The Price of Blood (38 page)

Edyth sniffed. “You make it sound as if you will never see her again.” At Emma’s reproachful glance she crossed herself and murmured, “Forgive me. I should not have said that.”

Yet Emma could not dismiss the words. She asked herself yet again if she erred in sending Godiva away from her just now. The rumors may be groundless. Even if they were true, the Danish army would probably never come near Headington. They would stay close to the coast, for there would be great risk in journeying so far inland where they might be cut off from their ships.

But an army, she knew, was an unwieldy monster, incapable of rational thought. She still remembered all too clearly with what casual cruelty the Danes had murdered the men and women on the plain outside of London.

Yes. She was right to send Godiva away.

“You have the letter that you are to give to your father?” she asked.

“I do; and the letters for Edward and Father Martin. Emma,” Edyth whispered urgently, “it is time for us to leave.”

Emma nodded and followed Edyth down the narrow stair, reflecting that, had events not intervened, she would be going with her to Worcester. She had hoped to greet Wymarc there when she arrived from Ely with young Robert, whose recovery from the pestilence had been such welcome news. She had anticipated long conversations with Wulfa, newly wed to the king’s thegn Ulfkytel.

More than anything, she hungered to take Edward into her arms, to once more have her son close by her side.

The moment that Archbishop Ælfheah had handed her the king’s letter summoning her to court she had begun making plans for the journey—nearly two weeks, she had reckoned it would take, in wintertime.

But much had changed in the past few days, and the reunion that she had envisioned was not to be, for she found that she could not leave Headington yet. God’s hand was at work, and she must bend to His will. One day, she hoped, His plan would become clear to her.

Outside the hall, thirty men-at-arms waited, some horsed and others on foot. The pack animals stood in a line behind the covered wain that held the nurses and children. Emma kissed Godiva lightly on the cheek, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and handed her into Wynflæd’s care. She blessed Edyth as well, and embraced her, although Edyth’s response was stiff and forced. There had been no reconciliation between them these past weeks, despite Emma’s efforts.

There are some battles, my Emma
, Margot had told her,
that you cannot win. This with Edyth is one of them.

Margot had been right, of course. Emma watched, regretful but resigned, as Edyth took her place inside the wain, and the procession moved out of the yard in the stark dawn light.

Chilled by the cold and by her own sense of loss, she went indoors. There were not many of her people about, for she had need of few personal attendants and had sent most of them with Edyth. Her hearth troops had stayed behind though, as well as grooms to care for the mounts, in addition to the attendants and slaves who made up the Headington household even when the king was not there.

She made straight for the chamber set aside for high-ranking guests, where less than a week ago Archbishop Ælfheah had been housed. Today a woman kept watch there over a still form that lay in the great, curtained bed.

Emma went first to the hearth to warm her hands, and the servant, seeing her, stood up.

“Has there been any change since last night?” Emma asked.

“She woke once, my lady, and took some broth, but it’s barely enough to keep a mouse alive.”

“I shall sit with her awhile now,” Emma said. “Try to get some sleep.”

The servant nodded and crossed the room to crawl beneath the bedding on a pallet there, while Emma took her place upon the stool. She reached for the pale, wizened hand that lay against the coverlet, chafing the palm gently, for the flesh was chill in spite of the room’s warmth.

How many times had this hand come to her aid? Far more than she could possibly recall. She could remember clinging to it as a little girl, and she recalled its cool, dry touch against her feverish skin when she had some brief childhood illness. It had comforted her in grief and steadied her when she was frightened. It had guided her babes into the world and been ever at her service, even from a time before she could remember.

She sent her mind back over the past few months, searching for the moment when she first knew for certain that Margot was ill, but she could not find it. To be sure, her step had been less quick of late, and she had grumbled often at her own forgetfulness. But she had never complained of pain or even weariness, until one morning she had not been able to rise from her bed without help.

I must leave you soon, my Emma
, she had said when Emma had been called to her side.
I have seen more than sixty winters, child, and I am weary.

