The Forever Queen (18 page)

“I will be pleased when the new year turns and Epiphany has passed. We can then, perhaps, leave here and reside somewhere more congenial,” she remarked to Archbishop Wulfstan, steadfastly ignoring the heated argument Æthelred was conducting with two of his northern Lords, Ealdorman Alfhelm of Deira and Uhtred, the eldest son of the ageing Ealdorman of Bernicia.

“Is there anywhere congenial?” Wulfstan asked in his dour, serious tone. “It is written in scripture that with the millennium shall come the full sight of God, and I fear He does not like what He is seeing.”

Shifting to make herself more comfortable in the hard chair, Emma pushed a feather-filled cushion more firmly behind her back. More than seven months pregnant, she was feeling irritable and discontented. Was not in the mood for another of Wulfstan’s doom-laden sermons. Too late; he was already launched into his personal diatribe against the sinners of the world.

“When God saw that wickedness had entered the Garden of Eden, He evicted Adam and Eve. When he saw that sin was running rife and people had forgotten His name, He sent the flood. As with Sodom and Gomorrah, if we do not bare our souls to His mercy and repent, He shall destroy all, so He may wash the world clean and begin again.”

Emma listened politely to his preaching. The belief that the end of the world was approaching, one thousand years after Christ’s birth, had run far and fast in the aftermath of famine and plague. So many had died, whole villages in places, with more dying by the day, for although the pestilence had run its course, there had been no harvest, and there was very little to eat, especially for the poor. The one good thing: the Danes had not come this year. It would have been a waste of effort, for there was nothing to plunder.

On the far side of the room, Æthelred lost his temper and tipped over the trestle table. “I said no, Uhtred! No! Absolutely not! Do not pursue this, for you are trying my patience beyond endurance.” For good measure, Æthelred kicked at a dog then strode from the hall, slamming the door of his private chamber behind him and bellowing for Eadric, as host, to fetch wine. Uhtred stood, running his hand through his thick black hair, puffing his cheeks.

Alfhelm folded his arms, glowering in his own rage. “I warned you not to go whining, Uhtred, and now you have muddied the water for the both of us! Because of your persistence, neither of us will be receiving aid should we require it—and do not expect help from me. I have enough problems seeing to York’s safety.”

There was no love lost between Uhtred and Alfhelm.

“It seems Uhtred has yet again been refused men to swell the fyrd of Bernicia,” Wulfstan said to Emma. “If it be God’s will that Malcolm of the Scots should attack across the border, then there is nothing we can do about it.”

“Except fight,” Emma promptly retorted, her own patience wearing thin. “Which Uhtred is willing to do, while Alfhelm and my husband will not.”

Uhtred raised his head, saw Emma looking at him. He stepped over the debris and walked across the hall, made his obedience to her and Archbishop Wulfstan. “I cannot protect the North without men,” he said bluntly. “Malcolm is recent-made King of Scots; he has to prove his strength to the Lords of the Isles or wear his crown for but a short while. When he attacks Durham, I cannot be certain I can hold it.”

“The cathedral at Durham, where rests our blessed Saint Cuthbert, is stone built. If it be God’s will, then it shall be kept safe,” Wulfstan asserted.

“With respect,” Uhtred said, barely masking his anger, “the cathedral is stone; the town is not.”

“And is it not more prudent,” Emma added, “to see to England’s security in the certainty of armed fyrdsmen rather than the contrary whim of God?” It was bold of her to speak out before Wulfstan, but persistently, God had not shown much sympathy towards Emma, and she was growing weary of hearing about His benevolence. How could God expect dutiful submission when the innocent died by the hundred? When she had to endure Æthelred’s lust and the unwanted result?

To Uhtred she said, “I acknowledge your concern, for I know however thick the stone of solid-built walls, there are ways of tearing them down. Alas, though, I am only the Queen, and I am not permitted an opinion.”

“God will show us the way,” Wulfstan insisted. He did not know when annihilation was to be brought upon the sinners of this world, but the signs were there: fire in the sky; flood upon the land; hunger, disease, and death stalking every dwelling place. God’s wrath had been unleashed, and there was nothing they could do against it, except repent and pray.

February 1006—Winchester

Winchester was a pleasant town, or perhaps Emma thought so because it was hers? This was her dower land, all revenue came direct to her, be it tenancy rents, market traders’ tax, or import duty from the riverside wharf. Nor was it as foul-smelling as London.

