Shadow on the Crown (33 page)

“Nor by bedding his wife?” He pulled her against him, and she twined her arms around his neck. For a moment they held each other close. For a moment she belonged to him again. “If I do as you say, Emma,” he whispered against her ear, “if I play the role of good son, bow to my father’s will, what of us then?”

She took a step back and gazed at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Whatever role you play, my lord,” she said, “there can be no
us
.”

She would have pulled away from him, but he would not let her go.

“And if you are even now with child? What then?”

She was silent, but he read the answer in her eyes. He released her then, and she turned from him with a brisk step.

“I must get to Winchester as soon as may be now, especially if I am with child.”

She had to get the king’s prick between her thighs, so that if there was a child, all would believe it to be Æthelred’s.

His hands so itched to grasp and shake her that he dared not allow himself within reach of her, for he was not his father—it would give him no pleasure to cause her pain. He wanted Emma to come to him of her own will, to place her hands within his and pledge herself to him, body and soul. Yet he knew that she could not, for that pledge had already been given.

In that moment he faced the stark truth about himself: He did not want his father’s crown so much as he wanted his father’s woman. But she had made it clear that while his father lived she would never be his.

Chapter Thirty-one

August 1003

St. Giles Priory, Sidbury, Devonshire

E
ager as Emma was to return to Winchester, she had first to gather the remnants of her company, for she could not leave them to fend for themselves with a Danish army abroad in the land. She rode with Athelstan to the nearby priory of St. Giles, and from there sent messengers to Wymarc and Father Martin.

At the priory she found survivors from the sack of Exeter, refugees who had sought haven within the priory grounds. They told of the city’s destruction, and many swore that Exeter would never have fallen but for the treachery of the queen’s reeve. It was Hugh the Norman, they said, who had betrayed the city to the Danes.

Once within the walls the shipmen had plundered homes, ransacked churches, emptied shops and warehouses, and despoiled the king’s minters of their silver. They murdered all who opposed them, set the city ablaze, and turned their fury even upon the surrounding walls, reducing them to little more than piles of rubble. When the Danes returned to their ships, Hugh the reeve was seen in their midst. He had betrayed Exeter, it was said, and left behind a ravaged city.

Emma listened to the stories, sick at heart. She searched among the ragged survivors for faces that she knew, for folk who had journeyed with her from Winchester in June, but she saw only strangers. She was able to learn nothing of Elgiva and Groa, and as she listened to the tales of horror, she began to lose what little hope she had for their survival.

Four days after the fall of Exeter, Emma and her retinue set out swiftly for Winchester, driven by the rumor of war at their backs. The Danish ships had gone, but no one knew where they might strike next.

At Emma’s insistence she and her women were garbed in the plain robes and hooded cloaks of the sisters of St. Giles. Escorted by Athelstan and twenty of his armed men, they followed the king’s paved highways, camping wherever they found themselves when darkness fell—always off the road and hidden, with stern-eyed men in mail set to watch during the long hours of the night.

It was in those dark, lonely hours that Emma met with each of her companions and heard what they could tell of the events that she herself had not witnessed. She learned how Margot and Wymarc had hidden and had listened to what unfolded in that ill-fated lane near Magdalene Abbey, and how, when all was quiet and they were certain it was safe to come out, they had found the cart and its grisly cargo. Margot had urged Wymarc and Brother Redwald to go with all speed to search out the ætheling at Norton while she waited with the dead on that lonely road until help arrived. She had accompanied their bodies back to Magdalene Abbey, where Father Martin saw them buried in hallowed ground.

Wymarc told of her agonized wait for news of Emma, and for word of the fate of Exeter. Her voice faltered when she spoke of Athelstan’s returning hearth troops, for they brought word that Exeter had fallen swiftly to the Danes but could tell her nothing of Hugh. She wept in Emma’s arms, and the queen wept with her for the man whom they had both come to admire and to trust, and whom Wymarc had learned to love. It seemed to Emma then that they had reached a moment in time where love had no place. It was something to be snuffed out, burned, and discarded, and there was only room in the heart for hatred and fear and, at best, the occasional cold alliance. Her own love—for the child she’d lost, for Athelstan, even for her Norman kin—had brought her nothing but pain. Love belonged to some other world. Perhaps it could be found after death, but it was unwise, she thought, to look for it here.

