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dead. We are free of her meddling, and Æthelred has a chance to become his own man.”
    “Provided he has the stomach to choose with wise care the advisers who are to replace his mother.”
    “Your judgement of him is biased, my sweeting. You would never be admitting to his good points.”
    “Has he any?”
    “I expect, were I to think on it for a year or two, I might think of one.”

7
    Emma’s head had not ceased its hammering since daybreak. If one more of these wrinkled baggages called her “dear,” she would…but what could she do? Kick her legs and bellow like a wayward toddler? Scowl and grimace and earn for herself more contempt? For all their twittering, fussing, and dutiful attention, it did not take intelligence to realise it was most resentfully given. Lady Godegifa did not like Emma, and as Godegifa was the matriarch among them, the women blindly followed her directive. Emma might as well be a churl’s daughter for all the heed they were paying to her counter command over what Godegifa ordered. Not that she had yet “commanded” anything. Tentatively, she had asked if she might have cider instead of ale to drink with her meagre break-fast of sheep’s cheese and fresh-baked bread. Cautiously, she had murmured she would rather wear the blue veil, not the pale rose; timidly, she had asked about the itinerary for this, her first day as Queen. But to give a direct command to someone as authoritative as Lady Godegifa? Sweet Jesu, Emma would rather face a hot-breathed dragon!
    To her relief, Æthelred had already been gone from the chamber when she had awoken, muzzy-headed and aching in almost every muscle. Daylight flooded the room beyond the partially drawn bed curtains; with a groan, she had rolled over and buried herself beneath the furs, seeking sleep, but the women had surged in, chivvying her to be up and about, washing her, dressing her, as if she were a feeble child. She was a wife taken, no doubting that, for the stains on the linen and her thighs offered confirming proof. She had not missed the knowing nods as two of them had stripped the bed sheet, removing it for anyone who wished to inspect the irrefutable evidence of her lost virginity.
    Necessary formalities had trundled tediously through the morning, accompanied by an endless stream of obsequious faces, the leering and slavering of men bowing over her hand. God’s breath, did none of them wash?
    At least the witnessing of granted charters might prove more interesting, and the thought of flourishing her signature directly after Æthelred’s filled Emma with an intense excitement. Silly, really; they were only legal documents that would be set aside in some musty old chest, probably never to see the light of day again, but written documents were in Latin, something familiar. She could read Latin for herself, would not need to rely on Archbishop Wulfstan to translate for her. This would also be a chance to show them she was not a simpleton with no use beyond the bedchamber. Emma took great pride in her ability to read. Tutored on the Bible, she had avidly read all she could lay hands on, which was a considerable amount given Richard’s manic arrogance for proving his cultured status. His library was extensive: religious texts, histories, Greek philosophy, dramatic tragedies and comedies. He had not read one of them, always claiming he was too busy. Emma enjoyed the company a book could bring; Richard’s interest was limited to showing his collection to impressed guests and visitors. Hers had been the mental devouring of them. Not that Richard had allowed her to read legal charters, save for those destined for the fire. He said she was too young to understand legal matters. To her disappointment, she discovered these Englishmen shared his view.
    The council chamber was filled with the most important men of the kingdom, who turned and bowed an acknowledgement at her entrance, an act that sent a shiver of pleasure scurrying down her