The Price of Blood (30 page)

The heaviness and breast pain that Emma was feeling now told her that Godiva should be awake and hungry and crying for her mother.

So why, she asked herself as she dismounted before the queen’s hall, was the palace so quiet? Her heart in her throat, she ran up the stairs leading to her chamber.

Redmere, Holderness

Shielded against the November chill by a heavy, woolen cloak, Elgiva picked her way along a muddy path that ran beside a trio of beehives. She had nearly completed her round of inspection—past the mews to the kitchens and brew house, behind the hall to the stables, down by the craft houses to the weaving sheds, through the orchard, and back to the women’s quarters.

It had taken most of the morning, but she did not begrudge the time it cost her. She would be imprisoned within doors soon enough when the winter set in, and then time would move slowly indeed. Her reeve regarded her intrusion into his territory as a slight to his abilities, but she never gave any heed to his injured glances. Besides, she enjoyed it when she caught the men watching her with moon eyes while their women—well, she didn’t care about their women.

She sniffed with pleasure at the sweet scent of malt and yeast that wafted toward her on a light breeze. Then the wind changed and brought with it the stench from the slaughter pens, where the butchering of the aged livestock was nearly finished. The smell made her gorge rise, and she hastened away from it, following the path through the apple orchard to the manor’s central yard and there she halted.

The garth was no longer hers. It had been usurped by a ship’s complement of Danes who were garbed in mail and armed with shields and blunted swords. Ten of them had paired off to hack at each other under the watchful eye of their war leader while their companions shouted encouragement or abuse.

The din they were making brought back evil memories. She had only ever heard the sound of real battle once, on a summer’s day in Exeter that had been filled with howls of rage and screams of terror—and with sights she would never be able to forget. It had seemed to her that the end of the world had come.

For some, it had.

And now similar battles were taking place somewhere far to the south, where the Danes must have begun their raiding in Wessex. She was grateful she wasn’t there to hear them or see them. Still, she wanted news.

She wanted to know where Cnut was, or if he was still alive. There were many ways that a warrior could meet death, even aside from battle: from poisoned water or bad meat, from the bloody flux or some wasting disease, from an insignificant wound that festered and turned lethal. Cnut may even have drowned before his ship met with the others at Sandwich, and she would never know.

She scowled at that thought. She was wed to the son of the Danish king, she held vast estates in Mercia, yet she must depend on men for nearly everything, including news of events going on in the world beyond her gates.

And how men liked to hoard such news! They kept it from their women, seeking to protect them from the horror of what was happening in the wider world. As if women needed or wanted such protection! When a battle was lost was it not the wives and daughters who would be raped or dragged off to some worse fate by the victors? How did ignorance protect them from that?

She wished that she had been born a man so that she would not have to look to them for so much. It was what she hated most about being a woman. That, and the task of childbearing.

She peered speculatively down the length of her body. As yet there was no outward sign of the babe growing within her. But the child was there, she was certain. She was sick every morning, and she had missed her courses for two months now. Cnut had been gone for four, so it was going to be a near thing.

Luckily men were half-witted and easily deceived when it came to the details of pregnancy. She would claim it was Cnut’s. Alric may not believe her, but he would not be fool enough to admit to fathering her son. And it must be a son. Even if she bore a girl child and had to replace it with someone else’s brat, she would give Cnut a son.

No, Alric did not worry her. Tyra, though, looked at her sometimes with that cold, knowing stare. What was behind it? If the cunning woman harbored suspicions about Alric, she might be compelled to share them with Cnut or with Swein.

But Tyra, she reminded herself, could prove nothing. If questions should ever be raised about the child’s father, what weight could the claims of a slave carry when her mistress denied them as lies?

No weight at all.

A shout from the guard tower drew her attention, and a moment later the gate opened. She was relieved to see Alric ride in, and not Thurbrand or, worse, another boatload of Danes.

