The final details for the queen’s removal to Exeter were all but completed. On the morning before her departure the ladies of Emma’s household sorted feverishly through her wardrobe, debating among themselves which items would be necessary for the journey. Emma, seated nearby at her worktable, was absorbed by a map that Father Martin had found for her, its surface smooth beneath her fingers. Far older than she was, it had been commissioned by King Alfred over a hundred years before to show the royal holdings in Wessex. With her index finger she traced a line from Winchester to Exeter, wondering at the distance that she must cover in the next few weeks. Her finger paused, though, when she spotted the royal manor of Corfe marked near the southern coast. Corfe—where Æthelred’s brother, King Edward, had met his death.
She stared at the crimson circle on the map. What had really happened there on the night that Edward was murdered? No one had been punished, no wergild paid for the death of that anointed king. And now, it was whispered, miracles had begun at Edward’s new tomb at Shaftesbury: a lame child had walked; a blind woman had been given back her sight. There were stories that the martyred Edward had appeared in dreams to some who had known him, warning that those who were guilty of his murder must make restitution to avert the doom that was about to fall upon England.
Winchester’s bishop had preached the day before of the need for all men to confess their sins and offer alms for the expiation of any crime, however small. She had watched the king as he had listened, stone-faced, to the voice that soared from the pulpit. He had never blinked an eye, never moved a muscle to indicate that his heart had been touched. Yet afterward he had bid her break her journey at Shaftesbury to offer prayers at Edward’s tomb. He had given her a bag of gold to bestow upon the abbey in the name of the king, and of his dead mother, Queen Ælfthryth.
It made Emma wonder again if the king had had some responsibility for the death of his brother. If the stories could be believed, it was Queen Ælfthryth who had planned Edward’s murder so that her own son could take the throne. But Æthelred would have been a child, only ten or eleven summers old. Surely he could not have taken part in that deadly pact.
Yet something, some unnameable terror, tormented the king. She could not forget his anguished cry as he stood in her chamber, transfixed by some foe that she could not see. She dared not ask him about it—not then nor any time since. Every night that he had come to her bed he had been more distracted, more silent and surly even than before. She did his bidding, and then he left her, but the memory of that strange and awful happening hung between them like a glittering dagger, its point aimed at her throat.
She longed to get away from Winchester, from the king and all his secrets, and from all the bitterness that lay between them. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
When a servant entered to announce that Lord Athelstan wished an audience, joy soared through her. He had not accompanied the king from London, and she had despaired of seeing him before her departure. Lead me not into temptation, she prayed, schooling her face into a polite mask as she extended her hand toward him.
“Welcome, my lord,” she said.
He bent to kiss the heavy gold ring that marked her as the king’s possession, but his smile of greeting did not reach his eyes.
Immediately she was alert to something amiss. She gestured to a chair and glanced around the room. Elgiva, kneeling on the floor nearby as she packed gowns into a coffer, quickly turned away, as if to give the queen privacy. But Emma knew that Elgiva marked every conversation that took place in these rooms, and she suspected that Elgiva reported them to the king. Who else would take such a keen interest in everything that passed in the queen’s apartments?
She did not dare breach the etiquette of palace politics by sending her attendants away so that she could speak to Athelstan alone. Much as she longed to do it, it would arouse suspicion that she could ill afford. She dismissed Elgiva from her mind and focused all her attention upon Athelstan.
He had not taken a seat but was fingering the map that lay open on her table. Now he nodded toward it. The smile was gone.
“You cannot go to Exeter,” he said bluntly, as if he were giving her an order.
She looked at him, confused.
“Are you relaying a message from the king?” she asked.
“No. I am giving you the advice of a friend. You must give up this scheme, my lady. It is far too dangerous for you to even consider such a journey.”
She heard the passion beneath his words, read it in his eyes, but she could not comprehend it.
“I thank you for your concern, my lord,” she replied, “but surely there is little danger in such a journey as I intend. The king himself has assured me that—”
“I know what the king says,” he snapped. “I have just come from his presence. He is blind to the danger, or indifferent, I know not which. That is why you must take heed! My lady, the Danes will attack this summer. Swein Forkbeard seeks vengeance for the massacre of St. Brice’s Day, and every hour that passes makes it more likely that the next tide will carry dragon ships to our shores.”
A chill settled on Emma’s heart at the mention of St. Brice’s Day. News of Æthelred’s massacre of the Danes had spread to Europe, drawing protests even from the pope. Her brother Archbishop Robert had written a protest to the king, and in a letter to her had demanded to know why she had not used her influence with Æthelred to stop such a heinous act. Her mother had been more discreet. In a missive hidden in the slit leather cover of a psalter she had written: What kind of Christian burns innocent women and children? Emma had been unable to defend the king, had not even tried to defend herself. She should have known about his plans, should have been a voice of reason, should have counseled him. But he wanted none of her counsel, and that was her failure, her own burden of shame to bear.
