had been aware of the probable disapproval by her husband. She smiled at the only serving maid, a girl of no more than her own age.
“Merci bien, you may leave me now the King has come.”
The girl, with a wary glance at Æthelred, bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
Æthelred helped himself to wine, sat on the edge of the bed to drink it. There was something different about him tonight, something less intense. He bent down to fondle Saffron’s ears, then rub at her belly as the dog rolled onto her back, her absurdly large paws waving in the air.
“Dog’s as daft as a mooncalf,” he said. “She’ll have no sense for hunting.”
“But I do not intend to use her for hunting,” Emma answered, surprised at her audacity. “You have better dogs for that task.”
Draining the goblet, Æthelred agreed affably. “You are right there, plenty far better than this runt.” He glanced up at Emma, looked away. “Would you like to come hunting with me? I’ve not had a chance to show you much sport yet, but now it is unlikely that bastard pain in the backside, Forkbeard, will be troubling us, I can devote some of my time to you.” He set the goblet down, started to unlace his tunic. “I heard of your exploits today,” he remarked casually, without raising his eyes. “There has been talk of nothing else. You are quite the heroine.”
His fingers stopped their fumbling; he looked at her from across the room, his eyes meeting hers, aware he had treated her poorly these short months of marriage. He had not meant to; it had been the pressure of that damned Danishman nagging at him, the knowing it would be impossible to gather an army together and see him off, once and for all. He felt inadequate and useless when those Viking longships were prowling the coast, and had a desperate need to prove his power and importance. He had never been permitted the initiative before, not while his mother had lived. Power? Importance? What did he know of either? She had held the reins of both in her talons, tossing him a chewed bone occasionally as compensation. Him? King? The only thing of kingship he had held were the symbols, the sceptre and the crown. Ælfthryth had taken everything else from him and used it for her own gain. From childhood she had controlled and commanded him, down to choosing which women should share his bed and bear his children. And when the first son came, had taken him too. Oh, he knew they whispered and sneered behind his back, mocked him, insulted him because of it. As a counter, he blustered and shouted, ruled his kingdom by pretence of wrath. Then he got drunk and took his impotence out on those who could not answer him back. Proved his manhood where he could, in bed.
He attempted a weak, apologetic smile at Emma. She was a child; it was not her fault he had no idea how to govern a country or plan a successful counter-attack on Viking raiders, that he had to rely on the judgement of others. Others who were too busy lining their own money chests or working their way, rung by rung, up the ladder of power.
He stepped behind her, took the comb, and lifted a strand of her hair. He stroked the comb through the softness, enjoying the silk feel on his fingers, the smell of scented herbs. He had made a mistake by wedding with this mouse who did not ignite a flame within him. Was that why he had agreed to the marriage? A timid creature who would not dare attempt to go against him? Who would bow her head and think of him as God Almighty? Stark contrast to his damned mother!
“I expelled Ealdorman Leofsige from England today,” he said, selecting another strand of hair. “He hanged a man and exceeded his authority and had the audacity to challenge my judgement. For the first time in my life, I did something I wanted to do and would not listen to anyone who would sway me.”
“It was a correct decision,” Emma answered, boldly adding, “I did not much like Ealdorman Leofsige, nor his sister.”
“He was my
“Merci bien, you may leave me now the King has come.”
The girl, with a wary glance at Æthelred, bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
Æthelred helped himself to wine, sat on the edge of the bed to drink it. There was something different about him tonight, something less intense. He bent down to fondle Saffron’s ears, then rub at her belly as the dog rolled onto her back, her absurdly large paws waving in the air.
“Dog’s as daft as a mooncalf,” he said. “She’ll have no sense for hunting.”
“But I do not intend to use her for hunting,” Emma answered, surprised at her audacity. “You have better dogs for that task.”
Draining the goblet, Æthelred agreed affably. “You are right there, plenty far better than this runt.” He glanced up at Emma, looked away. “Would you like to come hunting with me? I’ve not had a chance to show you much sport yet, but now it is unlikely that bastard pain in the backside, Forkbeard, will be troubling us, I can devote some of my time to you.” He set the goblet down, started to unlace his tunic. “I heard of your exploits today,” he remarked casually, without raising his eyes. “There has been talk of nothing else. You are quite the heroine.”
His fingers stopped their fumbling; he looked at her from across the room, his eyes meeting hers, aware he had treated her poorly these short months of marriage. He had not meant to; it had been the pressure of that damned Danishman nagging at him, the knowing it would be impossible to gather an army together and see him off, once and for all. He felt inadequate and useless when those Viking longships were prowling the coast, and had a desperate need to prove his power and importance. He had never been permitted the initiative before, not while his mother had lived. Power? Importance? What did he know of either? She had held the reins of both in her talons, tossing him a chewed bone occasionally as compensation. Him? King? The only thing of kingship he had held were the symbols, the sceptre and the crown. Ælfthryth had taken everything else from him and used it for her own gain. From childhood she had controlled and commanded him, down to choosing which women should share his bed and bear his children. And when the first son came, had taken him too. Oh, he knew they whispered and sneered behind his back, mocked him, insulted him because of it. As a counter, he blustered and shouted, ruled his kingdom by pretence of wrath. Then he got drunk and took his impotence out on those who could not answer him back. Proved his manhood where he could, in bed.
He attempted a weak, apologetic smile at Emma. She was a child; it was not her fault he had no idea how to govern a country or plan a successful counter-attack on Viking raiders, that he had to rely on the judgement of others. Others who were too busy lining their own money chests or working their way, rung by rung, up the ladder of power.
He stepped behind her, took the comb, and lifted a strand of her hair. He stroked the comb through the softness, enjoying the silk feel on his fingers, the smell of scented herbs. He had made a mistake by wedding with this mouse who did not ignite a flame within him. Was that why he had agreed to the marriage? A timid creature who would not dare attempt to go against him? Who would bow her head and think of him as God Almighty? Stark contrast to his damned mother!
“I expelled Ealdorman Leofsige from England today,” he said, selecting another strand of hair. “He hanged a man and exceeded his authority and had the audacity to challenge my judgement. For the first time in my life, I did something I wanted to do and would not listen to anyone who would sway me.”
“It was a correct decision,” Emma answered, boldly adding, “I did not much like Ealdorman Leofsige, nor his sister.”
“He was my
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