Father Martin’s tale was of Hilde’s father, Ælfgar, who had shown neither surprise nor satisfaction upon learning that Swein’s forces were abroad in the land. Swein’s coming, Ælfgar had said, was as inevitable as the tides. He had predicted, like some soothsayer from ancient days, that Æthelred and his sons would be swept away like so much flotsam. Emma shuddered when she heard this and whispered a prayer to ward against such an evil augury.
No man can read the future
, Hugh had assured her. Yet there had ever been prophets who had some foreknowledge of what was to come. She recalled the feral words howled by the knife-wielding Dane who had tried to murder Æthelred.
Death to the king! Death to the council!
She wondered now if his words had been ravings, as Athelstan thought, or something more dire. Could they have been a foretelling? There was a Danish army in England now, promising dark days ahead for the king and all his people. Once more she whispered a prayer for protection and mercy.

At last Father Martin told her of Hilde, who had been heartbroken when her father had refused to allow her to stay with him, telling her that she meant less than nothing to him. Hearing this, Emma wondered again if love could exist in a world such as this one.

She herself never spoke of the hours she spent as a captive of the Danish king, except to tell those who knew of her capture and escape that they must never speak of it to any human soul. She trusted them to keep that secret, for they knew that if word of her abduction were whispered abroad, all would assume that she had been sullied by her captors, and she would no longer be considered a fit wife for a Christian king.

As for the hours that she had spent in the embrace of her husband’s son, that secret she kept locked in her heart.

On the sixth day after leaving St. Giles, the queen’s company arrived at Wherwell Abbey, ten miles from Winchester’s city walls. There they rested and refreshed themselves, and Emma, with the aid of the nuns, was gowned and groomed so that she could present herself before the king. On an August evening, lit by a sinking sun, she returned to the city of Winchester, where Æthelred and his court awaited her.

Chapter Thirty-two

August 1003

Winchester, Hampshire

Æ
thelred, seated upon his throne in the great hall, watched Emma approach with an impatience he found difficult to conceal. This welcome was mere formality, for he had received messages the day before informing him of the queen’s safety and of her impending arrival.
Te Deum
s had replaced the prayers of entreaty that had been offered for the queen’s safe deliverance from Exeter, and from the moment she had set foot within the city, the bells in every church had rung with clamorous rejoicing.

Only moments before, though, word had come from the south that Dorchester had been sacked and burned. His kingdom was under siege, and the gravity of the peril weighed heavily upon his mind.

The members of the council who had been summoned to advise him were clustered now in small, buzzing groups while Æthelred stood to welcome his queen with the solemnity due her. She had clothed herself in a gown of finely woven linen that was as black as the night sky. Its only adornment was a wide silver border at the hem and delicate silver embroidery upon the silky black veil that covered her pale hair. A thin, silver cross hung on a chain between her breasts. She looked travel weary, but she was still as beautiful as he remembered. Her face seemed to glow from the dark folds of her raiment, but her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she had been crying.

She had reason enough to weep and to garb herself in mourning. Her sojourn in Exeter—which he had hoped would deter the Danes from attacking her lands—had ended in calamity, brought about by the perfidy of her Norman reeve.

He frowned, for the attack on Exeter still puzzled him. He had expected Richard to warn Swein away from Emma’s lands, and so he wondered if there was more at work here than he was able to discern. This was not the time, though, to consider the problem.

He kissed Emma’s brow in greeting, but he did not wish to prolong this rite of welcome any longer than necessary.

“You are tired, my lady,” he said. “You will rest now, and we will speak on the morrow. When you say your prayers, beseech God to bless all that we do here tonight.”

