The Price of Blood (22 page)

In the middle of the channel, bright sails billowing and banners snapping, thirty of his newly built warships were maneuvering into position, preparing for the moment when the tide would turn and carry them past his pavilion and eastward to the sea. Not since the time of King Alfred had so many warships filled the Thames. Yet this was only a fraction of the fleet that would gather next month at Sandwich. From there they would guard his coasts, able to intercept and engage any fleet that threatened his realm.

It would be a massive, floating safety net, built by his thegns and blessed by his bishops, yes, but ordered into existence by him. As he drank in the sight of the mighty ships he felt his heart swell with pride. This was the answer to the dark dreams that had filled his broken nights. How many times had he wakened in the silent hours to find the cold, piercing eyes of his dead brother’s wraith gleaming at him from the shadows—a midnight companion that terrorized him still?

But not today. There was no place in the brightness and glitter of this day for the shade of a dead king, and the only anxiety that gnawed at him now had to do with his eldest son. Athelstan, who should have been standing here beside him, had left the city. The rest of his sons were at their posts—Edmund and Edward here, and the other two aboard their assigned ships. Athelstan, though, had left London last night after yet another quarrel about Eadric.

And so, on a day when he should have had no cares to mar his triumph, he was forced to consider what devilry his son might be stirring up.

He glanced at Edmund, who was silently observing the activities on the water. Edmund and Athelstan had ever been close, but recently there had been a chill between the brothers—or so Edyth had advised him. Something had occurred at Corfe last fall, she had suggested, perhaps something to do with Edgar’s death. Whatever it was, it seemed to have placed a wedge between his two eldest sons.

That was likely all to the good, he mused. If there was a breech between the brothers, he might be able to make use of it.

He had long suspected Athelstan of working against him in secret, of forging alliances that he might one day use against his king and father.
Christ!
Even in public his eldest son had ever been ready to argue against his decisions, and in council he had been far too quick to voice objections. Last night’s outburst against recent powers granted to Eadric was only the latest skirmish in the long battle between them. If Athelstan was entertaining any thoughts of moving against him—or against Eadric, for that was far more likely—Edmund might well be privy to them. And what better time to glean information from Edmund than now, when the brothers were at odds and this one perhaps less guarded about revealing whatever he may know or guess about the actions of the other?

He did not lift his gaze from the river, but murmured to Edmund, “I’m told that when Athelstan set out from London last night, he went north. Did he tell you where he was going?”

Now he chanced a quick look at his son, seeing the dark brows furrow and the eyes narrow as Edmund squinted into the sunshine.

“He will meet us at Sandwich, my lord,” Edmund replied, tight-lipped.

The gathering at Sandwich was set for late in May, some three weeks hence. And Edmund had not, in fact, answered his question.

“He was not riding toward Sandwich, Edmund,” he growled, “and I would know where he will spend the intervening time.” He hesitated, still uncertain as to where Edmund’s true loyalties lay. Would he speak the truth, even if he knew it? Edmund might lie if he thought it necessary to protect his brother. “I am concerned for Athelstan,” he added. “I fear that he may be playing some dangerous game, one that he will come to regret.”

He shifted his eyes toward Edmund again and, noting that his son was no longer looking at the ships, followed Edmund’s gaze to where young Edward stood pointing at the colorful sails upon the water, his face lit with boyish delight.

“What kind of game would you play, my lord,” Edmund asked, “if your father named the infant son of a foreign bride his heir?”

Æthelred snorted. “Does Athelstan fear Edward so much? A child with few supporters?”

“Few?” Edmund echoed. “At your command, my lord, your nobles have pledged to accept Edward as your heir. Even if most of them disavow that oath in the time to come,” he lowered his voice, “there are many powerful men who would be eager to see Edward inherit your throne. The brother of your Norman queen, I think, would like to extend his reach beyond the Narrow Sea should the opportunity arise. And,” he said, even more softly, “there are men of influence here in England who would seek even greater power by controlling the regency of a young king.”

There was no mistaking this barely veiled reference to Eadric. They were jealous of Eadric, these sons of his, and that suited him well enough. Jealousy among his family might be dangerous, but it had its uses.

“I am far more concerned with what plots are brewing now than in those that may surface after my death,” he growled, impatient with Edmund’s skill at avoiding his question. “I will ask you again. Where is your brother?”

“I do not know, my lord,” Edmund grunted. “I am not in his counsels.” He looked toward Edward again and said, “I am surprised that the queen is not here today.”

“She is ill.” Æthelred dismissed the subject of Emma with a flick of his hand.

Edyth, seated on his left, now bent her head close to his. “The queen’s illness is cause for joy, my lord,” she whispered. “She is with child and has known it for some weeks. I wonder that she has not yet told you.”

On the bridge, Archbishop Ælfheah, garbed in a brilliant gold chasuble, his miter rising above the heads of the white-robed priests who surrounded him, raised his arms to invoke the blessing. In the ensuing silence, as the archbishop intoned the prayers, Æthelred digested Edyth’s words.

She was right. If the queen was with child, he should have been told immediately. She’d had plenty of opportunity, for he saw her almost daily, so why had she not done so?

He fingered his beard as he tried to encompass the mind of his queen. Perhaps she feared that her condition would give him an excuse to bar her from a seat at his council, and of course it would. He would take advantage of it immediately. Let her stay sequestered in the queen’s apartments, where she could not meddle in the affairs of his kingdom. Too many people looked to her for favors and privileges, usually churchmen and usually at his expense; he would be glad of an excuse to put a stop to it.

