Excerpt of The Forever Queen by Helen Hollick

November 1035

The Queen, Emma, knew from the grey pallor on Earl Godwine's face, and by the way he stood, one step within the threshold, that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

"My Lord, you are wet through?" she said, a question in her voice, although the statement was obvious. A second question, of why he had come to Winchester, so unexpected in such torrential rain, hovered unspoken. Rising from her chair, set for comfort beside the hearth fire, she indicated with her hand that he may enter her private chamber, come closer, warm himself.

To her handmaid ordered, "Fetch wine and food. Broth. My Lord Earl will require something hot."

The girl bobbed a curtsey and squeezing past the Earl, scuttled from the chamber. But Godwine remained at the door, his thumbs depressing the iron door latch. How was he to tell her? How could he repeat news that would break this good lady's heart like shattered pieces of glass?

"My Lady Queen," he finally stammered, "I have ridden at the gallop since dawn."

He shook his head slowly, held out both hands, palms uppermost, pleading for her to read what was in his mind to save the pain of having to say this thing aloud. How could she guess? No one in England could have foreseen this. No one. His arms fell to his side, a tear slithering down his cheek. His hair was rain-matted, his cloak and boots sodden, his chin beard-stubbled.

In despair, quick, with one breath, "My Lady, your husband is dead. God took the King from us during the darkness of night."

Emma stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her face draining of colour. She licked her lips, shook her head, denying what she had heard.

"No." She said, backing away from Godwine and stumbling over a footstool. "Oh, God! No!"

He hurried after her, took hold of her shoulders. "We could not rouse him from sleep. His physician, who knows of these things, believes it to have been a seizure of the heart. He looked to be at peace, did not feel pain or discomfort."

Emma, Regina Anglorum, Queen of England, remained silent for several long moments, her mind, eyes and heart, blank, numb. Then, with a steady calm, graciously thanked Earl Godwine for his trouble in riding to her on this cold, wet day.

"It was good of you to come to me personally, not send some mere messenger. You have always been loyal," she spoke with a controlled smile. "I am grateful for that, and for your friendship. Attributes, that may, I fear, be sorely tried in the weeks that must now lay ahead of us." She faltered, the control collapsing into the sham it was, her lip trembled, tears welled. No one, since her sixth birthday, had witnessed her weeping.

Snatching up her cloak from where it lay across a chest, she muttered, "Please, dry yourself before the fire, I would walk alone awhile." Pride had been her only comfort and salvation for too many years; she was not about to alter the schooled endurance of half a lifetime.

Before Godwine could remind her of the bad weather, she had disappeared from the chamber and was running down the wooden stairs, her blue, woollen gown lifted with one clutching hand. Ignoring the sudden hush of the crowded Hall below, she flung the cloak around her shoulders and stepped out into the rain. She did not mind the rain, rain masked the scalding tears and the pain of gut-wrenching, heart-broken grief.

Godwine made to follow her, reached as far as the Hall's outer doors, but here he halted, watched Emma walk across the mud-puddled courtyard towards the shelter of the stables. Turning back into the Hall he intercepted the handmaid, took the bowl and goblet to the nearest trestle, sat. He had ridden straight to the Queen, had not waited to break his fast before leaving Salisbury, nor barely eased his stallion from the punishing gallop he had set. The horse was ruined of course, his wind and legs beyond repair, but what mattered one horse when the King was dead? When so many more horses, and men, would soon also be beyond saving? Earl Godwine ate, drank. Did not notice the taste of either broth or ale.

He would leave Emma a while to mourn alone, respect her need for privacy. Later, would come the time for the murmuring of meaningless platitudes, the empty words that everyone muttered when the unwelcome shadow of death visited.

"He was a good man. A good king..."

"You have your memories..."

Memories? What good were memories, when England would soon, yet again, be wrapped in bloody war? How did memories mend a torn heart? Ease the dread, black, chill of grieving loneliness?

Memories - huh! The Queen, her tear-streaked face buried deep into the warm, comforting flank of her favourite mare, harboured enough memories to fill the Christian world twice over!

Should she choose to begin rummaging through them, where, and with which one should she start...?