Squatting in a fold of the Hampshire Downs, its chalky, navigable river, the Itchen, often as crowded as the streets, provided a convenient route into the market that attracted buyers and sellers from local villages and wider trade routes across the seas. A bustling town at the best of times, with pilgrims intent on visiting the holy shrine of Saint Swithin, a Bishop revered as a worker of miracles and a man of humility, the arched gateways echoed almost constantly during daylight hours to the rumble of cartwheels, horseshoes, footsteps, and the lowing of bewildered cattle. Herded into pens of wicker hurdles set ready in Gar Street, the animals, if sold for meat, then passed on to Fleshmonger Street, which some were already beginning to call by its new nickname of “Parchment Street” for the production of the vellum that was prized by the highest monastic scriptoriums. The butchers were tradesmen of efficient skill, who lived and worked on the same premises. Tanners’ Street, in close proximity to the butchers’ stalls, stank almost as much as the fullers’ yards. Raw hides being processed into leather were not a quick or pleasant-smelling business, but Winchester’s Shieldmakers’ Street was an altogether more exciting experience, where craftsmen fashioned their trade by stretching the tanned leather over wickerwork or wooden boards.

The streets had been designed into their grid pattern many years before by King Alfred when he had ordered the structural rebuilding and defence of his Wessex capital. Trade, business, commerce. Winchester could boast of its pottery, iron making, bell casting, and leather working. The royal mint employed ten moneyers, while the Benedictines took responsibility for the numerous churches, chapels, and the New Minster, built to the north of Alfred’s older building.

Emma avoided the wretchedness of the cattle market when possible, the hosier and shoemaker and potter more easily drawing her fascination. Craftsmen with names like Godric Clean-hand, Ælfric Sheep-shanks and Cudbert Penny-feather. Particularly, this morning Emma intended to purchase pepper, for she understood that a trader’s craft had moored yesterday, carrying the precious cargo obtained from Pavia in Italy, Europe’s greatest centre of commercial exchange. The temptation to go and buy had been too great for her to resist, despite the inconvenient bulk of her pregnancy.

This February day the frosted air carried sounds sharp and clear: the calls of the traders to come see their fine wares, the haggling of bargain-wise women, the laughter of the children. A donkey brayed his reluctance to carry such a heavy load; two dogs fought a brief but vicious contest over a scrap of meat.

It was good to be out here, to be among people who had no care beyond inspecting what lay on the next stall along. Æthelred had been in a black mood all morning, Alfhelm of Deria and Emma’s brother, Richard of Normandy, once again being the joint cause. The one because he was at court, the other because he was not. Mind, in this instance, Emma could not disagree with her husband’s grumbled opinion that Ealdorman Alfhelm and his family had outstayed their welcome and ought to return north to York.

Her peppers safely purchased, Emma picked over a bundle of woollen braiding, selecting a length an inch wide with the colours of red, green, and yellow intricately woven into an intriguingly delicate pattern. She studied it closely, sure there must be flaws in the weaving, a mismatch of colours, a knot in the thread, an inconsistency in the complex pattern. “The woman who wove this,” she said to the stallholder, “must have exceptionally dexterous fingers and a sharp mind. I can find no fault with it.”

“My daughter does the weaving, madam. You will not find anything better.”

Emma paid her pennies. There was no possible chance that Lady Godegifa would allow her husband to leave Winchester without first attempting all she could to secure Æthelred’s eldest son in marriage to their daughter, Ælfgifu. Emma had to admire Godegifa’s persistence, while scorning her credulity. Athelstan was not in the slightest interested in the pinch-faced girl, nor in formal marriage. He was a man determined to become King after his father, and to ensure it he would need to make a strong and strategic alliance when the time came. Who could foresee the important men of the future? To ally himself with Deira now could turn Bernicia or Lindsey against him. A man who wanted to be King did not take a legal-bound, Christian-blessed woman as wife until the crown was safe upon his head.

She strolled on to the next stall. The child in her enlarged belly was heavy, due any day, her lower back was aching, her ankles and hands swollen. She ought to rest, but she needed to feel the fresh, crisp air on her cheeks, enjoy the pale February sun. Needed to be away from the cloying atmosphere of the palace.

