Shadow on the Crown (7 page)

“Tell me,” she said.

“There are . . . evil rumors, my lady,” he said slowly, “. . . about the king, and how he obtained his throne.”

Emma frowned. “But surely Æthelred inherited the throne from his father,” she said. “Ealdorman Ælfric said that King Edgar died young, and that his son was crowned after that.”

“That is true,” the priest said, frowning, “but the boy who was crowned after King Edgar was not Æthelred. It was his elder half brother, Edward. In the cathedral scriptorium there are chronicles that report,” he paused, “unsettling events that occurred in those days.”

So Ælfric, whom she had liked so well, had told her only part of the truth. Could she not trust anyone in England then?

“Go on,” she said.

“King Edgar had three sons by two different wives. The middle son died very young, while his father still sat the throne. Some years later, when King Edgar died of a sudden illness, no heir had been named, and the two sons who survived him were born of different mothers. Edward, the eldest, was crowned, but many of the great men in the land questioned his right to the throne, for his mother was not a consecrated queen, and Æthelred’s mother was.” He paused and heaved a weary sigh before continuing. “After he had ruled but three years, King Edward was murdered—brutally, the chronicles say. He was young when he died—only sixteen. It was then that his half brother, Æthelred, was named to the throne by the
witan
, the group of nobles who advise the king.”

“And what happened to the murderers?” she asked. As a brother and a king it would have been Æthelred’s particular duty to punish such a terrible crime.

“The murderers were never discovered,” Father Martin said. “No one was punished and no restitution paid.” He hesitated, his expression grim. “I persuaded one of the brothers here, an old man now, to tell me what he recalled from that time.”

Again he hesitated, clearly unwilling to burden her with his knowledge. Emma waited, her heart filled with misgiving, and at last Father Martin continued his tale.

“It was believed by many that Æthelred’s mother, the dowager queen, plotted the murder of her stepson. That was a terrible time, with bloody portents in the night sky that even the priests could not ignore. I am told that last autumn, just before the dowager queen died, the night skies ran with blood again, although the old man I spoke with did not see it.”

Emma sat very still, pondering his words. She knew well the power of rumor and superstition. When her father was alive, Rouen had buzzed for a time with tales that he wandered the streets at midnight, going into darkened churches to battle phantoms and demons. Indeed, it was true that her father had visited the churches by night, for his final illness had bereft him of sleep, and he sought the intercession of one saint after another in his search for healing. But the duke had wrestled with no demons, only with the knowledge of his own coming death. The rumors about him had contained a kernel of truth that had been misshapen by wild conjecture. Perhaps this was the same thing.

“How long ago did this happen?” she asked the priest.

“King Æthelred has ruled England for twenty-three years.”

She did the sums. Æethelred, who was now in his thirty-fifth year, could have been no more than a child when his brother had been murdered. What possible role could a child play in such a heinous act?

“Tell me, Father Martin,” she said, “do you believe that the king had a hand in his brother’s death?”

The priest fingered the cross at his breast as he pondered her question. At last he said, “This is a Christian land, my lady, yet through all the years of Æthelred’s reign, godless men from across the North Sea have raided and burned and tortured this realm. Why would God allow such a thing, unless there was great sin in the land?”

And what greater sin, she thought, than the murder of an anointed king? Was this the truth about Æthelred that no one had been willing to reveal to her?

Her anxiety about the man she was to wed grew, yet troubled as she was, she would rather be armed with knowledge than go to him cloaked in ignorance. She murmured her thanks to the priest. Then, as an afterthought, she reached down and touched his hand. “Please pray for me, Father,” she said, “and for the soul of the king.”

As she turned her attention to Hugh she wondered what horror story he might have to tell.

“The word in the marketplace,” Hugh volunteered, “is that the king has just sent nearly thirty thousand pounds of silver to a Danish host camped on an island off the southern coast. I’m told that the Vikings spent all of last summer burning and robbing in the southern shires, and that the silver,” he paused and smiled wryly, “is meant to discourage them from picking up where they left off when the weather turns fair again.”

