Not for the first time Elgiva wondered who had spun such a royal future for her. But although she had pressed the old woman for the source of her knowledge, Groa had refused to divulge it. And that was not such a bad thing, Elgiva thought, for if Groa kept the secrets of others, her own secrets would be safe with her as well.
Her eyes strayed to Athelstan again, and she saw that his gaze was fixed upon Emma. The queen looked up, met his glance, and for the space of several heartbeats some mute understanding seemed to pass between them. Then Emma blushed and looked away.
Elgiva drew a long, slow, astonished breath, hardly able to believe what she had just seen. Was it possible that Athelstan, who should have been Emma’s greatest enemy, lusted after his father’s bride? How many hours had they spent riding together, then? And what had been shared between them? More than fresh air, to be sure.
Her suspicion was like bile in her throat. If it was true, then Athelstan was yet another thing that Emma had taken that should have been hers. And it was yet one more reason why she hated the king’s Norman bride.
The Feast of St Æthelred dawned clear and sunny. On this day the palace, the Old Minster, and all the streets surrounding the royal compound buzzed with anticipation, as royals, prelates, and townsfolk came together to celebrate the feast day of the king.
Athelstan, waiting to take his place in the solemn procession forming in the palace courtyard, watched as the lead figures in the column set out through the gate. The bishop led the way, resplendent in a red cope embroidered with golden roods, his hands adorned with ruby rings. Behind him, ten priests walked two by two, each one garbed in a green chasuble for the celebration of the Mass. They were followed by a dozen white-robed acolytes, who bore a flower-strewn litter that carried the massive golden coffer housing St Æthelred’s relics. Following the saint, the king and queen stood ready to lead the royal family towards the minster, and behind the royal party the choir had already begun to chant a psalm.
Athelstan, in his place behind the queen, thought that she looked as lovely as he had ever seen her. Her hair was pulled modestly into a long, thick braid, barely visible through the opaque whiteness of her veil. The white of her chemise, gathered tightly at her throat and her wrists, contrasted starkly with the deep blue of the cyrtel that hugged her slim figure. She had accented her gown with nothing more than a rope of pearls that looped to her waist, and the only gold she wore was a delicate crown set with sapphires. Beside her, his father was resplendent in gold from crown to hem, to give honour to the saint whose name he bore – and to impress the crowd.
The procession made its way past throngs of silently reverent town and country folk, who had spilled into the streets to watch the parade of royals, prelates, and the stunning reliquary of the saint. Many in the crowd held crosses; others stood with wide-eyed children perched upon their shoulders.
As Athelstan entered the Old Minster it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the sunlight to the shadowy vastness of the church. He caught the scent of roses before he could see them. The sisters of Nunnaminster and the ladies of Emma’s court had transformed the cold stone edifice into a bower, for every altar and column wore garlands of fragrant blossoms. High above, bright silk pennons billowed from brackets on the walls.
The massive organ poured out a solemn processional that echoed over the heads of the congregation as the king led his entourage upstairs to the royal chamber near the altar. Athelstan took his place behind his father and swept his gaze over the hundreds of worshippers standing below. Many of them would have spent the night in the church to claim a choice spot from which to gaze their fill on the glittering royals. Few of the faithful, he thought, observing their upturned faces, would have their minds on their prayers today.
In truth, his own thoughts were anything but prayerful, and they were far more carnal than was politic or wise. Emma knelt just before him and a little to one side, and to be so close to her when he could neither touch her nor even speak to her was a sweet torture.
For the thousandth time he reminded himself that she was his father’s wife.
The words seemed to repeat in his head like a demented litany, but it did not matter. Yes, she was his father’s wife, but his father did not love her, did not even want her.
And, God help him, he did.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.
Which commandment was that? And what about thy father’s wife? If you fell into that sin, was there any redemption?
He did not care, because he did not want redemption; he wanted his father’s wife, although he could never have her. She was as far beyond his reach as the moon.
Yet he loved her – a thing that still mystified him. In spite of the laws of God and of man, in spite even of his own will, he loved her. And he did not know what to do, because while his father lived he never could have her.
The service seemed to last an eternity. By the time it was over his dismal reflections on the hopelessness of his passion for Emma had driven him to near despair. The royal couple led the way out of the church, and he dutifully followed them outside, where they were met by a cheering crowd and a cacophony of bells. Forcing himself to school his eyes and his thoughts away from the queen, he noticed a movement ahead of him and to his right, like the ripple of a wind breathing across a field of wheat. Puzzled, he stared at the brightly coloured crowd, and amid their hues of green and yellow and rust, he made out a lone black form moving, swift as a hawk’s shadow, towards the king.
October 1002
Winchester, Hampshire
The wild pealing of the minster bells filled the square with waves of sound as Emma, walking at the king’s side, smiled at the cheering folk who lined their route. The afternoon sun felt warm on her shoulders, and she wished that she could slow her pace and clasp some of the many hands that reached out eagerly to touch their queen. Æthelred, however, did not allow it. His firm hand at her elbow guided her briskly towards the palace gates.
She glanced at him and saw that his face wore its usual grim aspect. She did not understand it. This was his feast day. All of this rejoicing was in his honour. Could he not even smile at his subjects in return? And there had been good news this morning as well: the winds in the Narrow Sea had shifted in England’s favour. There would be no threat from plundering dragon ships now, not until the water roads opened up again in the spring.
It was welcome news to her, if not to the king. All summer she had watched and waited for Danish raiders to attack, fearing that when it happened her brother would somehow be implicated, guilty or not, and that retribution would fall upon her – guilty or not. Now she felt safe, and she walked with a lighter step, as if a heavy mourning cloak had been lifted from her shoulders.
The first inkling she had of anything amiss was the sound of a single, discordant voice that rose shrill above the clamour of the bells. There were alien curses in that cry, words that raised the fine hairs along her arms and turned her blood to ice. She searched for the source of that hideous sound, and as she did so she saw a knife flash above the heads of the nearest onlookers. Before she could even scream a warning, the king was flung headlong to the ground and Athelstan had lunged at a figure hurtling towards them from out of the crowd.
She cried out as the knife glinted again, its blade driving downwards. At the same moment a handful of men-at-arms, their swords drawn, surged in front of her, jostling her backwards as they formed a wall that separated her from the king and his son. Rough hands grasped her shoulders, and a cluster of king’s guards surrounded her, propelling her through the