Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire
Elgiva of Northampton—great-granddaughter of Wulfsige the Black, granddaughter of the Lady Wulfrun of Tamworth, and only daughter of Ælfhelm, ealdorman of Northumbria—stood at her chamber window and saw with satisfaction that a heavy snow was once more piling up against her father’s manor walls. The massive drifts would keep the men indoors for several days, and that suited her purpose exactly.
She sat down upon a stool and gestured to a servant to latch the wooden shutter against the cold. Pulling her thick woolen shawl closer about her, she tried to control her impatience as her old nurse stood behind her and used deft fingers to tame her mass of dark curls. She must look her best at tonight’s Yule feast. There were royal visitors awaiting her in the hall, and if events played out as she intended, she would soon be sharing her bed with the eldest son of the king. After that it would be a simple enough matter for her father to negotiate whatever details were necessary to arrange a royal marriage.
She picked up a silver mirror and contemplated the perfect arch of her dark brows, then angled the disk to reflect Groa’s aged face beneath her gray linen headrail. That face was as familiar to Elgiva as her own, yet there were secrets behind the shadowy gray eyes that she had never been able to fathom.
“Tell me again,” she said, “about the prophecy.”
Groa’s normally brooding expression lit up with a rare, knowing smile.
“You are destined for queenship, my lady,” she said. “Your children will be kings. You have but to reach out your hand and grasp what you desire.”
Elgiva pursed her lips, studying their fullness in the mirror.
“I intend to,” she said. “I intend to make Athelstan desire me tonight.” She wanted him to hunger for her body in exactly the way the priests railed against in their sermons.
“How can he not?” Groa asked. “You are as beautiful as you are wealthy. Even the king desired you, and you were but a child then.”
Elgiva smiled, relishing the memory of her meeting with the king at Yuletide three years before. She had bribed a servant to help her escape from an evening of prayer in Lady Ælfgifu’s chamber, and in the dark passage outside she had unwittingly stumbled into the king. Æthelred had saved her from a fall by pulling her hard up against him, holding her there for far longer than necessary while he inquired if she was hurt. She had answered him with her most beguiling smile, had eagerly pressed her body against his as he held her close. Then, with a skill she could not help but admire, he had slipped a hand through the neckline of her cyrtel to fondle her breast. She had let him do it, of course, because he was the king, and because she had been too astonished to protest. Besides, she had liked it. Who would have guessed that a man so old could have such eloquent, liquid hands?
She had dared to hope that he would lead her to his chamber, but it was at that interesting moment that one of his attendants had come to drag him to some meeting or other, and so her brief little tryst with Æthelred had ended.
Angling the mirror a little lower she studied her full breasts and the necklace of thick gold that had been a gift from her brother Wulf. It had been Wulf who had told her father about her little interlude with the king. Her father, who had ever been one to strike first and ask questions later, had cuffed her so hard that her mouth and nose had bled. He would have hit her again had Groa not come between them, fingering the pagan amulet she wore at her throat and threatening him with a curse. That had stayed her father’s hand, for he was wary of Groa and her curses and potions. Still, her father had hurled filthy words at Elgiva, calling her a cunt and a whore, and he had sent her from court that very day. She still hated him for that, but she had learned a lesson. She was very careful now about what secrets she confided to her favorite brother.
“I am glad,” she said, “that I did not give my maidenhead to the king. It would have been a waste.”
“As he already has a wife,” Groa replied, her face in the mirror gone all grim again, “it would have done you little good, to be sure.”
Well, it might have gotten her more lands and more money if she had become the king’s leman, but she was already one of the wealthiest women in the realm, and one of the few who owned her estates outright. Still, it would not have made her queen, and that was what she truly wanted. Groa had said she would be the mother of kings, after all, so it must mean that she was meant to wed Athelstan, who would surely take the throne when his father died.
And for the next two weeks, Athelstan and two of his brothers would be under this roof for the Yule feast. It was perfect.
Even better, her father was not here, although he had nearly ruined everything by insisting that she go south with him to attend the king’s Yule. He would have had her spend Christmas Day on her knees mouthing prayers with the king’s wife and her ladies. She had gulled him out of that, though, and she smiled to herself as she remembered how her father’s brow had darkened when she casually said that she hoped to become much better acquainted with the king during her time at court. He had raised a threatening hand, and she had feared that he might strike her, but Groa had whisked her out of the chamber, scolding like mad, and that had saved her. After that nothing more had been said about taking her south, and with her father and elder brother now gone, she could do as she pleased. Wulf certainly would not stop her.
“I think that Lord Athelstan has a look of the king about him,” she observed. They had the same golden hair and square, pleasing face.
Groa snorted. “When I saw him in the yard this morning he had the look of a man who spends more time grooming his horse than he does himself.”
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Elgiva snapped. “And you are not being fair. Any man looks unkempt when he has been riding.” Besides, there was an air about Athelstan, an unconscious swagger that she found infinitely appealing. At sixteen years old he was the heir to the throne of all England, and no one knew it better than he did.
