The Price of Blood (51 page)

She cast her mind back more than a year, recalling Æthelred’s words that had seemed such a threat at the time.
The girl can go to Normandy. She is of little use.
She had repeated that conversation to Ælfric, seeking his aid in keeping her daughter at her side.

She had not forgotten the king’s words, merely buried them. Was it the queen in her that had done that, or the mother? And what kind of mother would allow her daughter to remain at risk when she had the means to send her to safety?

“My lady,” Ælfric said, his voice insistent, “in the streets of Canterbury I saw children who had been torn from their parents’ arms and kept in filthy hovels to await ransom. I saw the bodies of children who had died in burning buildings or had been trampled by—”

“Stop!” she cried. “You have said enough, my lord. I need hear no more.”

She stood up and walked a little away from him, her mind in turmoil. She had not yet told the king that she was pregnant, but when she did, he would likely take Godiva from her, as he had taken Edward, and place her where it suited him. Far better to send the child to Normandy where she would not only be safe, but where she would hear her mother spoken of with affection instead of with poisonous lies. Yet any trip across the Narrow Sea would be treacherous, and as Ælfric had pointed out, the fair weather would not last many days longer.

“How are we to get her away?” she asked, her gaze still focused on her daughter. “There are still enemy ships blocking the entrance to the Thames.” That seemed to be the only difficulty. Æthelred, she knew, would not hinder Godiva’s departure.

Ælfric had stood when she did, and now he came to her side.

“They have moored their vessels along the Thames’s southern shore,” he said. “If Godiva takes ship at Benfleet she’ll not be hindered, and she can reach Bruges in a day if the weather is fair. From there it will be easy sailing along the coast to Fécamp.”

She made no reply to this. Her own voyage along the whale road from Fécamp to Canterbury as Æthelred’s promised bride had been anything but easy. Nevertheless, she could see no other choice.

She reached for his hand.

“Will you accompany her?” she asked him. “Will you make certain that she arrives at my brother’s court safely?”

“You need not even ask, my lady. Of course I will do it.”

Comforted by this, she beckoned Wymarc. There was much to do to prepare for Godiva’s journey.

The day of leave-taking came in early October. With her daughter’s hand clasped in hers, Emma approached the two vessels that would carry Godiva and her attendants to Normandy. It was midmorning on the feast day of Guardian Angels, and although the breeze off the water was cold, the sky was clear, empty but for the seabirds that wheeled overhead.

Only Godiva and Ælfric still remained ashore, and Emma knew that she could not delay their departure any longer. She bent down beside her daughter and gathered her, bundled as she was in layers of linen and wool, into her arms for a final embrace. She had explained this parting to Godiva the night before, but even so she could not be sure how much of it the child understood. After whispering a blessing, she gave her a final kiss, then watched as Ælfric hoisted her into his arms and carried her up the boarding plank. He placed Godiva in the arms of her nurse as the plank was hauled over the gunwale and stowed.

Left on shore with Wymarc at her side, Emma saw her daughter reach a hand toward her, and she felt tears knot her throat. She whispered, “I do not think that I can keep from weeping.”

“It will be harder for her, Emma, if she sees you cry,” Wymarc said.

She nodded. Wymarc was right, she must not cry. For a few moments longer, as the ship struck out from shore, she watched until her vision began to blur. Then, turning away, she took Wymarc’s arm and began walking back toward the village of Benfleet, her mouth clenched tight against her grief.

Godiva’s sudden, piercing wail rose above the rush of the breeze and the cries of the gulls. It seemed to wrap itself around her heart and wrench from her the tears that she had tried so hard to contain. But she did not stop walking, and although the temptation to do so was strong, she did not look back.

Chapter Thirty-Three

November 1011

Redmere, Holderness

E
lgiva stood beside her bed and lifted her hands to admire the sinuous vines worked in silver and gold along the borders of her wide sleeves. She could not even begin to imagine the worth of this gown, woven of deep-blue godwebbe, with its gilding at sleeves and neck and hem. Swein Forkbeard was a generous gift giver, she would grant him that.

