last tales of mercia 1: emma the queen
DESCRIPTION
To prove her innocence of crimes against her own son, King Edward, Emma of Normandy must walk barefoot over nine scalding ploughshares and come out unscathed. Set in the Dark Ages of Engla-lond, the "Last Tales of Mercia" are ten short stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the "Sons of Mercia" series. Though strongly connected to the series, they can be read independently.TRANSCRIPT
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Last tales of merLast tales of merLast tales of merLast tales of mer cia Icia Icia Icia IEMMA THE QUEEN
Written by
Jayden Woods
Edited by
Malcolm Pierce
Parchment background by struckdumb.deviantart.com
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**
“And this year, fourteen nights before the mass of St. Andrew, it
was advised the king, that he and Earl Leofric and Earl Godwin
and Earl Siward with their retinue, should ride from Gloucester
to Winchester unawares upon the lady [Emma]; and they
deprived her of all the treasures that she had; which were
immense; because she was formerly very hard upon the king her
son, and did less for him than he wished before he was king, and
also since ...”
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1043
WINCHESTER
Late 1040’s A.D.
“Is the tomb secure?”
Queen Emma’s question hung in the air for a few
moments, sending a coarse echo through the chilled stones
of the underground hallway. The abbess of Wherwell, who
had served as Emma’s prison warden before following her
here to Winchester, blinked at the queen through tightly-
narrowed lids. Abbess Mildred’s woolen wimple wrapped
her hair and neck completely, leaving nothing but a small
weaselly face to peer out at the queen. The manner of
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cruelty suggested by Mildred’s beady eyes never ceased to
amaze Emma, especially when compared to the kind but
sharp-witted soul that actually lurked behind them. Those
same eyes now twinkled with a combination of daring and
caution.
“I suppose that depends on what you mean by
‘secure,’” said the abbess with her nasally voice.
Queen Emma stared into the flickering shadows of
the Old Minster before her. Once upon a time, this hollow
chamber full of shifting shadows and the ghostly echo of
silence might have sparked her imagination and ignited
many nightmares. Now, as an old woman of nearly sixty
years who had seen murder, war, and treachery of every
sort, she took comfort in such darkness and quietude. She
could imagine little that would frighten her beyond what
she had already witnessed. These days, she only feared that
her own life would be forgotten, or—maybe worse—that
people would remember her for false and vile deeds she
never committed.
She sighed heavily, tiring of the game she must play,
and at last replied, “By secure, I mean that my prayer will
fall on friendly ears, and none other.”
“It is secure enough for that, my lady. Only the Lord
and His own good agents will hear your prayers.” A smile
cracked Mildred’s thin lips. “Of that I can assure you.”
“Thank you, Mildred.” Emma moved forward, her
robes whispering against the stones.
“Stop there.”
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A hard shoulder knocked Emma’s as a housecarl
moved around her. Emma jolted, having forgotten the
warrior’s presence. The iron of his sword flashed in the
candlelight and his chain mail jangled with obscene
loudness. Even now, after all the humiliation she had
suffered, Queen Emma had not grown accustomed to the
rudeness with which King Edward’s guards treated her. No
matter what the charges against her, they should never
forget that she had been the wife of two kings, and the
mother of two more.
The housecarl continued his brazen sweep of the
chamber, grabbing a torch from the wall and thrusting its
flames into the shadows of the Old Minster. Eventually, he
approached the tomb of Saint Swithin, Emma’s own
destination.
Abbess Mildred’s piercing voice rang suddenly
through the room. “May God forgive you,” she cried, “for
your appalling disrespect for his holy ground. For I
certainly do not!”
The housecarl stopped and turned, baring his grimy
teeth. Emma gulped, recognizing the man as one of Earl
Goodwin’s guards rather than King Edward’s. Some time
ago that would have been significant, back when Edward
still had his wits about him and recognized Lord Goodwin
as one of his most dangerous opponents. Now Goodwin
had slithered into King Edward’s mind like a snake through
his ear, convincing Edward to turn against his own mother,
while Edward continued to trust one of the most skilled
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liars in all of Engla-lond. Goodwin certainly shared some of
the skills of his “great uncle,” Eadric Streona the silver-
tongued traitor, even if the two were never really related by
blood.
The thought of Eadric the Grasper seemed to
transport her to another time and place, through a maze of
lies and treacheries, into the miserable years of her role as
King Ethelred’s wife, to the moment that Eadric changed
the fate of the country forever …
Weighed down by the burden of her memories,
Emma hunched into the embrace of her linen robes. A lock
of her gray hair brushed her chin, having escaped the snug
wrap of her wimple and crown. She let it stay there as a
reminder of how her own dignity was unraveling. She
preferred to huddle in the reality of her modest clothing
than fall too deeply into her own mind. Sometimes,
remembering the figures of her past felt like stepping into a
room full of cobwebs. If she touched one memory, all the
others would cling and pull at her until she drowned in
their silky grasp.
