The Price of Blood (33 page)

Her own thoughts still lingered on Wymarc and Robert, and on the events at Ely. She questioned the priest for more details, garnering from him a clearer understanding of the part that Wymarc had played in tending the sick and in urging the abbot to send Edward to safety.

“Edward will find Edyth at Headington,” she said, “where she is awaiting the birth of her child.” What kind of welcome would he receive from his half sister, who had only ever regarded him with resentment? A chilly one, she suspected. Likely Edward would have need of a friend. “For Edward’s sake, Father, I would have you return to him as soon as you can—tomorrow if you feel up to the journey.”

She would be sorry to see him go so soon. She had missed him these past months, for he had been more than her spiritual adviser. He had been her confidant, her supporter, and her friend.

Edward’s need, though, far outweighed her own.

“And what should I tell your son?”

What message could she send that Edward would understand? She recalled Margot’s words a few days before, that she risked being torn between the needs of her daughter and the needs of the people of London. Yet here she was, torn between the needs of daughter and son.

“Tell Edward that his new sister is too young yet to travel, and that I cannot leave her behind. Tell him that I will come to him as soon as I can.”

It was only a few days’ travel to Headington. As soon as Godiva was strong enough, in just a few more weeks, she would grant Edward’s plea and go to him. Reassure him that all would be well. That much, at the least, she could do for her son.

But for Wymarc and Robert, she thought bleakly, she could do nothing. Pestilence did not bow to the commands of a queen. It was a ravenous beast that fed on all in its path, young and old alike. Despite Margot’s reassuring words, she was afraid for Wymarc and her son, but she could not see how to help them except to commit them to God. Their deliverance rested in His hands, not hers.

Chapter Twenty-One

November 1009

London

L
ong before dawn Athelstan had placed his men among the workshops and storage sheds scattered near the Whitgate in an area between the Lorteburn and London’s eastern wall. It was part of the king’s royal shipyard, and there were numerous places for men to hide amid the outbuildings and the upturned hulls of ships awaiting repair.

From his position in a gap between two sheds, Athelstan could not see the city wall that rose some distance away to his left, but he knew that armed men stood on its ramparts, one man every five feet all the way down to the wooden tower at the water’s edge. He had warned them that because of the torches posted at intervals along the palisade, they would be targets if there were bowmen among the raiders.

“Keep your shields up and your heads down,” he had told them. “You men on the ground, hold your attack until you hear my command. Stay alert and do what you can to stay warm.”

Time passed slowly as they waited among the shadows, and Athelstan stood pressed against the shed to avoid the steady drip from the eave’s wet thatch. He had taken a position that was farthest from London’s wall, facing a muddy path that ran west from the Whitgate toward the burn. He could make out little of what lay on the other side of the path except vague shapes that were likely piles of scrap wood, coiled rope, and tuns of pitch. As he strained his eyes and ears to make out any movement, he went over the layout of the Whitgate in his mind.

Like every other gate into the city, it had an outer and an inner door separated by a tunnel roughly nine feet long that bored through the width of the wall. The doors were made of solid oak, reinforced with iron crossbeams—part of the increased fortifications he had ordered this past summer. That effort was paying off now, for once the stout doors were locked from the inside, it would be no easy task to break through them.

Unlike the other gates, which were wide enough to allow carts and wagons through, the Whitgate was narrow, barely wide enough for a man, and so low that one had to stoop to go through it. On the outer side there was no bridge across the defensive ditch below the wall, merely a narrow stone landing and an even narrower flight of stone steps that led down along the wall and into the ditch itself. If there were men out there, waiting to climb those steps and enter the city, they were standing knee-deep in water, mud, and refuse.

That, at least, was a cheering thought.

Some instinct made him turn and look north toward the Bishopsgate. At first he could see nothing but fog and the dim shapes of houses in the streets behind him. Then a rain of stars appeared.

Fire arrows.

So, the attack had begun. He imagined the Danish force gathered on the moorland between the Bishopsgate and the Aldgate. How many men? The bulk of Thorkell’s army, surely, to keep the Londoners’ attention focused away from the river. If he and his brothers were right, there were more men just here, on the other side of the Whitgate, waiting for it to open from within.