He’d sent other gifts as well—the silver fillet at her brow, three of the bejeweled chains around her neck, the golden girdle and jeweled knife at her waist, and even the leather shoes that she wore—her rewards for giving Cnut a son at last.

Well deserved, as far as she was concerned, and just in time. At today’s gathering of Cnut’s supporters, she would appear before them not as merely the Lady Elgiva of Northampton, heiress to vast lands in the Five Boroughs and mistress of the hall, but as the gorgeously attired bride of a Danish prince.

Tyra held out a small coffer containing golden ornaments, and as Elgiva selected several bracelets to wear, Catla entered the chamber, trailed by the usual flotsam of children in her wake. Elgiva waited for her cry of admiration at the sight of the gown, but Catla didn’t even glance at her. She was too busy fussing over Cnut’s son, lying asleep in his nurse’s arms.

Stupid woman, Elgiva thought. All babies look the same.

Except, she corrected herself, Swein Cnutson was far handsomer than any of the creatures that Catla had produced.

She waited until Catla finally settled herself on the bed with her youngest brat.

“Well?” she asked.

Catla studied her, then frowned and began to chew nervously at her lower lip.

She is jealous, Elgiva thought, irritated. But she’s too cowardly to say so.

“Out with it, Catla,” she snapped. “Am I flaunting too much gold for my lord’s hall? Are you afraid that the sight of me will drive his men mad with desire?”

She was only half in jest. She wanted his men to be inflamed by the sight of her. That was the point.

“Does Cnut know that you will be in the hall for the gathering?” Catla asked, her voice little more than a whisper. “Thurbrand says that women are not welcome, that they will be discussing men’s business.”

Elgiva snorted. “Cnut’s business is my business,” she said. Many of the men who would be there had once been her father’s thegns, men who would harbor resentments against the king and Eadric. Cnut had not asked that she be there, but he would not be fool enough to dismiss her, not after she entered with Cnut’s son—the grandson of Ælfhelm and of Swein—in her arms. And if Thurbrand didn’t approve, he could go hang. “Where is Thurbrand now?” she asked Catla.

“He is talking with Cnut and some others who came with us.”

“What others?” Then looking down at her waist she said, “Tyra, fasten that girdle more tightly or it’s like to slip off and trip me.” To Catla she said, “Who came with you?”

Catla had turned her attention to the child on her lap, who was attempting to dive headfirst onto the floor. “Two Danish ships landed today at the mooring below our steading,” she said absently. “Cnut’s men. You’ll know them. They’ve been here before—Arnor, Eirik, all that lot.”

Elgiva froze. So Arnor was back! He had been away for so many months that she’d begun to hope the bastard was dead.

Likely he had messages to deliver to Cnut before the larger meeting began. And if he had brought news from the south, she wanted to hear it. Besides, she had a score to settle with Arnor.

“That will do!” she said to Tyra, although there were still bracelets and rings aplenty in the coffer. She spun around, pleased by the musical, jingling sound of gold on gold, and she pointed to the nurse who held her swaddled, sleeping son. “Come with me.”

Walking close beside the buildings to avoid the slick mud in the middle of the yard as well as the score or so men gathering there, she made her way to the hall. Bypassing the wide, main door she slipped through a smaller entrance at the back leading to a narrow, private chamber that Cnut claimed for his own whenever he was in Holderness. As she had expected, she found him seated there, with Thurbrand standing to one side and a servant close by. Arnor straddled a bench in front of Cnut. The shipman’s face, she noted, was marred by a yellowish bruise around one eye and a nasty cut on his lower lip that was not quite healed. An accident, she wondered, or a brawl? She hoped it had been painful, whatever the cause.

When she entered, Arnor abruptly broke off whatever he’d been saying, and every face turned to her. She offered no greeting, but walked straight to Arnor.