“Lady Emma will not be able to escape from this
room,” said Abbess Mildred to the housecarl, returning
Emma’s mind to her current predicament. “We’re
underground, for heaven’s sake. Can the poor woman not
have just a few moments of privacy before she …” Mildred
choked on her own high-pitched voice. She turned away,
but couldn’t hide that her beady little eyes blinked back
tears. “Before she must face judgment?”
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Emma found Mildred’s pity more annoying than
touching. The abbess had probably been about to say
“before she dies.” Most people assumed that Emma would
die tomorrow when she suffered her trial by fire. Emma
wished people would have more faith in her innocence,
which was why it was so important she prove it to them,
even at the risk of her body.
The housecarl grunted and gripped the pommel of
his sword, perhaps to remind them all of who was really in
charge here. Then he heaved his big shoulders and replied,
“True enough. This is as good of a prison as any. Stay in
here as long as you’d like, then.” A cruel smile twisted his
face as he returned to the door, nudging Emma through it,
and then slammed it behind her.
The thud of the wood roared in her ears a long
while. It was the last sound she heard before the silence of
the chamber enveloped her mind.
Careful not to disturb the peace of the room, Emma
moved forward, her slippers swishing ever so softly against
the floor. She watched the candlelight flicker against the
gold embroidery of her robes, making it glow as if with life.
She glanced upon the faces of the statues watching her from
the shadows, wondering how she looked to them. Did she
appear to be a poor old lady about to meet her death? Or
did she look like a grand queen whose weathered
appearance was only an indication of all the hardship she
had survived and overcome?
She nearly lost her footing when she noticed the
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sarcophagus of King Canute to her left. She paused and
stared breathlessly at the burial place of her late husband.
Then she diverted her path long enough to brush her
fingers over the stones of his tomb.
“Lend me your strength, husband,” she whispered,
and fought back the prickling of tears in her eyes.
Sometimes marriage with him had felt like a voyage in a
neverending storm. But she had always known he could
man the helm strongly enough to protect the boat, as it
were; and she had always trusted that he would not let her
drown in the chaos around him. He had always challenged
her in ways she didn’t expect, or pushed her to reach for
dreams she would have otherwise left untouched. She had
loved him for that. She had never known exactly how he
felt about her. She had bound him to Engla-lond, as well as
the Christian faith of the Anglo-Saxons. Sometimes, he had
resented her for that; at other times, he had respected her.
In the end, at least she knew that much.
Brushing away the bud of a tear, she turned and
forged onward.
Eventually she stood before the tomb of Saint
Swithin, the patron saint of Winchester Cathedral. Around
the raised sarcophagus, the shrine twinkled with jeweled
candelabras and a silken cushion. Emma knelt gratefully on
the fabric, breathed deeply of the candles’ smoke, then
exhaled her supplication.
“Oh dearest Saint Swithin, who performed sweet
miracles for the lost souls of your lifetime, please hear my
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prayer tonight. Perform another miracle for me, our Lord’s
humble servant, Queen Emma.”
She waited, peering cautiously into the shadows,
and mourned the fact that her vision was not as sharp as it
had once been. “Does my prayer fall on deaf ears?”
“It does not.”
Emma’s heart leapt into her throat as a dark shape
arose behind the sarcophagus. At first she dared not believe
her eyes: a human figure stepped forward, gleaming with
the finest robes and vestments. Then yellow light brushed
over his face, revealing its familiar features, and Emma
cried out with unrestrained relief.
“Stigand!”
She forgot the aches of her joints as she rose up and
rushed towards the archbishop—the man who had been
her counselor and adviser for so many long years as a
queen. The man who had comforted her when she
struggled with the frightening temperament of her second
husband, King Canute.
She forgot all rules of propriety as she sank against
his robes, wrapped her arms around him, and rested her
cheek against his shoulder. She felt her own wimple fall
back, releasing her gray and yellow locks to brush against
his face. She inhaled the familiar scent of him, sweet with
incense, carrying only a slight hint of the musky man
beneath the wool.
He hesitated at first, then returned her embrace,
pressing his hands to her back. “Emma. It is not too late. I
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have found a champion to fight in your name. He is a
skilled warrior, and he would easily—”
“No.” Emma reluctantly pulled back, meeting his
golden gaze with her own blue eyes. His face was growing
as old and weathered as her own, she realized, but this
warmed her heart and made her smile. “That would not
prove my innocence well enough, Stigand. I should be the
vessel of God’s justice, rather than two men with swords, if
I wish to demonstrate my purity.”
His eyes saddened. His hand reached up to brush
back her hair. “And are you pure, Emma?”
