Читать книгу The Emma of Normandy 2-book Collection: Shadow on the Crown and The Price of Blood - Patricia Bracewell - Страница 33

Elgiva rode on a plodding horse through a steady, drenching rain along a muddy track leading, she supposed, to Wherwell Abbey. She was miserable. It had started to rain at noontide, and now, three hours later, the waxed wool of her fur-lined cloak was sodden. Water dripped from the ends of her soaked hair, from her nose, from her elbows and fingertips. Her wet skirts clung to her legs, and she was bitterly cold. She longed to be tucked up, warm and dry, in a thick feather bed next to a blazing fire, but she had little hope that she would find such respite at the end of today’s journey. She had been to Wherwell once before, and unless things had changed greatly, she would likely be offered nothing more comfortable than a straw pallet in the nuns’ guest dormitory.

At least they would not put her in a cell, she thought with a shudder. She had been afraid of small, dark spaces from the time she was a child – when her brother Wulf had lured her into her mother’s clothes coffer, fastened the lid, and then forgotten about her. It had been hours before she was missed and rescued, and for days after she had been wretched and ill. The very thought of spending even a single hour in a nun’s dark, tiny cell made her stomach heave.

She glanced at Wulf, riding at her side. Where, she wondered, would he sleep tonight? He would probably find himself a pretty girl with a welcoming bed somewhere in the village. The king, riding in front of her with the bishop of Winchester, would sleep in the chamber set aside for royal visitors. Sadly for her, she would not share it, for she was one of the pleasures that the king had forsworn during this last week of Lent.

Elgiva hated the Lenten season. The endless prayers of repentance bored her, and the Lenten rituals of bodily mortification drove her to near madness. She could understand why the priests would encourage it among the common folk. By the time Lent came around most of their winter food stores had been depleted. Urging them to fast for the sake of their souls was merely putting a good face on what they were forced to do in any case. But the king was wealthy enough to set a decent table even in the lean months, so why must his court live on a diet of boiled greens and fish?

Their rations on this journey from Bath to Wherwell seemed to Elgiva to be especially meagre. She was hungry all the time, and the fasting did no more for her humour than did the wretched rain. Thank God that Lent was nearly done.

The past five weeks, however, unpleasant as they had been, were not an utter waste of time. She had spent many hours at the king’s side, distracting him from the worrisome details of governance by telling him stories that she invented out of the thinnest air. She embellished tales that she had heard at her grandmother’s knee, and she made up stories about kings and battles set in strange lands peopled with terrible monsters.

Her favourite story was that of the king whose queen was barren. In it the childless queen begged her husband to allow her to enter a convent so that she could offer prayers for the safety of his kingdom, which was under attack by invaders from the far north. And so, reluctantly, the king agreed. He sent the queen to a convent and took another wife, who fought at his side to save his people.

She had spun this story one evening in Bath as the king sat in the hall with a score of his thegns. When the tale was finished she turned to Æthelred and arched her brows at him.

‘Could a king set aside a barren queen in such a way?’ she asked, feigning ignorance, for she knew the answer.

Æthelred’s face turned thoughtful.

‘A king may follow his own desires where women are concerned,’ he mused. ‘The emperor Charles Magnus took five queens to wife, replacing them one after another when he wearied of them. He did not even need the excuse of barrenness to repudiate them, although several of them, I understand, were childless.’ He cocked his head at her. ‘Are you wheedling me for a crown, lady? Has your father set you on my lap to suborn me to his will?’

His face had darkened, and she hastened to reassure him.

‘I wheedle you for nothing but your affection, my lord,’ she said archly. Then, glancing up at him, she sighed and said, ‘But I would not have to share your affection with anyone, if your queen should choose to enter a convent and relinquish her crown.’

The king’s expression became thoughtful again, and she smiled to herself. She had sown the seed. With patience, luck, and some encouragement, she would make sure that it flourished.

Clothed in dry garments but still chilled from the day’s ride, Æthelred warmed his hands at the brazier in the abbey’s finest guest chamber. He was in no great hurry to see his queen. Let her wait upon his pleasure. He had bowed to her demand that he break his journey here in order to meet with her – a summons gilded by Ælfric in eloquent words, but a summons nevertheless.

He shouted for hot wine. It would do no harm to fortify himself before he faced Emma. The last time he had seen his queen she had dared to upbraid him for his actions against the Danes, imagining that she could school him in the duties of a king. He had thought that he had disabused her of the notion that she could advise him about anything, but apparently he was mistaken. She clearly had some matter of great moment that she wished to discuss with him. Certainly she had not summoned him for the pleasure of his company – he had no illusions about that.