He expected her to take her leave, but her eyes locked upon his, and something glinted there that he could not interpret. Was it anger? Fear? Resentment? Then it was gone, and she had bent her knee in submission.

“As you will, my lord,” she said.

He watched her leave the hall, his brow furrowed. Something about her had changed. She had ever been a mystery to him, but now, with one glance, it was as if a veil had been drawn aside and then quickly dropped again. He sat down, irritated by the unease that she could raise in him with just a look. She distracted him, damn her, when he had need of all his wits to deal with more pressing matters. The Danes had struck in the west while he had prepared for a landing in the east, and now he had to decide what to do.

He slid his gaze toward Athelstan, who stepped toward the dais now, flanked by half a dozen of his hearth companions. Æthelred signaled to the gathered nobles that they should be seated. He would waste no more time with pointless ceremony, but he wanted the entire court to see this contentious son of his get the welcome he deserved.

Emma approached her chamber with a brisk, angry step. Once again she would be imprisoned within palace walls, and she did not know if she could bear it. For the past three months she had tasted freedom and responsibility. In Exeter she had been the one holding court, seeking advice, and making decisions. How was she to content herself again with nothing but the minor details that came within her small sphere of power? In the great hall below, the king and his council were deciding the fate of the kingdom, while she was expected to kneel in her chamber in silent prayer.

By the time she reached her apartments, she had come to a decision. She would not be treated like a prize jewel—placed in a dark casket and tucked safely away. She would not allow herself to be distanced from the affairs of the court and the king. And if her lord forbid her to be present at his council, then she would find some other means of making herself privy to the decisions that were made there.

She beckoned to Hilde and drew her aside from her other attendants.

“You will go back to the hall,” she ordered, “and you will mingle with the servants who bring in food and drink for the king’s counselors. You will attend to all that is said among the great men there, and afterward bring me word of all that you see and hear. Do you understand?”

The girl looked at her with eyes that held no trace of guile. She was, indeed, the perfect little spy.

“Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave, but Emma placed a hand on her arm to stop her, for there was yet another duty to be performed tonight.

“When the meeting is ended you must search out the ealdorman Ælfhelm. Do you know him?”

The girl nodded.

“You are to bring him to me. Say nothing of Exeter, Hilde, even if he asks. I would have him hear from my own lips what little can be told of the Lady Elgiva. Do you understand?”

Hilde nodded, and Emma watched her go with a heavy heart. She did not relish telling Lord Ælfhelm that his daughter had been left behind in the ruins of Exeter—to a fate that none could know but all could guess. Nevertheless, it was a duty that she could not escape.

Duty, she thought, was the price of queenship. And not for the first time she recalled with bitterness the anguish in Athelstan’s eyes when she had refused to support his bid for the crown. That, too, had been her duty. For the rest of her life she would be bound by duty, and forced to pay that price again and again.

Æthelred studied the square, handsome face of his eldest son—the thick, dark brows that stood out, bold and startling, below his golden hair, the beard that had thickened and darkened. The young man’s likeness to his dead uncle struck Æthelred anew. He read the same proud determination in Athelstan’s eyes, and a defiant boldness that he hated and admired all at once. This was a son to inspire pride in a father’s heart—aye, and wariness as well.

The cub had too high an opinion of himself. He would ask pardon, no doubt, for deserting Winchester without leave, but there was no remorse in his eyes. He did as he pleased and expected that all would be forgiven. But there would be no pardon granted today. He must be punished in a way best suited to teach him proper humility, if not remorse.

“I am told,” he said slowly, “that you directed the queen’s reeve in preparing for the defense of Exeter. Is this so?”

Athelstan frowned, as if trying to grasp the point of such a question. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate to answer.

“That is true,” he said. “I consulted with—”

“And yet,” Æthelred cut him off, “in spite of your best efforts, Exeter has fallen. Word has reached us that it has been destroyed utterly and that many have died. How do you, who were so deeply involved in planning its defense, explain such a catastrophe?”

