Shadow on the Crown. Patricia Bracewell

are lying,’ she said, refusing to be baited any more. ‘There can be no one else, for I am the obvious choice.’ And now that she had grown somewhat used to the idea, the prospect of wedding Æthelred, the king with the liquid hands, was suddenly extremely appealing.

      ‘Are you so confident, my dear?’ Wulf asked, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. ‘I would not be so, if I were you. My father does not provide any names, but he states quite clearly that other possible brides exist. Their advantages are even now under consideration by the king.’ He leaned towards her to whisper in her ear. ‘If you had gone to Rochester you might have been able to use your many charms to sway Æthelred in your favour. But, alas, you stayed here. Poor Elgiva. It looks as though you should have accompanied our father to the Christmas court after all.’ He nipped her ear and then got to his feet. Moments later he had joined a group of guests below the dais.

      Elgiva, following him with her eyes, still wondered if he had told her the truth. If he had, and if the king chose to look elsewhere for a bride, then her decision to remain here for the Yule feast was, quite possibly, the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.

      

       January 1002

       Fécamp, Normandy

      The cold, hard frosts of early January clung tightly to the lands that bordered the Narrow Sea, and for many days after the turn of the year, the tall masts of the Danish longships bristled in Fécamp’s harbour. When the ships set sail at last, following the whale road back to their homeland, folk in the town breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in the ducal palace life settled into its winter routine.

      The women of the duke’s household spent their daylight hours together in the chamber of Richard’s young wife, Judith, attending to their needlework. The lighter-weight summer tunics, mantles, fine linen shifts, even chausses and braies that belonged to members of the ducal family, had been drawn from their coffers, inspected carefully for rents and tears, and sorted into piles for repair.

      Emma, who had some skill with the harp, played softly for the women who were seated in a companionable circle around the brazier. As she plucked the strings her glance drifted to where Mathilde had taken advantage of a shaft of daylight filtering through the high, horn-covered window. She had recovered from the ague that had troubled her over the last weeks, and now her face, although still thin, had regained some colour and vibrancy. She was bent over an embroidery frame, where she worked a grail in pure gold thread upon a cope of white silk. It was to be a gift for their brother, Archbishop Robert, and Mathilde’s lips curved with satisfaction as the beautiful thing came to life beneath her fingers.

      Judith, pacing the chamber with her six-week-old son on her shoulder, paused to inspect Mathilde’s handiwork.

      ‘It is a magnificent and generous gift, Mathilde,’ she pronounced in a tone of grudging approval. ‘I hope that when it is completed you will turn your skill towards something more practical. You will require some fine new gowns, I think, when we return to Rouen.’

      Emma, watching her sister, saw her mouth purse. They both found it irksome to be ordered about by their brother’s wife, however well-intentioned her directives might be. Twenty years old, with nut-brown hair and a pleasingly rounded figure, Judith of Brittany’s benign appearance belied her strident personality. She had shouldered the role of duchess of Normandy with a vigour that irritated even the Dowager Duchess Gunnora. Months of internecine skirmishes between the duke’s wife and his mother had threatened to turn into all-out war, until finally the two women had managed to forge a workable truce. Gunnora continued to advise her son on matters of state, and Judith ruled his household. Emma and her sister had found the terms of the unspoken treaty not especially to their liking, but they had not been consulted.

      ‘Are the gowns that I already own not fine enough for my attendance at your court in Rouen, my lady?’ Mathilde’s voice rang high and sharp, with an unmistakably brittle edge that made Emma wince.

      ‘It was not meant to be a criticism, Mathilde,’ Judith snapped, shifting her child from one shoulder to the other, ‘but it is time to think about preparing for your betrothal and marriage. Now that Richard has a son I am certain that he will wish to provide for you and for Emma in the same way that he did for your elder sisters. You, Mathilde, will surely be the next to wed, and it may be sooner than you think.’

      Startled by Judith’s remark, Emma struck a false note, then set the harp aside. Her mind fastened on Judith’s words, and now she recalled the conversation she’d overheard between her brother and Swein Forkbeard. Had Richard, after all, promised his sister to the son of the Danish king? Or had that conversation with Forkbeard merely spurred Richard to bend his thoughts towards his youngest sisters’ marriage prospects?

      ‘Is my brother contemplating an alliance for my sister?’ she asked, keeping her tone light. ‘Pray, Judith, if you know something, do not keep us in suspense.’

      ‘Your brother,’ Judith said, ‘has Mathilde’s welfare, and yours, Emma, always at heart. Whatever provisions he makes for you will be explained to you at the appropriate time. I only bring this up now because, as you are both of an age to marry, you must comport yourselves differently than you have in the past. In particular, you, Emma, will not, under any circumstances, accompany Richard on his progress this summer. Best you put it out of your mind completely.’

      Emma stared at Judith in shock. ‘But I have always made that journey!’ she protested. From the time she was a little girl and, even she had to admit it, her father’s spoiled pet, she had been allowed to accompany the duke and her brothers on the summer progress to the ducal forts, abbeys, and manors that lay scattered across Normandy. Emma had been the only one of the sisters to make the annual trek, and she had revelled in the relative freedom of those excursions. It was true that she was accompanied by a small phalanx of personal attendants, who never left her side, but the rhythm of that itinerant existence provided a welcome contrast to the sequestered life inside the castle walls.

      ‘You are a child no longer,’ Judith said. ‘I have advised Richard that your place must be here, with the women of the court, and he has agreed. We will speak of it no more.’

      Emma bit her lip. Beside her, Margot, the healer and midwife who had assisted Emma into the world and who had accompanied her on those summer-long journeys, patted her hand in commiseration. Heavyhearted with disappointment, Emma began to sort through a pile of her gowns, searching for signs of wear. She would appeal to her mother about this, although she suspected it would do her little good.

      Judith, meanwhile, had handed her babe to a wet nurse and seated herself among the women again. They worked in less than amiable silence for some time, until it was broken by the sound of commotion from the castle yard below. Clearly some visitor of importance had approached the gate and was requesting audience with the duke. The calls of the gatekeeper and the door warden were too muffled, though, for anyone in the chamber to make out what was said.

      Judith gave a quick nod to Dari, an Irish slave who had accompanied her from Brittany. Tiny, soft-footed, and clever, Dari made an excellent little spy. She brought the ladies word of activities occurring in the duke’s hall long before any messages were conveyed along more formal lines. Judith rewarded Dari with ribbons, trinkets, and even silver pennies, depending on the import of the information that she carried, saying that it was well worth it in order to receive news almost as soon as it was heard in the kitchens.

      Emma, still brooding over the loss of her summer’s adventure, took up a cyrtel of her own and, inspecting it, found a rip at the hem. It was one of the gowns she wore when riding, very full and loose. She placed it on the pile to be mended, then looked up to see that Dari had returned, wild with excitement.

      ‘The messenger is English, my lady,’ Dari said breathlessly. ‘A company of men from across the Narrow Sea has landed at