The Forever Queen (37 page)

He could not understand why Papa sobbed so often here, within the safe security of Rouen. So he was no longer a King of England; what did that matter? He had never seemed to enjoy being King, had complained at the expectation put upon him, that sitting in a court of ruling was a waste of effort, that no one appreciated what he did or listened to what he had to say. Edward thought his father would have enjoyed being here in Normandy; the hunting was excellent, the living accommodation superior, the climate drier. To his mind he would prefer to stay in Normandy forever.

No one quite knew what to do when Æthelred cried—Mother always left the room, her mouth set in a firm, thin line, and if Edward found himself to be in her path, she would shout at him. He soon learnt to be out of her way whenever his father was sobbing.

His mother. Another advantage to being here in Normandy; he saw very little of her. She was too busy writing letters, or interviewing messengers, or arguing with Papa. She rarely noticed her eldest son, which was highly acceptable to Edward.

A servant hurried in through the open church door and spoke in a muted whisper to one of the monks. Edward shrank into the corner shadows where he had been squatting, as several faces peered in his direction. Through most of the day the monks were silent, the spoken word, beyond the requirement to praise God, forbidden, but Edward had learnt much of the sign language used instead. The monk at the door stroked his tonsured scalp in a circular fashion and then rested his hand there, the sign for Queen, then he pointed at Edward and beckoned.

Reluctant, the boy shuffled to the door, his head bent, feet dragging.

“It is good you worship with us so often, my son,” Brother Jerome said with an approving smile, “but your mother has a more immediate need of you at this moment than does God. You are, after all, an anointed King’s son.”

“God is my King!” Edward answered with specific conviction.

“Then that is also good, but God may one day want you to be a King here on earth. You cannot turn aside from what He has ordained for you.”

Edward wanted to argue, to say he would not be a King of England now that they were exiled, but Jerome forestalled any answer by setting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The Englishman, Godwine Wulfnothsson, has brought word that King Swein of Denmark is dead. It is probable that you will be going home.” He said it with a broad smile, assuming the boy would be pleased.

Tears prickled Edward’s eyes and he bit his lip. He would not cry, because he knew what they all said about his father and did not want the same taunts said about him. They used words such as shameful and degrading, dishonourable, pathetic, and pitiful. Edward had discovered early in his life what a sneer sounded like when it was used in speech. He only cried now when he was alone, because he did not want any of these mighty Normans to say of him too, “C’est un vaurien,” as worthless as chicken shit. Nor did he want to go back to England. He wanted to stay here, in the abbey cathedral of Saint Ouen, and dedicate his life to God.

“Does Mother know I am here?” he asked tremulously. If she did, would he be in trouble for it? Probably.

“It seems so,” Jerome answered, trying to be kind, again assuming the boy was anxious not to have worried anyone. “She knew where to send to fetch you.”

Sod, Edward thought and hastily crossed himself for swearing in God’s house.

Put these robes on,” Emma said, bustling Edward into a splendid tunic of richly dyed wool. “You are at least to look the part of a Prince of England, even if you cannot act it.”

“Why?” Edward asked argumentatively, refusing to cooperate as she manipulated his arms into the sleeves. “Papa fled England; we are no longer wanted there.”

“We might be now,” Emma responded tersely. Really, this child was so annoying. “If your father does not ruin our chances, Ealdorman Athelmar may be able to ensure we are home by Easter.”

Home, Emma thought, catching herself as she said it. Did she really think of England as home now? She looked about her: oiled parchment covering the slit windows, solid, stone walls covered with coloured plaster and hung with animal skins alongside three of the best tapestries she had brought with her from England. Comfortable, practical, but not home. Here, the Duke treated her as a younger sister, the populace in the street bowed their heads because she was his kinswoman, not because she was a Queen of England. Here, she had no authority, no place, and no pride. Oui, she wanted to go home. She wanted to return to being a Queen, to having the status and the power. To being her own person with her own will and her own say, even if that did mean having to continue suffering the nuisance of having Æthelred as husband. England, with its green fields and soft rain, was now home. Not Normandy and its arrogant, insufferable Duke.