Something flickered across his son’s face—a flash of indecision or confusion. Then it was gone.

“I cannot explain it, my lord,” he said.

“You cannot explain it.” Æthelred inflected his voice with disapproval, although the answer suited his purpose well enough. “You cannot recognize, even with the evidence stark before you, that it was your own inadequacy that led to the destruction of a thriving town. Are you so blind to the measure of your own failings?” He paused to allow the question to ring in the still air, registering the displeasure of the king in the mind of every person present. No one moved or spoke, and Athelstan’s mouth set in a grim line.

Yes, his son was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, for nothing he could say would allow him to save face now.

“Perhaps, then,” Æthelred went on, wielding his voice like a weapon to flay the pup that knelt before him, “having left my court without my leave, you have come back now to give me tidings of some moment. Mayhap you can tell me the number of enemy ships?” He did not wait for answers but flung his questions like daggers, each one louder than the last. “How large is the army? Who leads it? How well is it armed? Pray, Athelstan, what can you tell me that I can use to my advantage?”

Athelstan felt his face burn with humiliation. It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut, to resist his father’s baiting. He knew how it was that Exeter had fallen, for Hugh had been forced to lead the enemy into the fortress. And he knew that it was Forkbeard who had brought the enemy fleet to England’s shores. But he could not speak of these things without compromising the queen. Any hint of her abduction by Forkbeard would give his father cause to set her aside. Much as Athelstan might welcome such an outcome, Emma would not. Emma would be queen and peaceweaver, and she would relinquish neither role, not even for love of him. She had demanded an oath of silence from him, and he had pledged it. Now he must keep it, whatever the cost.

He looked into his father’s face and read the triumph there. Jesu, the man was a fool! His mind should be bent toward the defense of his realm, yet there he sat, preening himself like a bird of prey and baiting his son for his own twisted amusement.

“I can give you no information about the enemy host, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth. It was capitulation, and he knew it. His father had beaten him once again at this, his favorite game. It was ever a skirmish for mastery between them, which Æthelred always won. If Emma was right, and his father feared him, he had yet to see any sign of it. “I await the king’s pleasure,” he said, but he did not lower his gaze. Let his father read the anger there. What did he care?

“Tonight I consult with my council regarding the Northmen’s threat,” Æthelred said. “Since you have nothing of value to report, take your seat. Do not,” his voice dripped vitriol, “presume to offer advice unless you are addressed. Is that clear?”

Athelstan made his way to a bench, his gut tight with rage. He glanced around the hall, taking note of who was present. His brothers Ecbert and Edmund eyed him from across the room. Edmund’s face was unreadable, but Ecbert flashed him a compassionate glance that he answered with a grimace. His brothers knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of their father’s wrath.

Arrayed near the king were all four of his ealdormen, with their supporters and retinues close by. Old Ælfric of Hampshire looked pale and drawn, and did not meet his eye. Next to him, Leofwine of Hwicce sat with his usual solemn expression. They were the old guard, older even than his father. They would do their best to give good advice, and his father would ignore them.

The third ealdorman, Godwine of Lindsey, thin and scrawny, toying nervously with the thick ring that was his badge of office and far too big for his womanish hands, would have little to offer. Next to him sat Ælfhelm of Northumbria, as big and hale as ever.

Jesu. Ælfhelm would want news of his daughter.

He muttered a curse under his breath and hoped that he would not have to be the one to tell him that Elgiva had been left behind in shattered Exeter.

He signaled to a servant to bring him mead. There was no reason why he should not get drunk. The king did not want his advice, although his counselors were abysmally few in number tonight. There should have been five more ealdormen, but his father had chosen to leave those positions of power unfilled, because, in his wisdom, he mistrusted any who might challenge him. The king wanted to keep his nobles weak and maintain power and wealth in his own hands, and he had succeeded most admirably.