The Price of Blood (39 page)

December 1009

Headington, Oxfordshire

I
t was late afternoon, and Emma guessed that outside the palace walls the winter-bright day must be fading to dusk. In this chamber, though, all daylight had been banished—the shutters pulled tight and only a few candles burning in the darkness, as if to remind those present of the greater darkness that awaited them all. It comforted her that of the few folk remaining within the palisade, most of those who could do so had gathered here, not at her bidding, but out of respect for the woman who had been healer and counselor to her household for so many years.

Only once before had she kept a deathbed vigil, watching alone at the side of the twelve-year-old son of the king. Her sorrow then had been for the child who would not see manhood, for the promise of youth that would never be fulfilled. This time was different. This time her grief was all for herself.

The familiar, beloved face of her old nurse beneath its white cap was more pale even than the pillows that cushioned her head. Margot lay in a deep slumber, yet even so Emma half expected her to sit up and scold her for wearing only one shawl and for covering her hair with such a thin headrail.

I was in a hurry, Margot,
she would have excused herself,
and you were not there to find me something more to the purpose.

Margot’s gray hair was just as Emma had often seen it in the early dawn—neatly braided in two long plaits that lay atop the bedclothes. But her forehead bore the cross of ashes, and her hands the linen gloves that marked the dying. She had been sleeping just so most of the day; now, though, each breath had become a labor. The voice that had advised and sometimes admonished Emma would soon be stilled forever, and already she missed that wise counsel.

To her right, at the foot of the bed, the priest read psalms from a little book by the light of candles placed on either side of him. Emma wondered if Margot could hear him, and if she would understand prayers of comfort murmured in Latin. She wished that the priest would be silent so that she could whisper to Margot in the Frankish tongue, but death had its rituals that must be honored. At such a time as this, the presiding priest ruled, even in the halls of the king.

As she watched the rise and fall of Margot’s breast, the intervals between each shuddering breath lengthening every time, it occurred to her that although she and the others here had come to pray and to witness, in the end death was a private thing, a journey that could only be made alone. In that, it was not unlike the task of giving birth.

Memories of the midwife and healer for whom childbirth had been the central miracle of life flowed through her mind like water in a stream. It had been Margot who had comforted and reassured her when her first babe had miscarried in a wash of blood, Margot who had eased her fear that there might never be another child. When she had labored for so many hours to bring Edward into the world, Margot had alternately cajoled and bullied her, forbidding her to despair, using her voice and even her body to support her when the pain seemed too great to bear. Margot had coaxed Godiva into the world, and but a few weeks ago she had placed the squalling, red-faced Æthelflæd into Edyth’s arms. She had been a miracle worker in their midst, and Emma knew that she would feel this loss more than any other she had yet faced.

She closed her eyes to plead for acceptance of God’s will, dimly aware that the chamber door behind her had opened and closed. As she tried to find the words to beg for the spiritual aid she sought, a man’s voice whispered urgently in her ear.

“Our scouts are reporting that there are horsemen approaching from the east, my lady. We cannot say yet who they are, but they may be outriders from the Danish army. Unless they pass us by and make straight for Oxford, they will be here within the hour.”

A current of alarm swept through her, and in an anguished instant the remembered sights and smells of carnage assailed her. What was she to do now? A message had come three days ago warning that the Danes were driving west from Berkhamsted; but the Chiltern Hills and days of hard walking through snow and sludge lay between there and here. She had not reckoned that the Danish army could cover that ground so quickly. She had counted on a week’s grace at least, and so had not instructed her people to flee.

Could she have made so grievous an error, and must all of them pay for it?

She drew her shawl closer about her, assailed by a sudden, painful memory. Years before she had ignored the advice of someone far wiser than she was and had ventured beyond the walled city of Exeter with an escort that was too small to keep her safe. They’d been surprised by an enemy force in a narrow lane from which there was no escape, and every man with her had been butchered. If God had forgiven her for that, she had not forgiven herself, and she had vowed never again to be responsible for such horror. But
sweet Virgin
, she could not see how she could have chosen, this time, to do anything other than remain at Margot’s side.

