Shadow on the Crown. Patricia Bracewell

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 stallions 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 councillors. 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 the bed, untied the ribbons at her throat, and let her shift pool on the floor at her feet.

      She blessed Margot under her breath, because the wine she had consumed made the task seem ridiculous rather than onerous. She had to stifle the urge to giggle. She had stood naked like this often enough in front of serving women who washed her from head to foot, and she willed herself to think of this as no different. The chamber was cool, though, in spite of the charcoal brazier, and she felt her nipples harden. She lifted her chin a bit and, giddy with wine, was sorely tempted to ask the king to disrobe so she could inspect him as well, but she thought better of it. It would be a new sight for her, and she had no idea how she would respond to her first glimpse of a naked man. In any event, he would have to undress sooner or later. She had but to wait.

      Æthelred gazed sullenly at his bride, desire warring with suspicion. It disturbed him that she had complied with his crude command so readily. He had spoken out of anger – at his councillors for inflicting this marriage upon him, at her brother for demanding a coronation, and at Ælfhelm, damn his soul, for turning his own sons against him. None of it was the girl’s fault, yet now that she had disrobed so brazenly in front of him, he was forced to wonder why.

      Cursing, he made for the small table that held a flagon and poured a cup of wine.

      ‘Are you a maid?’ he asked. That would explain why Richard had foisted this younger sister upon him. She was used goods. For all he knew she might be carrying a Norman brat in her belly.

      He stared at her over the rim of his cup and saw that her entire body had flushed in response to his question.

      ‘I am a maid,’ she said. ‘I am also your queen, and I will not be treated like some slut from the gutter.’

      He downed the wine, tossed the cup to the floor, and began to remove his garments. ‘You are queen by my pleasure,’ he said. ‘You would do well to remember it. And in the morning, when the council inspects the bed linens, we will know for a surety whether or not you are a slut from the gutter, as you so colourfully put it. Now get into the bed and let us get on with the matter at hand.’

      Later, when she lay asleep at his side, Æthelred stared wide-eyed into the flames of the candles that flanked the bed. He had done his duty as king and husband in as efficient a manner as possible. The girl, to her credit, had done the same. She was no whore, if he was any judge. She had lain beneath him as unresponsive and boneless as a sleeping cat. He had expected something better, after seeing her naked before him like some Viking goddess; but she had disappointed him.

      It was just as well. He wanted as little to do with her as possible – only enough to satisfy the demands of church and kingship.

      He closed his eyes, and in that darkness his thoughts strayed to his dead wife. He had been but seventeen when he wed her, and she was twenty. In all the long years of their marriage he had never seen her naked. When he lay with her she had responded like a nun, tensing with repugnance at the act that she was forced to endure. Although she had never refused him, she had borne his attentions every time in virtuous silence, had likely prayed her way through each ordeal. Whenever she quickened with child she informed him immediately, with undisguised satisfaction, for while she was breeding she did not have to accommodate the carnal activity that she found so odious. She was always happiest when she was pregnant. He was content then, too, for he found his pleasure elsewhere, with women who spread their legs for him with relish.

      He sat up in the bed to study the girl curled beneath the furs, her hair spilling over the pillows like silver in the candlelight. She did not seem to be repulsed by the act. He had even caught her studying his face with detached bemusement as he entered her, and it had made him wonder what was going through her mind.

      It might be possible to forge a bond with her, if he took the time to do it. She was young enough and inexperienced enough to be trained as a lover. It could be quite pleasant to share his bed with her.

      But that would give her some measure of power over him, and as his queen she had too much power already. He did