Free Shadow on the Crown by Patricia Bracewell

my lords,” she said, in a voice as strong as she could muster, carefully enunciating the tongue-twisting English words, “and I thank the people of England for their welcome. May the Lord shower his blessings upon us all.” The crowd gave a roar and, satisfied that she had pleased them, Emma turned to Ælfric. “I beg you, my lord, to tell me when I may look forward to meeting with the king.”
    The archbishop, an ancient man with a sour expression, raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in disapproval. “You would do well to curb your impatience, my lady,” he said gruffly. “Be content that the king will attend to you in his own good time.”
    Stung by his rebuke, Emma had to bite her lip to keep from saying something she might regret. Here was one who disapproved of her. Was it because she was young and a woman, she wondered, or because she was Norman?
    It was Ælfric who jumped in to mend the awkward moment.
    “On Sunday,” he said, “the king will greet you at the church door to recite the marriage vows. Immediately afterward he will escort you into the cathedral for the coronation ceremony.”
    Not until Sunday! That was five days hence. What kind of man was this Æthelred that he would not meet with his bride in private for even a few moments of conversation before he wed her? Was this how things were done in England? The sense of panic that she had kept at bay for the last six weeks began to clutch at her again.
    “I wish to meet with the king tomorrow,” she insisted, smiling, although it was an effort. “Surely he can grant me a few moments of his good time.”
    “I am sorry, my lady,” Ælfric said gently. “That will not be possible, for the king has not yet arrived in Canterbury. He has sent word that he will not be here before Sunday.”
    She could feel the eyes of each nobleman fix upon her, taking her measure, curious to see how she would receive this unwelcome news. She said no more, but nodded to Ælfric in acknowledgment of his apology, doing her best to disguise both her displeasure at the king’s slight and her fear of what it might mean. She doubted that she was very successful. Her hands, she realized, were clenched as tightly as the muscles of her stomach. Drawing a deep breath, she made an effort to relax as she followed in the wake of the archbishop, who had started toward the city gates. She would have turned to search for Wymarc behind her, but she knew instinctively that she must keep her back straight and her head forward.
    Ælfric escorted her to a litter draped lavishly with furs beneath a silk-lined canopy. Making a low bow, he handed her into it, and then she was borne on the shoulders of eight noblemen through the streets of Canterbury. She forced herself to smile, lifting her hand to the crowds of folk who lined the way or waved at her from thatched rooftops. She heard cries of “Welcome! Welcome to Richard’s daughter!” over and over again as she was carried through the streets and past the great cathedral toward the abbey.
    Her head ached from the noise, and from the effort to hold back tears that clouded her eyes—tears of both gratitude and dismay. The people of this realm had welcomed her with joy, yet the king who was to be her husband had not welcomed her at all. In the midst of this jubilant crowd, she had never felt so achingly alone.
    That evening Emma dined with her Norman household in the guest quarters of St. Augustine’s abbey. With so many familiar faces about her Emma could almost imagine that she was still in Normandy. She could not dispel, though, the anxiety that she felt at the king’s absence today. He should have been there to greet her, and he had slighted her by staying away.
    She called to mind Richard’s parting words five days before, as he accompanied her to the waiting ships.
    “You are not the first bride, Emma, to go to the bed of a foreign king, and you must be very clear about what is expected of you. Bear in mind that you go to your