Shadow on the Crown (22 page)

No. Athelstan must be wrong about where Swein would strike. He was guessing, like the priests who had made dire predictions about the end of the world in the years before the millennium. They had warned that the sea would boil, that the land would fracture and mountains collapse. Yet nothing had happened. Life had gone on much as before.

“You cannot know any of this for certain, my lord,” she said softly. “It is but conjecture. What must we do, hide behind our city walls for the next two months for fear of the Danes?”

“No, my lady,” he said. “But if you see dark clouds and lightning in the distant skies, you do not climb the highest tree that you can find to watch the storm’s approach! You must not go to Exeter or to any town that lies within striking distance of a Danish army!”

She sighed, exasperated by his vehemence.

“I have made my preparations, my lord, and I will go to Exeter. My responsibilities demand that I do so. Even the king demands it.” She smiled at him, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere between them. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to climb any trees during a thunderstorm.”

Athelstan gave her a cold glare. “What if I am right, my lady, and you are wrong?”

“At the first sign of a dragon ship I will get on a horse and flee. Will that satisfy you?”

“And if the ships come in the night? What then?”

“There will be a watch, surely. Ealdorman Ælfric will see to it.”

Abruptly he pushed away from the table, agitated, frustrated. But what could she do? She could not acquiesce to his plea when the king had already bid her go. And, Sweet Virgin, she longed to be away from here, whatever the risk.

He placed his hands again upon the table between them and leaned toward her until his face was close to hers. “If you must go to Exeter, then I will ask the king to send me with you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I will trust no one else with your life. Do you understand me?”

She understood him only too well. And she understood her own heart well enough to know that if the two of them were to spend time together, away from the prying eyes and ears of the court, she would be in far more danger from Athelstan than she could ever be from Swein Forkbeard.

“I thank you, my lord,” she said softly, “but I forbid you to do that. Promise me that you will not.” Her voice broke, and she wanted to touch him, to place her hand upon his to ease the sting of her words. She could not. “Your father is a suspicious man, my lord. He sees enemies everywhere. He already mistrusts me. Who knows what evil intent he will read into your request?” She straightened her back and raised her voice. “Thank you, my lord Athelstan, for sharing your concerns with me. You may be assured that I will give them all due consideration.” She looked at him with a reassuring smile, pleading with her eyes for him to leave.

He hesitated for an instant, then bowed and stalked from the chamber.

Emma gazed after him, waiting for the beating of her heart to slow. The chorus of voices in the room had risen again, and she welcomed its gentle susurration, like the sound of waves brushing the shore. She was trembling, as if she walked along a terrible precipice, exquisitely aware that the slightest false step would send her over the edge.

She saw Elgiva fix her with a curious stare. How much had she heard? How much did she guess? Emma drew in a breath and picked up the map again, but a moment later her servant returned clutching something in her hands.

“Lord Athelstan,” the girl said, “bid me give you this. He says you must keep it sharp, and keep it about you always.”

It was a sheathed
seax
, its hilt made of smooth, bleached bone. Taking it in her hands, Emma drew the knife from its sheath. Unlike the delicate blade that she used at meals, this was a weapon—unadorned yet beautiful in its brutal simplicity. The blade was broad and heavy, its single cutting edge tapering to a lethal point. The sheath had no loop to attach it to a belt, and she realized that it was meant to be hidden somewhere on the body—tucked into the leggings wound around the lower leg, or perhaps slotted into a stiff boot.

She would have no need of it, she was certain. But she would do as Athelstan asked, if only to have something always about her that had once belonged to him. At least, she thought wryly, no one could suggest that it was a love token.

Chapter Twenty

June 1003

Middleton, Dorset

T
he hamlet of Middleton lay nestled in a green fold of the southern downs, halfway between Winchester and Exeter. Precisely in the middle of nowhere, Elgiva thought, as she stood beside Groa to look down on the village from the path that climbed toward the birch-covered ridge above it. From this vantage point she could see the village, an abbey, the queen’s pavilions—and nothing else except fields, forest, and sheep.

