The Price of Blood (27 page)

“No one knows that I am in Holderness, but I have sent messages to some of my father’s allies and kinsmen in the Five Boroughs. I know that there are many more who will give you their pledges of—”

“You little fool!” he snarled, shaking her so that she blinked at him in surprise. “Who do you think will keep such a pledge when the king holds a sword to his throat? If Æthelred discovers you, all our plans will be at risk.” He threw her back against the pillows. “You will send no more messages! Time enough for that once your child is born.”

She glared at him, rubbing her hands against her bruised arms. He was the fool, she thought, to so casually dismiss the alliances that she’d been building for him.

“What makes you think that the birth of your son will make so much difference?” she sneered.

“By itself, it will not. We must also have more ships, supplies, arms, and men, all of which will take time to acquire. We will need a mountain of silver as well, and England itself will provide that. There is a fleet massing on the southern coast even now. When we have bled Æthelred’s kingdom just a little more, my father will be ready to make an end of it.”

“So in spite of all that I have done, you will not make a lethal stroke against Æthelred until I bear you a son,” she said, her voice laced with scorn, “or until your father’s ships are ready, or until you have amassed a mountain of silver, or until the stars fade into darkness and the sky—”

She bit back her words as he rose from the bed and strode to where his clothes were piled. Pulling on his breecs he said, “I have but a few days to spend with you, lady, until I take my ship to join the rest of the fleet.” He snatched up his tunic and boots. “Will we spend our time snarling at each other? Is that how you would have it?”

She bolted up from among the pillows. “What do you mean, a few days?”

But he was gone even before she’d finished asking the question.

Only a few days? Why had he bothered to come at all, then?

She fell back against the cushions, still furious. Closing her eyes she called to mind the box and the counting beads devised by Tyra. Red and white had been used up for this month and now only the black remained.

She ground her teeth in vexation. Even if Cnut were to stay for a sennight, she could not hope to conceive his child, although it would be useless to tell him that. He would never believe it. The workings of a woman’s body were mysterious and frightening to men, and if a wife’s belly failed to swell it was God’s will or a curse. And it was always the woman’s fault.

Yet she needed a son, so either she had to keep her husband by her side, or . . .

She opened her eyes and stared into the shadows above her.

If she wished to outwit the men who held her future in their hands, then she must put Tyra’s beads to their proper use. Next spring she must give birth to a son. And if it was Cnut’s or another man’s, who in this miserable northern wasteland would be able to say?

August 1009

Canterbury, Kent

On the fourth day after Lammas, a Viking fleet was spotted off the eastern coast of Kent, making for the harbor at Sandwich. From the coast watch on the Isle of Thanet to Canterbury to Ledesdune to Fæsten Dic to London, the beacons blossomed one after another, warning of impending disaster.

When Athelstan heard the news, he set out for the southeast with his hearth troops to learn what he could of the enemy’s movements. Three days later the company paused at the crest of a thickly forested hill and gazed down upon Canterbury.

“Holy Mother of God,” Athelstan murmured.

He had never seen so massive a force. How many? Three thousand? Four thousand? Far too many for the Kentish levies to withstand.

In the distance, Canterbury was a ring of fire. The hamlets and farms that lay outside the city’s walls had been torched, and smoke stained the sky for as far as he could see. With any luck, most of the folk who had dwelt there had made it inside the safety of the walls along with their cattle and goods. But their fields, ripe for harvesting, were at the mercy of the voracious army that surrounded the city.

Canterbury, with its cathedral and its churches, would be a rich vein of gold if the attackers could find a way to breach its walls. Even if they could not, all of Kent lay at their feet, ripe for plunder, for the men of Kent could not withstand them.

Immediately he sent three of his men to Cookham to report what they had seen to the king. Leaving a dozen warriors behind to shadow the enemy and keep him apprised of their movement, he made for Rochester, where the local fyrd had gathered in response to the beacons.

“You have not the numbers to make any kind of stand against this army,” he told their leaders. “You will be able to do little more than harry the foragers they send out, but that you must do as best you can.”

He felt helpless against such a sizeable force. Even if the king called out the entire nation, an army could not reach Canterbury in time to save the city. And after they had overrun Canterbury, where would they turn next?

He made his way back to London, already thinking how best to prepare its people for war.

September 1009

London

Emma, heavy with child, stitched tiny flowers in gold thread onto the blue silk gown that was meant to grace the statue of the Virgin at Ely Abbey. Pausing for a moment, she glanced about at the twenty or so women gathered this morning in her outer chamber and reflected that they would put a hive of bees to shame. Margot, with the assistance of the abbess and three nuns from Barking Abbey, was pawing through an assortment of herbs that the good sisters had culled from their recent harvest. Five noblewomen from Sussex, who had come here for refuge from the Danish army, had their hands full trying to keep up with their children as they tumbled about the floor like puppies.

Given the bleak news from Sussex, Emma had no doubt that others like them would soon be seeking shelter in the city, and she had already sent messages to some of the prominent women in London, asking for their aid. Several had responded by arriving this morning with offers of lodging, and now they were busying themselves with needlework as they regaled the Sussex women with gossip.

It was all about keeping their minds off of what was happening in the south. She tried to keep her own attention focused on their conversation, but she could not avoid dwelling on the events of the past four weeks.

It was just after Lammas Day that Archbishop Ælfheah and many of the Kentish nobles had found themselves trapped inside Canterbury by the massive Viking army that had surrounded the city. With no hope of relief, the archbishop had bartered three thousand pounds of silver for the safety of his people, their lands, and their crops.

