The Forever Queen (11 page)

Not daring to believe this change of fortune, enthusiasm sparkled in Emma’s eyes. “Oui,” she began, then altered hastily to stumbling English. “Yes, yes, that I would like very much.”

“And what else would you like? Ask and it shall be yours.”

What else? Oh, the stars and the moon, what else! “To have Godegifa gone from court?” she answered shyly, thinking, to be rid of those who hate me, to have with me only those I am learning to love.

“It shall be so. My first wife,” he added with wry amusement, “would have asked for her head.”

“But then I am not your first wife. She was your concubine. I am your Queen.”

Æthelred raised his eyebrows. Others had suggested there was a spark of life in this Norman girl. He had not believed it, but now he had seen it for himself, was unsure whether he was pleased or not.

September 1002—London

Emma’s first view of London was as a haze of dark hearth-fire smoke spread across the bright blue of a perfect sky on the far side of the River Thames. Pallig, riding beside her, pointed it out. “See, that is Southwark and London Bridge. Beyond, the walls of London. We shall go there on the morrow and get you a decent mare from the horse market at Smooth Field,” he said. “That pony you are on is a good, sturdy old mount, but I expect you would like something finer?”

“Yes, I would.” Emma spoke with careful enthusiasm, aware that her English was not always accurate, but her confidence in the language was growing rapidly, almost as quickly as the confidence she felt in herself. The change in her these past weeks had been remarkable and noticeable. The pallor that had clung obstinately to her face since April, was blooming into a radiance of pink-tinged cheeks that had lost their hollow, gaunt look. Her eyes were alight with laughter, her mouth more often curved into a placid smile. Anyone who had previously complained that Emma was a plain, not particularly pretty child would need to think again. Pallig even dared to believe that at last she was happy, despite Æthelred’s breaking his promise to escort her here. Or perhaps because of it?

“The King will be joining us at Thorney Island at the end of the week, when he has sorted the problem arisen in Dover?” Pallig asked congenially.

Emma’s smile faltered at the polite question, but it swiftly returned. She would not have her pleasure tainted by something that was four whole days away. She turned in the saddle to wave at Gunnhilda, travelling in one of the pack wagons with the younger children of the household who could not ride or walk. Æthelred had sent word to suggest his wife’s court proceed to London ahead of him; he would follow as soon as the issues over this tedious contest of trade agreements was settled to his satisfaction. Delighted, Emma had packed her possessions immediately; by the tenth hour of the morning they were already several miles from Canterbury along the London road.

Privately to his wife, Pallig had confided his assumption of Æthelred’s reason for delay: a certain serving girl who had accompanied his retinue south to the coast. “As long as our Queen does not come to hear of it,” he had remarked as he had settled his wife comfortably into the wagon.

“I doubt she will mind if she does,” Gunnhilda had answered, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. The sun was bright, but there was a distinct chill in the air. “Aside, I would wager she already guesses. She gives the appearance of a shy and naive innocent, but Lady Emma has a sharp mind. All she requires is the confidence to use it.”

“And you do not mind my being so often with her and not with you?”

“I am content with my daughter’s company. I am delighted to be carrying your son within me, but you know I hate lumbering around, ungainly and ugly, with this great bulk. If you are with the Queen, my husband, then you are not under my feet and I can spend the day being as cross-tempered and irritable as I please.”

Leaving London behind, the entourage turned left along a westward-running riverside road, Pallig explaining that the Thames flowed here in a great arcing curve.

“It is quite a contrary old man, with its wide loops and ponderous meandering.” He indicated the flat vastness of the windswept marshes. “That’s when it deigns to remain within its banks. Come heavy rain or winter snowmelt, it is hard to know which is river and which is floodwater.”

They crossed at low tide, where the river was shallow. Emma was a courageous girl, not one given to imagining fears or horrors, but fording the Thames was not to be one of her better moments. The horses waded through hock-high water, their shod hooves scrunching on the firm shingle and hoggin that ran straight as an arrow flight across the wide expanse of river. None of the men appeared perturbed by the swirl of the current or by what seemed to be endless minutes out in midstream, although several of her ladies were dragging their loose riding gowns up to an indecent height and giving screams of alarm every so often.