She shook her head in disgust.

“I will never forgive my father for forcing me to attend the queen on this wretched progress,” she grumbled. “He could have spared me this. I have been an obedient daughter, and I do not deserve such punishment.”

“Be patient, my love,” Groa crooned. “You will be rewarded in the end. Every step you take brings you closer to a crown.”

This had become Groa’s standard response to anything that irritated Elgiva. Yet Elgiva could not see how she benefited from Emma’s royal progress, and less so today than ever before. At least the queen’s other stopping places—Romsey, Wilton, Shaftesbury—had been bustling market towns offering something more to see than a minster or an abbey. Middleton, though, was a green desert.

Beside her, Groa started up the gently sloping path again, and Elgiva followed, still brooding. When she had informed her father of the queen’s intention to make this journey, she had begged him to find some way to release her from it. She had insisted that if she were forced to visit every wretched church and convent between Winchester and Exeter she would go mad.

But her father had sent back word that she must accompany Emma, and that she must take note of anyone of import who met with the queen, relaying their names to one of his several retainers who trailed their party like shadows. So when the queen and her retinue reached their stopping place for the day and finished their repast, Elgiva would slip away with only Groa for company. One of her father’s men would find her—in the minster or the marketplace or by some holy well—and listen attentively to whatever she had to say.

For the past two days, though, there had been no messenger, and today, since there was no crowded marketplace, all she could think to do was to get out of sight of the pavilions and hope that her father’s minion would find her.

She could not fathom why her father had such a keen interest in Emma’s doings. It irritated her that she had to follow his irksome instructions without even the benefit of knowing their purpose, particularly since, as far as she could tell, the queen’s activities seemed unimportant.

Emma, she had observed, spoke to her traveling companions along the road, particularly Ealdorman Ælfric, who led the company. When they stopped at shrines along the way she apparently spoke to God, her head bowed in sanctimonious prayer. The only person of any moment whom she had consulted was the abbess at Shaftesbury when, last Sunday, the two women had been closeted together for some time. Elgiva could not know for certain what they had discussed, but she guessed that a generous amount of money had changed hands, for the abbess was smiling broadly when she bid the queen farewell.

Emma was no doubt bribing God with prayers and gold, hoping He would make her belly swell again. And if the queen expected that to happen while she was so far away from the loving attentions of her husband, then her faith was great indeed.

They reached the top of the hill, where a small chapel built of mortared gray stone stood in a clearing. A man cloaked in dark green glided toward them from behind the chapel, sunlight and shadow dappling his lithe figure as he moved. She did not recognize him, but he lifted his hand to show her father’s ring on his first finger. She nodded to Groa, who would keep watch for any intruders, then turned to her father’s man.

The face that peered down at her was attractive—sun darkened, with high cheekbones and liquid, brooding eyes. His curly brown hair was cropped short and his beard well trimmed. The shoulders beneath the green mantle were broad, but his body tapered to a slim waist, the tunic cinched tight with a wide black belt.

“Do you bring me word from my father?” she asked.

“He sends his greeting, my lady. I am to say that he hopes that you offered a Mass for him at St. Edward’s tomb, and that you have not yet been driven mad by prayer.”

Elgiva snorted at her father’s idea of a jest.

“And is that all you are to say? Can you not at least tell me where he is?”

He shrugged. “When last I spoke with him he was with the king at Winchester, but that was some days ago.”

Elgiva frowned, puzzling over what her father might be up to. Was he planning to make some move against the queen or did he merely wish to know who she met with and, presumably, influenced?

She sighed, still annoyed with her father, and considered the man in front of her. He was different from the other messengers her father had sent. They had been mere servants, barely raising their heads to look at her. This one was watching her with molten eyes, his mouth slanted upward in an arrogant half smile. She judged him to be not many years older than she was, and she thought him somewhat young to have such an obviously high opinion of himself.