Emma had insisted that Margot would soon be well, and she had been cheered when her old nurse had nodded and smiled in agreement. Margot had kept to her bed, asking for pillows so that she could sit up and take some part in the household activities going on about her. Every day, though, she had seemed to grow somehow smaller, and Emma had read the truth in the lines graven on her face. Yesterday morning, Christmas Day, she had asked that Godiva and Æthelflæd be brought to her bedside. After blessing them for the journey they were about to take, she had complained of being tired. Emma had ordered a servant to carry her to this chamber so that she could sleep, but once here, Margot had begged to speak with a priest and they had been closeted together for some time.

After that, whatever strength had been supporting the old woman had seemed to desert her, and now Emma guessed that it was only a matter of time before her spirit ebbed slowly away.

As she held the familiar hand, the ancient eyes flickered open and Margot smiled.

“I am glad that you are with me,” Margot whispered in the Frankish that had been her first language.

Emma replied in the same tongue, “I will never leave you.”

December 1009

London

Athelstan paced while Archbishop Ælfheah delivered instructions from the king. He did not like what he was hearing, but he could hardly blame the messenger; Ælfheah was merely doing as he was bid. When the archbishop was finished, Athelstan turned to him and studied the face of this man who had been his adviser for as long as he could remember, and who had often interceded with the king on his behalf.

“So I am to remain here in London? I am forbidden to leave the city for any reason?” he queried, hoping that he had somehow heard it wrong.

They were in the great hall of the London palace and Ælfheah, seated at one of the trestle tables, gestured toward the sealed parchment that lay in front of him.

“No doubt there is more written there—the penalties if you should disobey. I have not read it.”

“Jesu!
He still mistrusts me. He is like to exile me next, or brand me an outlaw!”

“Then you must prove him wrong by obeying him to the letter,” Ælfheah urged. “And as you are in charge of London’s defense, his command that you remain here strikes me as neither unreasonable nor unusual.”

But the king had made him a prisoner of London! He was forbidden from setting foot outside the city, even if he was needed elsewhere—and that was exactly the situation he was facing now.

“Archbishop.” He rested his hands on the table, bringing his face close to Ælfheah’s to impress upon him the import of what he was about to say. “A large host of Danes has left their camp at Benfleet. Half of their force remains behind to guard their ships, but the rest of the army has gone north. Five days ago they burned Hertford. I do not know where they will strike next, but there is nothing to prevent them from following Ermine Street northward to lay waste to every town and abbey between here and Stamford.”

The archbishop’s lean face had paled as Athelstan spoke. “Another winter campaign?”

Athelstan straightened, wishing that he had better news to give. “They are not content, apparently, to wait for spring before taking up arms again,” he said. “Foul weather does not seem to deter them, and mark me, Archbishop, they do not fear us. Why should they? We’ve made no effort to stop them.”

“Have you sent word to the king?”

“I have, but my message will not have reached him yet, and I cannot wait another week for his reply. The men of London are already gathering arms and supplies, and as soon as we are ready I intend to lead them north. At the very least we can harry any raiding parties who might try to break away from the main force. With any luck we might even reduce their numbers, perhaps even find a likely place to bring them to battle. You can see why I chafe at this order from the king that would keep me penned up here inside the city.”

“Let Edmund lead the force that you would send, then. If you ignore the king’s order—”

“Is it the king’s order?” he snarled. “Or is it Eadric’s?”

Ælfheah grimaced. “Both, I expect.”

“I thought as much. So even you, Archbishop, cannot wean the king from the counsel of his pet vulture.”

Ælfheah’s expression was grave, and he looked suddenly weary. That was no wonder, Athelstan thought. Asking the archbishop to separate the king from his beloved ealdorman was asking much indeed. Even the pious Ælfheah could not perform a miracle.

“I have tried to reason with the king,” Ælfheah declared. “I have counseled him against placing his trust in Eadric, but I cannot reach him. Your father is sore afraid of something—I know not what. Some nameless dread is eating away at him.”

