Shadow on the Crown (8 page)

The figure neared the dais, and he saw, bewildered, that it was not Edward who approached but one very like him. And then his confusion cleared and he recognized his son, Athelstan, who, by some trick of chance or the devil, had assumed an uncanny resemblance to the dead king.

He mouthed a curse at the bitter irony of it. Surely this was another punishment sent upon him, to see the wraith that haunted him in the dark looking back at him now from the countenance of his eldest son. His mind flicked to his queen’s assurance that she would share his burdens. What would she think if he were to share with her the burden of his dead brother’s vengeance?

Athelstan reached the dais, and Æthelred hauled in a breath. Good Christ! How long had it been since he had last seen the boy? It must be near a year, yet in that brief space of time his son had matured, in looks at least, from boy to man. Why in Christ’s name did he have to look like
that
man?

At last he dragged his gaze from his son’s face, and only then did he mark the others who attended him.

“Ælfhelm,” he murmured, for it was the ealdorman who stepped forward now to bend the knee with the others and speak.

“My lord king,” Ælfhelm said, “I beseech your pardon for our late arrival on this auspicious day. We were delayed upon the road.” He looked up then with not the least sign of regret evident upon his craggy face. “I return your sons to you,” Ælfhelm said, but he was casting an appraising glance now on the young bride, and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “They would greet their new . . . mother.”

Æthelred did not reply. His eyes were drawn again to Athelstan, for he still marveled at his son’s resemblance to the dead Edward. Finally he considered the others. Ælfhelm’s cubs he knew—the two sons and the daughter. He let his gaze linger on the girl briefly before he fixed his attention on his own whelps.

They should all have been at the ceremonies today. This tardy arrival in the midst of the feast and the scowling faces of his three offspring were meant to underscore their opposition to the marriage. He had been right to think that granting his bride a crown would lead to friction. It had already begun, and Ealdorman Ælfhelm had no doubt fanned the flames of dissension. The old devil would like nothing better than to pit his sons against him, setting them upon him like a pack of hounds.

Well, let them howl their outrage to the moon for all the good it would do them. The deed was done. They would have to live with the consequences, just as he would.

He fixed his eyes upon the thunderous face of his eldest son and said, “You are welcome to our feast. It would have done my queen greater homage had you arrived in better time, but go, refresh yourselves. We will speak of this another time.”

He resumed his seat as the whispering began among the guests. There would be rumors in the city tomorrow about the king’s strange behavior at his wedding feast. He raised his cup, and when he drank he felt the warmth course through him, soothing his tortured nerves. Let them whisper. His brother, the king, was safely dead and in his grave.

He watched his sons melt into the crowd, and he did not miss the look of smoldering resentment that the girl, Elgiva, cast upon the new queen. That amused him. Elgiva’s high rank and wealth assured her a place in the queen’s household. All by herself she would likely be a significant burden for his new bride to shoulder. Emma was welcome to it.

He glanced at his queen and saw that she was watching him, her eyes huge with amazement and speculation. He scowled. She wearied him, and he wanted rid of her.

He stood again and, drawing her up beside him, he announced, “The queen will now retire, and she bids you all good night.”

The assembly rose amid the usual bawdy shouts and applause, while Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. But she said nothing, merely offered him a gracious courtesy before turning abruptly to follow the servants who would lead her to his private chamber.

Satisfied at having the dais to himself, Æthelred sat down and applied himself once more to his food and drink. He would tend to his queen soon enough.

Emma surveyed the great royal bed, which was sumptuously draped with curtains and bedecked with furs and intricately embroidered pillows. It had been arranged here just this morning, she knew, for all of the accoutrements of the king’s bedchamber accompanied him wherever he went—hangings for the walls, pelts for the floor, the finest linens and furs for the bedding, even the candle sconces and braziers for light and warmth. She felt a shiver of foreboding, though, as she looked solemnly about her. There could never be enough candles, she thought, to light this chamber. All the furnishings were dark and oppressive, in spite of their richness.

Her own household goods were already on their way to Winchester, for she would have no need of them here. Tonight, and while the king stayed in Canterbury, she would share his chamber and his bed. It made her feel like she was just another piece of chattel, like a gilded coffer or a handsomely embroidered cushion.

She tried to put that thought aside as the dozen women who had escorted her from the hall began the business of preparing her to greet her husband. Emma had assisted with this same task herself when her sister Beatrice had wed, and she recalled how Beatrice had chattered and laughed all through the undressing. Emma felt too numb to speak, and she submitted dumbly to her attendants’ ministrations.

Most of the women were strangers to her, for it was an honor granted by the king to assist his bride at the bedding. She had been allowed to choose only two attendants from her Norman retinue, and so Wymarc was here with her, and her old nurse, Margot, looking like a little brown wren amid all the fine ladies.

When Emma had been stripped of her wedding finery and garbed in the delicate shift that Gunnora had embroidered with her own hands, Emma was escorted to the bed. She exchanged the appropriate courtesies with the women of Æthelred’s court, and then she dismissed them. It was not politic, she knew, but she could no longer bear their curious stares. When only Wymarc and Margot remained in the room, Emma collapsed backward upon the bed cushions, exhausted.

A moment later Margot was at her side, offering her a cup of wine. “It is good Norman wine, that,” she said, “from your own stock. Drink it all, my lady. It will do you good.”

“God bless you, Margot,” Emma said, sitting up and grasping the cup. She took a greedy gulp of the wine, then considered the flagon still in Margot’s hand. “Put that here, near the bed, and you’d best pour some for yourselves. I expect we might have a long wait. Something tells me that the king will not be in any hurry to lie with his new queen tonight.”