“The city has been warned?” she asked. Many in Oxford had fled, but there were some, like her, who had pressing reasons to stay behind, or who simply had nowhere to go.

“We’ve sent riders, yes.”

“And the palace guard?”

“The archers are on the palisade.”

“Then there is nothing more to be done. Thank you for bringing me word.”

She heard the door open and shut again, but as she began once more to pray for acceptance, for courage, and, most of all, for wisdom, she was weighing her options. Should she alert her small household to the danger bearing down on them? What would it accomplish? If the army was in sight, it was already too late to try to escape. Better to face danger here, within the palisade with armed men atop the walls, than to be caught in the open, running.

Lost in her anxiety about what the next hour might bring, she was abruptly brought back to the present, for to her astonishment, Margot opened her eyes and smiled.

“
Madame
,” Margot said.

Emma leaned forward to touch her arm, and then realized with a start that Margot’s eyes were not looking to hers but were gazing on the empty space beside her. Seeing what? she wondered. Or whom?

“
Madame
,” Margot said again, on a long sigh this time as her eyes closed once more.

The priest had gone silent, and Emma held her breath, waiting for Margot’s next inhalation—but it did not come. The priest began the familiar Latin of the Pater Noster and other voices, too, took up the prayer. She did not add her voice to theirs, for she felt too sharp a sense of loss to speak. It seemed to her that she needed Margot now more than ever, when the world was about to collapse about them, and there was likely to be injury and pain, and deaths far less peaceful than this one.

She watched as Margot’s gentle face, lifeless now, seemed to fall under a shadow, and she felt her throat knot with a grief that she was afraid she hadn’t the strength to overcome. She closed her eyes against her fear, and when she opened them again she saw a thing that sent a prickling up her spine. A white mist rose from the body and hung above it briefly before fading into the darkness.

Mute with wonder, she looked to the others in the room for some sign that they had seen what she had. Every head, though, was bowed in prayer. She alone had witnessed that final departure—Margot’s soul released from its earthly vessel, for she was certain that was what it was. She tried to find some comfort in this mark of God’s grace, but she could not. Her sense of abandonment pressed upon her like a cross that she was forced, against her will, to bear.

She knelt in silence for a little longer, praying once more for the strength to confront whatever trials lay ahead, but the sound of shouting filtered through the walls and again her prayer was cut short. She could tarry here no longer. Her duty now was to the living, to help them face, and if possible evade, approaching danger.

As she stood and turned to leave the chamber she heard heavy footfalls in the outer passage, and the door was thrust open. She tensed as armed men spilled into the chamber. Behind her there was a rustling of leather and wool as the mourners stood up, reverence and solemnity shattered. Someone began to whimper, and there were mingled cries of fear and protest.

In front of her another man pushed his way through the door—a man whose cloak was trimmed with fur and fastened at the shoulder with a gold clasp. His gaze swept past her, and she saw him take in every detail—men and women, priest and candles, the bed that had now become Margot’s bier.

She looked up into his stern face, into eyes the color of marsh flowers—the same bright blue as her daughter’s. All of the king’s children had blue eyes, but only Godiva and Athelstan shared that heart-stopping brilliance. Now Athelstan’s eyes met hers briefly before he addressed the household members clustering behind her.

“You must all be ready to leave within the hour,” he ordered. “Make whatever preparations are necessary and assemble in the dooryard as quickly as you can.”

He had barely finished speaking before the men-at-arms began herding everyone from the chamber. Emma found that the priest was suddenly at her side, livid with outrage.

“My lady, we cannot leave one of God’s chosen unburied, without the proper rites ordained by—”

“She will be buried here, Father, next to the chapel,” Athelstan said, putting his hand upon the priest’s shoulder and drawing him aside, “but it must be done quickly. Eadmer,” he called to one of his men, “you and two others assist the priest in whatever is necessary, but do not take any longer than you have to.” He turned to Emma and said, “My lady, I would speak with you.”

His hand was at her elbow, and she felt his sense of urgency as he propelled her across the passage and into a much smaller chamber. She had time for one quick glance back to the bed where Margot’s body lay before the door was shut.