“He sees visions,” Athelstan said. He had once seen his father’s face—a mask of horror—when the king was in the grip of a waking nightmare. “Portents of danger he calls them. If they have driven him to place his trust in a man like Eadric, then they must be from the devil himself.” He began to pace again, his mind so filled with misgiving that he could not keep still.

“You must not judge your father so harshly,” Ælfheah reprimanded him. “He carries the burden of a kingdom upon his shoulders, and the Danes are an ongoing scourge upon this land that greatly troubles him.”

“It is my father who is the scourge upon England.” He glanced at Ælfheah, saw the apprehension in the man’s eyes, and sighed. “Have no fear, Archbishop,” he said. “Despite what my father believes, I do not intend to relieve him of the burden of his crown.” Although, he thought, it may one day come to that. He scowled and tried to massage some of the tension from his neck. “
By Christ
, though, I would like to rid us of Ealdorman Eadric. My father, my brother Edwig, my sister Edyth—they are all of them besotted with the man.” He should have listened to Wulfnoth, should have made some move against Eadric before the debacle at Sandwich. Instead Wulfnoth was in exile and Eadric’s influence and power had only increased.

“Edyth is bound to him in wedlock,” Ælfheah protested. “She has no choice but to take his part.”

Athelstan frowned. He did not like being reminded that his sister was wed to a man he so despised. “It will go hard for her when my father dies,” he murmured, almost to himself, “and she will be forced to choose between husband and brother.” When the throne was his, Eadric would be exiled, and Edyth could stay or go—he did not care. Then he faced Ælfheah again, for now that they were speaking of Edyth he could pose the questions he had wanted to ask from the moment the archbishop had arrived. “Did you see my sister at Headington on your journey here?” The more important question he offered as an afterthought. “Did you see the queen?”

“I did, for the king entrusted me with messages for Emma. To speak to her on his behalf, to give her pledges of his affection. Both your sister and the queen are to join him at Worcester. When I left Headington five days ago, preparations for the move were already under way, although—”

He stopped short, and Athelstan turned to see what had distracted him. Edmund had come into the hall and was striding purposefully toward them, his face grim.

“Forgive me,” Edmund said, “but my news is urgent. The Danes have raided St. Albans and are making for Berkhamsted.”

“Berkhamsted!” Athelstan stared at Edmund in disbelief. “They are headed west, then?”

“West,” Edmund said flatly. “Our men captured one of their scouts and managed to drag some information out of him. He may have been lying, but I do not think so.” He paused and frowned, as if reluctant to share what may be misinformation.

Athelstan, impatient, snapped, “What, then?”

“Thorkell intends to torch Oxford, to avenge the Danish folk who were massacred there on St. Brice’s Day.”

“God have mercy,” Ælfheah whispered. “That burning was seven years ago. Does the vengeance never end?”

“Not in this world, Archbishop,” Edmund answered. “No injury is ever forgiven—no outrage forgotten.”

“So if they’re making for Oxford,” Athelstan said, “they’ll likely go through Aylesbury.”

Edmund nodded. “And from there to Headington, where there is a bridge across the Cherwell.”

But Athelstan was already thinking about what needed doing, and now he turned to Ælfheah. “Edyth and the queen, you say, are on their way to Worcester?”

“Edyth, certainly, intended to leave Headington quite soon,” Ælfheah replied, but now his face had gone gray. “One of the queen’s Norman attendants, though, fell ill just before I set out for London. You know the woman—the healer, Margot. Emma would not leave her, and she planned to remain with a small household at Headington.”

Athelstan cursed. That put the queen and her people directly in the path of the Danish army.

He called for messengers to bid his war leaders join them, for they must be consulted and new plans laid out. Some hours later, after debating the best course of action to take, the men sought their beds at last. As Athelstan stalked from the hall he snatched up the letter that Ælfheah had delivered from the king. He would read it later, if only to discover what his punishment would be for disobeying his father’s command to remain in London.

Chapter Twenty-Five