Last Tales of Mercia 1-10, Page 2

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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 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 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 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!”

  “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 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 s
o 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. 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 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 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.”

  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 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 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 loc
ked 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.