The face that peered down at her was attractive—sun darkened, with high cheekbones and liquid, brooding eyes. His curly brown hair was cropped short and his beard well trimmed. The shoulders beneath the green mantle were broad, but his body tapered to a slim waist, the tunic cinched tight with a wide black belt.
“Do you bring me word from my father?” she asked.
“He sends his greeting, my lady. I am to say that he hopes that you offered a Mass for him at St. Edward’s tomb, and that you have not yet been driven mad by prayer.”
Elgiva snorted at her father’s idea of a jest.
“And is that all you are to say? Can you not at least tell me where he is?”
He shrugged. “When last I spoke with him he was with the king at Winchester, but that was some days ago.”
Elgiva frowned, puzzling over what her father might be up to. Was he planning to make some move against the queen or did he merely wish to know who she met with and, presumably, influenced?
She sighed, still annoyed with her father, and considered the man in front of her. He was different from the other messengers her father had sent. They had been mere servants, barely raising their heads to look at her. This one was watching her with molten eyes, his mouth slanted upward in an arrogant half smile. She judged him to be not many years older than she was, and she thought him somewhat young to have such an obviously high opinion of himself.
“What is your name, fellow?” she demanded.
“Alric, my lady. My lands are in western Mercia, and your father and brothers know me well.” So he was a man of some substance, then. She eyed him as he inclined his head toward her in a slight bow, keeping his eyes on hers as if he thought himself her equal. The man was insolent indeed. Still, she rather liked the look of him. He was bold, and in a handsome man that was not such a bad thing.
“I have little in the way of news to give you,” she said.
“Your father would know something of the queen’s daily routine,” he prompted.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Will you remember all that I tell you?” she asked.
“With pleasure, lady,” he said, his voice a caress.
Honeyed words, indeed, she thought. He raked her with appreciative eyes, and she brushed past him, walking into the trees so that he would not perceive how his hungry gaze pleased her.
“Very well,” she said, trying to dismiss him from her mind as she gathered her thoughts. “We begin each morning with ablutions just after dawn, followed by a prayer and our first meal. By the time the queen is ready to set out, the pavilions have been dismantled and are already on their way to the next stopping point. We ride at a leisurely pace for the most part, but messengers are sent ahead to every town through which the queen will pass to announce her imminent arrival.”
As she recited the routine, it suddenly dawned on her what Emma was accomplishing with this progress. She was seducing the people of England! At every village and town she threw pennies to the throngs of folk who surrounded her, and she called out greetings that held only the merest trace of her foreign birth. And those simple, stupid folk, damn their eyes, would probably worship her for it! Whatever misgivings they might have about Æthelred, they would love their pretty young queen.
Elgiva stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes, remembering Emma’s arrival at Middleton and the cheers of the crowd.
She felt Alric come up behind her, although he did not touch her. He was not that bold, at least.
“Tell my father,” she said sharply, “that I believe that the queen gave generous gifts to the abbey at Shaftesbury. Tell him that not only do the good sisters love her, but that the townsfolk who have seen her are besotted with her. Tell him to beware if he is planning any move against the queen. Can you remember all of that?”
“Aye, lady.” It was a mere whisper, for his mouth was next to her ear.
She caught her breath at the nearness of him, then turned to hold out her hand, signifying that their interview was over. But her hand trembled as he clasped it and brought it to his lips, his eyes once more raking hers.
He kissed her ring, then turned her hand palm upward and placed a lingering kiss there, too—a kiss that burned her like a brand. An instant later he was gone, his green cloak melting into the colors of the brush beyond the clearing. She stood there a moment, catching her breath, allowing her pulse to steady.
Alric. She smiled to herself as she whispered his name. Here was a man of no little worth.
As she made her way back toward the pavilions she forced her thoughts back to Emma, finally admitting the truth to herself. Æthelred would never set his queen aside. In that first year, while Emma had been perceived as a foreigner and had yet to prove that she could conceive a child, there may have been a chance. Now that chance was gone.
Elgiva kept her eyes on the ground, carefully avoiding piles of sheep dung. What had she to strive for now? Must she resign herself to a marriage with one of Æthelred’s thegns, she who had been promised a crown? She clenched her hands into fists at the thought. She would not do it. Not while the king had marriageable sons, at any rate.