“Athelmar?” Edward queried, breaking her reverie. “I thought he had retired to a monastery?” Edward had admired the old man for giving up everything of material worth for the simplicity of a monastic life. That option, he had decided, was what he would do when he became a man and they made him into a King. He would pass his crown to Alfred and retire into a monastery. How easy solutions were for a child!

Emma had no need to explain, but perhaps it would be useful, and her earlier agitation was subsiding now that hope was blossoming into what could very well become reality. An end to this purgatory? Oh, blessed God, please let it be so!

Fastening a sable-lined mantle around Edward’s shoulders, she licked her fingers and straightened a flop of his hair. “He has left the abbey because the English Witan needs him. Our kingdom is in disarray, and, being old and wise, he is the most suited to sort the chaos. He is a brave man, Athelmar, for alone among all of them, and by peaceful means, he tried to resist Swein of Denmark.”

“Is he here?”

For once, a silly question did not irritate her. Fastidiously, Emma brushed fluff off Edward’s shoulder, smiled. “Athelmar is too old to come to Normandy; he has sent three men instead.” Bless Godwine for riding ahead to warn her of their coming!

Edward, hiding his disappointment, said, “You’re pretty when you smile.”

Emma was so often aware that she was unkind to the boy. The circumstances of his conception and birth were not his fault, but then, for her, neither was this antipathy of feelings. Perhaps this could be a chance to start afresh? Return to England and be washed free of a soiled past? She would spend more time with her son, ensure he learnt his languages and read his books. Instil within him the importance of becoming King.

As he trotted at Emma’s side, her long stride taking her quickly across the small courtyard towards the hall, Edward dared ask, “Why am I wanted?”

“Because you are King Æthelred’s eldest son, why else? Let me take a last look at you.” Emma squatted on her heels, minutely inspected him. “Oui, you will do.”

“No, I am not,” Edward protested, scuffing his toes on each step as they climbed the stairway that led to an upper private chamber. “Athelstan and Edmund are older than me.”

Halting before the door, Emma smoothed her gown, patted her wimple to ensure wisps of hair were not straying. She was flustered, her heart thump-bumping in her chest. If Æthelred did not convince Athelmar’s representatives that he was the better man to be England’s King…if Richard, damn his eyes, did not agree to back their claim…

“Edmund is bastard-born, you are not. And Athelstan is dead.” Distracted, she was blunter than she had intended to be.

She entered the chamber, a room filled with men, Edward beside her, with all these eyes swivelling towards him, too scared to move. Emma dipped a curtsy at her husband, seated on the far side, and trundled her son forward as if he were an old cider barrel.

Æthelred had his head bent over a letter crumpled into his hand and was weeping loudly. Edward glanced up at his mother to see if she was angry, was surprised to see a rare soft expression of concern. Was more astonished when she went to Æthelred and slid her arm around his waist, placed her lips to his temple. No one was sniggering, no one was slyly nudging his neighbour, or rolling his eyes and making derisory gestures.

“My son, my poor son,” Æthelred sniffed, fumbling with his free hand for Emma’s. “How wrongly I treated him.”

Left to stand alone, Edward was tempted to run to his father and declare that Papa need not worry; he was quite all right, he had not minded, not really.

As well he hesitated, for someone else said, “He served England well, my Lord, right until his death. Athelstan was a man whose passing will be widely mourned.”

Edward felt his face burn. It was Athelstan his father was talking of, then, not himself.

“Be comforted that he did not suffer,” Emma offered, kneeling beside Æthelred, “that he did not linger in pain.”

“But to die alone? Abandoned by all who loved him!” Æthelred declared. “It is too bad, too bad.”

Emma swallowed a retort, retaining her carefully schooled pretence of compassion. If Æthelred had stood his ground, Athelstan would not have gone off alone to attempt to fight Swein Forkbeard; aside, Edmund had been with him, and Godwine. As for Athelstan himself, her feelings were mixed. He had always declared he would never allow Edward to come before him when it came to the wearing of the crown, but that declaration had been for the good of England, not for his own advancement. Being honest with herself, Emma would miss Athelstan far more than ever she would Æthelred, or Edward, but then she could afford to be benevolent now that he was dead and no longer a threat to her or her sons.

