“The abbot does not lie. He has taken an oath. And you were adamant about changing the law of the church. Who do you think you are? There is only one God!”
Rain begins to pelt down and wet us through the broken windows. Soon, it’s a tempest storm.
“By the law of the church, I place you under guard, where you will be tried and handed a verdict the clergy deem fit. Guards, take him to the dungeons!”
How those words are poetic justice.
All thanks to the abbot and a false god, Aethelbald will finally get his day.
But Emeline shakes her head, for she knows he will somehow escape the charge, and this will never end. So I nod, telling her to finish this.
Aethelbald twists and punches Emeline in the face. He reaches for a soldier’s sword, ready to stab her. Ulf and I rush forward, but there is no need because with a roar, Emeline drives the blade into Aethelbald’s throat. Coated in his blood, she begins to sever his head from his neck.
Women faint.
Men vomit.
But Ulf and I merely stand back and admire the woman we both love.
Once his head is detached from his body, Emeline holds it high in the air by his hair. Slathered in his blood, she screams, “This is no king! He does not deserve a fair trial, for he imprisoned Danes and burned our symbol of the Lord into their necks because he does not agree that England is accepting of all nations.
“We are not bigots. The Lord practices love, not war. We do not fight amongst ourselves. We thrive together, and we see England grow!
“This is the face of a coward, of a man who dared to challenge my throne. But I won.” She tosses Aethelbald’s head down the aisle.
She turns to Rufus, who shrieks. “Please, show mercy.”
Emeline scoffs. “You did not show mercy to my ladies-in-waiting when you killed them. Or my children when you orchestrated their kidnapping. You are as bad as your dead king.”
The priest, who is paler than a sheet of snow, nods wobblily. “Take him away!”
Rufus fights against the men who drag him down the aisle, but I know Emeline won’t let him see another day. Once in the dungeons, she will ensure he pays dearly for what he has done.
No one seems to know what to do, but there's one thing that seems to fit.
With precision, I drop to my knees and bow in front of Emeline. “All hail Queen Emeline!”
Soon, the procession follows and kneels in front of their rightful queen.
With no one to contest, Emeline is the ruler of England, as the rest of the kingdoms no longer have kings. She looks at Benedict and smiles.
“Dear nephew, Northumbria is yours.”
Benedict bows. “My queen, I cannot.”
“Yes, you will. I ordered it. This throne is rightfully yours as my brother’s blood runs through your veins, but unlike my kin, you are of good heart. Northumbria will prosper under your rule.”
Benedict eventually agrees.
That leaves Mercia and Wessex.
Emeline gently orders us to stand as she ponders over the right thing to do for herself and for England.
The church doors open, and in flow Sigrith, Aeden, and my sons. This is the first time they’ve seen so many of their countrymen. Sune looks with a suspicious eye. Whilst Loki scans the room with knowledge.
Aedan stands beside us, and Emeline smiles. “Lord Aedan, you are strong, brave, and your Irish roots continue to help keep England strong. There is a princess in Mercia, who, if you both agree, I would wish you to meet, and perhaps, if God permits, you both rule Mercia with justice and love.”
The priest nods, seeing this union as prosperous.
