The Forever Queen (12 page)

With his eyes set on the sides of his head, the stallion could see behind him, and, maddened already by fear, he took the boy grabbing at his tail to be another predator. He swerved to the left, bucking and kicking to rid himself of the double torment.

Emma screamed as the animal plunged towards her. Uncertain which way to run, she faltered, but Pallig was there, pushing her aside. The hot, blood-red breath of the horse, its rolling white eyes, the stink of drenching sweat as it rushed past. With a second cry, Emma fell, her gown catching between her legs. She lay winded, face down in the grass, her wimple askew. Voices. People. She opened her eyes, tried to move, felt a heavy weight across her, something wet and sticky dribbling onto her hand and cheek. Looked. Saw a mass of blood and gouged, splintered bone.

She screamed, the sound going on and on, rising higher and higher in pitch.

The horse must have caught him, lashing out with its hind legs as it careered past. The men forgot the stallion, stood silent, with held breath. Leofstan was coming, walking with a grin, the chestnut, bought at a bargain, swinging easily, head down, at his side. He saw the gathered crowd, quickened his pace, realised suddenly, sickeningly, what was happening. He dropped the mare’s lead rope and ran, arms pumping, the grin gone. It would be a long time before Leofstan felt like grinning again.

Pallig lay across his Queen. Were it not for him forcefully shoving her to safety, it would have been Emma lying there dead with her skull split open.

12 November 1002—Oxford

I say we have paid enough in taxes already!”

“Aye, and what if Swein of Denmark comes again next year? Will we be asked to raise yet another geld to send him away? What do we, the market traders, get in return from the King, eh? Naught! That’s what we get, naught!”

The mood in the Moot Hall at Oxford was ugly. Sending Streona away with his tail tucked between his legs those months ago had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse. Streona was not liked, and Æthelred promoting the wretched man to shire reeve had not been a popular move.

“What have we to fear from Swein Forkbeard? He will not attack his own. We are of Danish blood; our fathers’ fathers were once men of Denmark and Norway.”

“Ja! Were it not for our forefathers bringing their skills and crafts, Oxford would have remained nothing more than a cluster of piddle-stinking bothies.”

“You speak for yourself, Olaf Olafsson! Your house has more of a stench than do all the privy huts on Market Street!”

There was laughter at the jest. Olaf scowled.

“What have we to fear from Swein of Denmark? Mayhap we would be better off if he were to be our King!”

That last voice stilled the hall into an uneasy silence. One thing to call a meeting to discuss a refusal to pay an increase in taxes, quite another to speak of treason. Yet it was not the content of the sentence that silenced the crowded place, but the implication. These traders, who lived through the buying and selling of necessities or trinkets, were all men whose forefathers had come in their longships from Scandinavia during the time of Alfred, originally to loot and plunder the wealth of the Saxon kingdoms, much as Swein Forkbeard was doing, but eventually to over-winter and then settle, take root. The thing had sailed full circle, and different men were now coming í-víking, under a new leader and with a new King ruling England. The reason was the same. For a man to do better for himself, in whatever way he could.

The fear for the English was that the northern and Mid Land boroughs were not thought of as Anglo-Saxon, but Anglo-Dane. Was the South, in particular Wessex, now also vulnerable? Would Angle-Land become Dane-Land?

“Why should we pay, and pay again, to protect these rich English of the South? If they were men, they would arm themselves and fight for their security.”

“It is cheaper for the King to pay for peace with our hard-earned coin than it is for him to arm and feed his army, that is why!”

Edwine Thursson, Oxford’s appointed trade reeve, his arms folded, his face grim, sat in the shadows at the rear of the hall, listening. As a freeborn resident of Oxford, he was entitled to attend any of these trade moots called to discuss important matters, although there were some among the folk here who resented his presence. He was a King’s man, and his brother, Pallig, God assoil his soul, had served the Queen. No one could deny that Edwine had, as vociferously as the rest of them, complained against this excessive tax demand, but if it was to rebellion that the wind was turning, would he decide to haul in his sail?

To add to the general grievance, there would soon be a new minting of coin, another legal way for Æthelred to become richer and the poor poorer. Whenever the royal mints gathered in the old money and stamped a replacement, the new coins were of a lesser silver content, a lesser value. They used the excuse that these frequent mintings were to prevent fraud by counterfeiters, but who was there to stop a King’s blatant fraud of clipping the coin?

