The Price of Blood (18 page)

Emma was silent, her gaze lingering on her sleeping son as she pondered Margot’s warning. She could not imagine a day in her life that did not in some way revolve around Edward, for he was all the world to her. To Æthelred, though, he was—like the other children—no more than a game piece in the palm of a king, to be used in ways she could neither predict nor prevent. And this, she knew, was what lay at the root of her fear.

She went to her son, and as she bent to kiss him, murmuring a prayer for his protection, a servant appeared with a summons from the king. Reflecting bitterly that there was but one task that Æthelred deemed suited to his queen, she threw on a shawl and, leaving her son in the care of others, she left her chambers to spend the night in the king’s bed.

December 1007

Aldbrough, Holderness

It was raining. To Elgiva it sounded as if rocks were landing on the roof’s wooden shingles, so loud that it was like a pounding inside her head. She screamed, partly to clear her brain of that drumbeat, but mostly because Cnut’s child was trying to rip her apart. She did not believe in any god, but if one existed, surely he was a man. No goddess would sit back idly and allow women to go through this.

She was surrounded by so many attendants that she thought she must suffocate, but she managed to draw another gasping breath as the pain eased. They would not let her rest, though. They forced her to walk, even in the trough between contractions, even when she had begged them to let her lie down for just a little while.

“The child will come more quickly if you stay on your feet,” they promised her.

And so she walked. She distracted herself from the pain by counting off the reasons that she hated Cnut Sweinson. First, because he was a man. Second, because he had planted this thing inside her. Third, because he was still cowering in Denmark at his father’s side in spite of all her urgent messages that he come to her to lay claim to his son.

Every time she had sent another envoy across the sea, Thurbrand had laughed at her.

“Birthing is women’s work,” he had said. “Cnut knows that. Your entreaties will only provoke him and, trust me, lady, he will not heed you.”

The response to her pleas had always been the same.
Lord Cnut will come when he can.
The last message had come from Swein.
Send word when you bear a son
, the messenger had said. She had slapped the servant who relayed it, and that, too, had made Thurbrand howl with laughter.

As the night dragged on the pains became more frequent, so that she had little time to think any more about Cnut. Her mind focused inward and she was consumed by the agonizing demands of childbirth until the dawn silvered the edges of the closed shutters, and all she wanted was to see her ordeal ended.

“Push!” Tyra was urging her to do what she was already doing with all her might.

She was naked now, propped on the birthing chair, sweating from her labor and from the heat that radiated from the fire pit and from the clutch of women who surrounded her. She bore down hard once more, then shouted with triumph as she felt the sudden gush of something large and solid between her thighs. Cnut, damn his eyes, had a son at last.

She went limp with the release, but almost immediately they made her push some more for reasons she was too weary to question. She complied, and when some other thing had been expelled from her, they bathed her swiftly, then helped her to her feet and guided her to the bed. They gave her a cup of warm ale and butter, and she drank it greedily, listening with satisfaction to the infant’s lusty cry and the women’s excited gabbling. She was exhausted, but far too elated to sleep yet. Besides, there was something else she must attend to first.

“Catla,” she called out, beckoning to Thurbrand’s mouse of a wife. “You must send word to Cnut. Say that he must come to me as soon as can be to acknowledge his son.”

“But Elgiva,” Catla’s whisper was little more than a squeak, “your child is a girl. You have a beautiful daughter. Look at her!”

Catla drew aside and one of the women came forward with a squalling bundle in her arms.

Elgiva stared at the thing, but she made no move to take it.

“You lie,” she whispered. “I bore a son. I must have a son.”

No one answered her, and the only sound in the room was the wailing of the girl child who could not be hers, who must be some changeling they were trying to foist upon her. She flung away the ale cup and put her hands over her ears to shut out the sound.

God! Could they not find a way to silence the creature?

But they were all frozen, staring at her, gaping, and it seemed to her that this was a nightmare and she was attended by madwomen.

“Take it away!” she screamed. “Get it out!”

She wanted to throw something at them, but she was too weak. She could only curl herself into a tight ball of misery and weep for her lost son, until at last the nightmare ended and she fell asleep.

When she woke, it was to face the bitter knowledge of utter failure. The chamber was empty but for Tyra, who sat beside the fire, hands busy with her spindle. Elgiva ignored her, gazing dry-eyed into the darkness of the soot-blackened rafters high above her bed. She was hungry and desperately thirsty. Her breasts were so engorged that even the weight of the coverlet was agony. And it was all for nothing. All that work and pain, all those months of discomfort for nothing! For that was exactly what a girl child was worth to her.

The men of the north would not be persuaded to renounce their oaths to the English king, to pledge themselves to Swein and Cnut, unless they were guaranteed that another royal line—sprung from the bond between the Danish king and the northern nobility—would take its place. For that she needed a son.

All that day and for three days after, she refused to see anyone except Tyra, who brought her food and drink and who bound her leaky breasts. On the fourth day she had tired of self-pity. She rose from her bed, allowed Tyra to dress her, threw on a heavy cloak, and went outside. Walking was still difficult for her, but she made her way slowly, unhindered by anyone. She left Thurbrand’s enclosure and took the eastward path that led to the cliff above the sea. It was a familiar route, for she had walked this way many times to search the horizon for Cnut’s ship.

Catla, she knew, was following her. Probably the girl feared that she would throw herself from the high headland, although how Catla thought she could prevent it, Elgiva could not begin to guess. But she had no desire for self-destruction. She merely wanted to stand in the wind, to feel it buffet her, to make her feel alive again.