She had watched from the hall steps as he rode through the gate, and he had lifted his eyes to hers and snared her in an unsettling blue gaze. She had seen it then, that awareness of just exactly who and what he was. He had worn it like a mantle, and from that instant she had wanted to wrap herself in it.
One day Athelstan would be the most powerful man in the realm, and her destiny, she was certain, must be bound to his. For two weeks he would be her guest—time enough, surely, to make him desire her, and to convince him that he must have her for his wife.
Chapter Four
December 31, 1001
Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire
It was the seventh night of Christmas feasting, and Athelstan stood with his brothers amid a throng of revelers near the central fire of the great hall at Aldeborne. The bad weather had finally broken, and it appeared that every estate holder in the hundred of Northampton had ventured out of doors to join Lord Wulfheah and his sister Elgiva at table. The timbered hall, its carved rafters garlanded with greens, was redolent with succulent aromas, and the haunches of roasting meat above the coals made his mouth water. The high table at the top of the hall had been laid, as it had been every night since he’d arrived, with a snowy cloth, silver plates, and fat candles. Tonight numerous extra tables had been set up in the hall as well, and the noise from the crush of guests was almost deafening.
As Athelstan turned to say something to his brothers, the hall quieted, and he saw that Elgiva and Wulf had appeared on the dais to begin the business of formally greeting their guests. They made a striking couple. They were both black-haired and handsome, although Elgiva’s petite figure and small features gave her an elfin grace that was missing from her brother’s taller, warrior’s frame. They were both clad in deep scarlet, and Elgiva’s shimmering gown clung to her in a way that was guaranteed to make every man in the room uncomfortable inside his breecs. Her hair was dressed in loose, wanton curls that fra
med her face and cascaded down her back, and when her voluptuous lips curved into a beguiling smile, a man would have to be made of stone not to smile back.
He ought to know. She had been favoring him with that smile—and somewhat more—from the moment he’d ridden through Aldeborne’s gate a week ago. On Christmas night she had welcomed him with the ale bowl that was traditional and a molten kiss that was anything but. It had surprised the hell out of him, but he had not been fool enough to take it seriously. Not at first. She had placed him by her side at the table, though, and the casual grazing of knee and shoulder and hand all through the long meal had nearly driven him mad with a desire that food would not satisfy. By then he had caught on to her little game, and although he’d been playing it for seven nights now, it had lost none of its allure. She aroused him still, and he would find relief again tonight with the pretty blonde he had plucked from the kitchens—a girl who expected no reward beyond a few silver coins.
And that was the difficulty with Elgiva, he thought, watching her as she made her way through the hall with the brimming ale cup. Bedding her would cost him far more than a little silver. If he got her with child—even without a Christian marriage or a handfasting—it would have political repercussions that would further shift the weight of power in England to the northern lords.
Elgiva’s brother Wulf had to know that. He was five years older than she was, and he had a place on the king’s council. Since he was making no effort to curb his sister’s little game, he must approve. Did her father know of it? Had he even put her up to it? The ealdorman was not here and so could claim innocence if any spark flared between Elgiva and one of the æthelings. The blame—and the king’s wrath—would all fall on him.
He had not taken his eyes from Elgiva, and his brother Ecbert leaned toward him and whispered, “The hell with it. Why don’t you just bed her and put yourself out of your misery?”
Athelstan threw him a dark look. “The lady comes with far too much baggage, and you know it,” he muttered. “Do not let me drink more than a single cup of mead tonight, or I might lose my senses and take what she’s offering. Why don’t you bed her, Ecbert, if she is to your taste?”
Ecbert snorted. “She would not have me on a platter,” he said, “more’s the pity.”
“It is the eldest ætheling that she wants,” Edmund said, “and do not flatter yourself that your good looks have anything to do with it.”
Edmund had the right of it. Athelstan was only too aware of the mantle of responsibility that he bore as the eldest son of the king. When he wed, and that would likely not happen while his father lived, it would be for political expediency, not personal inclination. To form any kind of attachment with a girl of noble birth would be to hand the girl and her family a weapon to use against the king. He could bed any girl in the kingdom, as long as she was not crown worthy.
Elgiva, who at that moment stepped in front of him to offer him the ale cup, was forbidden fruit. Her dark eyes held his as he drank, but for once her face was grave, and she was careful not to touch his fingers with her own.
Was this another move in the game, or had she learned about his trysts with the kitchen wench? He hoped the girl would not be punished. He would have to make sure that she was well compensated, just in case.
Whatever was behind this sudden coolness, he must play his part. He returned Elgiva’s gaze with a grave bow and said, “Your beauty, lady, is a gift to us all.”
Elgiva, gazing into Athelstan’s guarded blue eyes, accepted his compliment with a curt nod. She knew he desired her. She could see it in his glance, could feel it in her fingertips whenever she chanced to touch him.
But he would rather bed a kitchen wench than the Lady of Northampton. Wulf had told her that, sneering that Athelstan obviously preferred a woman with experience in bed play. I can give you some of that, sweetheart, he had whispered, kissing her forehead and laughing when she stalked away from him.