“It is my wish that my son’s bequests shall be honoured and my forgiveness of him be widespread notified,” Æthelred declared, shuddering with another sob. “Tell me, Godwine, where is he buried?”

“He is at peace in a Derby-Shire nunnery,” Godwine said. “Edmund thought it wise to offer him a temporary resting place where none could contend its suitability.”

A feminine grave among the nuns, an honourable burial for a royal Prince, and one that gave no pretence for a right to the crown.

Æthelred frowned. “I would have him transferred to the minster at Winchester. It is more fitting.”

“Royal burial?” Duke Richard commented. “With Cnut Sweinsson declared as King? There will be no chance of that!” Tactless, or a deliberate provocation?

Hastily interrupting any response her husband might make and glowering at her brother to be silent, Emma beckoned Edward forward.

“My Lord husband, your living son, who has remained dutiful to you throughout, has come.” Surreptitiously she encouraged Edward to stand up straight.

As she had intended, Æthelred dramatically embraced him. “Edward, my boy! Come, come here, sit beside me, lad!”

Enjoying the unexpected delight of importance, Edward obeyed, having to wriggle slightly to seat himself on a stool, which he realised, from his mother’s frown, was rightfully hers. He squirmed, wondering whether he ought to move. Standing behind him, Emma hissed, “Sit still, smile, and, if spoken to, reply politely in English. Do not speak French.”

Æthelred patted Edward’s knee. The tears were gone, a smile beamed across his face. “Is he not a fine boy? Will he not make a fine King after me?”

From where he sat on his own splendid armed chair, Duke Richard listened to his interpreter. “To become a King, he must have the prospect of a kingdom,” he stated in French. “If what we hear is true, the Danish army has declared for Cnut.”

Ah, so the barbs were deliberate. Had Emma expected anything else? Richard had been lobbing arrows at them since the first day of their arrival, tired, weary, and sea-soaked. The crossing had been more dreadful than she had feared; Thorkell’s insistence that his ship was the best ever built and as seaworthy as a dolphin had not impressed, nor held the seasickness at bay. That was the only drawback with her resolve to return to England. When I get there, she thought, nothing, nothing whatsoever shall induce me to leave again.

“Then we must ensure the Witan of England overrules the wanting of a rabble of heathen Danish mercenaries,” Emma answered Richard, aware Æthelred was too engrossed in stroking his son’s hair and patting his cheek to be listening. Useless man! Did he not want his kingdom restored? But did England want him restored? Swein Forkbeard had been accepted as the better option. Could the same thinking count for his son, Cnut? And then there was Edmund; he was in England, he could be chosen in place of his dead brother. For all she liked him as a man, Emma was not having that!

“In case of treachery it will not be sensible for Æthelred to go to England,” she announced, placing her hands on Edward’s shoulders. “But I can see no practical reason why I cannot escort his eldest, legitimate son there to plead his case.”

And once in England, they would find it damned hard to depose her a second time. To take the crown, either Cnut or Edmund would have to kill her first.

March 1014—Winchester

Solid, unmoving land. Thank God! Emma’s knees almost buckled beneath her, might well have done had Godwine not been there to hold her arm and support her.

“It gets you like that,” he grinned. “After being aboard ship awhile, the ground feels as if it is moving.”

“I do not care about the ground,” Emma answered, attempting a pale smile. “It is my stomach heaving upwards that is finishing me.”

Thorkell’s dragon craft had brought her passengers right into Winchester, judiciously flying Emma’s personal lioness emblem, with Emma steeling herself to ignore her seasickness, standing at the bow with Edward. Her thanks to God, when setting foot ashore, heart-meant.

The city dignitaries and gathered nobles were there to meet her on this first day of March, jubilant at her return, conveniently forgetting that not many months ago they had been doing exactly the same for Swein Forkbeard. It was so tempting to remind them, but she held her silence. If this journey was to restore her crown, she had to appear gracious and forgiving.

Suspicious looks were glanced at Thorkell’s men, but Emma silenced the muted whispering by saying, “My escort and their commander will require accommodation.”