He drew his sword slowly, so that it made no sound, and he strained his eyes to gaze into the dark that was fading now toward morning. Nothing moved.

Christ
, where were the bastards? They should have been here by now. A sudden black doubt clouded his mind. What if he had been wrong about the Whitgate? What if even now there were armed men farther west along the river, making their way toward one of the other gates, gutting anyone who got in their way?

Then he saw a disturbance on the path, tendrils of mist twisting and swirling, dark shapes gliding like phantoms in the predawn. They made no noise, and he guessed that they had sacrificed their ring mail for stealth. It would have worked had Edrid not guessed their plan. A spear’s length in front of him, a man emerged from the shadows followed by other dark shapes that slipped past where Athelstan stood pressed against the shed. He was itching to move, poised to intercept the swordsmen, but he wanted no enemies at his back when his trap was sprung.

At last, when he’d counted ten heartbeats and no other shapes had appeared from out of the fog, he darted from cover. He roared the name of the king, the signal for his men to attack, and the nearest of the shadows whipped around to face him, sword at the ready. The stroke came from above, but Athelstan ran into it, meeting it with his shield and throwing his foe off balance. He kept driving forward, slashing sideways, sword biting deep into leather and flesh that yielded and fell. He dragged the blade across the man’s throat and ran on, sprinting toward the wall, where the clash of weapons and the shouts of men now filled the air.

The shipmen, hopelessly outnumbered by the defenders who had sprung at them from all sides, had turned to attack the English with a ferocity born of desperation. Athelstan, hearing the crunch of axe on wood from somewhere near the wall and knowing that their efforts would be for naught if the gates were breached, ignored the battle in front of him and made for the bastard attacking the oak door. As he neared the wall he saw Edrid run up the palisade steps and then, to his horror, saw his brother throw himself down onto whatever was below him. The axe was stilled briefly, then the blows began again.

Cursing, he tried to make his way to Edrid, cutting savagely at a squat, toad-faced shipman who got in his way. Then a bull of a man in a leather jerkin stepped into his path, his sword arm raised to strike. Athelstan brought his shield inside the arc of the brute’s stroke, ramming its edge into the shipman’s shoulder and plunging his sword at the man’s middle. He felt his blade slice against a rib, and in the same instant he saw Edmund spring at the shipman from behind to bury his sword in the big man’s back.

With that stroke, the skirmish inside the wall was over, yet the rhythmic beat of axe on wood continued, and Athelstan realized that the Danes were still trying to get through the wall from the other side. He looked toward the ramparts and saw defenders clustered above the landing. Some were heaving stones the size of a man’s head into the outer ditch. An instant later the sound of the axe was stilled.

He searched wildly for any sign of Edrid. His men, most of them blood-spattered and winded from exertion, were stalking among the fallen Danes to finish off any who still lived.

He saw Edmund and ran to him, gripping his arm.

“Edrid is down,” he said. “Help me find him.”

“He’s here, lord,” one of his men, Birstan, called.

Athelstan, with Edmund at his heels, went over to where Birstan was crouched on the ground beside Edrid’s body.

“There is no blood, lord,” Birstan said, “but I cannot wake him. He’s alive, though.”

“You men”—Athelstan motioned to two of his hearth troops—“take him to All Hallows, along with anyone else who needs care.” He turned back to Birstan. “Did we lose anyone?”

“A few wounded is all,” Birstan said, “and more work to do, judging by the look of things.”

Athelstan followed his gaze northward, where fire arrows continued to rain over the wall to the accompaniment of distant shouts and screams. He nodded.

“You take twenty men,” he said to Birstan, “and scour the area between here and the river. Make sure that there are no more water rats hiding near the hythes or trying to make their way into the city. You men”—he pointed at the guardsmen assigned to this section of the wall—“strip the enemy dead of their arms and anything else of value and put it in the guardhouse for sorting later. When you’ve finished with them, dump their bodies over the wall.” He grimaced. “Let Thorkell and his northern vermin see how London treats uninvited guests. The rest of you will come with me to reinforce the men at the Aldgate.”

