Shadow on the Crown (36 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

September 1003

Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire

I
t was Ealdorman Ælfhelm who carried word of the sacking of Dorchester, Wilton, and Salisbury to his sons and his daughter in Northamptonshire. Elgiva watched her father’s arrival from the doorway of the great hall, flanked by Wulf on her right and by her eldest brother, Ufegeat, on her left. The autumn air was chilly, and she held the welcoming ale cup ready in her hands as their father dismounted and made his way up the steps toward them.

She had not set eyes on him since the spring, and she was struck by how much older he seemed to her now. Had her father really aged so much, she wondered, or were her senses merely more acute? Ever since she had been granted the vision of the white hart it seemed to her that everything looked different—older, darker, even threatening. Was this the gift granted by that vision? If so, she would just as soon give it back.

She had ordered a meal prepared, and as her father sat down to his meat and ale, all three of his children listened attentively to his tale.

“It is certain then,” Elgiva said, after he had described Ælfric’s untimely illness and the English retreat, “that the Danes have left our shores for good?”

Ever since her return from Exeter her brothers had kept her mewed up within the palisade that surrounded the estate, for fear of Danish raiders. Whenever she did get leave to set foot beyond the walls, whether to ride into nearby Northampton or to hunt within their own woodlands, she was accompanied by an armed force and, invariably, one of her brothers. She was heartily sick of her brothers.

“It is certain that they have left our shores, for now,” her father replied. “Anyone who believes that they are gone for good is a dreamer or a damned fool.”

“And in which category would you place our beloved king?” asked Ufegeat.

He held his cup out toward Elgiva and motioned for more ale, as if she were no more than a serving wench. Her eldest brother’s arrogant attitude maddened her, although, truth be told, he treated her as he treated all women—as if the whole purpose of female existence was to cater to him. She poured the ale into his cup but muttered a curse under her breath.

Ufegeat sat back in his chair with his brimming cup and waited for his father to respond to his quip.

“Æthelred is a dreamer
and
a fool, as you well know,” her father grunted. “You saw it firsthand in Cumberland two years ago, did you not? When the fleet ran into a storm and was unable to meet with the land force at the appointed time, the whole action turned into a debacle. It was a waste of time and money, all because Æthelred had neither the imagination to foresee what might go wrong nor the intellect to plan for it. And because he is so damned unlucky, invariably something does go wrong, and the result is disaster. It has happened over and over again. This episode at Wilton is just the latest example. It is hardly a wonder that our king has no stomach for fighting. Instead he prays and weeps and dreams that all will be well. But he cannot dream the Danes away. They will hit us again next summer, to be sure. The only question is where.”

“They will not strike us here, will they?” Elgiva asked, afraid, eager for reassurance. And if they did come, sailing up the Nene from the Wash or marching northward from Wessex, there would be warning beacons lit, surely. There would be time to run.

“Have no fear,” her father said. “They will not strike anywhere near here.”

She saw a glance pass between her father and Ufegeat, just the briefest knowing look, so swift that she wasn’t even sure that it had really been there.

“You sound very certain of that, my lord,” Wulf said.

Her father shrugged. “Swein would not strike so far inland unless he was mad, or unless he was prepared to challenge Æthelred for the entire kingdom. He is not mad, and I do not believe that he has the numbers of ships and men that he would need to overrun all of England.” He lifted his cup to his lips and muttered, “Not yet, at any rate.”

Elgiva stared at him. “You think that is what he wants?” she asked. “You think he would make himself king of England as well as king of Denmark and Norway?”

It was a terrifying thought. If it were true, there would be no place to hide from the fighting. No corner of the kingdom would be safe. Dear God, her father would likely shut her up in a convent for safekeeping, and then she would go mad.

Her father waved a dismissive hand.

“Do not trouble your head about it, daughter,” he said. “Your brothers and I will protect you, whatever comes.”

Elgiva snorted. “My brothers have been protecting me for weeks, now, and I find it unspeakably tedious. I wish the Danes would stay at home in their own halls. I shall pray that if this Forkbeard sets out a-viking to our shores again, a storm will come along and swallow up his entire fleet.”