“So the king bribes the Vikings to leave his lands,” she said. “Jesu, it is a vast amount of money.”

“Aye, my lady,” Hugh agreed. “And the common folk, and even the nobles, it seems, begrudge having to pay the high taxes that the king has imposed to raise it. They complain that first the Danes raid the land, and then the king’s men come and take whatever is left to bribe the Danes to go away.”

“But where are the warriors?” she asked. “This is a rich land with a wealthy king. Can Æthelred not defend his people?”

Hugh shrugged. “The king has his personal guard, as do many of the nobles, but in times of great need he must summon warriors and arms. By the time word of an attack is spread and the levies called up, the Vikings have taken their plunder and made their escape.” He frowned and shook his head. “It is whispered, too, that the king is unlucky. Whenever his soldiers meet the enemy some hapless thing occurs to sway the battle in favor of the outlanders.”

Was it bad luck, she wondered, or, as Father Martin believed, was it God’s curse? And, merciful heaven, what was the difference?

“My lady,” Hugh said, “my news is not all dismal. There is general rejoicing over your nuptials. The common belief is that the arrival of a new queen can only bring good fortune to England.”

“I expect the new queen’s dowry will not come amiss, either,” she said, “if the king defends his land with silver instead of steel.”

She dismissed the men and sat a while, pondering all that she had heard. Where was the truth in the rumors, and what secrets lay hidden in the soul of the man she must wed? Even if the king was innocent of his brother’s murder, his throne was bathed in his brother’s blood. She must share that throne. Whatever the fate that lay before Æthelred the king, as his queen she would share that as well.

Chapter Nine

April 1002

Canterbury, Kent

O
n Easter Sunday, Æthelred of England took his Norman bride to wife, and he watched with hundreds of others as a circlet of gold was placed upon her head and she was named England’s queen. Afterward, he presided over his wedding feast in the royal hall near the cathedral. Seated upon the dais, his new queen at his side, Æthelred looked about him and was not entirely pleased with the situation in which he found himself.

He had spent a great deal of coin over the last weeks in an effort to purchase peace for England. Some of it had been settled upon this chit seated next to him, and if her brother kept his promise, England’s coasts would be far more secure than in years past. Whether Richard could be trusted, though, was a question that niggled at him like a sore tooth.

As for the girl, he liked the look of her well enough. She had a smooth, clear complexion, enormous green eyes, and a long, straight nose. Her mouth was too wide, but she seemed to have good teeth, and her voice did not vex him—not yet. Her hair was pale beneath the silken headrail that was held in place by his gift of a golden crown.

He frowned. He should never have agreed to her coronation. His council was to blame for that. Their infernal wrangling had driven him to make a hasty decision. Within hours of signing the marriage documents he had regretted the act, but by then the official scrolls were on their way to Normandy, and it was too late.

His first wife had demanded no crown and had suffered no harm from the lack of it. This one, though, wanted assurances for any children that she might bear, wanted them first in line for the spoils after he died. It would lead to disputes as to which of his offspring were more throne worthy, and if Emma bore a son there would be bad blood between his first family and his second, all because he had given this Norman bitch a circlet of gold.

It had happened before, and his sons knew their family history well enough—knew of the factions that had formed around himself and his brother when their father died. Edward had been the elder, but men had questioned his claim to the crown because Edward’s mother had been a consort and no queen, unlike his own mother, who had bewitched the king into her bed and then convinced him to grant her a crown. It had led to years of unrest between rival nobles, who had backed either Edward or himself—and it had ended in Edward’s murder.

He closed his eyes and, with an effort of will, turned his mind from his dead brother, lest his very thoughts draw him from his grave again. He considered the slim girl beside him, mentally discarding her glimmering gown and the delicate garment beneath it until she was naked but for the pearls that hung in ropes about her neck. He imagined those pearls resting against her high, proud breasts and cascading past the delicate curve of her hips to the pale thatch between her thighs.

