Shadow on the Crown (39 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

December 1004

Headington, Oxfordshire

E
lgiva urged her horse onto the bridge that spanned the River Cherwell, following in her brother’s wake as he led their little company toward the king’s palace. The riders had to cross the narrow bridge one at a time, and as Elgiva reached the middle of the span, her nervous mount tossed its head and sidled, frightened by the rain-swollen torrent raging below. As she struggled to keep the horse from crashing against the wooden railing, Elgiva could see the water surging hungrily toward the wooden planks beneath her, and she cursed the horse under her breath. Finally, she made it to the other side, and then she cursed her brother, who merely grinned and told her to get used to it.

He was right, she thought. She would have to cross this wretched bridge every time she wished to attend a royal function at the palace. It was her father’s fault for settling her in a convent instead of in the apartments of the queen, where she rightly belonged. Emma would surely have welcomed her if her father had asked, but he made no secret of the fact that he wanted Elgiva where he could keep close watch on her. Apparently he would prefer to see her drown as she tried to cross the river rather than trust her alone within the walls of Æthelred’s palace.

This morning she had heard her father order her escort, composed of Wulf and five of her father’s men, to take her directly to the queen’s chamber door and to stay with her at all times. It would have been humiliating if she had thought for one moment that they could actually do it. The men, however, would not be welcome in the apartments of the pregnant queen. And later, when the feasting and the drinking in the great hall began, it would be easy to lose herself amid the crowd. As for the serving girl who plodded along behind her on a donkey, Elgiva had plied her with enough silver to keep the girl mindful of where her allegiance lay.

For a time they rode along the river, and it was not long before her cloak was spattered with mud. Jesu, she was sick of the mud. It was inescapable, more persistent even than the rain that, for the moment, had dwindled into mist. When she left Northampton six days ago she had imagined that as she traveled south she would find the sun, or at least a break in the rainfall. But they had seen nothing but foul weather, and the journey had taken two days longer than it should have. It had been a wet summer and fall, and it seemed that all of England had turned to bog.

She peered sideways through the drizzle at her father’s man, Alric, who now rode beside her. A year had passed since she had last seen him, on that morning in Exeter when he had deposited her so abruptly at the fortress gate. He had trimmed his hair and shaved off his beard so that he looked completely different—and not nearly as handsome as before. His attitude toward her today was different as well. He had greeted her with a cool solicitude that was nothing like the smoldering attentions he had lavished upon her in Devonshire. Even now he would not meet her gaze, and she wondered what horrible punishment her father had promised to any man who cast a lecherous eye upon his daughter.

She looked past Alric to the masses of colorful tents and pavilions that had sprouted like mushrooms upon the meadows of the royal estate. They would house the retinues of the men who served on the king’s council, and she saw her father’s banner set amidst a flock of tents on the higher ground, a choice spot set aside for the retainers of the most powerful of the king’s ealdormen.

The muddy road curved and began to slope upward, and as their company neared the palace a pack of yelping dogs shot through the gate, followed by a troop of horsemen who gave little heed to the folk scurrying out of the way. She recognized the king, his saffron-colored cloak flying behind him, and she picked out Athelstan’s bright head, as well as her father’s grizzled mane. She glanced at Wulf and saw him scowl at the riders. No doubt he would prefer the excitement of the hunt to the boredom of waiting for her beside the queen’s chamber door.

Good. He deserved to be as unhappy with his lot as she was. When he helped her from her horse a few moments later, she gave him a sour look, and he returned it in kind. Then she climbed the steps to the queen’s apartments.

To her surprise, the men-at-arms at the queen’s door wore the king’s badge on their tunics. Then she remembered that Emma’s Norman retinue had been numbered among the dead in the rubble of Exeter. The queen would have to depend completely on English folk now for servants and retainers. How loyal, Elgiva wondered, would they be to their Norman mistress?

Shedding her male escorts along with her muddy cloak, she stepped through the screens passage into the queen’s apartment and breathed a sigh of relief. For the past year she had been under constant surveillance by her father or her brothers or their spies. There were probably spies here as well, but at least they would not be tattling to her father.

She peered around the room, which was brightly lit by banks of candles as well as by the blazing central fire that sent smoke wafting upward, where it lay like a mantle among the roof timbers. The place was even more mobbed than she had expected. The king’s summons to the
witan
had drawn all the powerful nobles of the kingdom to Headington, and all their wives and daughters must be housed in these apartments. All but the Lady Elgiva of Northampton, she thought bitterly.

The women stood in knots of five or six, some with toddlers clinging to their skirts, some whose servants were burdened with babies. Their chatter was subdued, except for the squeals that emanated from a group of young girls seated on the floor near the door where the king’s three daughters held their own little court.

Gesturing to her maid to walk ahead and clear her passage, Elgiva threaded her way through the chamber. She passed a long embroidery frame that had been set up along one wall, where a number of women plied their needles, some industriously, others with the kind of weary boredom that Elgiva herself suffered whenever she undertook such a task.

She knew some of them, but many faces were unfamiliar—an indication of how far out of touch she was with the lines of power near the throne. She would have to remedy that.

She found the queen at last, in a far corner of the apartment, where a tall screen protected her from the heat of the fire and provided a modicum of privacy. She almost did not recognize Emma at first. Her face, which Elgiva had always considered too thin and pale, had grown round, and was flushed, she presumed, from the closeness of the room. There were blue crescents of fatigue beneath her eyes, and the smile that she turned on Elgiva looked strained.