“Forgive us, Elgiva,” Wulf said, “if we do not count on
your
prayers to be answered. I’ve observed that you tend to be rather lax about saying them.”

She ignored him. She did not really believe in the power of prayer to effect change in the lives of men. Why should God care what mortals did to one another? It was not as if what happened in this world could affect Him, for good or for ill. Besides, were not all Christians praying to the same God? Was the Almighty supposed to choose one side or the other in a battle, designating reward or punishment by the number of prayers sent heavenward? Such a concept of God could only have been invented by some arrogant male, someone like her brother Ufegeat, who had already founded an abbey for the specific purpose of praying for his immortal soul. He seemed convinced that this would allow him to disobey all ten commandments while on earth yet still find a place reserved for him in God’s heavenly kingdom.

She herself had no interest in the halls of paradise. She was much more interested in what was happening in Æthelred’s hall now that the Danish threat had passed.

“What news of the queen?” she asked her father. “Has she asked for me?”

“She was pleased enough to learn of your escape from Exeter,” he said. “She thought you were dead.” He turned hard, assessing eyes on Wulf. “I would learn more about what happened that day,” he said, “and I expect you to give me a full accounting.”

There was a chill in his voice, and Elgiva did not envy her brother. He would have to confess that he had been delayed in rescuing her from the
burh
at Exeter because he had been dallying with his whore. That, however, was his problem.

“Has the queen sent me a summons?” she begged her father. “Am I to return to the court?” She longed to be in Winchester and away from the stifling boredom of her father’s manor. She would swear that the hall itself was shrinking daily, little by little.

“The queen did not summon you,” he said. “Indeed, you would find little there to amuse you. The Lady Emma is in mourning for those who were lost at Exeter. She has very few women in attendance upon her, for she cannot afford it. Her income has been greatly reduced because so many of her properties in Exeter were plundered and burned by Swein’s army. Rumor has it that she has applied to her brother Richard for funds. What’s more, she has lost favor with the king. He treats her with cold civility and continues to bar her from his councils.”

Elgiva toyed thoughtfully with the salt spoon. If Æthelred had tired of Emma again, it was even more imperative that she return to court. She could influence the king in ways that her father never could. Besides, the æthelings would be there, and she still hoped to beguile her way into Ecbert’s bed.

She folded her hands on the table before her, leaning urgently toward her father.

“I am weary of living so far away from the court,” she said. “If the queen can find no place for me among her retinue, my brother’s house in Winchester will suit me very well. Surely you will join the king for the Yule celebration, and then I could—”

“I shall not join the king’s court for the Yule,” her father interrupted her. “He would have me there, to be sure. He wants all his ealdormen close by his side, but I have danced attendance upon him through the summer and I see no reason to court him through the winter season as well. He pays no heed to my words, and I’ll not waste my time.”

“All the more reason then,” she urged, “that I return to Winchester. The king has favored me in the past and I may be—”

“You, my girl,” her father snarled, reaching across the board to grab her wrist so tightly that the pain and shock made her cry out, “will be less generous with your favors henceforth. I know well enough how the king has favored you, and that you welcomed him like a bitch in heat. I looked the other way while I thought it might be profitable, but it has brought us nothing, and now it will stop. I will see to that! Your old nurse is not here to pander for you, and you will not find it so easy to cozen me.”

He thrust her away from him, and Elgiva scowled, rubbing the sting from her wrist. She sat in stony silence as he took a long pull from his ale cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The king will not dally with you, in any case,” he said with a belch. “The bishops have got their claws into him and have persuaded him that a chaste ruler is most likely to win God’s favor. The queen is the only woman to visit the king’s chamber now.”

“I thought you said he treated her coldly,” Elgiva grumbled.

“He does,” her father growled, “but that need not stop him from swiving her. He hated his first wife, yet he got a dozen children on her. God forbid this one should be so fruitful,” he muttered.

“The king cannot live forever,” Wulf said. “We should be currying the favor of his sons.”

