour at his wedding feast. He raised his cup, and when he drank he felt the warmth course through him, soothing his tortured nerves. Let them whisper. His brother, the king, was safely dead and in his grave.

He watched his sons melt into the crowd, and he did not miss the look of smouldering resentment that the girl, Elgiva, cast upon the new queen. That amused him. Elgiva’s high rank and wealth assured her a place in the queen’s household. All by herself she would likely be a significant burden for his new bride to shoulder. Emma was welcome to it.

He glanced at his queen and saw that she was watching him, her eyes huge with amazement and speculation. He scowled. She wearied him, and he wanted rid of her.

He stood again and, drawing her up beside him, he announced, ‘The queen will now retire, and she bids you all good night.’

The assembly rose amid the usual bawdy shouts and applause, while Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. But she said nothing, merely offered him a gracious courtesy before turning abruptly to follow the servants who would lead her to his private chamber.

Satisfied at having the dais to himself, Æthelred sat down and applied himself once more to his food and drink. He would tend to his queen soon enough.

Emma surveyed the great royal bed, which was sumptuously draped with curtains and bedecked with furs and intricately embroidered pillows. It had been arranged here just this morning, she knew, for all of the accoutrements of the king’s bedchamber accompanied him wherever he went – hangings for the walls, pelts for the floor, the finest linens and furs for the bedding, even the candle sconces and braziers for light and warmth. She felt a shiver of foreboding, though, as she looked solemnly about her. There could never be enough candles, she thought, to light this chamber. All the furnishings were dark and oppressive, in spite of their richness.

Her own household goods were already on their way to Winchester, for she would have no need of them here. Tonight, and while the king stayed in Canterbury, she would share his chamber and his bed. It made her feel like she was just another piece of chattel, like a gilded coffer or a handsomely embroidered cushion.

She tried to put that thought aside as the dozen women who had escorted her from the hall began the business of preparing her to greet her husband. Emma had assisted with this same task herself when her sister Beatrice had wed, and she recalled how Beatrice had chattered and laughed all through the undressing. Emma felt too numb to speak, and she submitted dumbly to her attendants’ ministrations.

Most of the women were strangers to her, for it was an honour granted by the king to assist his bride at the bedding. She had been allowed to choose only two attendants from her Norman retinue, and so Wymarc was here with her, and her old nurse, Margot, looking like a little brown wren amid all the fine ladies.

When Emma had been stripped of her wedding finery and garbed in the delicate shift that Gunnora had embroidered with her own hands, Emma was escorted to the bed. She exchanged the appropriate courtesies with the women of Æthelred’s court, and then she dismissed them. It was not politic, she knew, but she could no longer bear their curious stares. When only Wymarc and Margot remained in the room, Emma collapsed backwards upon the bed cushions, exhausted.

A moment later Margot was at her side, offering her a cup of wine. ‘It is good Norman wine, that,’ she said, ‘from your own stock. Drink it all, my lady. It will do you good.’

‘God bless you, Margot,’ Emma said, sitting up and grasping the cup. She took a greedy gulp of the wine, then considered the flagon still in Margot’s hand. ‘Put that here, near the bed, and you’d best pour some for yourselves. I expect we might have a long wait. Something tells me that the king will not be in any hurry to lie with his new queen tonight.’

Wymarc’s unflagging smile dimmed a bit. ‘Why do you say that? He should be eager to attend you. You are the most beautiful woman in this hall.’

‘Beauty, I fear, is no great advantage,’ Emma said slowly, staring into her wine cup. ‘The king seems to regret his … purchase.’

She looked up at Wymarc, whose face clouded with misgiving.

‘That cannot be true,’ Wymarc said. ‘Why would he regret it?’

Emma sighed, exasperated. ‘I do not know why! I only know that he is in an ill temper, and it is directed at me. He all but threw me out of the hall.’

‘Dear God,’ Wymarc breathed. She exchanged a worried glance with Margot, then suggested hopefully, ‘Could it be that he is just a nervous bridegroom? He is so much older than you; perhaps he is afraid that he will disappoint you.’

It was kind of Wymarc to look for an excuse for the king’s odd behaviour, but she had not heard Æthelred’s curt words. Emma took another swallow of the wine, thinking with dread of the bedding to come. If he had been so cold at the table, what would he be like in the bedchamber?