Elgiva had little experience with pregnant women, but if it meant looking like this—bloated and haggard—she did not think that she would like it at all. The queen half-reclined on a bed, her body bolstered by cushions and pillows. Margot sat on the floor in front of her mistress, with Emma’s feet in her lap, rubbing briskly at the queen’s swollen ankles and calves. Nearby Wymarc sat in a low chair suckling a babe.

She regarded the babe with mute astonishment. She had not heard that Wymarc had borne a child, or that she was even wed. Who was the father then? Could it possibly be one of the æthelings? She was still contemplating this as she bent her knee before the queen.

“Welcome, Elgiva,” Emma said. “I have longed for some time to see you, if only to prove to myself that you survived the terrible events at Exeter last year with no hurt.” She paused as Hilde, who had appeared from behind another screen, offered Elgiva a cup of wine.

“I thank you, my lady,” Elgiva said, accepting the cup and taking the stool next to Emma.

“We all suffered some hurt, though,” Emma continued, her eyes exploring Elgiva’s face, “because of those we lost at the hands of the Danes. Groa’s death must have caused you great pain, I think. We have mourned her, and we still remember her daily in our prayers.”

Elgiva could think of no reply to this. Groa, who did not believe in Emma’s God, would hardly have thanked Emma for her prayers. Indeed, she had had little love for the queen, and had not balked at murdering Emma’s unborn child. Would the queen still offer prayers for the old woman’s soul if she knew that?

She schooled her face to an expression of grief, but she did not grieve for Groa. She was still too furious with her for allowing herself to be run down by those two bastard Danes.

“It is true that we have all suffered loss,” she murmured. “Even the king lost a child who was dear to him.” She twitched her face into earnestness. “But you, my lady, will give him another son very soon, I pray. I see that many have come to be witness to your joy and assist you at the birth.” She gazed expectantly at Emma. This was the moment when the queen should invite her to attend that birth.

Emma smiled. “I fear that I am surrounded by more ladies than will likely be of any use,” she said, “and far more than I desire. The king has given me leave to seek a private retreat for my confinement, and I will do so soon.”

“Indeed.” Elgiva felt her bid for a place at the queen’s side slipping through her fingers. “But will it not be unwise for you to travel, my lady?” she asked. “I have been on the road myself for some days, and every mile of the journey was fraught with peril. The roads are mired in mud, and all the rivers are swollen. Just crossing the Cherwell today seemed a great risk. Surely, in your condition, to travel any distance would be far too great a danger, both for you and the child.”

And how strange was this, that she should be urging her greatest enemy to have a care for her safety!

Emma tilted her head ever so slightly, as if contemplating the suggestion. “You may be right,” she said. “I will consider your advice.” She rearranged herself on her bed, the topic of her confinement obviously closed. “I fear, Elgiva, that you have missed the opening sessions of the
witan
, but the great welcome feast is set for tomorrow, and you are in good time for that. And since you are here with us now, you must dine with us today.”

“It would be my pleasure, I thank you.” She had not been dismissed, exactly, but it was not the invitation that she had looked for. She hid her disappointment behind her wine cup, eyeing Emma as the queen leaned back against her cushions and closed her eyes.

Emma may have been living in penury a year ago, but her status had obviously improved now that she was ripe with the king’s child. Her wrists were covered with golden bangles, and the golden necklace at her throat was studded with garnets. The embroidery of her gown, too, was gold, and the hems of her sleeves were liberally sprinkled with jewels. The shoes that Elgiva could see peeking out from beneath the bed were lined with fur. Add to that the number of women she was so generously accommodating within her apartments, and Emma’s wealth appeared to be great indeed.

Elgiva swirled the wine in her cup and stared into its depths. Emma might be victorious for the moment, but even the birth of a son would do her little good in the end. Her child would never inherit his father’s crown; there were too many older brothers in the way. When the king died, one of his elder sons would claim the throne. An infant king and a widowed queen would be of no use to anyone, and Emma would be lucky to end her days in a convent presiding over a clutch of nuns.

She looked up at Emma again, and found the pale green eyes fixed disconcertingly upon her.

“Perhaps,” Emma said, “you would tell me what happened to you that day in Exeter. I never did learn how it was that you managed to escape when others, even Groa, did not.”

It was a veiled accusation, and Elgiva felt a tiny knife thrust of alarm. She dropped her eyes to avoid Emma’s intent gaze.

“Groa, too, would have escaped, except that she was too old to run, and the Danes were hard on our heels. She bid me to get away, even though she could not keep up.” She clasped her hands tight in her lap. That was what had happened, wasn’t it? Groa had called out, had ordered her to run so that she, too, would not be cut down. “What is it you wish to know, my lady?” she asked, modulating her voice to a mere whisper. “It pains me to speak of it.”

“Pray, do not dwell on Groa’s loss,” Emma said, “but tell me how you were saved.”

Wulf had already schooled her about what to say should she be asked, and so the lies came easily. She made no mention of the secret passage beneath the fortress or of the hidden door left unlocked behind them when they fled—a door that, she had realized later, must have given the Danes entry into the very heart of Exeter. Emma’s reeve, Hugh, would forever bear the blame for that, but as he was surely dead, he would not care. Instead, Elgiva spun a tale of slipping through Exeter’s northern gate before the guards closed it, embroidering the story with her very real memories of screams and the stench of burning.

Emma listened to Elgiva’s words, studying her face as she described her flight from Exeter. The young woman’s eyes were glazed with tears, and her expression was one of grief and pain, but Emma suspected that there were other thoughts hidden behind that sorrowful expression, although she could only guess what they might be.