Free Shadow on the Crown by Patricia Bracewell Page A

lord not as a woman, but as a queen. In the same way, he comes to you not as a man, but as a king. He will not be father to you, nor lover, nor even friend. Do not expect it. All you can expect from his hands is what any of his subjects can expect, and that is justice and mercy. You, as queen, though, must demand one thing more. You must demand his respect. Never forget that for a moment, and never do anything that might cause you to forfeit it.”
    Today Æthelred of England had not shown her the respect that she deserved, although she did not know why. She wished that one of her brothers had accompanied her to England. Surely Duke Richard or Archbishop Robert would have been able to give her some insight into what might be going on in the mind of the king. Instead she was without counsel, and she felt as if she had been thrown rudderless into high seas. She could not reach safe haven, even if she knew what it looked like.
    In the meantime, the people in this room depended upon her for direction, and she had very little to give. What she needed was information—not the history lessons that Ealdorman Ælfric had given her but news of the court and of the people in it. If she were at home she would send someone to the kitchens to listen in on what was being said, but she could hardly do that here.
    She considered the men and women around her. Only a few members of her household could understand English, much less work their mouths around it well enough to speak it. Wymarc was one, for her stepmother was the daughter of a Kentish lord. Young Hugh of Brittany, who had been one of Richard’s stewards, was another. Her bard, Alain, could recite their poetry, but she was not sure how much of it he actually understood.
    And there was her priest, Father Martin. She did not know him and had had little time to speak with him in the weeks before they left Normandy, but he had served her mother well. She knew that he was a scholar, good with languages, and that he had studied for a time in an abbey somewhere here in England. Her mother had said that he was an excellent clerk, for he wrote a fair hand.
    At the moment Emma did not need a clerk. What she needed was a spy. Father Martin, clad in fine, dark-colored wool and with a crucifix hanging at his breast, was the likeliest candidate to gather news within the cathedral precincts. The community there would likely welcome a priest and scholar who was part of the Norman retinue.
    She called the priest to her side, and then, after some thought, she summoned Hugh as well. As they knelt before her, she studied their upturned faces, both of them clean shaven in the Norman style. Aside from that they were a study in contrasts. Father Martin’s lined face and gray hair bespoke his age, and his solemn brown eyes studied her with the gravity of experience. Hugh was youthful and dark, strikingly handsome, with an engaging charm that, she had reason to believe, had captivated Wymarc on the voyage here. Her friend had spoken of him with such admiration that Emma had warned her to have a care for her heart. Still, Hugh’s genial manner was well suited to the task she had in mind for him.
    “I am in need,” she said, “of information about the English. I must know what their concerns are, what they think, what they believe, and, particularly, what they fear.” She looked at the priest. “Father Martin, I want you to mingle with the cathedral community in any place where you can engage them in conversation. Hugh, I want you to go into the market square tomorrow, down to the port and into the alehouses. Find out what the folk of England think of their king. Discover what is being said about his marriage. You must not be afraid to tell me what you learn, even if you fear it will displease me. Do you understand?”
    When she had dismissed them she felt more composed. She had set something in motion, and soon she would have results. She reminded herself that she was not alone here, and that she had