Shadow on the Crown (17 page)

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 predawn 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 forever.”

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?

Winchester, Hampshire

Athelstan entered the palace grounds at the head of his small troop with the sense of satisfaction that comes at the completion of a job well done. The beacons between Winchester and the sea had been inspected and readied for the coming summer. Should the Danes attack the southern coast of Hampshire at any time in the next six months, word would reach the king at Winchester within an hour of the sighting.

In the chamber that he shared with Ecbert, Athelstan found his brother seated on his bed and his younger brother Edward kneeling on the floor at Ecbert’s feet. Edward was bent over a helmet, a scrap of wool in his hand and a bowl of melted beeswax on the floor next to him, polishing the helmet’s nose plate with an energy that was likely to wear him out within minutes.

“What have we here?” Athelstan asked, throwing off his wet cloak and tousling Edward’s hair. “Are you finally putting this troublesome brat to good use, Ecbert?”

“I am not a troublesome brat!” Edward protested, pausing in his task and turning an affronted face to Athelstan. “Since you have been gone I have been made cupbearer to the king. He says I am to have my own armor soon, and I must learn to care for it. Ecbert is letting me practice on his.”

Athelstan raised his eyebrows at this and exchanged a grin with Ecbert. The king’s hearth troops were expected to polish their own armor, a task that was tedious as well as tiring. It was something that Ecbert complained about regularly.

“Well, that’s very generous of Ecbert,” Athelstan said. “You can practice on my armor as well, if you like.” He pulled off his helmet and byrnie, laying them across the chest that sat at the foot of his bed.

Apparently Edward did not yet find the task onerous, for he nodded happily and resumed his rubbing.

“What other news is there?” Athelstan asked.

“The biggest news, next to the ascendancy of Edward Ætheling here to the post of cupbearer to the king, arrived by messenger late last night. Queen Emma, it seems, is with child.”

Athelstan paused, briefly, in the act of pulling off his muddy boots, but he did not look up.

“Is it so?” he grunted. The news should not surprise him. She was the king’s wife. She shared his bed. It was what she had come here to do.

He threw his boot, far too vigorously, onto the floor.

“The royal party is making its way here even now,” Ecbert went on, “for the king intends to dispense the Maundy Thursday alms to Winchester’s poor tomorrow. Edward,” he said, “go and fetch Athelstan something to eat and drink. It is some little while yet until the next meal, and he must be hungry.”

“But it is a fast day,” Edward protested. “The pantry will be locked.”

“You are the king’s cupbearer,” Ecbert said. “Use your new influence to get your brother a loaf of bread and some ale, at least.” He hoisted Edward to his feet and swatted him on the backside, and the boy scuttled out.

Ecbert waited until Edward was out of hearing range, then said, “You realize that this will change everything, do you not? If the queen has a son, she will want her child to inherit the throne, and she will play upon the king until he grants her that. We have no one to speak for us, no one to push our suit before the king.”

Athelstan scowled. Ecbert’s fears seemed a trifle premature.

“What makes you think that the king will listen to Emma?” he asked. “He has all but ignored her for months.”

“If he were ignoring her, Athelstan, she would not be with child. And now that she is breeding, her influence must increase. If Emma insinuates herself and her babe next to the king, what place will there be for us?”

Athelstan pictured Emma lying curled on a bed next to his father, her body white and naked, her belly rounded with his father’s child. Shaking his head to dispel the unwanted image, he slammed the second boot to the floor.