Like everyone else in England, she had expected the Danish king to wreak some kind of vengeance. They had all waited, as the spring brought fair sailing, for the hammer blow of reckoning. So far, it had not come. And because folk cannot live always in constant expectation of doom, they had put fear of Swein away from them, packed it up the way they would a winter cloak during summer’s dog days. The king insisted that with his stroke on St. Brice’s Day he had rid England of Swein’s supporters, and that the Danish king’s next move would take years to plan. Clearly, though, Athelstan believed otherwise.
“How can you know that Swein will come?” she asked. “Is there some augur that you have been given?”
“No, I have no proof!” He slapped the flat of his hand against the table in frustration. “I can feel it, though. It is like a thrumming underneath my skin. I know not how to explain it. I can only tell you that I know it. Swein will come.”
She looked up into his face and read the fear and urgency there. A prickling started at the back of her neck. She had been foolish to imagine that England could escape Swein’s vengeance. There was good reason why her brother feared to cross the fierce Danish king. Of course Swein would come.
“But even if I grant that you are right,” she protested, “it does not mean that Swein will attack Exeter. Surely the Exeter coast is the safest place to be. The town is well protected, and the countryside was attacked but two summers ago. There is little enough left to pillage from those wretched folk.”
“It is not just booty that Swein is after, do you not see? He has a score to settle with my father. And no, there is no possible way to know exactly where he will strike, but strike he will. Has your brother Richard sent you any word, anything that might be seen as a warning?”
She gazed at him in surprise.
“No, my lord. He has sent me no word. Only my mother has written to me, to tell me that my sister’s wedding to the Count of Blois will take place at midsummer.” She frowned, trying to remember all that her mother had written. “Some time after St. John’s Day both of my elder brother
s will escort the couple back to the Duchy of Blois, which borders Normandy on the south.”
His gaze sharpened at this news. “So Duke Richard and the archbishop will be away from the Norman coast in the weeks after midsummer,” he mused. “If I were Swein, and if I wished to savage England’s southern coast, that is when I would strike.”
“But why strike the southern coast? Why not strike the eastern shires that face the Danish Sea?” She looked down at the map before her, and pointed to the empty space above Wessex that was marked East Anglia.
“The fens country, you mean?” Athelstan thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Swein is hungry for revenge. He will aim his blow at Wessex, my lady, for Wessex is Æthelred’s heart. He will strike our southern coast,” he said, bending over the map and running his finger over its lower edge. “Here, perhaps, near Pevensey.” His finger stabbed at a spot near the king’s manor at Beddingham. “Or here, at Exeter.” His finger moved to the fortress that marked her own journey’s end. “Swein will sail his ships down along the south coast of Denmark, along the coast of Frisia, and thence to Normandy. When the tides and winds are with him, he will launch his dragon ships across the Narrow Sea.” He raised his eyes to hers. “If your brothers are in the far south of their land, how are they to prevent Swein’s fleet from lurking in Normandy’s northern harbors?”
Emma pondered this, trying to recall exactly what her mother had written in her last letter. Had her news about Mathilde’s wedding, of Richard’s decision to visit Blois, been a hidden warning? A cold thought struck her of a sudden. Had her brothers’ plan to travel to Blois been deliberate, so that they could claim ignorance about what Swein might do? So that they could turn a blind eye to whatever use the raiders might make of Normandy’s harbors? Surely Richard’s purpose for accompanying the couple south was no more than to reinforce his support for an alliance he had long sought. Besides, Richard knew that she would be in Exeter. She had written to him that she would go to her dower lands there, knowing that he would approve of her determination to take responsibility for her properties.
No. Athelstan must be wrong about where Swein would strike. He was guessing, like the priests who had made dire predictions about the end of the world in the years before the millennium. They had warned that the sea would boil, that the land would fracture and mountains collapse. Yet nothing had happened. Life had gone on much as before.
“You cannot know any of this for certain, my lord,” she said softly. “It is but conjecture. What must we do, hide behind our city walls for the next two months for fear of the Danes?”
“No, my lady,” he said. “But if you see dark clouds and lightning in the distant skies, you do not climb the highest tree that you can find to watch the storm’s approach! You must not go to Exeter or to any town that lies within striking distance of a Danish army!”
She sighed, exasperated by his vehemence.
“I have made my preparations, my lord, and I will go to Exeter. My responsibilities demand that I do so. Even the king demands it.” She smiled at him, trying to ease the heavy atmosphere between them. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to climb any trees during a thunderstorm.”
Athelstan gave her a cold glare. “What if I am right, my lady, and you are wrong?”
“At the first sign of a dragon ship I will get on a horse and flee. Will that satisfy you?”
“And if the ships come in the night? What then?”
“There will be a watch, surely. Ealdorman Ælfric will see to it.”
Abruptly he pushed away from the table, agitated, frustrated. But what could she do? She could not acquiesce to his plea when the king had already bid her go. And, Sweet Virgin, she longed to be away from here, whatever the risk.
He placed his hands again upon the table between them and leaned toward her until his face was close to hers. “If you must go to Exeter, then I will ask the king to send me with you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I will trust no one else with your life. Do you understand me?”