She stiffened and pulled away from him. How dare
he ask her that, of all people? And yet she knew by the
weight filling her heart that he was right to doubt her. “My
son Edward—or should I say his new friend, Earl Goodwin
—accused me of three things. First, that I helped arrange
the death of my own son Alfred.” She managed to say the
terrible words without wavering, but afterward, she needed
a moment to regain her strength before continuing.
“Secondly, that I withheld riches from Edward in order to
give them to his enemy, Magnus of Norway. And finally,
that I had impure relations with Bishop Alwyn of
Winchester.” She smiled sadly at Stigand. “He gets closer to
the truth with each accusation. But of those exact crimes, at
least, I am innocent.”
Stigand regarded her with an icy gaze. He was a soft
man, well-fed and a stranger to hard labor, but his spirit
could be as hard as steel when he focused it. The
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candlelight flickered against his chin, emphasizing the firm
set of his jaw. The graveness of his expression surprised her.
“Did you ever doubt it, Stigand?”
“I ...” He deflated and looked away, grinding his
jaws. “I wondered about Alwyn, sometimes.”
Emma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry out with
rage. Instead she made a torn sound of pure surprise. “Why
would you even … ?”
His eyes met hers again, the regret in them cooling
her temper. “I suppose I was guilty of the sin of jealousy. I
could accept that you had to … withhold yourself from me,
out of respect for the laws of heaven and your husband,
King Canute.” The confession clearly required effort; Emma
had never heard him speak so plainly of the temptation that
had always hung silently between them. “But the fear—no,
rage—at the thought that you might sin with another man
… perhaps it clouded my judgment.”
“Oh Stigand ...” She resisted the urge to reach out
and touch him again. Mirthless laughter burst from her
throat. “How ironic it is! I never felt tempted in the
presence of Alwyn, so I was more careless. I didn’t go to
great lengths not to be closed in the same room with him, or
wonder what people might think if we took a long walk
together. I didn’t hesitate to touch him or show fondness
towards him, for I knew nothing would come of it. I
suppose that is why someone like Goodwin thought he
could weave a scandal from it. But with you ...” She shook
her head at the ridiculousness of it all. “With you, I must
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have seemed especially cold, for I was afraid that if I let any
of the warmth I felt for you seep outward, it would melt my
heart completely.”
The firmness of his face cracked. Emotion clouded
his eyes. He turned his head and hastened to change the
subject, but she knew what she had seen behind his mask,
and it gladdened her more than she could express. “If you
will not accept a champion to fight for you, then we must
think of another way to save you tomorrow.”
“You’re right. It is only God who can save me.”
Emma bowed her head. “I suppose it is not enough that I
am innocent of Edward’s exact accusations. I must be pure
in the eyes of God, as well. For the truth is that while I
never deliberately caused Alfred to die, I was foolish to
invite him to Engla-lond without being more cautious. I
was even more foolish leave him in the care of Goodwin,
the true murderer. And it is true that sometimes, even now,
I blame myself for what happened.”
“Emma ...”
She ignored Stigand and looked up at the tomb of
Saint Swithin, hoping to draw strength from it. “Secondly, I
did not save my riches especially for Magnus the Good of
Norway, who would have waged war against Edward and
all of Engla-lond. But I did withhold my money from
Edward, and I did believe that Magnus would have made a
better king than my son; it was almost as if Edward could
sense that. Magnus once made a treaty with my
Harthacanute in Denmark, showing fairness and patience.
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He also wanted to reunite the North Sea Empire under one
king, as Canute once dreamed of doing.” She smiled sadly.
“I used to think of Canute as conceited and greedy for
having that dream. But after our many years together, I
admired him for it. I admired Magnus, as well. More than I
admire my own son, Edward, who now seems to love
Normandy more than the land on which he rules.”
She turned her gaze back to Stigand, knowing that in
order to purify her soul, she must speak to him directly.
“And thirdly, though I never had impure relations with
Bishop Alwyn, my heart did not always belong to the men
who were my husbands.”
“Stop this.” Stigand surged forward, seizing her
shoulders in his grip. “You should not have to confess
anything, Emma. You should be free of all guilt, for you
have done nothing wrong. If anything, you are only wrong
for doubting yourself.”
She appreciated his faith in her, but she did not want
it right now. “Then there is nothing else to do,” she said,
“but pray.”
“That’s not true!” His hands moved down to clasp
hers. His forwardness unnerved her, but she took what
comfort she could from his grip, nonetheless. “Don’t you
see? I will be there tomorrow, holding your hand as you
walk over the nine ploughshares.”