She had sent Alric to her cousin in Lindsey weeks ago, with messages for Aldyth and her husband. She was eager to hear his news of events taking place in the south, but she had no wish to greet him under the eyes of the shipmen—eyes that were, she suspected, just a little too sharp.

She hurried into the hall and was waiting when he strode through the entryway and tossed his mud-stained cloak to a servant. His eyes met and held hers, and she felt, as ever, the little thrill of excitement that he could arouse in her with just a glance.

But from today she must be more circumspect with him. Her pregnancy and the presence of those shipmen in the yard dictated that. She wanted to give no one an excuse to raise questions about the child’s father. That Tyra might suspect something was bad enough. She would have to keep Alric at a distance.

He came swiftly to her side and she held out her hand. Alric placed a lingering kiss upon her palm, and she guessed he would venture further if she allowed it. She was tempted to do so. It had been many weeks since he had been here and touched her thus, and the arguments she had used to steel herself against him nearly crumbled into dust. But she drew her hand away and stepped back a little to make a space between them.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“A chilly greeting, my lady,” he said. “Have I done something to cause you displeasure? Has one of those louts I passed on my way in usurped my place in your heart?”

She placed a warning finger against her lips, glancing past him to make sure that no one overheard them.

“Those men are a gift from King Swein, sent here to protect me while my husband wages war in the south.” She seated herself on the bench against the wall and gestured for him to join her. “Twenty extra mouths to feed and twenty pairs of eyes to watch my every move. Alas, you and I must pay the price, for a time at least.” For a very long time, probably, but she would tell him about the child later.

“So I may look, but I may not touch,” he murmured. “A cruel fate, lady. Send me away again soon so I will not be tempted beyond my strength to resist.”

She laughed. They were pretty words, but Alric had resisted her for years when her father and brothers were alive. He would do so again when necessity demanded, and she had no doubt that he would find some willing wench—or several—to satisfy his appetites. And that was another advantage to being a man.

A servant brought them ale, and when he had gone she set her cup aside and turned to Alric.

“Tell me what news you bring from the south. I know that the king called out his army but no other word has reached this godforsaken place.”

“The king gathered his forces at Salisbury last month, that much I know for certain. There were rumors of a battle, but I could not discover if it really took place.”

“So you know nothing more than I do.” She stood up and began to pace. It was maddening that she should have no more information than a common alewife.

“I know that Godwine of Lindsey took far fewer men to the levy at Salisbury than he should have.”

She spun to face him. “Men actually refused to take up arms?” That would have been like a knife thrust to the king.

“They took to their heels rather than march south to fight, and not just in Lindsey. I would hazard that all across eastern Mercia there were men who had no great desire to risk their lives for lands not their own, and for a king who no longer has their trust.”

She sank to the bench again, thrilled by the possibilities this raised.

“So our efforts to turn men against the king have been fruitful,” she said.

“They have indeed. And if Æthelred could not raise a host that outnumbered the Danish army, I doubt very much that he would have hazarded a pitched battle. The slaughter would be too great. If it had occurred we would have heard something by now, even here.”

She nodded, reassured by his words. Æthelred saw himself as doomed. It would take very little pricking to weaken his confidence. Besides, he was a coward. He would not fight if he could find a way to sidestep it.

“What news of my cousin?” she asked. “Did you speak with Aldyth or her husband?” Siferth and his brother, Morcar, were the most powerful of her kinsmen, and they were bound by oath to avenge the deaths of her father and brothers—deaths ordered by the king. If there was to be a true uprising against Æthelred, her kin must set it in motion.

Alric took a long pull from his ale cup before setting it on the bench beside him.

“I did not meet with the brothers,” he said, “and the news I have of them will give you little joy.”

She scowled at him. “Out with it then,” she said. “Do not taunt me.”