“What is your name, fellow?” she demanded.

“Alric, my lady. My lands are in western Mercia, and your father and brothers know me well.” So he was a man of some substance, then. She eyed him as he inclined his head toward her in a slight bow, keeping his eyes on hers as if he thought himself her equal. The man was insolent indeed. Still, she rather liked the look of him. He was bold, and in a handsome man that was not such a bad thing.

“I have little in the way of news to give you,” she said.

“Your father would know something of the queen’s daily routine,” he prompted.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Will you remember all that I tell you?” she asked.

“With pleasure, lady,” he said, his voice a caress.

Honeyed words, indeed, she thought. He raked her with appreciative eyes, and she brushed past him, walking into the trees so that he would not perceive how his hungry gaze pleased her.

“Very well,” she said, trying to dismiss him from her mind as she gathered her thoughts. “We begin each morning with ablutions just after dawn, followed by a prayer and our first meal. By the time the queen is ready to set out, the pavilions have been dismantled and are already on their way to the next stopping point. We ride at a leisurely pace for the most part, but messengers are sent ahead to every town through which the queen will pass to announce her imminent arrival.”

As she recited the routine, it suddenly dawned on her what Emma was accomplishing with this progress. She was seducing the people of England! At every village and town she threw pennies to the throngs of folk who surrounded her, and she called out greetings that held only the merest trace of her foreign birth. And those simple, stupid folk, damn their eyes, would probably worship her for it! Whatever misgivings they might have about Æthelred, they would love their pretty young queen.

Elgiva stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes, remembering Emma’s arrival at Middleton and the cheers of the crowd.

She felt Alric come up behind her, although he did not touch her. He was not that bold, at least.

“Tell my father,” she said sharply, “that I believe that the queen gave generous gifts to the abbey at Shaftesbury. Tell him that not only do the good sisters love her, but that the townsfolk who have seen her are besotted with her. Tell him to beware if he is planning any move against the queen. Can you remember all of that?”

“Aye, lady.” It was a mere whisper, for his mouth was next to her ear.

She caught her breath at the nearness of him, then turned to hold out her hand, signifying that their interview was over. But her hand trembled as he clasped it and brought it to his lips, his eyes once more raking hers.

He kissed her ring, then turned her hand palm upward and placed a lingering kiss there, too—a kiss that burned her like a brand. An instant later he was gone, his green cloak melting into the colors of the brush beyond the clearing. She stood there a moment, catching her breath, allowing her pulse to steady.

Alric. She smiled to herself as she whispered his name. Here was a man of no little worth.

As she made her way back toward the pavilions she forced her thoughts back to Emma, finally admitting the truth to herself. Æthelred would never set his queen aside. In that first year, while Emma had been perceived as a foreigner and had yet to prove that she could conceive a child, there may have been a chance. Now that chance was gone.

Elgiva kept her eyes on the ground, carefully avoiding piles of sheep dung. What had she to strive for now? Must she resign herself to a marriage with one of Æthelred’s thegns, she who had been promised a crown? She clenched her hands into fists at the thought. She would not do it. Not while the king had marriageable sons, at any rate.

She would have to seduce one of the æthelings into wedding her. She would prefer Athelstan, of course, but he was bewitched by the queen. She wanted no man who was so moonstruck that he courted disaster for the sake of a woman—unless she was that woman. No, Athelstan had moved beyond her reach, but Æthelred had plenty of other sons. If it was indeed her
wyrd
to be queen, then she must find a way to bring it about.

“Groa,” she said, pausing to wait for her, “what have you to say to Ecbert as a husband for me?”

“He would be,” she paused, as if searching for the right word, “pliable, my lady. But will he ever be king?”