Emma cringed at the reminder. She tried not to think
about what she must do tomorrow in any detail; she tried
to keep her mind as blind to the truth as she would be
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when it happened with a cloth around her eyes. But now
she envisioned the horrible truth, and it made her weak in
the knees. Nine large blades pulled from ploughs would be
laid out on the floor of the cathedral. Moreover, they would
be burning hot, lifted from the flames of a blazing fire.
Blindfolded and barefoot, she would have to walk all the
way across the cathedral through the path of the blades. If
she suffered many injuries and those injuries festered, they
would mark her as guilty.
She became grateful for Stigand’s hold on her as she
trembled. She squeezed his hands tightly. “God save me,”
she gasped, “I only wish there would not be anyone
watching—especially you.” People from all over Engla-lond
would gather tomorrow to watch her trial, she was sure of
it. If she slipped and sliced herself on the blades, they
would all witness her pain and humiliation; some might
even revel in it. But the thought of Stigand watching her
suffer so was the greatest injustice all. “Why must it be you
who leads me over the ploughshares?”
“Because I volunteered.” The exhilaration in his
voice surprised her. His eyes blazed into hers. “Emma, if
you are willing to let me, I can guide you tomorrow. I will
be holding one of your hands as you walk forth; a second
bishop will hold the other. Our task is to keep you walking
forward, so you do not tarry too long, or wander from the
path of blades completely. But I can do more than that, if
you let me.”
Initially, the suggestion affronted her. Did he advise
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a form of cheating? She should have dismissed the thought
completely. Instead she found herself asking, “What of the
other bishop?”
Stigand considered this a moment. “I’m not sure
who it will be, but if my fears are correct, the other bishop
may be Robert himself, the new Archbishop of Canterbury.”
A tendril of hate snaked through Emma’s belly. “He’s
the Norman who suggested I undergo this trial in the first
place!”
Stigand nodded reluctantly.
Emma shook her head at the ridiculousness of the
situation. “How strange that I spent my childhood in
Normandy, then my adolescence in Engla-lond, and now
my heart belongs to the latter kingdom. For Edward, I feel
the opposite happened. He spent his tender years between
youth and adulthood with his Norman relatives, and they
have seized his heart until there is room for nothing else! I
find it hard to believe that he has already made Robert of
Jumièges the most powerful man of our church. But I
suppose I cannot deny it forever.”
Stigand bowed his head in affirmation. “Several
other Norman lords now hold positions of power in Engla-
lond. But that is not our concern now, Emma. You can do
nothing about it until we have restored you to your former
status.”
“You are right about that.” She met his gaze
fearlessly. “So tell me what you have in mind.”
*
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She felt brave until the blindfold wrapped around
her eyes.
Until that moment, she conducted herself with the
utmost dignity and courage. She strode into the wondrous
nave of Winchester Cathedral. She faced the roiling crowds
of laymen, bishops, and nobles. She stared down her son
from the other side of the room; she could not see him well
now, but she knew his face well enough to imagine it. The
crown would be weighing heavily upon his gentle face,
golden hair, and lanky limbs. He would frown a little to see
that his mother had chosen to go through with this
dangerous trial, though he still believed her guilty. Then he
would listen to the whisper of Archbishop Robert in his ear,
that foul Norman, and his frown of concern would become
a scowl of condemnation.
The crowds were even denser than she’d expected.
Bodies stuffed the church in every corner she looked. More
strained to watch through the windows and doorway. Their
murmuring voices created a roar in her ears that grated
down her bones. Her head grew dizzy as her eyes searched
the multitude, trying to find a familiar face.
Then she saw Stigand, and all her courage returned
to her.
Archbishop Robert called the mob to order and read
to them her charges. The crowd surged with rage at each
accusation, especially the last, claiming that she’d had
impure relations with Bishop Alwyn. “May she cross four
ploughsares to prove her own innocence,” said the
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Norman, “and five more to prove Bishop Alwyn’s.”
The congregation rumbled with a combination of
assent and discontent. It warmed her heart that at least a
few who had gathered here today did so to cheer for her.
Nonetheless, she was gladder still when the room went
silent as she stepped forward.
“My king and son,” she said, staring down the nave
of the church to King Edward. As the entire audience went
still, her voice reverberated down the stone walls,
demanding the attention of every living creature in earshot.
“I, Emma, who bore and brought you forth—as well as my
dear son Alfred—invoke God to bear witness to me this
day. May I perish if what has been charged against me ever
even entered my mind.”
Her guilt slammed her stomach after that last line.
She referred primarily to the charge of murdering Alfred.
As for the other crimes … perhaps she had considered
supporting Magnus at one time or another. Perhaps her
heart had strayed temporarily from her husbands. But she
remembered her conversation with Stigand, and this gave
her strength. She had done nothing she regretted. And in
the end, it would be God who judged her today; not
Edward. Only God knew her heart and soul, and only God
could judge her accordingly.
