The Price of Blood (23 page)

“Well, Edward,” she said lightly, “the king has given us an order and we must obey it. You are too old now to study with only Father Martin to help you, so you will go to a great abbey, where you will have many teachers.”

His face, though, was clouded with doubt.

“Are you not to come with me?” he asked.

She ran her fingers through his blond curls, imagining him at Ely, alone and frightened, without any familiar faces about him, without her there to care for him. Then she banished the picture, for if she dwelt on it she would weep, and that she must not do.

“I cannot come, my love,” she said. “But I am sure that the king will send a grand company with you, with banners and men-at-arms, just as if the king himself were going. Now, here is your nurse to help you choose the things that you wish to take with you. Wulfa and Robert will help too.”

Edward’s small face puckered with distress as he slipped off the bench, but he did not cry.

“May I take this book?” he asked her gravely.

“Of course,” she said, closing the book and handing it to his nurse.

When the children were gone she turned again to Hubert.

“Who is to attend Edward on the journey?” she asked. At least it would not be Edmund. He had already left for Sandwich.

“The bishop of Elmham and the abbot of Ely will take responsibility for him. They each have large retinues, and they are assembling at St. Paul’s, where the ætheling is to join them. The king wishes his son to wait upon him in the great hall before his departure.”

She nodded, waited until the chamber door had closed behind the steward, then rose from the bench, restless and angry. There was a great deal to do, for she would not send her son to Ely without attendants from her own household. She bid one of the servants to fetch Father Martin and turned to Wymarc, who had come to her side and now took her hand.

“You knew this had to come,” Wymarc said.

“He is not yet five winters old,” she replied bitterly. “He is too young to understand why he is being sent away, and I will not allow him to be alone among strangers.” Why had she not prepared for this?

Because, she told herself, she had not wanted to face it, even in her mind. Now she must find a way to deal with it in the space of an hour.

She looked into Wymarc’s eyes and saw her own grief reflected there. She saw understanding, as well, and resignation. Wymarc had already guessed what was in her mind.

“You wish Robert to accompany Edward,” Wymarc said. She drew a breath. “Yes, of course he must. Edward will need a companion.”

Emma squeezed her hand. Wymarc had surmised some of it, but not all.

“I wish you both to go,” she replied. “It will be to Robert’s advantage to continue at Edward’s side, and you must attend both our sons. Take lodgings somewhere near the abbey, and send me word of Edward as often as you can. Father Martin must go as well; he will be welcome within the abbey precincts.” She paused, casting about in her mind for what else must be done. “Some of my Norman hearth guards will accompany you, and Edward must have a body servant who can see to his needs, someone we can trust. Young Lyfing, I think.”

It was all happening too swiftly. She felt as if she were being buffeted by a windstorm, helpless in the grasp of something she could not control. She studied Wymarc’s face, as familiar to her as her own, then pulled her into a long embrace.

“I shall miss you,” Emma whispered. “I cannot guess how long we may be parted, but Edward must have someone nearby he can turn to should he have need of comfort. Stay as close to him as you can.”

“I will,” Wymarc said. “He is like my own son. You know that.”

At last they drew apart, and brushing a kiss against her friend’s brow Emma said, “Make haste. You have very little time.”

Wymarc nodded, and when she was gone Emma pressed her fingertips over her eyes in an effort to compose her face into something resembling equanimity before going to assist Edward. When she took her hands away, she found that Margot was at her elbow with a cup of wine in her hands.

“Drink just a little,” Margot said. “It will calm you, and that is how Edward must remember you.”

She took the cup, obediently swallowed once, twice, then handed the cup back to Margot with a grateful smile.

“I want you to wrap the crimson altar cloth in a length of waxed wool,” she said. “It must go to Ely with Edward. I do not know what gifts the king will send as compensation for sheltering our son, but the abbot will expect recompense from me as well.”

She could not send Edward empty-handed. Indeed, she would make certain that the abbot was beholden to her. The silken altar cloth embroidered in gold would be but the first gift of many. St. Bride’s would have to wait.

An hour later, on the steps of the chapel near the west gate, Emma gathered her son into her arms to bid him farewell.

“I will give you our special kiss,” he said, his arms about her neck.

She nodded and closed her eyes as he planted kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, her lips, and the tip of her nose.

“God bless you,” Edward said, just as he always did when he bade her good night.

“God keep you safe,” she answered, although she was not certain that God could be trusted in this.

Edward was lifted up and settled, like Robert, in front of one of her Norman retainers. Wymarc rode behind them, and as the company set out, she raised a hand in farewell. Emma watched, dry-eyed, as they disappeared into the mist. Then she went in search of the king.

He was still in the great hall, where he had taken leave of Edward, surrounded by clerks and attendants, finalizing arrangements, she imagined, for the upcoming ship gathering at Sandwich. She sidestepped Hubert’s attempt to head her off and went straight to the dais, where Æthelred was seated at a table littered with documents.

“I have followed your command regarding my son, my lord,” she said, “but I would know why you insisted on sending Edward away in such a cold, heartless manner. It was cruelly done, and I wish to know your reasons.”

Her words silenced every other voice in the hall, but she did not falter. Let them all listen. Perhaps they were as curious to hear the answer as she was.

“You are distraught, lady,” he said without even bothering to meet her gaze. “I will discuss your concerns with you later.”

