The Forever Queen Read Online Free PDF Page A

“at least their gossip is providing entertainment.” She pushed herself from the door. “I can be content that they are enjoying themselves, even if I am not.”
    “Lady?” Pallig, falling into step beside her, queried her meaning. “Are you not happy to be here in England?” He spread his broad hand, not understanding. “As a Queen, you now have everything.”
    Emma forced a smile. “Oui, naturally I am happy to be here. It is an honour, n’est ce pas?”
    “Indeed, ma’am, that it is.” Gesturing with his hand, Pallig ushered her forward. Hiding her embarrassment, she walked on, saying, with more authority than she felt, as they neared the evil stench of the pit, “I am capable of tending my own need. You may wait here.”
    Turning his back, he planted himself, legs spread, arms folded, across the pathway to ensure her privacy.
    Fumbling with the wicker gate, Emma wrinkled her nose at the foul stench of human waste and, holding her breath, squatted quickly over the hole in the covering board. Rearranging her garments, she took several hasty steps away from the noisome place, gulping clean air into her choking lungs, swallowing down the nauseous churn of her stomach. Pallig was waiting patiently, his back towards her. Was she the fool to think he liked her? That they might become friends? She smoothed her gown. Pallig had chosen to serve her, she had been told, but then they had said something similar in Normandy. “It is a good choice, chérie, that you have made, to wed this Englishman.”
    Choice? Hah! She had good reason to be cynical of choice!
    She shivered, gathered her cloak tighter. Now the rain had cleared, a mist was rising, creeping in over the palisade walls from the sodden forest beyond. Dusk. It would soon be night, and with night would come…Closing her eyes, Emma thrust the thought aside; instead, filled her nostrils with clean, spring-scented, rain-washed evening air. England smelt different than Normandy. Damper, more earthy.
    She had not accounted for the deep breath mixing with the surfeit of ale, and her head whirled and spun. “Dieu!” she gasped, feeling herself toppling forward, the nausea that had been churned to the surface by the stink of the latrine rising higher into her throat. She put out her hand, intending to steady herself against the granary wall, and was promptly sick.
    Pallig was there, supporting her, the great axe dropped, forgotten, to the muddy ground. “My Lady?” he asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”
    Sagging against him, Emma laid her pounding head on his shoulder, feeling as if she would lose consciousness, but the swirl of red passed, and her stomach sank down to where it belonged.
    Fumbling to untie the linen kerchief tucked into the neckband of his hauberk, Pallig dabbed at her mouth, wiping away the unpleasant residue.
    “I fear,” she said, attempting to lighten her embarrassment by a weak jest, “that I have drunk overmuch of my bride-ale.”
    Pallig laughed, the sound deep and friendly. “No bad thing for a wedding feasting, I am thinking.”
    Her mouth twitched into a grateful smile, and he smiled back at her. “Unfortunately,” he said with a grin, “it may be a good thing for a feast, but too much drink can be bad for the head and stomach.” He bent to retrieve his axe. “Although there will be more than a few sore heads on the morrow, I am thinking.” He stuffed the soiled kerchief through his leather baldric, rubbed his nose with his fingers, and added, “And if you forgive my outspokenness, Lady, a shy maid such as yourself may be better off on the wrong side of sober this night.”
    She blushed, embarrassed, ducked her head, and walked relatively steadily back towards the hall, Pallig following dutifully a pace behind.
    He had his own young wife. He loved Gunnhilda, and she him, yet their first bedding had been an anxious time for her. It was no easy thing for a maid to put her trust in a man so completely. Was