Servants finished sweeping the nave of the church of
any and all debris. Then King Edward waved his hand, and
in walked monks carrying the nine ploughshares, each
glowing red with the heat of the fires from with they’d been
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plucked.
Even then, Emma stayed strong. A bishop standing
next to her gently took hold of her and turned her around
so that she would not see the placement of the blades. She
heard the scraping of the hot iron as it slid over the
pavement. Her heart raced against her ribcage, but she took
a deep breath and calmed herself. She knew that even
though the blades would lie very close to each other, there
would be at least a small amount of space between them—
barely enough to walk through unscathed, if everything
went according to plan.
She reached up and peeled off her outer robes until
she stood in nothing but a soft linen shift. She pulled off her
shoes and pressed her bare skin to the cold grains of the
floor. A little chill went through her, but she stifled it with
her resolve.
Then the monks wrapped the cloth around her eyes,
plunging her into darkness, and her fear rose up to
suffocate her.
Her heart thundered in her ears. Her knees
threatened to buckle. Two hands grabbed her shoulders
and turned her back around. Her frantic imagination
rushed to occupy the darkness of the blindfold with the
most terrible visage of what lay ahead. She saw herself
stepping onto the blades and scorching her flesh. She heard
herself screaming and tumbling and tearing her feet to
shreds as she hastened to run over the remaining
ploughshares. She imagined the people laughing, or else
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cheering for justice and her ongoing demise. She swallowed
back a whimper before it could resound from her throat.
Then a soft touch brushed her right hand, and even
though she could not see him, she knew who it was.
Stigand. She squeezed back against his fingers.
“Are you ready?” he asked her quietly.
Before she could respond, another grip seized her
left hand and yanked her forward.
She doubted it was Archbishop Robert himself,
though it might as well have been. When she last saw her
Norman enemy, he had been standing next to the king,
eager to witness her humiliation. He must have decided he
would rather witness her trial and deal judgment upon her
than lend a hand to her demise. He had probably sent a
bishop as equally dedicated to her failure as himself to lead
her over the blades.
Stigand could only slow down the pace so much as
they proceeded forward. Emma could already feel herself
tripping over her reluctant feet. Why were her legs so stiff?
She had felt courageous only a moment ago. Now she knew
that she walked towards her doom, and it required all of
her willpower not to pull away from the bishops and run as
fast as she could from the cathedral.
A roaring sound filled her mind, and at first she
thought this was her own terror, deafening her as equally as
she was already blinded. Then she discerned people’s
voices amidst the cacophony and, after that, words.
“Long live Emma!”
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“God save our Queen!”
She knew that not everyone yelled in her favor, but
perhaps God allowed her to hear the people who did, and
this gave her enough courage to continue. She managed not
to stumble as the unknown bishop gave her another tug
forward. She felt the heat of the blades warming the air near
her toes, and she knew she was about to step upon them.
She must not lose heart now, though another tremble shook
her knees.
The voices fed her strength. She lifted one foot and
prepared to place it forward. Stigand tugged her little
finger. She lifted her face heavenward even as she rotated
her raised foot slightly left. “Oh God,” she said aloud, “who
saved Susannah from the malice of the wicked elders, and
the three children from the furnace of fire, save me from the
fire prepared for me, for the sake of your holy servant
Swithin.”
Then she planted her foot on the ground and her
skin met stone.
Sounds of lamentation arose from the crowd,
making her wonder if she had actually stepped upon a
blade while her own shock and denial kept her from
realizing it. Then she felt the sting of hot metal brushing her
ankle, and she knew she judged her situation correctly. She
had stepped into a safe crack between the blades, so small
that she probably seemed to stand upon the scorching iron
to everyone watching.
She lifted her other foot while listening to the
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ongoing moans of the congregation. They were so certain of
her peril that they did not watch her closely enough. Either
way, their concern for her came as a great encouragement.
She would prove herself today, not only for her own sake,
but for those who still loved her.
Stigand gave her wrist a slight push upward.
Her foot came down again, and the bishop’s tug on
her left hand gave her no time to second-guess herself. She
pushed her foot a little further forward then sank her
weight onto the leg.
When she realized that she had stepped into safety
once more, she nearly cried out with triumph. She felt like
she could float into the air with glee. She had altered her
movement exactly as needed, almost as if an angel guided
her.
But an angel did not guide her. Stigand did.
Last night, they had gone over his plan in great
detail. Stigand had figured out a way to hold her hand and
make small movements with his fingers—such as squeezing
one part of her hand, or pulling another—that would
indicate whether to move her foot forward, left, right, or
backwards as she took each step. He had gone over it with
her again and again, even practicing it with her, until the
movements felt like second nature.
At one point while they practiced, Emma felt so
elated by the growing taste of victory that she allowed
herself to fall back into Stigand’s arms, listen to his deep
breathing, and look up so that her cheek brushed his chin.
