The Price of Blood (55 page)

Eadric, who must have heard all that Thorkell had said, even if he had not understood every word, spoke into her ear, “It is true that he was not among the men we bargained with at Canterbury. But remember, this man is a skillful liar.”

Emma recalled what Eadric had said of Thorkell—that he was a liar, and devious, and greedy. But the same could be said of Eadric, and so she did not know what to believe.

She looked to the sanctuary for help, to Ælfheah, lying beneath the altar cloth that she had embroidered and had herself given to him.

As if he read her thoughts Thorkell murmured, “Ælfheah treasured that gift because it came from your hand. Two seasons he was among us, and I learned to call him friend. But, God forgive me, I could not save him.”

Stricken by his words she looked at him and saw that the anger in his face had been transmuted into grief.

She forced herself to swallow her rage, for she had to believe him. What other choice did she have? He had come here weaponless, empty-handed but for the body of a man he swore he had tried to save.

She drew in a long breath and lifted her eyes to where the light, seeping through the high, narrow windows, had begun to fade.

These men must leave the city, and soon. Once word spread of Ælfheah’s death, the people of London would demand vengeance, and more blood would be shed.

She made up her mind what to do, and prayed that she was making the right choice.

“Rise,” she ordered, “and go to your ship. Your pledges demand that you be gone from England before today’s sun sets.” She could not wish him well, though, and felt no gratitude that he had brought Ælfheah’s body to London. Her horror and despair were far too great for that. “Lord Eadric, assign some men to see that the Danes reach their ship unharmed.”

Eadric moved to Thorkell’s side, but the big man ignored him and made no move to rise.

“There is a second pledge, lady, that I must honor,” Thorkell said.

“What pledge?” she demanded sternly. Now that she had made the decision, she wanted him gone.

“That I would place myself and my men into the service of your king, should he wish it.”

Surprised, she flicked a glance at Eadric, and she read cunning and speculation in his face. She could guess what he was thinking. Whoever carried word of such an offer to the king would be in high favor indeed, for Æthelred had long wished for just such an alliance. But could Thorkell’s words be trusted?

The story of her grandfather’s murder at the hands of an enemy who proffered peace came back to her again. Her mind raced to Edward, standing just a few steps from her. Was there some threat here that she could not discern? But the Danes were unarmed. The only thing that Thorkell clutched was a cross, and now she wanted to believe he spoke the truth.

“You swore this to Ælfheah?” she asked.

“He feared for you and for your children, and begged me to offer you my protection. I gave him my oath.”

And now she recognized what this truly was—Ælfheah’s bequest to her, a final act before he faced his death. Whatever dangers lay ahead in the months and years to come, Thorkell and his fleet could be the key to the safety of her children.

She kept her eyes on the big man’s face, but she knew that Eadric was watching her, watching Thorkell, itching to intervene.

“This may be a trick,” he hissed. “I told you, he is Swein’s man!”

“No!” Thorkell spat. “No longer!” His face was flushed and angry again. He spoke not to Eadric, but to her, and she believed he spoke the truth.

Whatever alliance he may have made with the Danish king had been severed. Even so, other Viking leaders had broken with Swein in the past only to rally to his side again when it suited them to do so.

“If Swein should one day bring a fleet against England,” she pressed him, “what then? What guarantee can you give that you would not betray us?”

He stood up, clutching the cross at his breast. He reached for her hand and placed it around his so that the cross was clasped by both. Bending his head to hers, he spoke for her ears alone—and in Danish. “I swore so to Ælfheah, who told me to trust you and no other. Now I swear so to you, by our Savior’s cross.” His eyes locked on hers. “You must take heed, for Swein is indeed coming—and it will be soon.”

She stared at him in shock, and he gazed back at her confidently, certain that she had understood him.

The promise that Ælfheah had made to her years before echoed in her mind.

Give me leave to reveal your secret if I see the need to do so.

But Ælfheah was not the only one who had known her secret. Swein, too, had known that she spoke her mother’s tongue, and Thorkell had once been Swein’s ally.

