The Price of Blood (44 page)

But Athelstan was only half listening, already urging his horse down among the oaks that surrounded the standing stones, making his way toward that mound that he could see on the other side. He hoped that Edmund was right and that, unlike so many others, she had taken warning and managed to slip away. She would have had little enough to carry with her, certainly nothing that a shipload of Danish raiders might covet.

When he reached the blackened trees he dismounted and strode over to the mounded snow. Some of it had already melted away, so that he could see some of the collapsed, charred timbers beneath. Edmund joined him, and together they dragged away what was left of the snow-limned posts that had anchored the small building.

When he saw what they’d uncovered, he recoiled, cursing, although he’d been half expecting it. It was similar, he imagined, to what must lie among the countless other ruins that had littered England this past summer—dead bodies with staring eyes, partially burned corpses, figures so mutilated that none could tell if the dead were men or women.

Here the fire had not burned hot enough to turn bones to ash. He was staring at charred, decaying flesh, and holding his breath against the stench of it. She lay where she had fallen, crushed probably when the roof beam had collapsed on top of her.

Had they locked her in and set the place ablaze?
Jesu
, he hoped it had not been like that.

“Now what?” Edmund asked, his face grim. “We cannot bury her. The ground is too hard.”

“We have to do something,” Athelstan said. From what he could see of the corpse, some burrowing creature had already found her. They couldn’t leave her like this. “She lived among the stones. Surely we can find enough of them here to cover her.”

He gestured to his men, and they walked a wide circuit, gathering the largest rocks that they could carry, using them to build a cairn over her where she lay, there beneath the oaks.

And all the time the last words that she had spoken to him rang and rang in his ears until he thought that they would make him mad.

I see fire
, she had said,
and smoke. There is never anything else.

Was it her death she had foretold with those words? Or was it England’s?

December 1010

Kingsholme, Gloucestershire

When the æthlings arrived at the royal estate two days later it was near dark. Athelstan, with Edmund right behind him, strode into the chamber assigned to them and found Edwig comfortably settled on one of the beds. His brother had a wall of cushions at his back, one booted foot atop the linens and, as usual, an ale cup in his hand.

“Drinking alone?” Athelstan snapped, irritated at the very sight of Edwig. His brother had become Eadric’s devoted shadow, and it was difficult to tolerate him anywhere, much less share quarters with him.

He crossed the room to sit gingerly on the edge of a bed and stretch out his legs. He was tired, his wound still pained him, and he did not think he had the patience to deal with a besotted Edwig.

“No one to drink with,” Edwig said, slurring his words so that Athelstan wondered just how drunk he was. “The king has called a privy meeting, and I was not invited.”

Edmund had gone straight to the glowing brazier, but now he regarded Edwig with interest. “A meeting about what?”

“Peace terms,” Edwig snorted. “Archbishop Ælfheah’s just come from Kent, where he’s been meeting with that bastard Thorkell.” He waved his cup—a salute to the Danes, Athelstan supposed. “The king has gathered his closest advisers to his bosom so that Ælfheah can tell them just how much peace is going to cost us.”

“So what are you doing here?” Athelstan demanded. Drunk or not, Edwig was an ætheling and he should be with the king.

“Banished.” Edwig grinned. “Caught with my breecs down in the chamber assigned to the archbishop.”

Edmund’s face registered disbelief and disgust all at once.
“Christ
, you’re a fool! What were you doing? Swiving some serving wench in the archbishop’s bed?”

“She was willing,” Edwig protested, “and the chamber was empty! How was I to know Ælfheah would barge in and nearly faint at the sight of my sweet, bare ass?” He gave a high-pitched, drunken laugh.

Edmund looked at Athelstan. “Shall I hit him? If he’s unconscious, we won’t have to listen to him.”

“From the look of him, he’ll be unconscious soon enough. And I want to hear what he knows about that peace proposal. Edwig! What were the terms that the king offered to Thorkell?”

“Usual rotten terms.” Edwig appeared suddenly more sober. “Twenty-four thousand pounds of silver and provisions through the winter. They’re to take themselves off when the sea lanes open and vow never to come back.”