Pope John, fifteenth to bear the name, was attempting to repair the broken treaty between England and Normandy. In a letter to Æthelred he had declared his interest in reestablishing a workable agreement; the petty bickering, he had insisted, must cease. Rome was investing heavily in the profit of overseas trade and was none too pleased at the disruption of income, caused by the squabbling between King and Duke. Neither was Emma, but she had resigned herself to the inevitable.

The frost had been hard and widespread overnight; the sun, as midday approached, bright but not sufficient to melt obstinate patches of ice. Twice, Emma had almost slipped and Leofstan had insisted she take his arm for her safety. She had not objected, for he took his recent promotion to captain with serious conviction. Towards the western end of the High Street, where the hill climbed steeper and the wind swirled all day, the stalls were wider spaced, the hiring tax for each pitch cheaper by half a penny. There was nothing more Emma wanted, but she had been determined to walk the length of the street from East Gate to West and, as she passed, look in at her property, the cluster of humble dwellings ceded to her as a marriage portion by Æthelred. They needed pulling down and rebuilding, for several were nigh on uninhabitable, certainly not fit as a residence for herself. One day she would see to it. Huh, she was sounding like her husband! Empty promises!

A scuffle caught Emma’s attention, a woman shouted, and a child, no more than eight years old, darted from behind a stall, a hunk of bread clutched in her hand. She ran in front of Emma, startled momentarily by Leofstan as he lunged forward to intercept her, but she was quick, used to running off, fast, with whatever she could steal. Ducking beneath grabbing hands, she was away and gone down a side street, curses rippling in her wake.

“Damned brat, this be the secon’ time she’s ’ad ’alf a loaf of bread from me.” The woman shook her fist in the direction the child had disappeared, declared, “I ’ave ’er face now, though; I’ll get ’er if she comes pesterin’ again.”

“She looked hungry,” Emma said with compassion, having noticed the gaunt thinness of the girl. “Is there nowhere those such as she may find food and shelter here in Winchester?”

“The nuns of Nunnaminster serve broth to those willing to work in exchange. There’s never owt for nowt in this life, my Lady.”

Handing the woman a copper penny, Emma refrained from agreeing. “Take this for your trouble,” she said and then, as an afterthought, gave the woman another. “And this for when the child comes again. Give her bread and bring her to the palace kitchens. Tell them the Queen commands they are to find her work in exchange for her keep. There will be a silver coin awaiting your trouble.”

“You will have all the poor of Wessex turning up by the morrow,” Leofstan said with a chuckle as, again offering his arm, he escorted Emma up the steep incline towards the gaping arch of the western gateway. He approved. It was a compassionate Queen who helped the poor where and when she could. Æthelred’s mother had offered no patience with them, a royal woman who had gone unloved by England.

Owt for nowt, Emma thought. How true. She had the security of never going cold or hungry, had furs, fine woollen gowns, and soft leather boots. Owt for nowt. In return for her comforts, she had to give herself as wife to a man she loathed. Fair exchange? Emma was not certain, but then she would never willingly give up this life for one of poverty, grime, and discomfort.

At the gateway she turned north, drawn by the aroma of new-baked bread. Several Jews, trusted even less than the Danes, lived along here, making a handsome living from moneylending. The tavern at the end of a small side street was English, owned by a Saxon.

“It is amazing,” Emma laughed as she signalled for Leofstan to see whether the place was suitable for her to enter, “how tantalising smells can of a sudden make you ravenously hungry.”

The Gate was a modest establishment; the trestle tables, wooden stew bowls, and pewter tankards clean and in good repair, the tavern keeper enthusiastically welcoming. The bread, when it was served, was made from wheat grain, not cheap rye, and the meat fresh and well cooked with a subtle seasoning of herbs.

Emma enjoyed the meal. She had eaten only morsels these last few weeks, the size of the babe giving her indigestion if she overfilled her stomach. This stew, however, was appetising, the meat tender and, a rarity in England, a variety she had so enjoyed in Normandy—rabbit.

“My brother is a wine merchant,” the taverner explained as he personally served his royal guest. “He fetches us a few coney whenever he sails to Normandy or France. He got us through the worst of last year’s difficulties; famine was bad here in the South, but those across the sea thrived on our misfortune. There’s many a Frenchman grown fat on our silver after trebling the price of meat and flour.”