The Price of Blood (45 page)

“I am not beaten,” he snarled, “no matter what you believe. I am determined on the course that I will take—to reject the Danes’ demand and offer them something less. They will either agree or hold fast, but at the very least it will buy us time.”

He paused and swept the room once more, meeting each man’s gaze and finding acquiescence but for his two eldest sons. He directed his next words to them.

“I agree that we need well-trained warriors, and although I once swore that I would never again hire Danes to protect my kingdom, the time has come to test that policy once more. Archbishop,” he said as he now looked to Ælfheah, “did you make such an offer to Thorkell?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I did not,” Ælfheah said.

The words struck him like a blow. He had counted on Ælfheah to broach the idea of a future alliance with the Danish warlord. All his strategy depended upon it.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because Thorkell is only one Danish leader, my lord, among three, and I was prevented from speaking with any of them in private.”

He nodded. “They do not trust each other then. That is all to the good.” Ælfheah’s mission might not be such a disaster after all, if he had gleaned some useful information. “What else did you learn?”

“Thorkell has the greatest number of men,” Ælfheah replied, “more than forty ships manned by disciplined Jomsvikings. The second largest force is led by his brother, named Hemming. His host is made up of pagan Norsemen, and I judge that there is little love between the Norse and the Danish shipmen. Thorkell and Hemming, though, are closely bound by a kinship not easily broken.”

Æthelred grunted. The good archbishop was forgetting his Bible. Cain and Abel had been brothers, too, and it hadn’t stopped one from murdering the other. Ambition, greed, even a beautiful woman could sunder the closest of kin. He glanced at his sons. Would that he could read their hearts and discover what jealousies and injuries were writ there.

“What of the third warlord?” he asked.

“His force is the smallest—only twenty ships by my reckoning. He is young, of an age with your own sons, but men say he is a seasoned fighter and that his warriors are the best armed of the lot.”

“The young are known to be reckless,” Æthelred growled. “Mayhap this cub could be persuaded to defect from his allies if we could find a way to present the idea to him.” As he spoke, the expression on Ælfheah’s face darkened. “I see that there is something about this young war leader, Archbishop, that you do not like. Why? Who is he?”

“He is called Cnut, my lord. He is the son of Swein Forkbeard.”

The name Forkbeard hung in the air like the echo of a curse, and as if it had been a summons, he felt his brother’s sickly shade invade the hall.

By all the devils in hell,
he thought,
why do you continue to torment me?
He did not know if it was his dead brother, or Swein, or the devil himself that he addressed. It did not matter. He hated and feared them all. There was a heaviness filling his chest, and when he lifted his eyes to search the silent room, he found his brother’s face, a massive bloated thing, hovering above his sons.

What in God’s name did it want? Were his sons to be Edward’s victims or were they to be his instruments, wielded like swords to destroy England?

“I curse you,” he whispered under his breath. Then, gathering what voice he could, he roared at it. “You do not rule here! Get out!”

To his relief the thing dwindled in size to almost nothing, but relief turned to horror when the fetch rushed at him, sending pain rippling through his chest. As if from some great distance, he heard the shouts and clamor of men.

 • • • 

The king’s wild cry sent Emma rushing to his side, but Archbishop Ælfheah was there before her, grasping Æthelred’s shoulders to prevent his slumping from the great chair. She knelt down beside the king, calling for wine as she gently slapped his cheeks and saw, with relief, his eyes flicker open. Someone handed her a square of linen, and she wiped the spittle from his mouth and chin before holding the wine cup to his lips.

He will not die, she reassured herself. This has happened before. He will recover.

But she wished that there were not so many witnesses.

The king swallowed a little of the wine, then pushed the cup away.

“That will do,” he said weakly, scowling.

He was still pale as a winding sheet. She glanced around at the cluster of nearby faces and guessed that the fear she saw there must reflect her own. When Æthelred had begun to fall, she had thought that the whole kingdom was about to crumble. It was not as grave as that, praise God, but how would he explain what they had all just seen and heard—a king gaping and shouting at some invisible presence?

She could only imagine what doubts and fears must be going through the minds of those crowding around him now. Indeed, the whispering had already begun.