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A jolt of heat rushed through her, so intense she felt like a
young woman again, meeting King Canute for the first
time. But this man was not Canute. This was a man she
cared for even more.
Stigand had stiffened suddenly, perhaps sensing her
change of mood, and looked away from her. His touch had
grown cold. “I think we’ve practiced enough,” he said.
“Perhaps we should pray now.”
And so they had. They had prayed and prayed, or at
least gone through the motions of doing so. For once,
despite all the riches and holy items that Emma had
bestowed upon this cathedral and many others, she could
not put her heart in the act. She could only think of Stigand,
and during the few moments in which she prayed sincerely,
she found herself thanking God for sending him.
Now, standing amidst the burning ploughshares,
Emma remembered the graveness of Stigand’s voice and
wondered if she should have paid heed to it. She had
sensed, for a moment, that he felt ashamed of what he was
doing. Ashamed that he cared so much for Emma.
Ashamed that he would come up with a dishonest scheme
like this in order to save her.
Then the guilt seized her too, and it did so all at
once, like a fist closing in her stomach. She wobbled where
she stood. The monk on her left gave her another yank
forward. Then she found herself stumbling.
After that, her mind disconnected from her body.
Perhaps it foresaw the demise of her flesh and retreated
22
prematurely to the spiritual realm. She did not know how
else to describe the moment she ceased to feel anything and
yet her feet kept moving forward.
She saw flashing fire. She heard screams and shouts.
Smoke billowed and revealed shadows amidst the orange
light. The shadows took the shape of horses, riders, and
slashing swords. She saw blood spatter and footmen fall.
She looked down and saw that she walked on dead
bodies. She wanted to scream, but her fear petrified her. She
felt someone squeeze her hand—Stigand?—and so she kept
moving.
The smoke cleared and ahead of her she saw a
Norman castle looming over the landscape. Anglo-Saxons
did not build fortresses like this one; its stone keep towered
high on a motte above the valleys of Engla-lond, and from
that stretched a large bailey barricaded with walls and
palisades. From this castle, all the blood flowed in swollen
rivers to fill the pastures below. She looked down and saw
that she now stood in the blood, and its level rose quickly to
drown her.
At last she panicked. She tried to escape, thrashing
with her limbs. Hands gripped each of her arms and held
her in place.
Then she remembered reality. She realized that she
did not swim in blood, but still walked between two
bishops. She did not tread upon dead bodies. In fact, she
felt cool stones under the bare skin of her feet.
The bishops released her arms. She turned her head
23
in puzzlement, though she still could not see.
“Where are the rest of the ploughshares?” she asked.
Gasps echoed around the room. Soft hands grabbed
her blindfold and untied it.
Emma looked upon the face of Stigand. Relief and
wonder shone in his eyes. “You passed them all,” he
breathed, his voice almost a whisper.
The room erupted with cheers, applause, and cries of
astonishment. Now that she could see again, the ocean of
faces surrounding her was dizzying: nobles, peasants,
monks, and laymen filled the entire cathedral with
rejoicing. Each one wept for joy, laughed with relief, or
prayed with humility.
A single groan of sorrow resounded louder than all
the rest, and Emma turned to find her son as the source.
Now that she had crossed the path of ploughshares, Emma
stood only a few steps away from him. King Edward had
fallen from his chair to kneel on the floor, tears trickling
down his pale cheeks and into his blond beard.
“Mother,” he cried. “Forgive me.”
Seeing him this way, Emma might have expected to
feel relief. Instead, rage poured through her veins. God
may have proven her innocent of her crimes. But Edward
was still king of Engla-lond. And now he groveled at her
feet like the weak, cowardly child she had always feared
him to be.
“I will forgive you,” she said, “when you correct
your mistakes, and cast our enemies from your court.”
24
The roar of the congregation had not ceased. Her
voice was nearly lost in the tumultuous jubilation. But a
few people around Edward frowned at her—people she
recognized all too well. The pot-bellied Earl Goodwin stood
amongst them, the man truly responsible for the murder of
her son Alfred. Archbishop Robert, the judge of her trial,
had slinked into a corner and lost the will to speak. A few
Anglo-Saxon thegns lingered nearby, but sticking out like a
rock amidst jewels sat the large Richard FitzScrob, folding
his legs in an awkward attempt to hide his crooked feet.
Emma faintly recalled that this was one of the many
Norman lords Edward had brought with him to Engla-lond
and given a great spread of land on which to make his
mark—and perhaps to build a castle.
Of a sudden her vision returned to her, and she felt
the urgent need to express it. Perhaps if she had been more
patient, she would have waited for the noise of the crowd to
fade somewhat. But Edward could hear her, at least, and
right now that was all that seemed to matter.