“If you will look at me, my lord, you will see that I am not distraught. I am merely curious. I think, as your queen,” she said, emphasizing the title, “I deserve an answer.”

He did look at her then, and with the slightest flick of a finger he cleared the room of observers. That gesture was a signal of his power, utilized so casually that one might almost believe that he was not aware of how intimidating it was. But Emma knew the king, and she knew that every word and gesture had a purpose. He was reminding her that although she may be queen, her powers were merely a reflection of his own and of Edward’s as his heir. And now Edward was gone.

“Are you distressed, lady, at losing your son?” he asked. “Or perhaps it is your son’s apparent eagerness to leave your side that you find so upsetting.”

The words were meant to cause her pain, and her first instinct was to retaliate. But she had no weapon to use against him. She could not torment him with his son’s lack of feeling for him, because Æthelred cared nothing for that. He desired only that his children should fear him, and in that he had succeeded all too well.

“Instead of taunting me,” she said, “you should commend me for raising my son to obey your commands without question. I still wish to know why you felt it necessary to send Edward away with so little warning.”

“I have been told,” he said, idly perusing one of the documents in front of him, “that you are with child. How is it that you have been so unmindful that you have not shared with me such joyous news?”

So someone had betrayed her. Stunned, she opened her mouth to answer him, but he waved her to silence.

“It is no great matter,” he went on. “Now that Edward is gone, you will be able to direct all your energies toward preparations for the coming birth. To that end, you are excused from attending my councils—indefinitely.”

“My lord, I only wished to be certain—”

“In three days’ time I will depart for Sandwich. You and your household will remain here in London, and until I set out on my journey south you are forbidden to enter my hall or my chambers unless you are summoned. I want no more outbursts such as this. Is that clear?”

“No,” she snapped, “it is not clear. I am not your prisoner and nor am I a child, yet you would treat me as one. If you do not wish my counsel then I must hold my tongue, but to bar me from the court is to imply that I have committed some crime when I have done nothing wrong. Why must we be always at odds? What is my offense?”

She already knew the answer. She had offended by shouldering the responsibilities of a queen when he wanted nothing more than a bed mate. Æthelred wanted all preferments, all decision making, all power in his hands. He wanted no rivals near his throne—not his sons, not his nobles, and certainly not his queen.

“Yes, lady,” he said, “it seems that we must be always at odds. Would you know why? Because against my will I was made to give you a crown, yet that gift has not satisfied you. I have granted you lands and wealth, and I have named your son my heir, and those gifts, too, have not quenched your thirst for influence. You desire to master me, and I will not be mastered. I will use you as it suits me, and just now it suits me to keep you in London while you await the birth of your child.”

He was watching her now, waiting for her to make a misstep. She did not care. He had already taken her son and barred her from the court. What more could he do to her?

“And if I should wish to leave London?”

He shrugged. “Go where you please; but if you think to follow your son to Ely, you had best think again. You may have a few bishops in your palm, Emma, but the abbot of Ely belongs to me and he has his orders. You will not be welcome there.” He picked up a handful of documents. “Hubert!”

She stared at him a moment longer, but he had already dismissed her from his mind. Even to try to cajole him now would be pointless. She made her way back down the length of the hall, numb with shock at how he had turned his twisted reasoning against her.

She had kept her own counsel about the child for fear that she might miscarry, little thinking that someone else would guess her condition and apprise him of it—Edyth most likely. Æthelred, with his suspicious mind, saw only cunning and,
Jesu
, she knew not what else, in her silence. Now he was using her pregnancy as an excuse to keep her from the court, something she had not anticipated. The child she so longed for, that she had prayed for, was to be her undoing. Her place at the king’s side, that she had spent years carving for herself, was forfeit. He would dismiss her from the channels of power and information.

Worse even than that, he would keep her from her son; if she did nothing else, she must find a way to rectify that.

She placed her hand upon her belly. It would be six months, at least, until this child made its way into the world. Until then there was little that she could do.

Six months, she told herself, was not so long a time.

But there was little comfort in that thought. For in the life of a boy not yet five winters old, six months would be an eternity.

Chapter Sixteen

June 1009

Kent

A
thelstan and a company of fifteen men rode from Canterbury along the southern leg of Watling Street toward Sandwich. On either side of the muddy, pitted road, the flat terrain alternated between long fields of ripening grain, tracts of dense woodland, and broad meadows where newly shorn sheep huddled together for warmth.

It was nearly twilight and the sky spattered rain—a parting gift from the fierce storm that had struck two days before. The foul weather had forced them to shelter for two days in Rochester, and now they were trying to make up for lost time, with little success. The gale’s fierce winds had flung tangles of branches and the occasional uprooted tree across the road, so that they had to halt frequently to clear a path through or around the debris. Athelstan chafed at their slow progress, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was already many days late, and a few more hours would make little difference.

When at last the company topped a rise and Athelstan saw Sandwich below him, the rain had stopped although the skies were still threatening. He surveyed the harbor that skirted the town on three sides, searching for a forest of masts. They were there, but far fewer than he had expected. Forty, maybe fifty ships were anchored in the wide, sheltered channel. There should have been three times that many.

He had reckoned that the fleet would not sail until mid-June at the earliest, so the absence of so many ships puzzled him. The crews were new to their captains and to one another. Some of the men were likely even new to the rowing benches, and surely they would not have taken so many vessels into the open sea so soon, even for purposes of training the crews. So where in God’s name were the ships?