In the central hearth the remains of a fire smoldered, giving off little light and even less heat, but she was still too numb with grief to take any notice of the cold. Athelstan, though, she could not ignore. He stood solidly in front of her, exuding impatience and what she guessed was controlled fury.

“How close are they?” she asked.

“Close enough to strike tonight.” His voice was brittle with anger. “You should have left two days ago. Did you not receive my message?”

She looked away from him then, unable to face the accusation in his eyes.

“I did not believe that they could get here so soon.” Or was it that she had not wanted to believe it? Be that as it may, she’d had no choice and she would not allow him to chastise her for the decision she had made. She met his cold gaze and said, “I could not leave Margot here to die alone, Athelstan. I could not do it.”

“And what of your daughter?” He was still angry, his voice laced with reproach.

“I sent her with Edyth.” At least he could not upbraid her for that. “They will have reached Minster by now, unless something has delayed them at Eynsham Abbey. I had thought to follow them tomorrow, but I see that I must leave tonight.”

“Tonight you must go to London, not Eynsham.”

She frowned, searching his face in the meager light. “To what purpose?” she demanded. “The king has given me leave to join him at Worcester, and I have no wish to return to London.” At Worcester they would all be waiting for her—Godiva, Wymarc, Wulfa, Father Martin, Edward. She longed, more than anything, to see Edward, and he was at Worcester.

“That road is too dangerous,” he said. “Thorkell’s army is massing just north of here, and he likely has men ranging as far west as Eynsham. The only safe route away is south, and you need to get behind stout walls—”

“It is not safety that concerns me,” she snapped. “It is making my way to the king and to my children.”

“My lady,” he said, his voice as coldly polite now as the expression on his face, “it is pointless to argue. You will journey south toward London tonight. You owe that to your people. I think you would not want to put them in harm’s way if you can help it.”

She drew a long breath, acknowledging the truth in his words. She had made the choice to stay with Margot, and she could not fault herself for that. But to willfully lead her people toward danger would be unforgivable—the act of a petulant child, not a queen.

Steeling herself against disappointment now as well as grief, she closed her eyes and nodded.

“Then tonight I will go to London. But not until Margot has been laid to rest.” Surely she could finish that task, at the least.

She felt him grasp her shoulders then and when she looked into his face, his brow was no longer furrowed in anger.

“Emma,” he said gently, “I am sorry about Margot.”

It was the tenderness in his voice that undid her. She had withstood his anger and disapproval, had been as strong in the face of Margot’s death as even Margot would have demanded. But now he had deprived her of her stony shield, and the tears that she had kept at bay overwhelmed her.

His arms came around her, but even as she wept against his shoulder, she knew that this was not the time to mourn, that she must stem her tears.

“Your people will be waiting for you out there,” he said, his voice tender, rallying her. He took her head in his hands and grazed her cheeks with his thumbs to remove all trace of her weeping. “They will be looking to you for courage.”

She nodded, so racked with emotion that she dared not try to speak. She could only gaze mutely at him with gratitude as she prepared herself to face whatever the next trial would be. But he did not release her. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers, and for a moment she clung to him, returning his kiss, hungry for him even though, after too brief a time, she forced herself to pull away.

Why must it always be like this—the demands of duty placed above all else? Yet she knew the answer well enough. Duty, loyalty, honor—all of that came with the vows she had taken when she had bent her head to accept a crown.

Moments later he was ushering her out of the room, and the weight of her responsibilities settled heavily upon her shoulders once again. That burden, though, would be lighter, she assured herself, now that Athelstan was there to share it. The orders that he had given were swiftly obeyed and soon Emma, swathed in her traveling cloak, stood at Margot’s graveside. She had tucked a cross of garnet and gold into a fold of the shroud—a defense against evil spirits and a pledge that Masses and prayers would be said for the repose of her soul, that she would not be forgotten. She watched, dry-eyed, as the makeshift coffin was lowered into the earth and Athelstan’s men set about the hard task of filling the shallow grave with wet, clinging mud.