“It will take more than twenty-four thousand pounds to accomplish that,” Athelstan spat. “Thorkell has us on our knees, and he knows it.”

“But that is a huge sum!” Edmund protested.

“He will demand more, though,” Athelstan said, “and the king will be forced to give it.”

Edwig sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

“Athelstan is probably right,” he said, swaying slightly. “But be of good cheer. There is some welcome news. Our northern friend Morcar has found the Lady Elgiva.”

“The devil he has,” Edmund said. “Where is she?”

Edwig raised his cup in another salute. “Dead and buried in a churchyard in Lindsey.”

Athelstan caught Edmund’s eye, and he suspected they both had the same thought. Had Elgiva been murdered by order of the king?

“How did she die?” Athelstan asked.

“Pestilence. God’s hand at work,” Edwig said, mockingly pious as he sketched the sign of the cross. “She went to her cousin—what was her name? Siferth’s wife? The tall one with the big eyes?”

“Aldyth,” Edmund murmured. “Her name is Aldyth.”

Edwig snapped his fingers. “Well done! So, Elgiva visited her cousin Aldyth last winter, took ill, and died along with half of the household. The cousin kept it to herself all this time, and Siferth only recently dragged it out of her. He seems to have taken sick now, so it was Morcar who brought the news. Too bad for Siferth, because the king rewarded his brother with a pretty piece of land up in the Five Boroughs.”

“As if he needed any more land,” Edmund observed. “He and Siferth own nearly everything up there as it is. Now all the lands that once belonged to Elgiva will fall to them as well.”

“Lands that they will have to pay taxes on,” Athelstan reminded him. His father was adept at exchanging land for silver and gold—one of his few talents.

“And taxes there will be,” Edwig agreed, getting up unsteadily to pour himself more ale. “The king will likely scrape every penny he can get from every single English hide to make the Danes clear off.”

“His thegns will howl at that,” Edmund said.

Edwig laughed again. “Yes, they will, miserable cowards! Wait until you see the king’s hall. It’s like a kennel full of snarling dogs. They yip at each other about the best way to stop the Danish bastards, but not a one is willing to lift his sword against them. The king curses them, curses the devil, even curses God—although not when there are priests about.” He took a long pull from his cup, spilling ale as he staggered back to the bed. “He cursed poor Ulfkytel for losing that battle up at Ringmere. Swore that our sister was wasted on an East Anglian who didn’t have the sense to die when he lost his battle; even threatened to take Ælfa back and give her to someone else.” He waved his cup again. “Your coming, my lords, will be most welcome, I promise you—fresh meat for all the hounds to fall upon. Be prepared to lose a little blood.”

Athelstan scowled and got to his feet. He’d heard all he wanted to hear from Edwig.

“Thank you for the warning,” he said, and turned to Edmund. “I think it’s time we let the king and his dogs know that we’re here.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

December 1010

Kingsholme, Gloucestershire

Æ
thelred studied the man who stood before him—archbishop, royal emissary, longtime counselor. He looked from Ælfheah’s weary face to the golden cross at his breast and the crosier that he leaned upon, with its inlay of silver and gilt.

Sweet Christ!
If the man had flaunted such ornaments when he met with Thorkell, the Danes would have doubled their tribute demands and thought themselves cheated even then.

Uneasy, he shifted his gaze from the archbishop to the others who were gathered in the hall—his kin and closest advisers. Edward, the heir, was seated below the dais on his right, arrayed in gold that rivaled the archbishop’s gilding—Edyth’s work, he guessed, and foolish.

Opposite Edward, on the left side of the hall, Emma was clad in a dark gown more fitting to the occasion, her only concession to ornament a silvery veil that hid her bright hair. His daughters sat beside her, their faces drawn and their eyes avoiding his. He had wed them to powerful men; likely they feared some impending clash between their husbands and their father, as well they might. But he had lavished gold on them all their lives, and if they wished to prove their gratitude, they would know on which side their loyalties should lie.

He swung his gaze to the æthelings’ bench. The two eldest were still missing. Was their absence a blessing, he wondered, or a portent of trouble yet to come?