His eyes fell again upon young Edward, and he watched as the boy bowed his head in an attitude of prayer that was somewhat belied by his incessant fidgeting from one foot to the other.

He had never wanted Edward to remain at court under the influence of his Norman mother. Now that Emma was with child again, he could at last pry her son from her side. He would send Edward to one of the abbeys and have him schooled in disciplines far removed from the political lessons that his mother would instill in him. Let them make a priest of him, perhaps even a bishop, so that he could one day be of use to an English king. That had ever been the plan he’d devised for the boy. Despite naming Edward as his heir, he had never intended that the child should actually rule. It had been merely a move to bedevil his eldest sons and to garner the goodwill of Emma’s brother Richard.

Later today he would speak with the abbot of Ely about taking the boy north with him, for he must strike before Emma could think of some way to prevent him. It would be just like his lady wife to set her favorite bishops or, God forbid, Archbishop Ælfheah against him to compel him to leave the boy in her care.

The archbishop appeared to have finished his interminable blessing, and now a choir of monks from the abbey at the West Minster began to sing a Latin hymn. Priests posted all along the bridge rail used leafy branches to fling holy water onto the ships clustered below. Soon the ceremony would be over, the tide would have turned, and London’s ships would begin to move with it, eastward toward the sea.

And still, despite his pleasure at the sight of the ships and his satisfaction at having determined the disposition of his youngest child, Æthelred toyed with his beard and wondered where his eldest son had got to and what mischief he might be planning.

Two days after the king’s new ships sailed to join the rest of the fleet at Sandwich, one of London’s dense fogs wrapped an enormous, wet paw around the city, a grip that only seemed to tighten as the morning progressed. Emma was content to be within doors on such a day, especially here; for the London palace was the newest and finest of all the royal dwellings. Over the past three years, Æthelred had spared no expense in rebuilding and refurbishing what had once been a fortress housing a Roman army. The result was wondrous.

Her own apartments were constructed of wood above a lower floor of mostly Roman stonework that had been repaired and reinforced. She had housed her Norman hearth guards in the lower hall, while the spacious chambers on the upper floor accommodated her household of nearly thirty women and children. In the queen’s chamber there were windows, narrow and high, with panes made of thick glass instead of horn. Even on days like this, light spilled through them like a radiant waterfall.

This morning she was seated on a low, cushioned bench, with a small book on her lap and a boy on either side of her. The book’s pages were filled with drawings of strange creatures that thrilled her young companions, although Emma found them unsettling and ugly. What was it about monsters, she wondered, that was so appealing to little boys?

She turned a page, composing a tale to fit the image that greeted her of a headless man whose enormous eyes, nose, and mouth gaped at her from below his shoulders. By now he was a familiar sight, for this book was a favorite, and she drew her story from bits and pieces of previous tales.

From time to time she glanced toward the others in the chamber who were listening while they worked. Wymarc, Margot, and Wulfa were clustered on benches in the center of the room, fingers and needles busy. The altar cloth that they were hemming was all but finished, and Emma considered it one of the most beautiful that had been produced in her hall. Made of bloodred silk and trimmed with a wide band of cloth of gold, the central ornament was a golden rood that she had embroidered herself with painstaking care. With every stitch she had whispered a prayer to Saint Bride, the patron saint of infants, imploring her protection for the child growing within her. On the morrow she would tell the king that she was again with child, and she would carry the cloth herself to St. Bride’s Church before she left with the court for Sandwich.

She had just ended her tale with a desperate fight to the death between two fierce monsters when a servant entered to announce the arrival of the king’s steward, Hubert, who followed only a half step behind him.

“Good day, Hubert,” she said, as he made a perfunctory reverence and then stood solemnly before her, hands folded. She eyed him warily, this dark-robed, weasel-faced little cleric, for they had little liking for each other. Hubert had served the king faithfully for decades as private scribe, casual counselor, and, she had reason to believe, household spy. His appearance in her chamber meant that he bore some message of import from the king; and from the smug expression on his face she suspected that she was not going to like what she was about to hear. “There is nothing amiss, I hope,” she said.

“The king bids you to prepare your son for a journey, my lady. He is to leave for the Abbey School at Ely within the hour.”

She felt Edward, beside her, give a little start of surprise. She was surprised as well, and frightened; but she would not allow Hubert to see it.

“What you ask is impossible,” she said, with far more compsure than she was feeling. “It will take far longer than that to prepare my son for so arduous an undertaking. If I am not mistaken, it must be a journey of at least five days to reach Ely.”

“The necessary preparations have all been completed, my lady. You need only supply the boy with whatever clothing he must have on the journey. The king trusts that he’s given you sufficient time for that.” He wore the confident expression of a man who has just made a winning throw of the dice, and she knew that she was beaten.

She looked toward Margot, who slipped from the room and would return in a moment, Emma was certain, with a handful of servants. Margot knew as well as she did that there could be no fighting the inevitable. The command that she had so dreaded had come at last. The king would take her son away from her, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Why now, though? And why with such dispatch? It felt like a punishment, although she suspected that it was nothing more than Æthelred carelessly flaunting his power. He would not, though, have it all his way.

She swallowed what felt like a tide of grief and apprehension that was rising in her throat. She must not frighten Edward. For his sake she had to remain calm, had to make him view this as a huge adventure.

She wrapped her arm around her son and hugged him to her side.