Elgiva thought this an excellent idea, but she knew better than to voice her opinion now. Her father was drunk, past the point where she could persuade him with honeyed words and smiles. She could do nothing but sit here and listen—and hope that she learned something to her benefit.

“The king has looped his purse strings about the necks of his eldest sons,” her father said, slurring his words and staring dully into his ale cup. “He has taken control of their estates and their income and, what is more, he has set spies upon them. They cannot so much as take a piss without the king knowing about it.”

“He suspects them of some treachery, then?” Ufegeat asked in surprise.

Her father gave a shout of laughter. “Whom does he not suspect?” he asked. “For the time being,” he said, spearing another haunch of meat with his knife, “we will be patient. We will watch and wait and listen. You,” he pointed his knife at Ufegeat, “will go to Jorvik for the Yule. There are some matters there that need attending. You,” he pointed his knife at Wulf, “will stay here with me, and together we shall guard our family’s greatest asset. And you,” Elgiva saw the knife aimed at her, “will resign yourself to a life of quiet solitude. Be thankful that you do not have to count your pennies like Æthelred’s queen. And if I catch you cocking your eye at any man, no matter who he is I will shave your head and dress you in sackcloth with my own hands.”

She gaped at him in horror.

“What have I done to deserve such a fate?” she cried.

“It is what you are destined to do that concerns me,” her father said, “and I will not have you making any move that might foul my plans. Now get you to your chamber. I have matters to discuss with my sons.”

He waved his knife drunkenly toward the door, but Elgiva did not move. She could feel the storm of blood surging to her head like an angry red tide, and it swept her past all caution.

“Nay, father. I have some matters to discuss with
you
,” she said, leaning across the board to hiss at him. “I would know what use you made of the news I fed you about the queen’s doings on that wretched journey across Wessex. I would know what my brother was about when I saw him speaking to a Danish thug in Exeter’s backstreets. And most of all, I would know what plans you have made for me without my leave.”

Her father froze, mouth agape, while the juice from his meat dripped down his chin and into his beard. But it was her brother Ufegeat who responded by striking her a hard blow across the face. While she was still too dazed to move, he grabbed her arm and dragged her from the bench.

“You have ever made too free with your tongue, girl,” he snarled, “and your cunt.” He shook her so that she grew dizzy. “This time you have gone too far. You will shut your mouth, keep your legs together, and do as you are bid. Get out!”

He thrust her away from him so that she fell off the dais and onto the hard slate floor. She lay there for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning, assessing the damage. Her hip and her elbow hurt where she had landed, and she tasted blood in her mouth. She saw Wulf glance at her, but he made no move to aid her. He was too much of a coward to defy his elder brother.

Her father did not even look at her, and Ufegeat had already dismissed her. Slowly she drew herself to her feet and limped toward the door, cradling her arm.

Ufegeat would never have touched her if Groa were still alive. They, all of them, had feared the old woman, wary of her knowledge of herbs, knowing that Groa would take her revenge should anyone injure her darling.

Well, she may not have Groa’s knowledge or her skill, but she would find a way to make them pay. She did not know how to do it, nor how long it would take her, but one day she would make them repent their treatment of her. Let them have their plans and secrets. Let them try to mew her up like a kenneled hound. Their prize bitch had a vicious streak, and someday they would discover, to their sorrow, that she could bite.

October 1003

Winchester, Hampshire

It seemed to Emma that the king’s icy attitude toward her had seeped into the very walls of the palace. She had few friends among the nobility, and even the servants treated her with a brittle courtesy that she found difficult to bear.

Like the king, they held her as somehow responsible for the Danish raid, as if, like the pull of the tides, she had inexorably drawn the invaders to England’s shores. It was whispered about that her Norman reeve, Hugh, had with his own hand opened Exeter’s gates to the Danish shipmen, and so the destruction of the city was laid squarely upon Emma’s shoulders. The massacre of St. Brice’s Day the year before, set in motion by the king’s command, had been forgotten. Instead it was the foreign queen who was to blame for all.