Wymarc’s unflagging smile dimmed a bit. “Why do you say that? He should be eager to attend you. You are the most beautiful woman in this hall.”

“Beauty, I fear, is no great advantage,” Emma said slowly, staring into her wine cup. “The king seems to regret his . . . purchase.”

She looked up at Wymarc, whose face clouded with misgiving.

“That cannot be true,” Wymarc said. “Why would he regret it?”

Emma sighed, exasperated. “I do not know why! I only know that he is in an ill temper, and it is directed at me. He all but threw me out of the hall.”

“Dear God,” Wymarc breathed. She exchanged a worried glance with Margot, then suggested hopefully, “Could it be that he is just a nervous bridegroom? He is so much older than you; perhaps he is afraid that he will disappoint you.”

It was kind of Wymarc to look for an excuse for the king’s odd behavior, but she had not heard Æthelred’s curt words. Emma took another swallow of the wine, thinking with dread of the bedding to come. If he had been so cold at the table, what would he be like in the bedchamber?

Then she remembered the stricken look on the king’s face when he saw his sons. He had been more upset with them even than with her.

“There was something else,” she said, “something to do with his sons. They came late to the feast. When the king saw them he was so distracted that I thought he had been taken by some kind of seizure. He recovered himself in a moment, but it gave me a fright.”

She described the undercurrent of tension between the king and his offspring. Even now it flayed her nerves to recall it. The king’s sons had been hostile, but Æthelred had not looked angry as much as frightened. His eyes had grown wide and his face had gone pale with terror, as if he were facing Death itself.

“Mayhap it was one of their companions that frightened the king,” Margot suggested.

“That may be so,” Emma said slowly, remembering the older man who had addressed the king. His face had been seamed and rugged, with a flat nose and small, mean eyes—a hard, nightmarish face behind a thick, black beard. But could even a man such as that strike terror in the king?

“Oh, God,” she said, pulling her knees up and dropping her face against them, “there is so much that I do not know.” She raised her head and thrust her empty cup at Wymarc for more wine. “The man’s name is Ælfhelm,” she said. “In the morning I want Hugh to discover everything that he can about this Ælfhelm and report to me. You must find Hugh tonight and tell him.”

“Of course,” Wymarc said.

Emma sat back against the pillows, clutching the goblet with both hands, reviewing all the events of the day and trying to keep her thoughts away from what must occur next.

“My lady queen,” Margot said softly from her stool beside the bed, “do you know what to expect from the king tonight?”

Emma laughed. Suddenly it all seemed funny to her. She looked at the cup in her hand and decided that it must be the wine, for there was really nothing funny about it at all.

“My mother spoke to me,” she said, “and Judith told me of her wedding night. I think, though, that my own experience is likely to be somewhat less,” she groped for a word, “friendly.”

Margot nodded. “Likely Judith knew her husband’s touch already before they were wed, as they were betrothed many months. It will be different for you,” she said gently, “for you know nothing of your husband. May I give you a word of advice, my lady?”

Emma nodded, eager for any counsel—anything to erase the appalling image of one of her brother’s fine stallion’s mounting a mare that came all too easily to her mind.

“You must not be afraid,” Margot said, “no matter what he says or what he does. He may be gentle with you,” she took a little breath and looked hard at Emma, “or he may not. I have no knowledge of the English, or of kings, or of this Æthelred as a man. But whatever he does, it will go better for you if you are easy and calm.” She smiled. “The wine will help with that, to be sure. But in this room, my lady, and especially on this night, you must make yourself go soft in every part of you, the better to accept his hardness, if you take my meaning.”

“Yes,” Emma said, “I think I understand you.” It seemed an impossible task, though, given how brittle she felt, as if she might break into a thousand pieces at the slightest touch.

“You must use your mind,” Margot went on. “You may not have to, of course. He may be the kind of man who gentles a woman the way a good rider gentles a horse. If he does that, if he uses his hands to soothe you, it will be easy for you to respond in kind. Just follow his lead. But you are a horsewoman, my lady. You have seen some men, surely, who use their horses with a fury that has no gentleness in it. The more the horse resists, the harder it goes for him.”

“She is no horse!” Wymarc objected, her face stricken at the old woman’s words.

“No, she is not,” Margot agreed, “for she has a sharp mind, and she can use it. If need be, my lady, let it take you to whatever time and place you choose that will ease you. I hope you will not have to, but you must remember that your mind can provide you with refuge, should you need it.”

The large, scored candle in the bedchamber had marked the passage of two weary hours before Emma heard the heavy door open. Margot and Wymarc scrambled to their feet as the king entered, escorted by six of his councilors. Emma watched Æthelred warily from her place on the bed, bearing Margot’s words in mind and trying not to stiffen. Still, she felt the pulse beat hard in her throat as the king made his royal entrance, crownless now, although still draped in the magnificent blue and gold cloak.

“Leave us,” he said peremptorily to the attendants, with a wave of dismissal. And in a moment the room was empty but for the two of them.

Æthelred stood a few feet from the bed, looking down at her. Emma searched for telltale signs that he was somewhat the worse for drink. She knew well enough that wedding feasts often ended in debauchery, and she had allowed herself to hope that the king might be too overcome with ale or wine or mead, or all three, to want anything to do with her. But he did not weave or sway as he surveyed her, and it occurred to her that he might very well be more sober than she was.

“Get up,” he ordered, “and take off your shift. I want to see what I’ve purchased.”

The command sent a wave of shock through her. Nothing that anyone had told her had prepared her for this. It confirmed her opinion that Æthelred regarded her as little more than chattel. She masked her resentment, though, and she tried to loosen her muscles, doing her best to follow Margot’s advice. Without a word she slipped off of the bed, untied the ribbons at her throat, and let her shift pool on the floor at her feet.