“I saw something as I walked over the
ploughshares,” she rasped. “I saw the Normans taking over
Engla-lond. I saw their castles sprouting across the land,
like weeds watered by blood. I saw their knights cutting
down Anglo-Saxons and ruining the soil. Your people will
die by the thousands if you let the Normans take root here.”
Edward’s eyes were huge with astonishment. The
tears on his cheeks had dried, stale atop his gaping face.
When he made that expression, he reminded her of his
25
foolish father, King Ethelred.
Archbishop Robert swept forward suddenly,
reaching out to Emma. She flinched but did not draw away
as his hand brushed her forehead.
“Dear Queen,” he said calmly, “God saved your
body from harm, but I fear the trial has exhausted your
mind and left you feverish.”
She wanted to argue with him, but she worried he
was right to some degree, for she swayed on her feet and
could not come up with a good response. The din of the
audience was fading now, but she remained dizzy, a strange
ringing in her ears even as the room grew quiet. She was
faintly aware of Edward and Robert nodding to each other,
then the king straightening up though he remained on his
knees.
“Mother,” he said, “God has clearly saved you today.
I admit to all of Engla-lond that I was wrong to suspect you
of crimes that will never be mentioned again. Please help
me atone for my mistake by striking me, once for each
wrongful accusation brought upon you.”
He motioned to a bishop carrying a long wooden
wand. The bishop handed it to the queen. As Emma took it
in her hands, Edward turned and bowed his head,
presenting his back to her.
The entire room was watching Queen Emma now,
listening to her every breath. Why had they not been
listening a moment ago, when she needed them to hear
about her vision? Feeling more and more light-headed, she
26
looked to Stigand for comfort, but his face was pale and
drawn. His eyes flicked to the king, suggesting that she
should carry on with her task.
Her anger returned to her and she poured it into the
wooden wand, lifting it high and then slapping it against
her son’s back. As she struck him, she thought of all men
who had wrought ruin upon Engla-lond with their
incompetence and insecurity, the worst of which being her
first husband of fourteen years, King Ethelred. When she
struck him a second time, then a third, she thought of King
Canute, the man who came the closest to forging Engla-
lond into a powerful empire, and whose legacy would soon
be snuffed out by her own son with King Ethelred.
When she finished, the wand fell from her fingertips
with a clatter against the stones. She stood there awhile,
trembling. Then King Edward rose up, favoring his aching
back, and turned to embrace her.
“It is finished,” he said, and wrapped his arms
around his mother.
Emma stood prisoner in Edward’s embrace as her
eyes locked with Lord Richard FitzScrob of Normandy
behind him. She considered it futile to tell Edward that he
was wrong, and that he had not yet finished paying for his
mistakes.
*
In the cloister of Saint Mary of Winchester, Emma
often managed to forget the troubles of her past and the
haunting visions of her future. She sat in the garden on a
27
warm summer day and felt the sunshine easing the aches of
her aging joints. She listened to the music of the birds and
the soft whisper of the wind through the trees. The sound
of singing nuns echoed from the nearby church and she
hoped they did not resent her absence. She silently thanked
them for their discretion; when she felt the need to wander
off on her own or entertain visitors, they did not question
her.
A shadow fell over her and scattered the warmth of
the sun from her face. But she smiled, for the man standing
before her was Stigand, and she reached up to grip his
hand.
“Archbishop,” she said softly, straining to make out
his face within the stark silhouette. “Why did you wait so
long to visit me?”
His hand squeezed back against her, but his voice
carried discomfort. “Because it is unseemly for a man to
step foot in a convent.”
“Never mind that.” Smiling recklessly, she yanked
his hand hard, drawing him next to her on the bench. “If
they question my ‘innocence,’ let them put me to another
test.”
She had meant to lighten the mood, but as Stigand
settled next to her, a frigid silence fell over them. The
memory of the trial of ploughshares was one of her least
favorites to revisit, and she had not meant to bring it up so
soon.
They sat quietly for a time, acknowledging the
28
gravity of all the memories shared between them, their
many discussions of old, and the few words yet unspoken.
“Emma,” he said at last. She turned to look at him,
noting the bags under his eyes, the drooping of the skin
around his lips. Nonetheless, his nose still cut a handsome
line, and his gaze shone with vigor. “I have come to ask
your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” She attempted a laugh. “Whatever
for?”
He looked down at his clasped hands, wringing
them over the soft folds of his robes. “When I came to you
the night before your trial, I acted selfishly. I could not bear
the thought that you might fall upon the burning blades
and suffer fatal wounds. I felt I must do anything to keep
that from happening, and my fear blinded me. I tempted
you to do something dishonest and sinful. I led you to cheat
on one of the most holy trials of our Lord God in heaven.”
“Cheat! Is that how you see what we did, Stigand?”