Quaffing the wine, he considered the girl who was his wife. Was it possible that she had come to the same realization that he had reached – that she would be far better off living in a convent than at his side? The nuns might have had some influence upon her during her stay here. Certainly they would welcome her with open arms – and greedy hands – should she retire here. She might even become abbess one day, who could tell?

He tried to imagine Emma as an abbess, and he thought that she might do very well at it. Indeed, he might be willing to settle enough gold on her that she could found her own abbey and adorn it however she pleased. And if Emma were to agree to retire to a convent, he could take a more fitting consort. The bishops could have no argument against it, for surely Emma was barren. He had done his duty by her and she had not conceived. He could put her aside with the church’s blessing.

As he gazed at the coals in the brazier, they seemed to glow with a darkly malevolent light, and his thoughts, too, darkened. He must consider more than just Emma. Her brother Richard would have some say in his sister’s fate. Richard might object to her retirement, might even want her returned to him to see if he could peddle her elsewhere. He would want her dowry back as well – an unpleasant consequence. And there was the additional problem of the Danes and their easy access to Normandy’s harbours. Richard would have to be convinced, somehow, to keep those ports closed to the Vikings.

Æthelred frowned. There had been no coastal raids since Emma’s arrival, so Richard appeared to be keeping his end of the bargain. Still, if Emma did not produce a child, Richard’s goodwill would likely vanish.

He shook his head. This was a pointless exercise. First he must hear what Emma had to say. Then he could decide what to do about her.

The queen’s chamber at the abbey had been designed by Æthelred’s mother to meet her requirements, and her son was no stranger to its comforts. The embroidered hangings that lined the walls, the thick draperies around the massive bed, even the brass-bound garment chest at the bed’s foot were all familiar. As soon as he entered, though, Æthelred felt an old anxiety begin to gnaw at him, for this was a world of female power – as foreign to him as if it were another country. His glance swept over the servant who sat in a corner with distaff and spindle, past the abbess seated to one side of the low brazier, and at last settled upon Emma.

She was sitting in a cushioned chair, garbed in a saffron gown, its bodice embroidered voluptuously in all the colours of the rainbow. Upon her head she wore a creamy veil fastened with a circlet that flashed golden in the candlelight. The veil framed a face even more lovely than he remembered.

She did not look like any nun that he had ever seen.

To his surprise she held in her lap a golden-haired girl dressed in the plain brown robe of the novice. The child gazed up at him with solemn blue eyes, and it dawned on him that this must be his own daughter, Mathilda. She was the right age, and she had the flaxen hair that marked all his brood but Edmund.

Upon seeing him the women rose, and he acknowledged the abbess first, accepting the ritual cup that she offered him. He was relieved when, after murmuring a brief welcome and muttering something about his daughter and his queen, she excused herself and slipped away. One less female to deal with, he told himself, as he eyed his wife and the child who clung to her.

‘Sit,’ he said to Emma, going over to the chair that the abbess had vacated.

He glanced irritably at the child, who had curled up in Emma’s lap like a contented kitten. He had forgotten about this girl, although he had brought her here himself after her mother died. He had had little to do with any of his children until they reached the age of ten, and nothing whatever to do with his daughters. This one was his, certainly, with her limpid blue eyes and bright hair, but he had no idea what he was meant to say to her or do about her. Faced with the two of them now, the child gazing at him with wide eyes, he felt as if he were up against some female mystery that he did not comprehend. His irritation grew.

‘Send the girl away,’ he growled.

The servant scurried from her corner, plucked the now whimpering child from Emma’s lap, and left the room.

‘Pardon me,’ his wife said coldly. ‘I had forgotten that your children hold no interest for you. My own father took a great deal of pleasure in his children. Even his young daughters.’

‘Did you summon me here to counsel me in my duties as a father? It is somewhat late for that. I’m not likely to change my ways, particularly when it comes to a child, such as that one, who belongs to God now rather than to me.’

‘I have not summoned you to counsel you, my lord,’ she said. ‘Indeed, you have made it clear that you have no wish to listen to my views upon anything.’

He had not expected penitence from Emma, and so was not surprised that he got none. Her eyes blazed at him, and she held her chin high and proud. She mystified him. She was but a powerless instrument, first in her brother’s hands and now in his, yet she did not seem to understand how weak she truly was.

Unable to resist goading her, he said, ‘Advise me about your brother’s dealings with Swein Forkbeard, and I promise you, lady, I will hang on your every word.’

He was perfectly aware that her brother had confided nothing to her. What missives she had received from Normandy had passed through his own hands first.