Satisfied with that prize, the shipmen had left Canterbury and Kent relatively unmolested, and Emma had prayed with the rest of England that they would leave the country altogether. Instead they sailed south, following the route that, in June, Æthelred’s great fleet had taken to its utter destruction. The Northmen had better luck. The weather held fair and word arrived in London that as soon as the ships passed the Rother estuary that marked the boundary between Kent and Sussex, the burning began again. Lewes, Arundel, Dean, and Bosham had all been hit.

And that was as much as she knew today, some of it gleaned from the women who had come to her for refuge, some of it from London’s Bishop Ælfhun, but most of it from Athelstan, who had met with her nearly every day since the Danes had first been sighted.

She had been grateful for the constant stream of news that he brought, for she heard nothing from the king, who remained in Winchester. But it was not just gratitude that she felt. In these past weeks the old companionship that the two of them had shared years ago had sprung once more into being, far too sweet a thing to last, she knew, even had it been chaste. Her feelings for Athelstan, though, were far from chaste. Even now she felt the heat rise in her cheeks just from thinking about him and, distracted, she started when a servant appeared suddenly beside her to whisper that Athelstan requested audience and awaited her in the palace chapel.

She hesitated, considering whether she should beckon Margot to accompany her. She had taken pains to avoid being alone with him during their sojourn here in London—a necessary precaution that he had never questioned. If he wished to see her alone now, there must be good reason. She set aside the blue silk with its golden flowers and, pressing her hand against the mound of her belly, she pushed herself toher feet and left the chamber.

The deserted chapel was cool and dark, lit only by the sanctuary lamp and by the dim light that filtered through thick panes set high in one wall. Athelstan, who stood facing the altar, turned as she approached him, his brow knit with worry.

“I am sorry to draw you from your women,” he said, “but there is news from the south that I did not wish to speak of in front of them.”

She held her breath, certain that it must be bad, else he would have announced it in her chamber.

“Tell me,” she said.

“The shipmen have settled on Wight Isle, and the king fears that they will winter there as they have in the past. From that base they can strike our market towns and abbeys without warning and bleed us to death. He has called his counselors from all across England to meet him at Bath in mid-September to determine what to do.”

“And you among them, of course,” she said. “When must you leave?”

“If I attend the council,” he said, “I must leave tomorrow at dawn.”

She heard the indecision in his voice, and she shook her head.

“My lord,” she said, “you must attend the council. This is a command from the king. You have no choice.”

He waved her words aside.

“You are Æthelred’s queen,” he answered her, “awaiting the birth of his child. No one would question it if I remained here to grant you my protection.”

She looked into his eyes and what she read there worried her as much as it comforted. He would defy his father if she asked it. But she could not ask it. Athelstan was needed elsewhere. For weeks now, while she remained in the comfort and security of this palace, in the south men were beaten or murdered, their wives and daughters raped, children taken for slaves, and entire families left homeless and destitute. The king needed every tool at his disposal to deal with the enemy.

“The king would question it,” she reminded him. “I cannot bid you stay when he bids you go. And London, as you have told me yourself, is well defended, no matter who is in command.”

“Words spoken before I saw the size of the Danish force,” he said with a frown. “They have enough ships to strangle this city, should they choose to do so, without ever coming to battle. They already control the port at Sandwich, and now their fleet is moving toward the Solent. Our coastal trade is already suffering. If they should send ships to blockade London they may very well starve us out. To leave you alone and unprotected—”

“It is not their intention to starve us,” she protested. “It would take too long. They strike swiftly and move on. It is what they have always done.”

He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace.

“This army is vastly different from the forces we have faced in the past, even the force that Tostig led against us two years ago. Their commander is a man named Thorkell, and if even half of what is said of him is true, he is as skilled a warlord as any we have yet seen. His army is not made up of thugs recruited from alleyways and docksides. These men are seasoned fighters. The question is: What do they really want? What does Thorkell want?”

“Whatever it is,” she said, “he is searching for it in the southern shires. The people there need your help.” She reached for his hands, clasping them tightly in her own. “The king needs your counsel. Go to him. That is where your duty lies.” She gazed at him—at the golden hair, the eyes far bluer than any others she knew, the tender mouth framed by the trim, fair beard. She would keep this memory of him safe in her heart, against the time when he was far away.

For a long moment they looked one upon the other, then slowly he drew her into his arms so that her head rested against his shoulder. For several heartbeats she allowed him to simply hold her while she drew strength from the shelter of his embrace. It was a moment stolen from time, and she wanted to savor it, for she did not know if there would ever be another like it.

“It is not London I fear for,” he whispered, “it is you. Promise that you will send me word if you have need of me.”

“I promise,” she said, lifting her head, willing herself to draw away from him, for it was perilous to remain even a moment longer clasped within his arms. But in the next instant his mouth found hers, and instead of pulling away she returned his passionate, lingering kiss with all the yearning that she had kept locked within for so long.

When at last he released her, he brushed his lips against her hand, and then he was gone.

Emma pressed her fingertips against her brow, for her head ached from the effort of keeping back her tears. She had been right to send him away, she was certain of it. But
dear God
, it was going to be so hard to face each day knowing that she would not see him, would have no word of him. She took a deep breath and for a time she did not move, comforted somewhat by the silence and the peace of the chapel.

One by one the people she loved—Edward, Wymarc, Father Martin, Hilde, and now Athelstan—had been forced to leave her. She did not know how she was to bear this last leave-taking, although she had always known that it had to come. Athelstan owed his duty to his father, the king, not to her.

Gently she caressed her swollen belly, fearful lest her grief hurt the babe, reminding herself that, although so many had left her, she was not alone. The child was always with her, and Margot, too, would never leave her side.

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard against the knot of anguish that lingered in her throat. There were others, too—women who even now were gathered in her chamber, anxious and frightened. Their losses were far greater than hers, and her place now was with them.