“Archbishop,” Æthelred said, still breathing heavily, “I thank you for your service.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Leave me now, all of you,” he commanded, his voice gaining enough strength to quell the buzz of voices in the air. “Eadric, Hubert, you will stay. I would draft a response to the Danes that we can present to the witan tomorrow.”

She watched, astonished, as family and counselors acquiesced to his command. There were confused and worried looks among them, to be sure, but even in this weakened state Æthelred wielded enormous power over those close to him. He could even, she realized, make them question what their own eyes had seen.

She looked for Edward among those filing out of the hall and found that Edyth had taken charge of him, guiding him away with an arm about his shoulder. He did not glance back toward her, nor had he once looked to her during the council session.

He had no need of his mother.

Her heart contracting with pain, she turned her attention back to the king, who was flanked now by Eadric and Hubert.

Æthelred was eyeing her with an expression of surprise and displeasure, apparently irritated that she was still there.

“I would have you wait for me in my chamber, lady,” he said gruffly. “What I do here now is not your concern.”

She studied his face, still pale from the fit or visitation or whatever it was that had stricken him. His hands on the arms of his chair were clenched, as if to steel himself against pain.

“My lord,” she said softly, “can this business not wait until tomorrow? I fear that you are ill.”

“Then you are mistaken.” He glared at her, and his voice was filled with menace.

She read the threat in his eyes. He would not admit to even the merest hint of illness. In speaking of it before Hubert and Eadric she had made a grave error.

Bowing to his will she left him, stepping from the warmth of the hall into the frigid chill of a moon-bright December night. The yard was deserted but for Athelstan and Ælfheah, who stood conversing together, their cloaks pulled tight against the cold.

Athelstan’s eyes met hers, and she felt her heart contract once again. Here was another who gave her cause for concern. It had been many months since last she had seen him, and in that time he seemed to have changed beyond measure. He was travel weary, yes, but in his face she read, too, echoes of pain and unspeakable loss. The list of noble dead at Ringmere was a long one, and among them were his friends and kin. All of England was reeling from that slaughter, but he had witnessed it. How could he not be damaged by it?

Ælfheah turned then and, seeing her, held out a welcoming hand. She placed her own in his, and he kissed her ring with grave courtesy.

“How fares the king?” he asked, his eyes dark with concern.

“He insists that he is not ill,” she said. “Whatever was troubling him has passed.”

“He is frightened of shadows,” Athelstan snapped.

“Have more compassion, my lord, I beg you,” Ælfheah said. “He spoke rough words to you in the hall just now, but do not let that turn you against him. Your father is sore beset by his enemies, and he has little patience even for those he loves.”

“Your belief in my father’s affection for me is touching, Archbishop. Forgive me if I cannot share it.”

“No!” Ælfheah’s voice rang with censure. “I will not forgive it! Athelstan, you must curb your anger, especially now when your father has great need of—”

“Whatever needs the king may have, he does not look to me to answer them. He will not listen to me and you know why as well as I do.”

The resentment in his voice was familiar to Emma, but now there was new bitterness and even pain threaded through it. Had he but known it, he sounded very much like his father. “Athelstan,” she said gently, drawing his gaze to her, “that he doesn’t wish to listen does not mean that he cannot hear you.”

“The queen is right,” Ælfheah agreed. “You do not know what is in his mind, or how he may reflect upon your words when he is alone and at peace.”

“Is my father’s mind ever at peace?” Athelstan demanded. “I have not seen it.”

Ælfheah huffed impatiently. “You have been sundered from the king for too long, Athelstan. What do you truly know of him now? Yes, he harbors suspicions against you, I know that. But you must forgive him. Seventy times seven times Our Lord commands us to forgive. I beg you to grant your father that grace, especially now in this time of great turmoil. He needs his sons by his side, but he needs you most of all. You must not abandon him.”

“I pledged him my oath when I came of age, Archbishop, and I have never broken it.”

“Yet you have been tempted, my lord.”

Athelstan looked as if he’d been slapped, and she came to his defense.

“Temptation is not a sin,” she insisted.

“Yet man is weak, and ofttimes the worst folly appears in the guise of wisdom and valor,” Ælfheah replied. “For that reason, Athelstan, I ask you to repeat your oath of fealty now, to me.”