Her face bloomed red, and he knew that his barb had struck home. Her chin, though, remained high, and her face determined.

‘I must disappoint you,’ she said, ‘for I cannot speak to my brother’s intentions. Yet I hope that the news I have to impart will be of some interest.’

‘Then I am eager to hear it,’ he said, pouring a cup of wine from the flagon on the table next to her chair and holding it out to her. She shook her head, and he looked down at her in some surprise. ‘Ah, you are abstaining from wine. Is that because of your Lenten fast or something more significant? I have been speculating that you may have taken a liking to convent life, and that you summoned me here to announce that you have chosen to immerse yourself in a world of prayer and contemplation. Dare I hope that this is so?’

Clearly it was not. Her face went white now, and she rose slowly to her feet to stand before him, her hands fisted at her sides.

‘I must disappoint you again, my lord,’ she said, ‘for I have asked you here to tell you that I am with child.’

It was as if a veil had suddenly fallen from his eyes. He could see it now: the gravid thickening of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. This was the source, then, of the confidence that radiated from her like light, for she understood only too well what new power it could give her.

He scowled his surprise and disappointment, and he saw her mouth twist into a bitter smile.

‘This is customarily a happy occasion,’ she said, ‘but I see that you are not pleased. Did you think to set me aside so that you could wed your leman?’

He raised an eyebrow at that. He had been out of her company for some time and had forgotten just how clever the minx was – likely as clever as her damned brother. He would do well to bear it in mind.

Then a second revelation struck him, and he knew how much he had been deceiving himself. He could never be rid of Emma. Even if the child she carried died stillborn, even if the church should agree to his setting her aside, Richard would never stand for it. He would use such an act as an excuse to ally with the Danish king. They would carve England to pieces between them, something that his own weaker levies and fewer numbers would not be able to prevent. The great kingdom that he had inherited would disappear, devoured by a Norman-Danish tide, and his dead brother would have his revenge.

His own sense of helplessness infuriated him, and he eased it in the only way open to him.

‘This seems a miraculous conception,’ he snarled. ‘Is it mine?’

When she flew at him he was forced to drop the wine cup in order to grab her wrists and prevent her from scratching his face. The glass vessel hit the stone floor and shattered.

‘Of course it is yours,’ she hissed at him. ‘You planted this child inside me the night you used me like a heathen thrall. That deed has stolen from me any joy I might have had in this babe, and for that I will forever despise you!’

She pulled away, glaring at him with such a terrible fury that he almost pitied her. But unlike the wine cup, Emma did not shatter. There was a strength in her that even he had to admire, but Christ, she wearied him. They were wed – bound by a contract that neither one of them could break in this life. It made him feel older than his years to have to bear the burden of responsibility for the well-being of this girl queen, in addition to all his other burdens.

‘You came to England as a peaceweaver, lady,’ he said wearily, ‘to bind the interests of our two lands. And when you took your wifely vows you agreed to be ruled by me in all things, for I am not only your lord, I am also your king. If you would but remember that, you would find the burden of this marriage easier to bear.’

She made a noise like a strangled laugh.

‘Think you so?’ she asked. ‘I expect that it would make your marriage burden lighter, my lord, but it would hardly ease mine. Only death will do that.’ She placed a hand across her middle and lifted her chin. ‘But I am of good cheer. Childbirth often releases a woman from the travails of this life, does it not?’

Indeed it did. It was how his first marriage had ended, and a similar resolution to this one would not be unwelcome.

‘If that is what you long for, lady, perhaps God will gather you to His bosom,’ he sneered. ‘In the meantime, we will leave for Winchester at daybreak. See that you and your attendants are ready.’

When Æthelred was gone, Emma sank to the floor, resting her head on the seat of the chair beside her and allowing the tears of rage and disappointment to come, now that she was alone. She recalled her mother’s warning – that she would face many trials in her role as queen. She had accepted that truth, yet she had not truly comprehended what would be demanded of her. She had not known then that she could ever feel this wretched. Yet she must endure it, for the sake of this child she bore if not for herself.

She lifted her head, wiping her face with the heels of her hands and gulping in air to force back her tears.

She would not just endure it, though. She would not pray for humble acceptance of her lot, nor curl herself into a ball and die, as the king must surely wish. Tomorrow she would return to Winchester, and there she would take her rightful place beside Æthelred. She would no longer relinquish that role to another.

It would not be easy. Æthelred’s final words implied that he was determined to maintain firm control over her. She must proceed slowly, one tiny step at a time.