Soon he would be lying between those thighs, and the thought made his mouth go dry with anticipation. He emptied his mead cup and called for more.

Be fruitful and multiply, the archbishop had admonished them when they took their vows. Well, Emma looked as though she could do that well enough, and if she should bear only daughters, so much the better.

He drank again from his cup and again he called for more. At one of the tables below him he could see old Ælfric mouthing something at him. Christ! Another duty to perform, as if taking a Norman slut to wife hadn’t been enough.

Reluctantly he pushed himself to his feet and lifted his golden goblet high, quelling the murmur of the wedding guests.

“To the Lady Emma of Normandy,” he bellowed, “queen of all England!”

The company responded with cheers, and next to him, his new young queen blushed.

As the revelers stood and raised their cups to her, Emma searched among them for her own people, but she found no familiar faces in the throng. She trusted that they would have found their way to tables somehow. Certainly there was enough food here that no one would go to bed hungry tonight. The king, she had learned, had ordered food tables set up all over the city in celebration of his nuptials, so even the poorest folk would sleep with full bellies for this one night at least. She was glad of it.

She let her gaze wander, over the heads of the guests seated at endless rows of tables, and then along the intricately carved oak columns that marched in two rows down the length of the hall and soared upward so high that they disappeared into darkness. This was a huge edifice, far larger than her brother’s hall at Fécamp, or even in Rouen. It had obviously been built to inspire awe, and to intimidate. It succeeded on both counts, and in its massive, dim interior she felt small and insignificant . . . and cold. A breeze fingered its way through the roof thatch to tease the brightly colored banners hanging from the crossbeams. In its wake, the wall torches and the banks of thick candles danced and flared, throwing shadows that loomed menacingly and then shrank to nothing. A constant draft from somewhere behind her chilled her backside, and she regretted not wearing a second chemise beneath her gown.

She took a sip of mead from the silver cup, which was intricately etched with a tracery of vines—one of several wedding gifts from the king, along with the two finger rings and the crown she wore. The sweet liquor burned her throat but warmed her from within, giving her the courage to consider the man seated beside her, whose brooding expression seemed a fit accompaniment to the cold, dark hall.

She knew that he was several years younger than her brother, but he looked much older than Richard. The long golden hair that Ælfric had described to her was streaked with gray at the temples, and the king’s face was creased and seamed across the forehead and around the mouth and eyes. It struck her, as she studied him with quick, furtive glances, that he was not a happy man. Careworn, she might have said, although Father Martin’s tale of the unpunished murder of a king made her wonder if it was guilt, and not care, that had etched the lines in his face.

On his head he wore a massive golden crown studded with gems that glinted in the firelight, and she pitied him for that. The thing looked heavy, and it must be a punishment to wear it for any length of time. His white tunic, belted at the waist, was woven of fine linen, its sleeves elaborately embroidered in bright colors. The deep blue mantle of shimmering godwebbe that he wore was lined with gold silk and clasped at one shoulder with an enormous gold brooch that was studded with rubies.

The king, taken all in all, looked a powerful and imposing figure. Yet he would have been comely even had he been clad in coarse wool. He carried himself with a fine, noble grace in spite of the weight of that daunting crown. She could not tell from looking at him, though, if he was kind or patient, if he had a sense of humor, or if he could have killed a brother in cold blood.

That last thought, streaking into her head just as she raised her drinking cup to her lips, made her hand tremble so that she nearly slopped the liquor onto her gown. She set the cup down until she could compose herself. For some time now she had been trying to think of something to say to her husband, but he looked so forbidding that she did not know how to begin. The story of the death of King Edward continued to trouble her, boring through her brain like an insidious worm. She could not forget it, and she could not very well ask the king if it was true that he was a kin slayer and king slayer.