“Bring the child here,” she called to the nurse, who stood hesitating at the chamber door.

The girl scurried to Elgiva’s side, and the babe, disturbed by the cold and the movement, began to whimper. Elgiva pushed the girl toward Arnor, who recoiled as if he’d been struck.

“Nay, the bairn will not harm you,” she said. “He’s no knife yet to dangle before your eyes, although I have one.” She touched the bejeweled hilt of the knife at her belt. “But I would have you look closely at him.” She drew back the blanket to reveal the fine down of red-gold there, a match to Cnut’s hair and beard. “Do you still insist that this is not Cnut’s son? I warn you. His father has already acknowledged him, and all the women on this holding were present at his birth.” She said to Cnut, “This vermin threatened me when last he was here and claimed that you had not fathered my child. I want him to admit to his lies, and I demand—”

“Be quiet!” Cnut interrupted her. The baby was squalling now, and Cnut motioned to the nurse. “Take the child away. Elgiva, I would hear Arnor’s news. Sit you down and be silent, or get out. You,” he barked at the servant, “get your mistress a chair.”

Now she felt the tension in the room. She had been too intent on facing down Arnor to notice it before. Whatever news the shipman had brought, it had fouled Cnut’s usually genial temper. She sat down next to her husband and swallowed her anger, but she could not resist casting a surly glance at Arnor. The lout raised an insolent eyebrow in response, and she had to suppress an urge to demand that someone blacken his other eye.

Cnut said to Arnor, “I’ve heard at least four different tales today of how Hemming died. Do you know the truth?”

She drew in a quick breath. So Hemming was dead!

She looked at Cnut, but she could read no joy or even relief in his face. Instead he appeared worried by news that should have filled him with satisfaction. What was wrong with the man that he could not recognize a gift when it was handed to him?

She turned her attention back to Arnor, who was speaking of an agreement that had been forged between Hemming and Archbishop Ælfheah. Then he gave an account of Hemming’s death at table and of the attack on Canterbury that followed some days later—all of the events months old, yet they had heard no whisper of them until now.

She had been right about Hemming, she thought with satisfaction. He would have turned against both Cnut and his brother if he hadn’t been stopped. He deserved to be dead and his mischief buried with him. That Alric had dispatched him in a manner that cast blame upon the archbishop was a masterstroke. It could not have gone any better. Perhaps she should reward him with yet another ruby for that alone. She wanted to ask for more details of Hemming’s death, but given Cnut’s mood, she dared not interrupt.

“What of Thorkell?” Cnut asked. “He must have returned to Rochester by now. Did you speak with him?”

“Oh, aye. We spoke,” Arnor said, “although he did most of the talking. He does not believe that the archbishop killed Hemming, my lord.” He ran a knuckle along the cut on his lip. “He blames you.”

Hearing this, Elgiva felt the tiniest flicker of unease. Beside her, Cnut froze, then leaned forward, eyes wide with shock.

“How? I was in Denmark!”

“Aye. But our friend Alric was at table with Hemming when he died, and he’s not been seen since.”

“Alric!” Cnut repeated.

“I don’t believe it!” Elgiva could not keep silent. If Alric was tied to Hemming’s death, her role in it might come out, and Arnor already harbored suspicions about her. She had no idea what Cnut would do if he discovered that she had ordered Hemming’s death, and she had no wish to find out. “Husband, you cannot believe that Alric would—”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” Thurbrand snapped, glowering at her. “It is what Thorkell believes that matters.”

“I’m to give you a message from Thorkell,” Arnor said to Cnut. “I’m to say that he knows Hemming is dead by your command. That there is bad blood between you now, and should you ever come within his reach, your life is forfeit.” He fingered his jaw. “It is not a message I’ll soon forget,” he said. “I’ve fewer teeth than I once had, compliments of Thorkell’s men.”

Thurbrand sucked in a breath. “If Thorkell has become your enemy, Cnut,” he said, “then whoever killed Hemming has done you an ill turn.”