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 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 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 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. 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 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 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.”