The prayers beseeching wisdom had been said, and now he felt all the eyes in the hall settle on him, looking to him to signal the archbishop to speak. He hesitated, searching Ælfheah’s face for some hint of the message that he carried from the enemy. He could read nothing, and as he nodded to Ælfheah to begin, he saw Athelstan and Edmund enter the hall and take their places.

So, they had come at last, his disobedient sons. He wanted to ask what business had detained them, but Ælfheah’s voice, filling the air with the force of a sermon, claimed his attention.

“Thorkell has quartered himself for the winter at Rochester, my lord,” Ælfheah said, “much to the dismay of the townsfolk. I met with him there and presented your terms to him. Your offer of winter provision has been accepted, and in order to honor your pledge and ease the hardships imposed on the citizens of Rochester, I have already directed that stores from my own lands be sent to him.”

Æthelred nodded approval. Had the archbishop not given the shipmen the food, they would likely have stolen it in any case from somewhere else. Still, it would take far more than what Ælfheah could provide to feed thousands of men for the next three months. More would have to be sent—a heavy burden on the southern shires, and they would not welcome it.

“Will they take the tribute we offered,” he demanded, “and leave England?”

This was what he was impatient to know, but something in the archbishop’s eyes warned him that he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

“The Danes have rejected the twenty-four thousand pounds of silver I offered them, and have demanded instead the sum of forty-eight thousand pounds.”

The throbbing of blood in his ears all but drowned out the cries of outrage that filled the chamber.

Eadric’s voice came to him through the din. “They are mad!”

“Not mad,” he murmured when he was able to speak. “They are devils.”

They meant to break him, meant to incite rebellion. They had already pillaged most of the northern shires, burned crops, stolen from poor and wealthy alike. The burden of tribute, like that of provision, must fall upon Wessex, and Wessex had been hard hit the summer before.

“Our people already resent the taxes they have paid to fortify towns and equip our armies—all of it in vain. You know as well as I do, Archbishop, how the men of England are likely to greet a demand for more taxes. What answer did you make?”

“That I would return with your response in the week after Epiphany.”

Good Christ
. Had the fool no notion of how to use the winter months to their advantage? Far better to make the Danes sit in their cold winter camps and ponder what the English might be planning than to give them a prompt reply, whatever the answer might be.

“Why did you not specify a date for our response more distant than early January?” he growled.

“I tried, my lord, but it was Thorkell who named the date, and he threatened more violence if we do not meet it.”

Thorkell. The very name filled Englishmen with terror. Yet Thorkell was mortal, and greedy. That weakness could be used to bring him to heel. Such a thing had been done before.

“It will be no easy task to gather so much tribute, should we even agree to their demand. We must play for time.” He leaned forward in his chair and raked his eyes across each man in the chamber. “I will tell you the answer that I have in mind to send back to Thorkell. I would not grant his request outright, for I would not have him see me as so easy a mark. Even if I am forced to meet his demand in the end, I would be remiss if I did not try to bargain with the bastard. We will fill their bellies to prevent their ravaging, but there is no need to fill their ships too quickly with our coin. What say you? As desperate as this game is between us, it is still a game and we must play to win.”

There was a murmur of voices, of men consulting one with another. He studied them, reading doubt on some faces and despair on others. When he saw Athelstan get to his feet to speak, he cursed softly. His son rarely agreed with him on anything, and he could tell from the whelp’s frown that he would raise some objection. He sat back in his chair and waited for it.

“I urge you, my king,” Athelstan said, “to give the Danes what they demand so that we rid ourselves of them as soon as may be.”

He stiffened, suspicious. This was an unexpected plea from one usually so eager to resort to arms. What kind of twisted policy was behind it?

“You surprise me,” he said. “In the past you have been the first to object to any concession to the Danes. As I recall, it has ever been your counsel to fight.”

“We did fight, my lord. We lost. Some in this room were there. Many who were there are dead now because the Danes are better armed and better trained. Yes, I still think that we should fight them, but not until we are stronger than we are now. Our people are disheartened, our towns burned, and our women raped. We are a beaten kingdom, my lord. If we toy with them, and they come against us—”