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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

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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

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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

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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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