For surely in that terrible night beyond the grave lay judgement, and his brother, Edward, would be waiting.
Elgiva, striding down the passage that led towards the king’s chamber, heard Æthelred’s bitter cry and quickened her pace.
She had not been duped by his assertion that he was weary and needed rest. Something unpleasant had occurred, she was certain of it. She had seen it in the uneasy glances that passed between the king and Athelstan and had read it in Emma’s brittle, unsmiling face.
There had been whispers, too – vague rumours of some mishap on the minster green. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, she had slipped away from the feasting shortly after the king did. If there were some treachery afoot, her father would want to know of it.
She was nearing the king’s chamber, relieved to see a door ward posted there who knew her well, and who might be persuaded to allow her in, when she heard Æthelred cry out. The guard stared at the door, horror struck, but made no move to open it.
‘Did you not hear that, fool?’ Elgiva demanded. ‘The king calls for aid; get you inside, man!’
The guard hesitated, then rapped heavily on the door. ‘My lord?’
When there was no response he rapped and called again, but Elgiva shoved past him and thrust the door open.
Æthelred knelt on the stone floor with his back to them, his arms flung wide, mirroring the image of the crucifix on the wall. He gave no sign that he heard them enter but continued to face the rood as if in a trance.
The door ward stopped in his tracks, looking as though he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Elgiva put a finger to her lips and motioned him out of the room.
Alone with the king, she regarded the kneeling Æthelred with a frown. Whatever had happened today it must have frightened him to his very soul to bring him so to his knees. She would have preferred almost any other response but this. She was used to men drinking themselves into a stupor – her father did it often enough whenever he was troubled, so she had some experience at grappling with a man’s reeling body. She was far less confident of her ability to grapple with a reeling soul.
Silently cursing men and their foibles, she knelt at the king’s side and, not knowing what else to do, she spread her arms wide. She did not know what prayer Æthelred sent heavenward, but hers was a heartfelt plea that she would not have to kneel here for very long.
After a time she glanced at the king’s face and saw, with mild disgust, that it was wet with tears. Embarrassed at the sight of such unmanly emotion, she began to gingerly pat his back, as she might a weeping child.
‘My lord,’ she whispered, hardly knowing what it was that she said, ‘you must not despair.’ She groped for some reassuring words and snatched frantically at something the bishop had said in today’s interminable sermon. ‘Our Saviour hears and answers the prayers of even the humblest wretches who put their faith and trust in Him. How much greater will His compassion and love be for the king who holds all our care in his hands?’
At first he made no response, and she wondered if he was indeed in a trance and had not heard her. After some moments, though, he eased his rigid stance, sitting back upon his heels and dropping his face into his hands. Gratefully, she too relaxed.
‘God has no compassion for me,’ he murmured. ‘He has allowed the devil’s servant to smite me.’
She could make little sense out of that except that whatever had happened, he seemed to believe it had been orchestrated by God Himself. That was a sin of pride if ever there was one. She suppressed a snort at Æthelred’s vanity.
‘Tell me what happened today,’ she whispered. ‘You may find that it eases your mind to speak of it,’ she said hopefully. ‘Come, my lord king. Will you not tell me?’
She would have liked nothing better than to rise from her knees and escort him to the plush comfort of his royal bed, but to attempt it might shatter the delicate spell that, for the moment, bound them. Instead she continued to stroke his back and shoulders, to ease her fingers along his neck and scalp. She saw the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved a great sigh, and he began to unburden his heart.
She listened to his account, struck by the audacity of the attack. The creature with the knife must have been insane, for surely he could not have expected to escape with his life. Only a madman would attempt such an enterprise.
‘He was sent by heaven to punish me,’ Æthelred said, his gaze once more fixed on the figure of Christ on the cross. ‘He did not succeed, but others will follow.’
She closed her eyes. What sin blackened Æthelred’s soul that he anticipated such fierce, divine retribution? That would, indeed, be a secret worth knowing. She opened her eyes and considered the man beside her. His face was white and waxy with exhaustion, like a man who had been a long time ill. He was weak, this king, and she felt nothing for him but scorn. Yet, she reminded herself, all men were weak.
And he was still a king.
She scooted forward and turned so that she could gaze into his face.
‘But my lord king,’ she whispered, ‘do not you see that this may be not a judgement sent upon you, but a warning to you? Even if God allowed this devil to pursue you, he did not succeed. Your son protected you, and surely that, too, was the work of God.’
She had his attention. The creases on his brow deepened into a frown, and she could tell that he was digesting her words. She pressed her advantage.
‘You are right to pray, my lord, and you must pray for guidance. As you have said, this man may be just the leading edge of some greater, more terrible wave about to break upon us. Do not you see that you must rouse yourself to fight this scourge?’ She groped for something appropriately biblical. ‘You must be the David, my lord, who conquers Goliath. You must be the Sampson who destroys the Philistines. Be a king who is ruled by your courage and your passion, not by your remorse for acts that cannot be undone.’
She held her breath. What if she had gone too far? Would he spurn her for presuming to tell him what he should do?
She looked into his eyes and saw a sudden flicker of heat there, but it was not the heat of anger or desperation. Encouraged, she leaned forward and gently grazed her tongue against his lower lip, and he responded by pulling her fiercely against him.
The coupling that followed was swift and rough. It gave her no pleasure, but she did not care. She had at last made her way into the arms of a king. She had roused him from his torpor, and surely he would reward her accordingly. Groa had predicted a royal destiny for her, and now she was certain that, before very long, all that she deserved would be within her grasp.
Emma slept little the night of St Æthelred’s feast, for the Danish curses howled by the king’s assailant continued to echo inside her head. In the morning she asked to speak with Æthelred, and when she was denied, she grew uneasy. Why would he not admit her? Was he afraid of all things Danish now, including a queen whose mother had Danish blood?
Throughout the day she tried to discover what was taking place in the king’s apartments, but she could glean nothing, and her apprehension grew. She felt as helpless as a mouse in a box, bereft of light and sound. She dared not speak to anyone about what had happened in the minster yard, for the king had forbidden it. She dared not even set her fears down in a letter to her brother, lest it should be intercepted.
In the afternoon, weary from an endless chain of questions that her mind continued to spin, she went alone into the palace garden in search of respite. All she could do was pace, a victim to doubt and misgiving.
She decided that she must find some way to speak with Athelstan. There was no one else to whom she could confide her fears, and surely he would know what was in the mind of the king. She longed to see him, to speak with him and draw comfort from his counsel.
She longed for a great many things, she