She would have questioned him further, but a desperate shouting and pounding erupted at the back of the church, and as she turned toward the sound, the door crashed open.

Athelstan stormed in, armed men following in his wake, and his face was such a mask of fury that she almost did not know him.

Thorkell’s men scrambled to their feet, but she moved to the altar to shield Ælfheah’s body, afraid of what Athelstan might do if he saw it. She was too late. He was already striding toward the altar, and he swept her aside as if she were made of straw. He gave the ruined face only one swift glance before swinging around and drawing his sword.

She followed him, clutching his sword arm as he placed the point of his blade at Thorkell’s breast.

“No!” she cried.

In the same instant she saw one of the Danes snatch Edward, pull the boy’s knife from its scabbard, and press it against his throat.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Sunday, Easter Octave, April 1012

London

E
mma heard the unmistakable whisper of more blades slipping from scabbards, and she knew that the nave behind her was bristling now with English swords. Far more terrifying to her, though, was the frightened face of the Dane who held the knife at Edward’s throat.

Sweet Virgin
, if there were to be a slaughter here, Edward would be the first to die.

“Athelstan, stop!” Her cry collided with Eadric’s bellowed command to sheath swords.

No one heeded them. She felt Athelstan’s arm tense beneath her hands, his sword still threatening.

Thorkell stood motionless and silent, glowering at Athelstan, who smiled grimly and jerked his head toward Edward.

“If you think that I care about the life of that boy,” he said, “you are much mistaken. Kill him or let him go; it makes no matter.”

Cries of protest erupted from some in the church, while Eadric spewed a string of invective. At the same time Emma, still keeping a firm grip on Athelstan’s arm, spoke in Danish to the man who was clutching Edward.

“No harm will come to your leader,” she said, praying that he would disentangle her words from the din around them. “Do not kill my son.”

The shipman’s wide, startled eyes flashed to hers, and the hand holding the knife trembled. She kept her eyes on his bewildered face while Athelstan and Eadric shouted at each other, their voices echoing through the church.

“This is madness!” Eadric roared. “These men came here weaponless!”

“These men are Danes,” Athelstan threw back at him, “and all Danes are liars! They swore peace and then they sacked Canterbury. They swore to leave England, yet there are a thousand of them still camped at Greenwich! They are truce breakers, and if there is madness here, it is you who are mad for trusting them! Emma!” She dragged her eyes from Edward’s captor to Athelstan’s face. He was glaring at Thorkell, and she saw no mercy or pity or any thought of Edward. Only rage. “Have you forgotten the innocents butchered before London’s gates?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten what they did to Hilde? Whatever they have said here, you cannot believe them!”

His words were knife strokes to her heart, for she remembered all of it and more. Too much blood had been spent for far too long, but this madness had to stop. She would not see Edward added to the list of the dead.

Her decision made, she took a breath, steeling herself for what she must do. Keeping her eyes fixed on Athelstan’s face, she released his sword arm to grasp the naked blade.

Athelstan flinched, and searing pain shot through her palm, but she did not let go. His shocked eyes snapped to hers and he swore at her, but when she forced the sword point down and away from Thorkell, Athelstan did not resist her pressure.

She placed herself in front of the Danish leader, still clutching the blade.

“These men are under my protection,” she said, and now it was her voice that echoed through the church. “Anyone who wishes to do them harm must kill me first!”

And then, because she could think of no better way to assure the Danes that she was their ally, she shouted the words again—this time in her mother’s tongue.

 • • • 

Emma’s cry was greeted with a profound silence. Every man there, Athelstan guessed, was mazed by the flood of Danish words that had just spilled from the lips of an English queen.

He flicked a glance to Emma’s bleeding hand and then back to her face. She was glaring at him with fierce, unyielding eyes, and he was baffled by her willingness to protect such a man as this.

“What lies has he told you that you would defend him?” he cried.