Looking behind her, Emma could see the ramble of the Lambeth buildings on the southern side: a tavern, a forge, a cluster of whores’ bothies. On the outskirts of the small hamlet were the palisade walls of several merchants’ estates. Lambeth, like Southwark, had the infamy of dual status, the wealthy alongside whores and beggars. Ahead lay their inhospitable destination: a rough, bramble-strewn island that was aptly named Thorney Island.

Æthelred’s London residence, Emma discovered, was a disappointment. Sited one and a half miles from the city, the West Monastery and its adjoining palace was one of the most woeful places in southern England. A squat of timber-and-thatch buildings huddled behind walls built in the vain hope of keeping the floodwaters out. No more than five hundred by four hundred yards, the desolation housed a dour church dedicated to Saint Peter and an even duller monastery, serviced by nine monks and an Abbot, all of whom, waiting to greet their Queen, looked as empty and drab as the leaden-skied landscape. The holy buildings had the advantage over Æthelred’s apology of a residence, however, for they occupied the slightly higher ground. The wattle and daub of the royal hall and its accompaniment of outbuildings lay within a slight hollow, which, Emma was to discover, even given the protection of the outer stone wall, was never dry in winter. The roof appeared in desperate need of rethatching, the walls replastering, and the whole place tidying and cheering up.

This was a royal palace? Dieu, Emma thought as she dismounted and handed the reins to a servant who came scurrying from the hall. I thank providence that my brother did not come here! How scornful Richard would have been!

“The royal residence was relocated here several generations ago,” Pallig explained, as if that fact would suddenly improve the place. “King Alfred moved the Saxon trade town of Ald Wych, further along the river, into the protection of the old Roman-built stone walls of Lun Dun when the Viking sea raiders first began their plundering. Plague prompted one of his descendants to remove the royal palace to the safety of this site upriver. Near enough to oversee London, far enough away to avoid disease.”

“And was there not anywhere else more suitable?” Emma asked cynically. “No rat-infested hovel? No wind-torn peasant shack?”

Pallig grinned at her. “Your husband declares, each time he comes here, that one day he will pull the lot down and rebuild.” He shrugged.

Emma made no answer. One day was always a week, a month, a year away with Æthelred. His promises were as elusive as a rainbow’s end. 

***

Unlike her husband, Pallig always kept his word, and two hours after sunrise the next day he escorted Emma into London to buy her a horse. First, though, he took her to the market of West Cheap and was pleased with the expression of delight that spread across her face.

“Better than anything you have seen in Normandy, is it not?” he declared as they dismounted their ponies and he swept his hand towards the ocean of trading stalls. Now, at last, Emma realised the importance of London. Of all the ports and harbours of Europe, Africa, and beyond, the merchant ships, with their precious and varied cargoes, came to London. London had everything. Silks and exotic spices, jewels—garnets, sapphires, emeralds, topaz—too many to name. Jewellery of copper, bronze, silver, and gold. Jars of olive oil, pots of olives, and fruits and figs and dates. Pottery and baskets of all shapes, sizes, and designs. Cloth. Leather. Iron pots and pans. Furs. And people. So many people! Tall, short, fat, thin. Rich. Poor. Fair-haired with pale blue eyes or with skin as dark and shiny as a curried bay pony. Every tongue imaginable, Danish, French, German, Spanish, Greek…Was this, Emma wondered, the very centre of the world?

Where to start? What to buy? Two hours of happy browsing passed quickly, Pallig giving her growing mound of purchases to the servants to carry.

“I expected you to buy a quality mare once we had finished here and moved on to the horse market,” he said with a suppressed grin. “Perhaps we should consider a pack mule instead?”

Emma gaily paid a penny coin for a walrus ivory comb for Gunnhilda, to add to the amber necklace she had already bought her as compensation for not accompanying them. She had purchased gifts for all her ladies, and for Æthelred, although she was uncertain what he would like. She had chosen, in the end, a garnet-studded collar for his favourite hound.

From the market, they walked through the arch of the western gate to the fields beyond the city that were as busy and frenzied as the Cheap itself. The difference, instead of stalls and blankets spread with various wares, here there was nothing except horses, donkeys, and mules. Every breed, every size, shape, and colour. Dapples and bays, chestnuts and duns. Mares, stallions, and geldings. Native ponies from the moors, mountains, and forests; foreign destriers, stocky carthorses, placid palfreys; dazzling Arabian and Spanish breeds. Some standing tied to the tethering lines, heads lowered, a hind foot resting. Others being trotted up for inspection; some, over in the further field, being ridden at a canter or gallop. One or two being urged to leap the fencing rails. Fat ponies, bony horses; some with gleaming coats, others with dull eyes and scabby sores.