But he did not set out immediately. Instead he watched with Edmund as Edrid was gently laid upon a shield.

“He will come around,” Edmund said. “He has just taken a bad knock to the head.”

“I hope to God you are right,” Athelstan muttered, watching the men carry his brother away. “I do not want to have to tell the king that he has lost another son.”

Edmund grunted. “I do not want to tell him that we lost London to Thorkell.” He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. “Come on. We cannot do any more here, and we are needed elsewhere.”

Athelstan nodded, and together they led the men up toward the Aldgate, their shields held high against the arrows that continued to rain down on the city.

December 1009

Greetham, Lindsey

Elgiva stood beside her mount, her stomach twisting with anxiety as she waited for permission to enter Siferth’s great hall. She was weary, her limbs heavy as stone, and she was eager to be within doors. But the men set to guard the hall’s entrance were regarding her companions with suspicion. The snow that had threatened all morning began to fall in thick, wet flakes as Alric, who had been negotiating with the armed door wards, came to her side.

“I’m to escort you within, my lady, and Tyra with you. Your hearth men, though, must stay in the stables, under guard.”

She nodded. She had been half afraid that they would turn her away before she could even speak with her cousin.

Inside the screens passage a gray-bearded steward gruffly demanded their names and business, then left them under the eye of four burly guards while he informed his mistress that Alric and his sister, Ealhwyn, from Jorvik, requested shelter for the night.

“You should have given him my true name,” she muttered to Alric. “I am safe enough here in my cousin’s hall.”

“You are south of the Humber now, my lady,” Alric replied, “and even in your cousin’s hall you would not be safe should your true name be spoken. Rest assured your cousin will know well enough who is at her door.”

Impatiently she drummed her fingers against the screen beside her as she peered around it to watch the servant’s slow progress toward the dais. Lord Siferth, they had been told, was still with the king at Worcester, and that was just as well. She was confident that if he were here she could win his support for Swein’s bid for England’s throne, but it was a relief not to have to begin such an endeavor today. She was tired, and the discomforts of early pregnancy had turned out to be even worse than she remembered. Seven days of winter travel had taxed her more than she had anticipated. The potions that Tyra had brewed for her had done little to ease her queasy stomach and aching limbs, and now she wanted nothing more than a cup of warm wine and a cushioned seat by the fire.

The steward arrived at last at the top of the hall where she could see her cousin, flanked by two older women, pacing back and forth with a squalling child in her arms. That would be Aldyth’s son. A little tremor of envy snaked through her, but she would have her own son soon enough.

Her cousin seemed too occupied with her screaming brat to pay the old man much heed, and Elgiva could see no sign that Aldyth understood who was asking to see her, when the old man turned and beckoned to them.

“Stay here,” she said to Tyra, “and speak to no one.”

She nodded to Alric, who led the way through the noisy, crowded hall.

Aldyth’s folk were busy with winter chores: A group of men were repairing leather straps on bridles and hauberks while others were using whetstones to put a fine edge on knives and swords. Three women were seated at looms, while a group of girls oversaw a clutch of small children who tumbled together in an enclosure away from the central fire. Several women sat in a circle, each with a spindle and distaff, and several more had pulled trestle tables away from the wall and were preparing to lay a meal.

By the time they reached the dais Aldyth had handed her son to a servant and now she stepped forward to greet them. Beneath her linen veil her thick, dark hair was plaited and knotted atop her head so that she looked even taller than Elgiva remembered. One shoulder of her rich, dark-green woolen cyrtel was blotched and wet with her son’s tears—or something worse. Elgiva pursed her lips, assessing the value of Aldyth’s gown, the jeweled pins that held her headrail in place, and the embroidered hangings that draped the wall behind her. There was wealth in this hall—gold that Swein and Cnut could put to good use. She smiled at Aldyth, who returned it with a look so cool that Elgiva felt her stomach clench with anxiety again.