Christ!
What misguided conviction had possessed her? With a single step she had placed herself at the mercy of the Danes. They needed no weapons. They could use Emma and her son as shields and make any demand they wished. He would be powerless to stop them.

Before Emma answered him, the big Dane snarled a command, and Athelstan readied himself to make a rush at Edward, certain that the bastard who held him was about to slit his throat. Instead the brute released the boy, thrusting him away unharmed before tossing the knife into the shadows behind him.

He saw Emma draw a deep breath, almost a sob, but she did not step away from the man she was shielding, nor release the sword.

“Thorkell has told me things that you have not heard, my lord.” Her voice was commanding—and ice-cold. “You are in no position to judge if they are truth or lies.”

A sudden chorus of cries rang out from the back of the church, and chancing a quick glance over his shoulder Athelstan saw the bishop of London shoving his way forward.

“In the name of God, what is happening here?” Ælfhun elbowed his way to Emma’s side, and casting a horrified glance at her bloody hand, he gently pried it from the blade. “Put your weapons down!”

Athelstan made no move to obey, nor did his men. He continued to clutch his sword, his eyes on Thorkell, alert for the slightest flicker of threat.

“Archbishop Ælfheah lies there murdered!” he spat. “And the queen would defend his murderers!” This was all a ruse; it had to be. Emma had been beguiled by lies, promises—he did not know what. “These shipmen would gain entry into the—”

“These shipmen,” Emma cut him off, “have come to us weaponless, bearing the body of our archbishop and an account of his death. Their leader wishes to speak with the king. It is not for Lord Athelstan or for any of us to determine the truth of their story. Only the king can do that.”

Athelstan stared at her, helpless with rage at her blindness, for how could this be anything but some trick that would lead to disaster?

“They have cozened you, lady! Do not fall prey to their lies, I beg you, for they will betray us!”

And then he despaired, for she was looking at him with eyes of stone. She would not listen to him. Whatever this Thorkell had said to her, she believed him.

Eadric, too, moved to stand beside her, and now there were three of them shielding the Danes from the English. Emma had wrapped her bleeding hand into a fold of her cloak.

“Put your sword away, my lord,” Eadric snapped. “Have you not spilled enough innocent blood already?”

“Blood has been spilled all across England, Eadric,” he snarled, “by these men and others like them. Or had you not noticed?”

From just behind him Edmund hissed into his ear, “Leave it. You are wasting your breath here.”

But he could not leave it.

“What of the dragon ship out there? What of the fleet that still lies at Greenwich? My lady, do you mean to welcome all our enemies into London?”

He had meant it as a taunt to make Emma think twice about what she was doing. To his surprise, she frowned, then held a brief, whispered exchange with the Danish leader.

He glanced at the faces of Eadric and the bishop, and he read their uneasiness at not being party to what passed between the queen and the Dane. Yet neither man made a protest, and it dawned on him that the balance of power in this chamber, perhaps even in the kingdom, had shifted the moment that Emma had seized that naked steel.

And surely Emma knew it.

“The Danish ship,” she announced, “will return to Greenwich. Eadric, I would have you send some of your men with them, to keep watch on their doings. Thorkell has agreed to this. He and his companions will be escorted to the palace by my house guards, where they will await the king. Word of Ælfheah’s death must not stir beyond these walls until the Danes are safe within the palace, lest some misguided soul seek vengeance.” Her defiant eyes met his. “Does that satisfy you, Lord Athelstan? Will you and your men put away your swords now?”

The very air seemed to crackle with tension. He could order his men to slay the Danes, slay even Eadric, and that would be one less enemy to deal with. But he could not guarantee the safety of Emma and the bishop if it came to a bloodbath. When all was finished, whatever the outcome, he would have to face the king’s justice, and he was not prepared to lead his brothers in rebellion.

Which left him no choice. He sheathed his weapon and signaled to his men to do the same.

“I am not satisfied in the least, my lady,” he said. “And mark me, you will have cause to regret what you do here today.”