Then she remembered the stricken look on the king’s face when he saw his sons. He had been more upset with them even than with her.

‘There was something else,’ she said, ‘something to do with his sons. They came late to the feast. When the king saw them he was so distracted that I thought he had been taken by some kind of seizure. He recovered himself in a moment, but it gave me a fright.’

She described the undercurrent of tension between the king and his offspring. Even now it flayed her nerves to recall it. The king’s sons had been hostile, but Æthelred had not looked angry as much as frightened. His eyes had grown wide and his face had gone pale with terror, as if he were facing Death itself.

‘Mayhap it was one of their companions that frightened the king,’ Margot suggested.

‘That may be so,’ Emma said slowly, remembering the older man who had addressed the king. His face had been seamed and rugged, with a flat nose and small, mean eyes – a hard, nightmarish face behind a thick, black beard. But could even a man such as that strike terror in the king?

‘Oh, God,’ she said, pulling her knees up and dropping her face against them, ‘there is so much that I do not know.’ She raised her head and thrust her empty cup at Wymarc for more wine. ‘The man’s name is Ælfhelm,’ she said. ‘In the morning I want Hugh to discover everything that he can about this Ælfhelm and report to me. You must find Hugh tonight and tell him.’

‘Of course,’ Wymarc said.

Emma sat back against the pillows, clutching the goblet with both hands, reviewing all the events of the day and trying to keep her thoughts away from what must occur next.

‘My lady queen,’ Margot said softly from her stool beside the bed, ‘do you know what to expect from the king tonight?’

Emma laughed. Suddenly it all seemed funny to her. She looked at the cup in her hand and decided that it must be the wine, for there was really nothing funny about it at all.

‘My mother spoke to me,’ she said, ‘and Judith told me of her wedding night. I think, though, that my own experience is likely to be somewhat less,’ she groped for a word, ‘friendly.’

Margot nodded. ‘Likely Judith knew her husband’s touch already before they were wed, as they were betrothed many months. It will be different for you,’ she said gently, ‘for you know nothing of your husband. May I give you a word of advice, my lady?’

Emma nodded, eager for any counsel – anything to erase the appalling image of one of her brother’s fine stallions mounting a mare that came all too easily to her mind.

‘You must not be afraid,’ Margot said, ‘no matter what he says or what he does. He may be gentle with you,’ she took a little breath and looked hard at Emma, ‘or he may not. I have no knowledge of the English, or of kings, or of this Æthelred as a man. But whatever he does, it will go better for you if you are easy and calm.’ She smiled. ‘The wine will help with that, to be sure. But in this room, my lady, and especially on this night, you must make yourself go soft in every part of you, the better to accept his hardness, if you take my meaning.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘I think I understand you.’ It seemed an impossible task, though, given how brittle she felt, as if she might break into a thousand pieces at the slightest touch.

‘You must use your mind,’ Margot went on. ‘You may not have to, of course. He may be the kind of man who gentles a woman the way a good rider gentles a horse. If he does that, if he uses his hands to soothe you, it will be easy for you to respond in kind. Just follow his lead. But you are a horsewoman, my lady. You have seen some men, surely, who use their horses with a fury that has no gentleness in it. The more the horse resists, the harder it goes for him.’

‘She is no horse!’ Wymarc objected, her face stricken at the old woman’s words.

‘No, she is not,’ Margot agreed, ‘for she has a sharp mind, and she can use it. If need be, my lady, let it take you to whatever time and place you choose that will ease you. I hope you will not have to, but you must remember that your mind can provide you with refuge, should you need it.’

The large, scored candle in the bedchamber had marked the passage of two weary hours before Emma heard the heavy door open. Margot and Wymarc scrambled to their feet as the king entered, escorted by six of his councillors. Emma watched Æthelred warily from her place on the bed, bearing Margot’s words in mind and trying not to stiffen. Still, she felt the pulse beat hard in her throat as the king made his royal entrance, crownless now, although still draped in the magnificent blue and gold cloak.

‘Leave us,’ he said peremptorily to the attendants, with a wave of dismissal. And in a moment the room was empty but for the two of them.

Æthelred stood a few feet from the bed, looking down at her. Emma searched for telltale signs that he was somewhat the worse for drink. She knew well enough that wedding feasts often ended in debauchery, and she had allowed herself to hope that the king might be too overcome with ale or wine or mead, or all three, to want anything to do with her. But he did not weave or sway as he surveyed her, and it occurred to her that he might very well be more sober than she was.