She came to the cliff edge, to the end of the only world that she had ever known. The sea was the color of steel, and from the horizon to the middle heavens, loops and swirls of cloud were massed in a huge bank of scarlet and black that was strikingly beautiful.

She was aware of Catla beside her now, and she said, “I will not jump, you need not worry. I have faced calamities far worse than this and they have not defeated me. Have you sent word to Cnut that he has a daughter?”

“It has been done, lady, but . . .” Catla’s voice dwindled to nothing, and Elgiva wanted to scream at her to grow a spine.

“What is it that you would tell me?” She looked into the white face beside her. The girl was weeping, her nose wet and red, and all of a sudden she knew what it was that Catla could not bring herself to say. “The babe is dead, then.”

“She was thriving,” Catla mewed, “but this morning the wet nurse could not waken her. It was as if her spirit just slipped away in the night.”

Elgiva turned her eyes back to that wall of cloud hanging over the sea. The wind gusted against her so that her cloak swirled and her eyes watered, and for long moments she was silent, watching the play of cloud and light.

“The child’s death is of no consequence,” she said at last. “It was a girl, and what use have I for a girl? Cnut needs a son, and now he must come back to England to give me one.”

But she recalled the cold look that her husband had cast upon her before he went away, and her heart faltered. She frowned at the sea and the sky that lay between this kingdom and the land of the Danes. The mountainous clouds had shifted so that they looked no longer beautiful but ominous, a looming darkness riddled with fiery light; and suddenly she was afraid.

Without a son to draw him, Cnut might never return. She would be left alone here—a forsaken concubine with no man, no child, and nothing to cling to but her bitter hatred for Æthelred and for his whey-faced Norman queen.

A.D. 1008
This year bade the king that men should speedily build ships over all England; that is, a man possessed of three hundred and ten hides to provide one galley or skiff; and a man possessed of eight hides only, to find a helmet and breastplate.

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

Chapter Fourteen

September 1008

Corfe, Dorset

A
thelstan settled into a corner of one of the wide, cushioned benches that lined the walls of Corfe’s royal lodge. A servant placed a cup of ale close to his hand, and several dogs ambled over, one of them nosing his booted foot before flopping against it with a grunt. A thin haze of smoke from the fire pit hung just below the roof thatch, and the hall smelled pleasantly of wood smoke and roast meat. On the walls, deer hides and antlers hung as mute testaments to the lodge’s purpose and to the wealth of game on this Isle of Purbeck.

He stretched, rotating his right arm before him as he tried to ease muscles unused to the demands of a hunting bow. The summer had been uneventful, thank God, and this refuge peaceful—at least until his brothers and their companions had descended upon it like a pack of young wolves. For the moment, though, tired from stalking deer in the hills, the men were relatively quiet, and he thought there could be no better place to spend a dank September afternoon.

He was fond of this hall, in spite of its sordid history of treachery and murder. He did not know the exact spot where his uncle, the sainted King Edward, had been slain. His father could have shown him the place, but he had not set foot here since the day Edward died, and it was the king’s distaste for Corfe that made Athelstan value it all the more. His memories of this place were unsullied by his father’s glowering presence or by the memory of a king who had been murdered decades ago. His brothers felt the same, and it had become their retreat, a place where they could spend time together with their companions.

By common consent no women were allowed—not even servants, although there were girls aplenty in the nearby village, always eager for royal companionship and a little silver. He suspected that his youngest brother was enjoying the embrace of some willing maiden right now, for Edgar had stopped at one of the houses in the village as they’d passed through, waving the rest of them to go on without him. He would have his pick of the girls, to be sure. With his even temper, comely face, and liberal hand, Edgar was even more popular around here than the martyred king who drew pilgrims and their purses to the village church dedicated to him.

He picked up his cup and slugged back a mouthful of ale, wiping his lips afterward with the back of his hand as he eyed each of his younger brothers in turn. Edmund, who liked to keep his ear to the ground and who paid well for information, stood with a group of men near the fire, his dark head cocked to one side. He glanced now and then toward the door, but for the most part he seemed to be listening intently to what was likely some nugget of local gossip. If it were useful, Edmund would share it with him later.

Off to one side of the hall, Edrid and Edwig had cleared a space on the sleeping platform and were throwing dice with half a dozen companions. He watched their gaming for a while, frowning when Edwig rose to his knees, leaned toward one of his men, and began to cuff him sharply about the face. His victim did not even attempt to fend off the blows—Edwig was an ætheling, after all—and Athelstan was about to put a stop to it when Edrid ordered his brother to leave off. Edwig laughed uproariously and turned back to the game, nearly falling off the platform as he did so because he was filthy drunk.

Christ
, he’d been drunk for days. The fact that he’d managed to stay astride a horse this morning was a testament to either his skill or his luck, neither of which could be counted on forever. Drunk or sober, Edwig took great pleasure in needling men until he’d driven them past caution and almost invariably to violence. Twice now the king had paid wergild for beatings that had ended in death. Edwig, though, would not always be able to count on his father or his brothers to get him out of trouble. One day, thought Athelstan, he would come to a bad end.

That thought brought to mind the words of the foreboding prophecy that he had succeeded in muting but that nevertheless still rang in his memory. True words or not, he reflected, Edwig’s road would surely be a bitter one if someone did not throttle some sense into him. Although, at seventeen, it was likely already too late.