As he listened to the debate, Edwine found himself growing more uneasy. It was his duty to serve this town where he and his brother had been born, where their sisters now raised families, and where their father and mother lay buried together in the churchyard. He enjoyed his work as reeve, took pleasure in seeing to it that every stallholder paid their allotted trading tithe and did not cheat the weights or sell bad meat or shoddy goods, that discipline and order of the law was kept on each and every market day. He sighed. For all that, he agreed with these men. If the harvest had been better, if last winter had not been so bleak…If trade had not been disrupted by Danish plundering, ah, so many ifs! Swein would not risk tramping so far inland to bother this shire, nor their immediate neighbours, but Oxford had been expected to pay the heregeld. Other areas, too, were grumbling: northern Mercia, Deira, Lindsey, Bernicia. The grumbles becoming louder, more insistent, and more prolific, like a single spear falling in the spear rack, one knocking against the next until one spear after another was tumbling and crashing in a great muddled clamour to the ground.

And the hardest part for a King’s man to swallow? Edwine had to agree with the undercurrent of feeling that was swirling with the disturbed dust and candle smoke in this echoing, draughty hall. Would Swein be a better King than Æthelred?

“So what do we do?” That was Thully the silversmith. He had suffered badly from the depletion of silver yields this year and would do so again when the shire reeve came to collect this extra tax.

“We refuse to pay. That’s what we do!”

“Aye!”

Edwine stood quietly and left. Perhaps it would be prudent for him not to hear any more of their anger.

Evening was settling like a woman’s embrace around the town as he walked along the High Street and up the incline to where his family would be waiting to welcome him home. His wife was a comely lass who had presented him with two fine sons and a beautiful daughter. As with his brother’s wife, she, too, was of Danish descent. Most of them around here were. He paused beside the wicker gate that led into his property; the chickens had already been cooped for the night, the shutters of the house-place closed. Strands of rushlight filtered through the cracks and openings round the two small windows. From inside, he could hear his wife laughing with the children.

If push came to shove, would the traders act on their resolve? Would they refuse to pay? Raise outright rebellion? That would be treason, could cause a whole barrelful of trouble. He walked through the gate, ensured the latch clicked firmly into place as he shut it behind him. If the shire reeve had been anyone except Eadric Streona, then possibly the rise of bad feeling would have blown itself out like a blustering storm wind. But with Streona? Now, there was a man who enjoyed poking a stick into a hornets’ nest for the sheer pleasure of seeing what would happen.

The Queen being so close to Oxford was not helping matters calm down either. What in God’s name had Æthelred been thinking when he allowed her to come here? Who had advised him that she would be safe? At least Athelstan, in charge of the royal household, had seen the sense of housing her at the royal residence of Islip, not accommodating her here within the town.

He went indoors, was immediately knocked sideways by three children and several dogs.

“Papa! Papa is home!”

“Aye, I’m home—let me near the hearth-fire, then; it is getting a chill of frost out there, you know. My hands are raw.”

His wife, Gilda, smiled up at him from her cooking. “Supper is almost ready. Pour yourself some ale and wash your hands.” She looked attractive in the flicker of the candles and firelight. Her hair tied back in a tight, thick braid, the swell of the five-month child growing in her belly.

“Did the men come to a conclusion?” Gunnhilda, his widowed sister-in-law, was nursing her son to the far side of the hearth. It had not been an easy birthing, and even though it was now four weeks since the child had been born, the colour had not returned to her cheeks, nor had the dark circles receded from beneath her eyes. Did they expect her to recover so soon? Without Pallig, what was there for Gunnhilda? Perhaps those wives who had no love for or from their husbands were, after all, the fortunate ones. They had no reason to grieve when death ended a union.

Seating himself at the trestle table, Edwine considered his answer, said finally, “I am thinking it is not the best idea for you to be in Oxford.”

