The Price of Blood (42 page)

“It is not the punishment that you must consider,” she had persisted. “It is how he will construe your actions.”

“Emma, he will condemn me no matter what I do.” He took her hands in his and gazed at her so earnestly that her heart broke for him. “I am afraid that the only way for me to win my father’s esteem is to die for him.”

“Do not say that,” she had protested, alarmed by such a malediction.

He had smiled ruefully at her, and kissed her palm. “Believe me, I do not intend to take that route into my father’s affections.”

She had not been reassured. It seemed to her that the future lay before them like some great beast waiting to pounce, and she could not contemplate it except with dread. Ever since Margot’s death she had feared that every leave-taking would be as final as that one had been.

Unable to banish her misgiving, she had clung to Athelstan’s hand ever so briefly when he came to bid her farewell. She had remained dry-eyed as she watched him walk away, but the terrible certainty that she would never see him again wrapped itself about her like a shroud.

When the Mass at St. Paul’s was ended, she returned to the palace, guiding her horse through a heavy mist that had settled like a pall upon the city. Inside the palace gates, she and her attendants were forced to make their way around a dozen or so packhorses that stood in front of the hall. Servants were busy relieving them of their burdens and, seeing this, she knew that the king had arrived at last.

She dismounted, hastening to her apartments. The children would be waiting for her there—Godiva in her nurse’s arms, Edward probably settled on the bench, poring over a book with Robert beside him. Or the boys might be inspecting the alcove prepared for them, might have already discovered the carved ships and horses waiting there.

Sweeping past servants and men-at-arms, she climbed the stairs that led to her private chamber and went inside—only to find it empty but for the king. Æthelred had apparently been there for some time, for he had shed his traveling clothes in favor of a long, green woolen gown that he wore over a white linen cemes.

“Where are the children?” she asked.

Only then did she see that the coffer that held her private correspondence was open and its contents strewn haphazardly on her worktable. He was absorbed in reading something that he did not like, for he was scowling.

She swallowed her resentment at finding him pawing through her letters and held her breath, waiting for the answer to her question.

“My daughters will join us in good time for next week’s Easter court,” he murmured, not looking up from the letter in his hand. “Sit down.”

She did not move.

“What about Edward? Is he not with you?”

He looked at her now, his eyes cold.

“Edward is in Shropshire, and Edyth’s daughter as well. I have weaned Edward from that Norman priest you set over him like a shadow and have sent him to foster parents. He will be as safe with them, you may be sure, as he would be in Rouen”—he waved the parchment he’d been reading—“as your brother here suggests.”

Stunned, almost weak with disappointment, she sought the cushioned bench that lined the wall and sat down. She kept her back straight and her chin high, though, for she did not wish him to perceive what a blow he had just dealt her. It had been a full year since she had seen Edward. How much longer must she wait? Would he even remember her when he looked upon her again?

Her hands trembling with anger and cold, she slipped off her damp cloak.

“Was it Ealdorman Eadric who counseled you to send the children away?” Of course it was. Why did she even bother to ask?

“It is far better counsel than what your brother is urging—that you send your children to him in Normandy.” He looked up at her then, and she read the anger there, behind his eyes. “He has suggested nothing of that to me. The only missives I get from him are complaints that I am causing you grief by keeping you from my court. Is it true, Emma? Do you pine for my company, sweeting?”

His tone was sarcastic, baiting her. As she refused to answer him, he answered himself.

“No. I see that it is not my company you seek, but Edward’s. How disappointed you must be. Did you hope to accompany your son across the Narrow Sea to your brother? Are you so afraid of the Danish rabble sweeping across England that you begged Richard to give you shelter?”

“All of England is afraid, my lord,” she said. In the streets of London the fear of what the summer might bring was as thick as the Thames fog. “But I did not ask my brother to shelter my children in Normandy, I assure you. Nor do I think that fostering Edward at so great a distance as Shropshire is a wise move. As your heir he should stay closer to the court. I can understand your desire to protect him from our enemy, but when word gets out that you have sent him so far away, it will hardly reassure your people—”

“I did not send Edward north to protect him from the Danes,” he snapped, “but to keep him away from you.”

He was purposely goading her, and she did not know why.

“And who, pray, will explain that to the frightened people of London?” she demanded. “Will you post a writ to claim that you sent your son away because you were afraid of what he might learn at his mother’s knee?”

“Your tongue is too sharp, lady,” he said. Yet there was a note of satisfaction in his voice, as if he was pleased to have finally sparked an angry response. “If the bishops could hear you now they would not wonder that I wish to keep you from my court.”

Ah. There it was. His bishops had sided against him in her favor, and he did not like it. She should have guessed that he would use Edward to punish her for besting him. What a fool she had been to think that he would allow her son anywhere near her.

She took a deep breath to cool her anger, for it would do her little good. He would use it as an excuse to send her away again.

“My lord, I am your consort and queen. Never have I given you cause to reproach me, yet you will not trust me even with the upbringing of our son.”

“No. Nor would I trust your brother. I would not see Edward turned against me as his elder brothers have been.” He looked past her, into the middle distance, and his eyes grew vague. “Athelstan and Edmund have left London at the head of armed troops, against my express instructions that they remain within the city. I have not yet discovered where they have gone, but I fear the worst.”