“How do I find a suitable mare among all these?” Emma exclaimed, enthralled, holding her hands wide in wonder.

“With patience and a sharp eye,” Pallig answered, taking her arm by the elbow and steering her safely away from a stallion that was kicking out dangerously.

For more than an hour they inspected the horse lines, stopping occasionally for Pallig to look more closely at an animal; peering into its mouth to check the teeth for its age, picking up its feet, or running his hand down a leg. Once, Emma exclaimed over a pretty roan, but Pallig pointed out the blemishes on her knees, explaining it was possible she could be inclined to trip or fall. Nor would he let her look too closely at chestnuts. “Too temperamental,” he said with a firm shake of his head.

A grey was too small, a bay too thin. He spent some while looking at a black, trotting and cantering her in circles, but when he dismounted he passed her reins back to the vendor and walked on.

Emma was disappointed. “I liked her,” she said petulantly, looking back over her shoulder. “She had nice eyes.”

“And an uneven pace. She’ll be dead lame before many days pass.”

He rode two more, another roan and, despite his earlier warning, a chestnut of about thirteen and one half hands. The mare was attractive, with a flaxen gold mane and tail, a white star on her forehead, and one white sock on a hind foot. She was underweight, and a white patch of hair on her back showed where a saddle or harness had once rubbed and left its mark. Her legs were not quite as Pallig would have liked either, a bony lump protruding beneath her knee. A splint, he said it was called, caused by too much concussion on too hard ground, but it was well formed, ought not give her any bother. He sniffed, shrugged, and dismissed the eager seller, walking on to assess the next patient horse in the row. An emaciated, broken-down nag, which he moved straight past.

“What was wrong with the chestnut?” Emma declared, exasperated, half running to keep up with his long stride. “I liked her.”

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Pallig confirmed, “but if we appear too keen, her price will double. We will go back later.”

Emma wailed a protest. “But she might be gone later!”

Philosophically Pallig answered, “Then we will find something else equally as suitable.”

Not wishing to appear childish, Emma refrained from pouting, but could not stop herself from saying, “But my feet are aching, Pallig. I feel as though I have walked more than one hundred miles!”

“No more than four at the most, I assure you. I will grant she was a good mare, though.” From his belt pouch Pallig took several silver coins which he tossed to Leofstan, trudging doggedly in their wake.

“Go purchase that chestnut. Only ensure that rogue of a vendor thinks you are buying for yourself; pay no more than she is worth. We shall wait for you in the shade of that oak tree over there.”

Nodding and saluting simultaneously, Leofstan trotted off, anxious to please both Queen and captain.

“He is young and slow with his thinking, but Leofstan Shortfist is a good man,” Pallig observed. “He will serve you well through the years.”

“As you will.” Boldly, Emma slid her arm through his as they walked. Her heart was singing, and for the first time since April she felt truly glad that she had come to England.

Away from the horse lines the crowd had thinned, the noise diminishing, the smells of horse dung, urine, and sweat, and the pungent odour of unwashed men and women receding. Slipping away from Pallig, Emma skipped a few paces, then, with her arms outstretched, whirled herself around, her head back, mouth open. She felt as light and free as the lark that was singing somewhere above them.

“Pallig,” she said as she slowed to a breathless stop, “I can scarcely believe I am so content. Whatever happens to me, I shall never forget this day.”

“Gunnhilda says that happy memories are to be collected and stored with care in a treasure box, to be brought out and examined when sadness visits uninvited.”

The horse came from nowhere. It must have broken free from its tether, for dangling from its halter rope was a length of broken rail thumping and banging against his forelegs. Something must have alarmed him in the first place, but with this other creature biting and snarling at his legs, the stallion bolted faster, not realising he carried the terror along with him. Men and boys were racing after the beast, shouting, waving sticks and ropes, making the animal more frightened. One boy, ahead of the others, leapt forward making a grab at the horse’s tail, missed, and went sprawling into the dust.