“From what I hear, nowhere north of London is a good place to be at this moment,” Gunnhilda answered, shifting the baby to her other breast. Were it not for Edwine’s thoughtful sense and Gilda’s quiet patience, she doubted she would have survived these last weeks. She was still not certain that she would yet survive. Without Pallig there was a gaping, black, and empty chasm within her, one that would never, ever be refilled. Emma, God bless her, had tried her best to be of comfort, but her own grief had been too deep, the shock of what had happened too vivid. It had hurt Emma when Gunnhilda had decided to leave court to join Pallig’s brother here in Oxford, but it had been a sensible decision. At the time.

Edwine helped himself to an apple from the bowl in the centre of the table. His wife kept a tidy, well-fed household; these little apples picked during the last days of late September were Edwine’s favourite, the skin soft, the flesh sweet and juicy. “As the traders see it, they are being asked to keep Wessex and Kent safe from attack by your half-brother. They are not vulnerable, yet they have to pay. They are asking why.”

When neither Gunnhilda nor his wife, ladling vegetable and chicken stew into bowls, answered, Edwine continued. “The South is where men of wealth live and trade. That is where the crops are grown, where Æthelred has his main residences. Who ever heard of a King travelling further north than Oxford? Northumbria might as well not exist as far as royalty is concerned; no King would dare set foot in that godforsaken heathen wilderness. Christ on the cross, they do not even speak recognisable English up there!” He swilled the ale around in his tankard, watching the froth make intricate patterns on its amber colouring. His sarcasm easing, he added, “Æthelred dare not offend Wessex or Kent by asking for the extra he needs, he must therefore raise his taxes elsewhere, and he has been advised that a suitable elsewhere is the boroughs of the Danelaw.”

Gilda called the children to the table, handed round the full bowls of stew. The baby fed, winded, and settling to sleep, Gunnhilda placed him in his cradle, seated herself next to her daughter. Freya had said almost nothing since her father’s death. The child was of an age to understand he was gone away forever, but not why. Gunnhilda slid her arm around her waist, gave a loving squeeze. Was rewarded with a shy smile.

“And who advised the King?” Edwine asked rhetorically. “Eadric Streona, that is who. Is it not well known Streona has an abiding hatred for anyone who carries Danish blood in his veins?”

Again neither of the women answered him, Edwine’s children minding their own problems by squabbling over who had the largest chunk of bread to dip in the rich broth. Finally, Edwine set down his spoon and stated, “I think it best that both you women take the children and go to Islip, to Queen Emma. It would be safer if things turn uglier than they already are.”

“And would that not be sending the wrong message to the people of Oxford?” Gunnhilda countered practically. “You are already mistrusted. If we run away, what will be made of it? They may conclude you are siding with Æthelred.”

“Nonsense.”

Gilda stood, began stacking the empty, dirty bowls ready to scour with wood ash. “You are the one talking nonsense, husband. All this will blow away like hot steam escaping from a boiling pot. You will see.”

Reaching for another of the apples, Edwine hoped she was right.

13 November 1002—Oxford

Athelstan lay scratching at the flea bites on his legs and buttocks; his other arm was draped across the naked flesh of his bed mate, the tavern keeper’s daughter. He opened his eyes, looked directly at a louse struggling through the thick curls of her lank hair. Sunlight peered through the ill-fitting shutters, patterning the dust-matted floor, falling on his strewn clothing. He had not intended to stay the night in Oxford, but the girl had been available and the drink stronger than the desire to return to Islip.

He was the eldest son, the Ætheling, kingworthy, and he was expected to play wet nurse to a woman. She had her cnights; there were others as capable as Pallig to protect her—why had the stupid man got himself killed? Athelstan turned over, buried his throbbing head in the lumpy, mildewed pillow, squeezed his eyes shut against the threat of tears. It was unmanly to weep, but he had admired Pallig, one of the few men not to belittle him, one of the few who had treated him with honour and respect. Amazing, really, for Athelstan did not think himself worthy of the accolade. Edmund had been right when he had once said that Æthelred loathed his eldest son because Ælfthryth had taken his firstborn away. Athelstan barely knew his father; he had always been a stranger, a bad-tempered man who never talked, but shouted, at Grandmama. And she had always shrilled back, condemning, belittling, and mocking. Athelstan had come to manhood believing the words worthless, ungrateful, and pitiable were all synonymous with being King. He was learning, perhaps too late, that they could apply just as much to an eldest son.