She would begin with her own household – and with the Lady Elgiva. She could understand why Æthelred, or any man for that matter, would be drawn to the woman. She had the kind of allure that tugged at a man’s loins if not at his heart. She had a pouting, rosebud mouth, milky skin, and breasts that strained at the bodice of her gown – bodices purposely cut small to make her breasts more pronounced. It was a seamstress’s trick, and that was what Elgiva was all about – trickery and illusion and deceit. There was nothing honest about her, and Emma wondered if that, too, added to her charm.

What, she wondered, did Elgiva get from the king, other than his attention? He was free with his gifts, surely, but was that all that Elgiva wanted? Emma did not envy her any golden treasures, for she herself had no desire for presents from the king. What she wanted from him was recognition of her true status as queen, something much more valuable to her than gold or silver.

She had no particular wish to keep Elgiva from the king’s bed either, now that she was with child. She was determined, however, to keep the woman from the king’s side, for that was the place that she intended always to fill, in public if not in private. She would have to make certain that Elgiva knew her place – and kept to it.

Elgiva slept fitfully on her cold, uncomfortable convent pallet, waking in a foul mood to the steady patter of rain on the thatch above her head. Her rest had been interrupted ever and again by the snufflings and snortings of the other women housed around her, and by the bells that called the sisters to prayer in the dark watches of the night. Groggy and heavy-headed, she shivered as Groa dressed her hair by the light of a sputtering candle in the pre-dawn dark.

‘By the rood,’ Elgiva moaned, ‘we shall have another day of riding in the wet and the mud and the cold. Why did the king not stay in Bath for Easter?’

‘You could linger here at the abbey, my lady,’ Groa suggested smoothly, ‘until the weather turns. The rain cannot last for ever.’

Elgiva shivered again and turned to scowl at the old woman.

‘Because the queen goes to Winchester today,’ Elgiva snapped, ‘I cannot very well beg leave to remain here, even if I could abide convent life for another day – which I cannot, as you well know.’

She despised the strict regimen that governed life within a convent, hated being told what to do and when to do it – all of which Groa knew perfectly well. Besides, she did not dare stray far from the king’s side. There were any number of pretty women at court to catch his eye and take her place if she were not there to keep them at bay.

Within the hour, after a silent convent breakfast of bread and small ale, the royal company made final preparations for the day’s journey to Winchester. Elgiva had wrapped herself as well as she could in the cloak that was still damp from yesterday’s ride. As she stood amidst the other women in the abbey’s narrow entryway, one of the sisters drew her aside.

‘The queen,’ she said, ‘bids you to attend her in the royal wain.’

She was given no time to reply, and a few moments later she was seated alone in Emma’s cumbersome wagon, awaiting the arrival of the queen and the other women who would attend her. She saw with relief that despite the wet weather the curtains had been tied back to allow light and air – as well as spatterings of rain – into the compartment. She would not mind the damp so long as she did not feel boxed in.

She wondered if she had the king to thank for this mark of esteem. Grateful as she was for the luxury of cushions and shelter, she would have preferred riding at the king’s side in the rain to spending long hours conversing with her lover’s wife. Thankfully there would be others present, and she would be spared any private conversation with Emma that might prove awkward. Besides, unless Æthelred had succumbed to Lenten remorse and confessed all to his wife, Emma could not be certain either of Elgiva’s relationship with him or her motives in pursuing it.

Nevertheless, she felt nervous when a figure cloaked in Emma’s familiar, fur-lined blue mantle, its hood shrouding her face, took the seat opposite her. She felt even more apprehensive when the wain creaked into movement with a shudder, and she found herself all alone with Æthelred’s queen. She let out a long, slow breath. This was not the king’s doing, then. Emma clearly had some purpose in hand, and now she could only sit, stiff and trembling with cold, as she waited to discover what it was.

Emma, however, said nothing, not even a greeting. The silence between them lengthened unpleasantly, and Elgiva’s mind filled with misgiving. What would she do if she were in Emma’s place at this moment? How would she rid herself of a rival, if she had all the resources and powers of a queen?

There were many ways to make a person disappear. It would have to be done carefully, though, and secretly. No queen would dirty her own hands with the death of an enemy, although …

She remembered the stories about the dowager queen and the men whom she had paid to dispose of her stepson, Æthelred’s own half brother, King Edward. Elgiva trained her eyes on the figure sitting opposite her in the shadows. Was that, indeed, the queen sitting so quiet and still, with her face and body all hooded? Or was it someone else? A henchman, perhaps, draped within the concealing cloak, with strong hands to stifle her screams and strong arms to pin her against the cushions – and do what?