Wulf stood beside her now, his hand at her waist, distracting her with a light caress. She slipped away from him, ignored Athelstan, and smiled at Ecbert, who she had determined would sit beside her at the feast tonight. Let the king’s eldest son gnaw on the knowledge that he was not the only ætheling in her hall.
At the table, the younger brother seemed gratified by her sudden favor, and he responded by regaling her with a series of ribald tales that he, at least, seemed to find enormously entertaining. He reminded her of nothing so much as a boisterous puppy, gaunt and clumsy, with none of the grace of his brothers. Even Edmund, the youngest of the three and built like a tree stump, had more to recommend him than the lanky Ecbert, who was all arms and legs and, she thought, very little brain. His horselike face and braying laugh added nothing to his charm. It was a pity that he was too young to grow a beard, for she judged that it would improve his looks considerably. There would be less of him to see.
Still, he seemed open enough and completely guileless. Perhaps she could get him to reveal something about Athelstan that would be the key to bewitching him.
She signaled to a serving girl to fill Ecbert’s cup, which he had already emptied three times, and she noticed that a servant had slipped behind the table to deliver a wax tablet each to Wulf and to Athelstan. She recognized her father’s seal on the tablet that Wulf opened, and the question she had been about to pose to Ecbert died unspoken on her lips. She turned to her brother instead.
“What does my father say?” she asked him. To have arrived tonight the messages must have been sent from Rochester at the very first moment that the weather allowed. Surely they contained news of some import.
Wulf did not answer her but glanced at Athelstan, who was reading his own missive.
“It is heavy news,” her brother said, his face grave. “I am sorry, my lord.”
Elgiva held her breath. It must be a death. Nothing else would make her brother look with such concern toward the ætheling. Was it the king? Dear God, if he were dead, then the witan would surely offer Athelstan the throne. The implications of that for her own future could be enormous. The new king would need a wife, and her father would make sure that Athelstan looked to Northampton for his bride. She might be a queen before Eastertide.
But Athelstan had set the tablet down in front of him, and now he rose and faced the throng in the hall. His expression was solemn, and his movement drew all eyes toward him. A hush fell over the revelers as they waited to hear what he would say.
“I am bid by my father the king,” he said, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “to announce that on Christmas morning my mother, the Lady Ælfgifu, died after giving birth to a son. The babe, alas, followed his mother in death. I ask that all present here tonight pray for both their souls.” He turned to Elgiva and Wulf. “I would speak with my brothers alone. Please excuse us.”
Elgiva watched the three brothers make their way from the table. Their mother’s death was a sorrow to them, she supposed, but her passing was of little significance to anyone else. The king’s wife had borne him numerous children, but as his consort and not his queen, she had done little else. Her death would have no effect on the kingdom or on Elgiva’s world.
She turned to her brother, who was looking thoughtfully at the tablet in his hand.
“What does my father say?” she asked again. “I suppose that the king’s sons will leave for Rochester tomorrow.” This news must put an end to the feasting, in any case.
“They do not go south,” Wulf replied. “There is no reason to do so, for their mother is already in her grave. My father writes that the æthelings are to take charge of our house troops and go to the king’s manor at Saltford. He will meet them there, but he does not say when. Not immediately, I think.” He tapped a finger against the tablet, then he looked speculatively at Elgiva. “The king, it seems, will take another wife, and very soon. I am ordered to stay here with you, in case you are summoned to cou
rt. It appears, my dear sister, that my father entertains the hope that you will be Æthelred’s bride.”
Elgiva gaped at her brother, while her mind played with new possibilities. To be wed to the father and not the son was not the destiny that she had been anticipating. Would it suit her? Well, it would certainly put her in a position of power much sooner than she had looked for it. Yet it was not an honor that she was certain she would like, and it was not exactly the power that she had hoped for.
“To what end would the king marry?” she asked Wulf. “Æthelred is an old man with seven sons. What need has he of a bride who would give him yet more sons?”
“He is not so old,” her brother said. “And, as you have good reason to know, he enjoys his earthly pleasures. Better to marry than to burn, the Scriptures say.”
She frowned. She wanted to wed a king, and yet . . .
“His first wife was never crowned queen,” she protested. “What good to wed a king and not get a crown?”
Wulf’s hand snaked behind her as if he would caress her, but instead she felt his fingers grasp her neck in a painful, viselike grip that she could neither escape nor shake off without making a scene.
“Do you never think beyond your own petty concerns, my dear sister?” he hissed into her ear. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that this alliance would be for your benefit. Its sole purpose would be to strengthen my father’s influence with the king, not cater to your monumental vanity. You will do whatever you are bid to do, wed whomever you are bid to wed, and let your father and brothers handle whatever details are to be negotiated.”
He let her go, and she rubbed her neck surreptitiously, smiling up at him for the benefit of anyone in the hall who may have noticed their little interaction.
“May I ask, then, if my father is negotiating my betrothal? Am I to be allowed to make preparations for my nuptials?” She would need new gowns, jewels, more attendants, and her own furnishings for the lady’s chambers at the Winchester palace. How much time did she have?
(2013) Shadow on the Crown Page 3