“You are not the only one courting your kinsmen,” he said. “Since last I spoke with them some six months ago, they have entertained both of the king’s elder sons. The king, too, has favored them. At Bath in September he granted them several estates that once belonged to your brother Wulf. When I arrived at your cousin’s manor, Siferth and his brother had already left to join the king’s host. I cannot say where their allegiance might lie—with you, with the ætheling Athelstan, or with the king.”

His words were like a splash of icy water. She felt as if the cold from outside had crept into the chamber, into her bones even. She shuddered, picked up her cup, and took a deep swallow.

“You are right,” she said. “That is ill news indeed.”

“Lady”—his voice was a seductive growl as he leaned to whisper in her ear—“they are men of wealth and property. They are in the king’s eye. They cannot hide in the forest like lesser men. They cannot even make their way to you here for fear of drawing the king’s men after them and putting you at risk. Eadric has been nosing around Siferth’s estates searching for you, and your cousin is terrified of him. You cannot press too hard for their support. Not yet.”

She was forced to admit to the truth in his words, although they did little to reassure her. Siferth and Morcar, like all of Æthelred’s nobles, had much to gain by joining the winning side in the power struggle that was taking shape within the realm. And they had much to lose if they made the wrong choice. As yet she had nothing to offer them or others like them except the promise of future reward from an enemy king. They did not even know of her marriage to Cnut, for she had been sworn to silence until Swein and Cnut were prepared to make their bid for England’s throne.

But she was tired of waiting, tired of living like an anchorite in this forgotten corner of Æthelred’s kingdom.

She ran her finger around the rim of her silver cup and considered what she could do to bring about the downfall of the king and so end her exile. What would happen if she should go to her cousin, seek refuge there until her confinement? Siferth was oath-bound to give her his protection. If she were to tell him that the child she carried was Cnut’s son, what then? Could she not compel Siferth to forsake Æthelred? The men of Lindsey and the Five Boroughs would follow Siferth’s lead, and that should be enough encouragement to draw Swein to England by next summer.

She tapped her fingers against the cup. There was Cnut to consider. He would forbid it, would claim that it was too soon. But Cnut, if he was alive, was in far-off Wessex. He could not stop her.

Swein’s shipmen, though—out there in the yard—they would try to keep her in Holderness. She would have to make her preparations for the journey without alerting them to what she was about. It would take time—weeks, perhaps—but it could be done. And when all was ready, a great feast for the Danes and a liberal hand with the mead would allow her to slip away. She would take her own men, loyal to her alone, to guarantee her safety on the road; and she would leave word for Catla that she was making for Jorvik, in case that lout Thurbrand should try to find her.

Once more she set her cup aside and turned to Alric, placing a hand upon his arm.

“How many days,” she asked, “will it take us to reach my cousin’s estate in Lindsey?”

London

The queen’s chamber was crowded almost to bursting, and Emma, searching frantically for her daughter, found her in the arms of a stranger. The young woman’s white breast glimmered in the candlelight, and Godiva’s tiny hand patted the bare flesh while she sucked greedily, wide eyes fixed on the face above her.

Emma threw off her cloak as she strode across the room to claim her child.

“Give me my daughter,” she said.

The wet nurse looked up, startled, but she made no move to relinquish Godiva.

“The babe was hungry, my lady,” she said. “She was crying for ever so long—”

“Just give me the child,” Emma snapped.

Obediently the young woman slipped her finger into the voracious little mouth at her breast. Godiva began to howl, fists flailing, clearly outraged at being plucked from the one thing that gave her pleasure.

Emma snatched up her screaming daughter and carried her into the tiny chamber where Edward once had slept. Margot followed, as Emma had known she would, with a servant at her heels. Without a word, Margot took Godiva from Emma’s arms, dandling the protesting infant while the servant assisted Emma with her gown. Moments later Emma was seated with her daughter at her breast.

Margot dismissed the servant, then stood with her hands folded in front of her.

“When I did not hear Godiva crying I feared the worst,” Emma chided, although Margot’s disapproving stance seemed to imply that somehow
she
was the one at fault.