She stared at him, thunderstruck. He would think the worst of his own sons, in spite of other, far more obvious, explanations. Perhaps Athelstan was right. Perhaps the only way to earn this king’s esteem was to die for him. Yet someone must try to reason with him.

“Athelstan and Edmund have gone to East Anglia, my lord, to aid Ulfkytel in gathering the army that you ordered him to bring against the Danes. They kept their destination secret because you wisely insisted that no one must know what Ulfkytel is doing.”

His gaze snapped back to her, suspicion written in every line of his face.

“And how is it that you know all this?”

Because I am your queen
, she thought.
It is my business to know such things even if you would keep me ignorant.

She said, “I was one of several who was privileged with the information. The others were the bishop of London, Archbishop Ælfheah, and Ealdorman Ælfric.”

He scowled. Apparently the list of those who knew of the æthelings’ plans—a list that did not include him—did not sit well.

“I suppose you believe that this excuses my sons for disobeying my command.”

“I believe that they are not planning any action against you, my lord.”

For a time he said nothing, merely gazing at her thoughtfully, as if he would uncover other secrets that she might be keeping hidden from him. She kept her face carefully blank, for she did have one secret that he must never learn—a hopeless, inescapable yearning for a man who was not the king.

At last he stood up, glanced once more at her brother’s letter, then tossed it back onto the table.

“Richard’s concerns are baseless, of course, and his offer of refuge for the children pointless. When you write to him, tell him that what I need are men who can stand with us against the Danes. It’s a pity that he is so reluctant to offer that kind of assistance.” He strode toward her and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up at him, into eyes as fathomless as stones. “Now that I have accommodated the bishops by bringing you back to court, I would have you attend me tonight. Surely your champions will wish to see you with child again as soon as possible.”

“My lord, it is Lent,” she protested, flinching from his touch yet unable to escape it. “Abstinence is—”

“If you think it a sin to lie with your king, that is between you and your confessor. But sin or no, you will attend me tonight and every night as it pleases me.” He released her and started for the door, then paused to add, “We might send the girl to Normandy, I suppose. She is too young to be of any use here.”

After he was gone, his words echoed in her mind, filling her with apprehension and rage. She could see what he hoped to do. She could even glimpse, to her disgust, what it was that drove him.

He wanted her pregnant again so that he could remove her from court without having to defend his action to the bishops or to her brother. That was policy.

He would mold Edward in his own image, using him in whatever manner suited his purposes. That was vanity.

He would make the Danish raids an excuse for taking her daughter from her, sending Godiva across the Narrow Sea, perhaps forever. That was pure spite.

He could accomplish all of it, if he wished. He had the power. But he had made a grave error in allowing her to see what was in his mind. There were ways of circumventing his power, and he would discover that a queen was not without resources. For the time being, at least, she had episcopal support that he dared not oppose. His threats, for now, were mere words, but they were words that could be shared and thus made impotent.

She watched her servants enter the chamber in the wake of Æthelred’s departure. How many of them were the king’s spies, and which of them had brought him the coffer of letters that she had kept so carefully locked away?

It did not matter. Soon she would have most of her trusted household members about her, including Father Martin. With their help she would see that certain of the king’s magnates were made aware of his threats.

Æthelred would not find her a willing victim, and she would do her utmost to make sure that he did not use her children as weapons against her.

A.D. 1010
This year came the army, after Easter, into East Anglia . . . where they understood Ulfkytel was with his army. The East-Angles soon fled. There was slain Oswy and his son, and Wulfric, son of Leofwin, and Edwy, brother of Efy, and many good thanes, and a multitude of people. Thurkytel Myrehead first began the flight; and the Danes remained masters of the field of slaughter. There were they horsed; and afterwards they took possession of East-Anglia, where they plundered and burned three months; Thetford also they burned, and Cambridge; Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and so along the Ouse till they came to Bedford, and so forth to Temsford, always burning as they went.

Then all the privy council were summoned before the king, to consult how they might defend this country. But whatever was advised, it stood not a month; and at length there was not a chief that would collect an army, but each fled as he could: no shire would stand by another . . .

When the army had gone as far as they would, then came they by midwinter to their ships.

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

Chapter Twenty-Seven

December 1010

Gloucestershire

E
mma had been told that the view from Ciresdune was beautiful, and as she stood on that hilltop and gazed into the distance, she had to agree. The scene below her, though, was deceptive, for it made her almost believe that England was at peace.

She had walked a little away from her companions, and now she turned around slowly, taking in the fields and forests of Mercia and the distant hills that marked the northern edge of Wessex—all of it covered with the glittering veil of a recent snowfall. It was as if God’s finger had touched all the burned and broken things in this land and made them whole again.

But she knew that was not so. In the spring, or perhaps sooner, the snow would disappear, and the ruins that lay beneath would be revealed—broken villages and broken lives.

Broken trust. The people of England had placed their trust in their king, and he had failed them. It had not been for want of trying, but it was failure just the same.

She drew in a deep breath of the clear, chilly air. Above her, the sky was a brilliant blue, awash with sunlight. She tried to find hope in all this dazzling brightness, but she could not. The knowledge of all that had been lost in the past months was too oppressive.

“I am afraid,” she said, admitting the truth to herself as well as to Wymarc and Father Martin, who had come here with her.