Elgiva pursed her lips. “You are right,” she said slowly. “He would be pliable, yet he is not the heir—not yet, at any rate. As his wife, though, I think I could inspire ambitions in him that he does not yet entertain.” She smiled to herself and drew Groa’s arm in hers. “When we return to Winchester I believe that I shall pay particular attention to young Ecbert.”

Yet the image of Alric remained in her mind, sharp and clear. She hoped that she would see him again, many times, before she returned to Winchester.

Winchester, Hampshire

King Æthelred, seated formally upon his ornately carved, brilliantly painted throne in Winchester’s great hall, gazed upon the nobles come from all over his realm to witness the workings of the court. He knew most of them by name and had a general idea of their worth to him in taxable property. They were like children, he thought, who sometimes had to be appeased, sometimes coerced, sometimes placated, sometimes punished. He passed laws to protect them from each other and levied taxes to protect them from outsiders. Yet they perceived him as weak, because, for some years now, he had purchased peace with gold instead of with English blood. He did not doubt that if some brilliant warrior should rise to challenge him for the throne, offering to lead them in battle against their foes, many of his thegns would forsake him.

Brooding upon this dismal theme, Æthelred noticed his eldest son emerge from a knot of men at the back of the hall and make his way toward the dais. As Athelstan approached the throne and knelt at his father’s feet, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the high windows to set the lad’s golden hair aglow and burnish the ornate silver clasp at his right shoulder. Hardly a lad now, Æthelred reminded himself. Headstrong, opinionated, outspoken, yes, but a lad no longer.

He squinted at his son, trying to read the expression on his face. There was trouble brewing there. Of that much he was certain.

He nodded to his son to speak, and Athelstan rose and stepped to one side, turning so that all would hear his words.

“I would speak of our enemy, Swein Forkbeard, who now holds sway in both Denmark and Norway, and who seeks to add England to his northern realms.” His voice rang through the hall, as sharp and clamorous as a warning bell. “It is likely that even now Swein is gathering his dragon ships in some Norman port, preparing to strike us. He will cross the Narrow Sea to plunder our lands and rape our women, for he has a sister’s death to avenge.”

He paused, and Æthelred could see that his son had snared the attention of every man in the hall, for they all feared the next Danish onslaught.

“Will we wait,” Athelstan went on, “as we have so many times before, like huddled sheep for the blow that we fear will come and pray will not? I say . . .” He paused again, and he seemed to grow a little taller as he squared his shoulders, almost as if he were about to face an enemy. “I say that we do not wait for the dragon ships to strike. I propose that we send ships to Normandy, find the Viking fleet, and destroy it before it crosses the Narrow Sea. Let us torch their dragons like signal beacons, cripple them so that they cannot hit us.”

The hall began to buzz with voices, and then a Kentish lord spoke up. “And who would undertake to lead such an enterprise?” he demanded.

“There are three of us,” Athelstan replied, as Ecbert and Edmund stepped forward to stand with him.

And now a low roar swept through the hall like a rising wind. Æthelred cursed under his breath as he quickly weighed the likelihood of the success of such a plan and found it wanting. It was based on the assumption that Swein’s ships could be found in their Norman haven, and then destroyed. The odds in favor of that were long, indeed.

On the other hand, if by some miracle the venture should succeed, he would have to look no further than his own son for the challenger to his crown. Was Athelstan not challenging him already, here and now, in making such an outrageous proposition before his court and council? Even as he considered how best to counter his son’s defiance, though, he felt the weight of his dead brother’s unseen presence. Edward’s cold malevolence was snaking toward him from somewhere in the shadows while, standing before the dais in a shaft of light, Athelstan looked up at him with Edward’s face.

This was all his brother’s doing, he realized—Edward’s vengeance working through the actions of his eldest son. He could feel his brother’s menace all around him now, ominous as the silence before a thunderclap, and Æthelred braced himself against it. Almost as if a voice had whispered it in his ear, he understood at last what his brother wanted from him as expiation for his sin. But it was too great a sacrifice. Even Edward’s black vengeance would not compel him to it.