‘Get up,’ he ordered, ‘and take off your shift. I want to see what I’ve purchased.’

The command sent a wave of shock through her. Nothing that anyone had told her had prepared her for this. It confirmed her opinion that Æthelred regarded her as little more than chattel. She masked her resentment, though, and she tried to loosen her muscles, doing her best to follow Margot’s advice. Without a word she slipped off the bed, untied the ribbons at her throat, and let her shift pool on the floor at her feet.

She blessed Margot under her breath, because the wine she had consumed made the task seem ridiculous rather than onerous. She had to stifle the urge to giggle. She had stood naked like this often enough in front of serving women who washed her from head to foot, and she willed herself to think of this as no different. The chamber was cool, though, in spite of the charcoal brazier, and she felt her nipples harden. She lifted her chin a bit and, giddy with wine, was sorely tempted to ask the king to disrobe so she could inspect him as well, but she thought better of it. It would be a new sight for her, and she had no idea how she would respond to her first glimpse of a naked man. In any event, he would have to undress sooner or later. She had but to wait.

Æthelred gazed sullenly at his bride, desire warring with suspicion. It disturbed him that she had complied with his crude command so readily. He had spoken out of anger – at his councillors for inflicting this marriage upon him, at her brother for demanding a coronation, and at Ælfhelm, damn his soul, for turning his own sons against him. None of it was the girl’s fault, yet now that she had disrobed so brazenly in front of him, he was forced to wonder why.

Cursing, he made for the small table that held a flagon and poured a cup of wine.

‘Are you a maid?’ he asked. That would explain why Richard had foisted this younger sister upon him. She was used goods. For all he knew she might be carrying a Norman brat in her belly.

He stared at her over the rim of his cup and saw that her entire body had flushed in response to his question.

‘I am a maid,’ she said. ‘I am also your queen, and I will not be treated like some slut from the gutter.’

He downed the wine, tossed the cup to the floor, and began to remove his garments. ‘You are queen by my pleasure,’ he said. ‘You would do well to remember it. And in the morning, when the council inspects the bed linens, we will know for a surety whether or not you are a slut from the gutter, as you so colourfully put it. Now get into the bed and let us get on with the matter at hand.’

Later, when she lay asleep at his side, Æthelred stared wide-eyed into the flames of the candles that flanked the bed. He had done his duty as king and husband in as efficient a manner as possible. The girl, to her credit, had done the same. She was no whore, if he was any judge. She had lain beneath him as unresponsive and boneless as a sleeping cat. He had expected something better, after seeing her naked before him like some Viking goddess; but she had disappointed him.

It was just as well. He wanted as little to do with her as possible – only enough to satisfy the demands of church and kingship.

He closed his eyes, and in that darkness his thoughts strayed to his dead wife. He had been but seventeen when he wed her, and she was twenty. In all the long years of their marriage he had never seen her naked. When he lay with her she had responded like a nun, tensing with repugnance at the act that she was forced to endure. Although she had never refused him, she had borne his attentions every time in virtuous silence, had likely prayed her way through each ordeal. Whenever she quickened with child she informed him immediately, with undisguised satisfaction, for while she was breeding she did not have to accommodate the carnal activity that she found so odious. She was always happiest when she was pregnant. He was content then, too, for he found his pleasure elsewhere, with women who spread their legs for him with relish.

He sat up in the bed to study the girl curled beneath the furs, her hair spilling over the pillows like silver in the candlelight. She did not seem to be repulsed by the act. He had even caught her studying his face with detached bemusement as he entered her, and it had made him wonder what was going through her mind.

It might be possible to forge a bond with her, if he took the time to do it. She was young enough and inexperienced enough to be trained as a lover. It could be quite pleasant to share his bed with her.

But that would give her some measure of power over him, and as his queen she had too much power already. He did not want a queen – did not even want a wife, curse it – yet here she was.

He lay down again, on his side, his back to the other body in the bed.

He owed this girl nothing. He would use her for his pleasure because her nakedness aroused him. He would fill her belly with a child and would order his Mass priest to beseech heaven for a daughter. Beyond that he would give her no more than what the terms of the marriage contract required of him. Her title of queen would have to satisfy her, for that and a child were all that she would get from him.