For his part, he had said not a single word to her, and she began to wonder if he even realized that she could speak his language. But surely, she thought, Ælfric must have told him that. Nevertheless, all that had passed between them so far had been ceremony, scripted in Latin, and neither one of them had strayed from their assigned words. She had been advised that she must wait for him to initiate the first conversation, and so she had done. But the king had remained dourly silent.

Determined that she would wait no longer, she had been casting about for some topic of conversation, and now she decided to ask about his children. Some of them, at least, had attended the wedding and coronation, for she had seen a flock of gorgeously gowned youngsters, accompanied by what she presumed were nurses and tutors, in one of the side alcoves of the cathedral. She did not see any of them here, though. This was something of a surprise, for she would have expected that at the very least his older children would attend the feast.

“My lord,” she said, “I do not see your children here. I had hoped to meet them all today. Are they not allowed to attend the feast?”

The king, using a large chunk of bread to fastidiously mop up the juice from a thick slice of roasted lamb, attended to his culinary duties as if she had not spoken. She had begun to despair that he would answer her at all when, still attentive to his plate, he asked, “Why did your brother send you instead of your elder sister? Had she no taste for the favors of an English king?”

Emma froze, sensing in his words a danger that belied the casual tone of his voice. So it begins, she thought. Already she must dissemble, tell him enough truth to appease him but not so much that he could guess her brother’s intention to break the pledge he had made.

“My sister and I,” she said lightly, “do as we are commanded, whether it is our inclination or no. We do not ask for explanation, and I asked for none from my brother regarding his decision to send me here.” In effect, this was the truth. She had asked her mother, not Richard. “Were I to guess, however, I would say that he feared that my sister, who suffers frequently from ill health, would not be strong enough to undertake the duties of a queen.” She thought about what those duties would demand of her before the evening was over, and took another sip of mead.

“Perhaps, then,” said the king, “I should have insisted on your sister as my consort, so that I would not be saddled, as I am now, with a wife who demanded the title of queen.”

Stung by his discourtesy and his apparent dissatisfaction with the marriage bargain he had struck, Emma could only stare at him for a moment while she caught her breath. Then she felt the weight of the circlet upon her head as well as the weight of her brother’s final words to her.
You must demand the king’s respect.
She roused herself to respond.

“I expect my brother would have made the same demand, whichever sister he sent you. And as you did not insist upon my sister,” she said, hiding her displeasure with a smile, “instead of a wife who might have been a burden to you, you have a queen who can share any burdens that fate may send you. Such is my
wyrd
, I think.” She purposely used the term that Ealdorman Ælfric had taken such great pains to explain to her, hoping that it would goad her husband to courtesy, if not respect.

Finished with his bread and gravy, the king took up his goblet, and she wondered how many times he would empty it before the night was over. Still he did not look at her but trained his eyes out over the throng of folk in the hall below them.

“You are but a child,” he murmured. “What can you possibly know of the burdens of . . .” He stopped in midsentence, and his face blanched.

Emma followed his gaze and saw that a newly arrived group of several men and a lone woman were striding now up the central aisle.

Æthelred stared at the apparition coming toward him, at his brother’s wraith striding through the smoky haze of the hall. His heart seemed to shatter in his chest, and then, to his even greater terror, he realized that this was no phantom sending. This was a man of flesh and blood. Sweet Christ, this was Edward come alive again from the grave to condemn him. His brother’s familiar visage pinned him with merciless accusation, and although he mouthed a protest, the menacing figure did not stop.

His grip tightened on the goblet in his hand, and his heart pounded so hard that the girl at his side must have heard it, for suddenly he felt her fingers clutch his wrist.

He thrust her away from him, passed a hand across his eyes, then looked again. Edward still advanced upon him through streaks of light and shadow, and Æthelred rose to his feet, poised to summon his guards. But even as he raised his hand he grew uncertain, and he checked the cry upon his lips.