There was an angry light in Athelstan’s eyes that frightened her. “Do you mistrust me, Archbishop, as my father does?”

“You have all my trust, my lord,” Ælfheah assured him. “And if the king should ever question your loyalty in my hearing, I wish to be able to tell him that you swore to me, before God, that you are his true man.” He clasped the golden cross that hung at his breast and held it toward Athelstan.

She held her breath. Athelstan’s anger, she could see, was only barely restrained. She half expected him to curse and stalk away.

Instead, he surprised her. He reached for the cross.

“I pledge fealty to my lord and father, the king, for as long as his reign shall last.” His voice was strained, but the words were clear.

She began to breathe again as Ælfheah grasped Athelstan’s shoulder.

“One day,” the archbishop said, “you will make a great king, perhaps as great as Alfred. Trust in God, and do not despair.” He turned to her. “You, my lady, have witnessed his oath as well, and you will, I trust, take his part should the need arise.”

“I will,” she assured him.

“Then I am content,” Ælfheah said. “My lord, I shall trust you to see the queen safely to the king’s quarters. I would beg that honor for myself, but I am weary and very cold.”

He sketched a cross in the air, murmured a blessing, and bid them good night. She watched him stride slowly away, perceiving in his hunched shoulders and hesitant pace the exhaustion that he had kept at bay in the presence of the king.

“I wonder,” Athelstan murmured, “if my father recognizes that man’s worth? How tireless he is in the service of his king?”

“I suspect that he does not,” she replied. Any more than he recognized the loyalty of his eldest son, strained though it may be.

Together they set out for the king’s lodging, making their way across the slippery mud of the yard. After only a few treacherous steps, though, she was forced to clasp his arm for support, and just that merest touch set her to trembling. How was it, she asked herself, that no matter how much time and distance came between them, her yearning for him still burned so strong? She could not snuff it out. It was as if her blood and bone understood what she sought to deny—that some part of her must always be a part of him.

She glanced at his face, for the moon was full and high, and in its light she could see that his mouth was set in a hard line and his brow was furrowed. She sensed his anger—at his father, at the Danes, perhaps even at her, she could not say. She wished that she could ease it by telling him all that was in her heart. She could not. Moments ago he had pledged yet again his loyalty to the king, and that oath compelled them both to silence.

She drew in a long breath and considered the many questions she wanted to ask him—about the battle at Ringmere; about his injury; about the long, weary time he had spent in London; about the despair she had read in his face when he had pleaded with the king.

She rejected them all and asked simply, “Will you stay at the king’s side now?” Which meant the same as,
Will you
stay by my side?

He was silent for a time. Three steps, she counted. Four.

“I will stay,” he said at last, “until the king bids me leave.” He paused and then added, “Or until you do.”

He had heard it, then—the real question behind her words. And he had given her the answer she had hoped to hear.

“You know that I will never bid you leave,” she said softly. “I have always counseled you to stand beside the king.”

They had arrived at the entrance to the royal chambers. Now he turned to her, his face grim in the shadowy light.

“And if my father casts me out, Emma? If I am exiled, what will your counsel be then?”

She looked up into eyes that pinned her with a fierce, bruising gaze. She wanted to sweep the question aside, to insist that Æthelred would never banish his son. But it would be a lie. She knew the king; knew that if he felt threatened he might indeed send Athelstan away.

“You must never give him cause, Athelstan,” she pleaded. “Just now you swore to the archbishop that you would be loyal. That was well done. Ælfheah will be able to defend you, and your oath will—”

“That oath will not earn me the king’s trust, no matter how many times I repeat it. You demanded a similar pledge from me once, do you remember? I have kept it. I have not raised my hand against my father. But I will ask you now the same question I put to you then. When I am free at last to reach for England’s throne, what assurance is there that it will be mine for the taking? I have seen our enemy’s strength, and it is enough to daunt even a seasoned warrior. As for the king, you saw what happened in the hall just now. The very mention of Swein Forkbeard’s name brought him to his knees. All England is on its knees!” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Think on that, my lady, and then, if you can, tell me again that the oath I swore tonight was well done.”