She understood him only too well. And she understood her own heart well enough to know that if the two of them were to spend time together, away from the prying eyes and ears of the court, she would be in far more danger from Athelstan than she could ever be from Swein Forkbeard.
“I thank you, my lord,” she said softly, “but I forbid you to do that. Promise me that you will not.” Her voice broke, and she wanted to touch him, to place her hand upon his to ease the sting of her words. She could not. “Your father is a suspicious man, my lord. He sees enemies everywhere. He already mistrusts me. Who knows what evil intent he will read into your request?” She straightened her back and raised her voice. “Thank you, my lord Athelstan, for sharing your concerns with me. You may be assured that I will give them all due consideration.” She looked at him with a reassuring smile, pleading with her eyes for him to leave.
He hesitated for an instant, then bowed and stalked from the chamber.
Emma gazed after him, waiting for the beating of her heart to slow. The chorus of voices in the room had risen again, and she welcomed its gentle susurration, like the sound of waves brushing the shore. She was trembling, as if she walked along a terrible precipice, exquisitely aware that the slightest false step would send her over the edge.
She saw Elgiva fix her with a curious stare. How much had she heard? How much did she guess? Emma drew in a breath and picked up the map again, but a moment later her servant returned clutching something in her hands.
“Lord Athelstan,” the girl said, “bid me give you this. He says you must keep it sharp, and keep it about you always.”
It was a sheathed seax, its hilt made of smooth, bleached bone. Taking it in her hands, Emma drew the knife from its sheath. Unlike the delicate blade that she used at meals, this was a weapon—unadorned yet beautiful in its brutal simplicity. The blade was broad and heavy, its single cutting edge tapering to a lethal point. The sheath had no loop to attach it to a belt, and she realized that it was meant to be hidden somewhere on the body—tucked into the leggings wound around the lower leg, or perhaps slotted into a stiff boot.
She would have no need of it, she was certain. But she would do as Athelstan asked, if only to have something always about her that had once belonged to him. At least, she thought wryly, no one could suggest that it was a love token.
Chapter Twenty
June 1003
Middleton, Dorset
The hamlet of Middleton lay nestled in a green fold of the southern downs, halfway between Winchester and Exeter. Precisely in the middle of nowhere, Elgiva thought, as she stood beside Groa to look down on the village from the path that climbed toward the birch-covered ridge above it. From this vantage point she could see the village, an abbey, the queen’s pavilions—and nothing else except fields, forest, and sheep.
She shook her head in disgust.
“I will never forgive my father for forcing me to attend the queen on this wretched progress,” she grumbled. “He could have spared me this. I have been an obedient daughter, and I do not deserve such punishment.”
“Be patient, my love,” Groa crooned. “You will be rewarded in the end. Every step you take brings you closer to a crown.”
This had become Groa’s standard response to anything that irritated Elgiva. Yet Elgiva could not see how she benefited from Emma’s royal progress, and less so today than ever before. At least the queen’s other stopping places—Romsey, Wilton, Shaftesbury—had been bustling market towns offering something more to see than a minster or an abbey. Middleton, though, was a green desert.
Beside her, Groa started up the gently sloping path again, and Elgiva followed, still brooding. When she had informed her father of the queen’s intention to make this journey, she had begged him to find some way to release her from it. She had insisted that if she were forced to visit every wretched churc
h and convent between Winchester and Exeter she would go mad.
But her father had sent back word that she must accompany Emma, and that she must take note of anyone of import who met with the queen, relaying their names to one of his several retainers who trailed their party like shadows. So when the queen and her retinue reached their stopping place for the day and finished their repast, Elgiva would slip away with only Groa for company. One of her father’s men would find her—in the minster or the marketplace or by some holy well—and listen attentively to whatever she had to say.
For the past two days, though, there had been no messenger, and today, since there was no crowded marketplace, all she could think to do was to get out of sight of the pavilions and hope that her father’s minion would find her.
She could not fathom why her father had such a keen interest in Emma’s doings. It irritated her that she had to follow his irksome instructions without even the benefit of knowing their purpose, particularly since, as far as she could tell, the queen’s activities seemed unimportant.
Emma, she had observed, spoke to her traveling companions along the road, particularly Ealdorman Ælfric, who led the company. When they stopped at shrines along the way she apparently spoke to God, her head bowed in sanctimonious prayer. The only person of any moment whom she had consulted was the abbess at Shaftesbury when, last Sunday, the two women had been closeted together for some time. Elgiva could not know for certain what they had discussed, but she guessed that a generous amount of money had changed hands, for the abbess was smiling broadly when she bid the queen farewell.
Emma was no doubt bribing God with prayers and gold, hoping He would make her belly swell again. And if the queen expected that to happen while she was so far away from the loving attentions of her husband, then her faith was great indeed.
They reached the top of the hill, where a small chapel built of mortared gray stone stood in a clearing. A man cloaked in dark green glided toward them from behind the chapel, sunlight and shadow dappling his lithe figure as he moved. She did not recognize him, but he lifted his hand to show her father’s ring on his first finger. She nodded to Groa, who would keep watch for any intruders, then turned to her father’s man.
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