She grabbed his sleeve and shook it, urging him to look at
her, but still he did not. “I think you are wrong. I admit,
there have been times when I questioned our methods that
day as well. But then I realized that if God wanted me to
fail the trial, then he would not have sent you to lead me
through the path in the first place.”
His breath caught and at last his gaze met hers,
blazing with the need to believe her.
She smiled softly at him. “I feel no shame for what
happened that day, Stigand. Please tell me that you don’t
29
regret doing it.”
“Of course I don’t regret it.” His voice cracked in his
throat; tears glittered upon his lashes. “Emma, even if I
knew it to be a sin, I would have done it a hundred times
over to save you. And I would have prayed that God would
forgive me, if only because I acted out of love.”
Her heart raced. She leaned close to him and
wrapped her hands in his robes, drowning in the comfort of
his closeness. Then she kissed him.
By most standards it might have seemed a plain kiss,
soft and simple, a brief moment of their lips touching and
then drawing apart. But Emma knew it was one of the most
passionate kisses she had ever experienced, and it meant
more than any of her rigid nights in Ethelred’s bed, or even
her most frenzied couplings with Canute. When she pulled
away, her body was unsatisfied, but her soul was at peace.
She glimpsed the same feelings reflected in Stigand’s eyes.
She sank down against him and rested her head on
his shoulder. Together they watched the flowers of the
garden sway with the wind while bugs hopped amidst the
petals.
“There is something else that troubles me,” said
Stigand after awhile, but his voice was soft, its tone
contemplative. “I have never stopped wondering about the
strange words you spoke when your trial was over and you
stood over your son. You said you had a vision as you
walked over the ploughshares, and that thousands would
die if the Normans took root in Engla-lond. Edward seems
30
to have forgotten your strange prophecy, but I have not.
Did you mean it, Emma? Or were you merely saying what
you thought Edward needed to hear?”
“I meant it, Stigand.” She dug her fingers into his
robes, seeking warmth as a forgotten chill crept through her
bones. “We may have faked the trial, but my prophecy was
real.”
**
READ MORE
The chronology of the Sons of Mercia series is as follows:
EADRIC THE GRASPER (Sons of Mercia Vol. 1)
GODRIC THE KINGSLAYER (Sons of Mercia Vol. 2)
Last Tales of Mercia
EDRIC THE WILD (Sons of Mercia Vol. 3)
One Last Tale of Mercia will every other Tuesday until the
release of the novel, Edric the Wild (October 2, 2012). For more
news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit
www.jaydenwoods.com.
Last Tales of Mercia
1
Emma the Queen (late 1040’s)
Queen Emma’s own son, King Edward, has been turned
31
against her by Goodwin of Wessex and Archbishop Robert from
Normandy. Edward accuses his mother of treachery and adultery
with an English bishop. To prove her innocence, Emma must
walk barefoot over nine scalding ploughshares and come out
unscathed.
Releasing NEXT (May 29, 2012)—
2
Richard the Norman (1051)
King Edward calls upon the lords of Engla-lond to protect
him against the rebellious earl of Wessex, Lord Goodwin. Richard
FitzScrob is a Norman lord who has only been in Engla-lond for a
few years and struggles to provide military support. Eager to
teach his son the pride and culture of their Norman heritage, he
determines to strengthen his stance in Engla-lond no matter what
the cost to the Saxons beneath him.
3 – Elwyna the Exile (June 12, 2012)
4 – Ralph the Knight (June 26, 2012)
5 – Osgifu the Sister (July 10, 2012)
6 – Hereward the Outlaw (July 24, 2012)
7 – Godric the Thegn (August 7, 2012)
8 – Audrey the Villein (August 21, 2012)
9 – Sigurd the Gleeman (September 4, 2012)
10 - Osbern the Son (September 18, 2012)
EDRIC THE WILD,
the novel concluding the Sons of Mercia series,
releases October 2, 2012
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various
monks until the year 1140, were my primary sources of
information. So, too, were the Chronicles of Florence of
Worcester and the Chronicles of the Kings of England as written
by William of Malmesbury. Without the devotion of these men to
chronicle the chaotic events of their time, so little of the Dark
Ages would be known.
Special thanks to these additional sources for this story:
Hall, Mrs. Matthew. Lives of the Queens of England
before the Norman Conquest. Blanchard and Lea, 1854.
http://books.google.com/books?
id=s4bRUwuluG8C&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge
_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false
O’Brien, Harriet. Queen Emma and the Vikings. Bloomsbury
Publishing,
To view a full list of sources, or to tell me what you think of my
work, visit my blog at http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com2005.
Print.
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Edric the Wild, written by Jayden Woods
Edited by Linda Copeland, Cover Art by Del Melchionda
Releasing OCTOBER 2, 2012
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