She would have to seduce one of the æthelings into wedding her. She would prefer Athelstan, of course, but he was bewitched by the queen. She wanted no man who was so moonstruck that he courted disaster for the sake of a woman—unless she was that woman. No, Athelstan had moved beyond her reach, but Æthelred had plenty of other sons. If it was indeed her wyrd to be queen, then she must find a way to bring it about.
“Groa,” she said, pausing to wait for her, “what have you to say to Ecbert as a husband for me?”
“He would be,” she paused, as if searching for the right word, “pliable, my lady. But will he ever be king?”
Elgiva pursed her lips. “You are right,” she said slowly. “He would be pliable, yet he is not the heir—not yet, at any rate. As his wife, though, I think I could inspire ambitions in him that he does not yet entertain.” She smiled to herself and drew Groa’s arm in hers. “When we return to Winchester I believe that I shall pay particular attention to young Ecbert.”
Yet the image of Alric remained in her mind, sharp and clear. She hoped that she would see him again, many times, before she returned to Winchester.
Winchester, Hampshire
King Æthelred, seated formally upon his ornately carved, brilliantly painted throne in Winchester’s great hall, gazed upon the nobles come from all over his realm to witness the workings of the court. He knew most of them by name and had a general idea of their worth to him in taxable property. They were like children, he thought, who sometimes had to be appeased, sometimes coerced, sometimes placated, sometimes punished. He passed laws to protect them from each other and levied taxes to protect them from outsiders. Yet they perceived him as weak, because, for some years now, he had purchased peace with gold instead of with English blood. He did not doubt that if some brilliant warrior should rise to challenge him for the throne, offering to lead them in battle against their foes, many of his thegns would forsake him.
Brooding upon this dismal theme, Æthelred noticed his eldest son emerge from a knot of men at the back of the hall and make his way toward the dais. As Athelstan approached the throne and knelt at his father’s feet, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the high windows to set the lad’s golden hair aglow and burnish the ornate silver clasp at his right shoulder. Hardly a lad now, Æthelred reminded himself. Headstrong, opinionated, outspoken, yes, but a lad no longer.
He squinted at his son, trying to read the expression on his face. There was trouble brewing there. Of that much he was certain.
He nodded to his son to speak, and Athelstan rose and stepped to one side, turning so that all would hear his words.
“I would speak of our enemy, Swein Forkbeard, who now holds sway in both Denmark and Norway, and who seeks to
add England to his northern realms.” His voice rang through the hall, as sharp and clamorous as a warning bell. “It is likely that even now Swein is gathering his dragon ships in some Norman port, preparing to strike us. He will cross the Narrow Sea to plunder our lands and rape our women, for he has a sister’s death to avenge.”
He paused, and Æthelred could see that his son had snared the attention of every man in the hall, for they all feared the next Danish onslaught.
“Will we wait,” Athelstan went on, “as we have so many times before, like huddled sheep for the blow that we fear will come and pray will not? I say . . .” He paused again, and he seemed to grow a little taller as he squared his shoulders, almost as if he were about to face an enemy. “I say that we do not wait for the dragon ships to strike. I propose that we send ships to Normandy, find the Viking fleet, and destroy it before it crosses the Narrow Sea. Let us torch their dragons like signal beacons, cripple them so that they cannot hit us.”
The hall began to buzz with voices, and then a Kentish lord spoke up. “And who would undertake to lead such an enterprise?” he demanded.
“There are three of us,” Athelstan replied, as Ecbert and Edmund stepped forward to stand with him.
And now a low roar swept through the hall like a rising wind. Æthelred cursed under his breath as he quickly weighed the likelihood of the success of such a plan and found it wanting. It was based on the assumption that Swein’s ships could be found in their Norman haven, and then destroyed. The odds in favor of that were long, indeed.
On the other hand, if by some miracle the venture should succeed, he would have to look no further than his own son for the challenger to his crown. Was Athelstan not challenging him already, here and now, in making such an outrageous proposition before his court and council? Even as he considered how best to counter his son’s defiance, though, he felt the weight of his dead brother’s unseen presence. Edward’s cold malevolence was snaking toward him from somewhere in the shadows while, standing before the dais in a shaft of light, Athelstan looked up at him with Edward’s face.
This was all his brother’s doing, he realized—Edward’s vengeance working through the actions of his eldest son. He could feel his brother’s menace all around him now, ominous as the silence before a thunderclap, and Æthelred braced himself against it. Almost as if a voice had whispered it in his ear, he understood at last what his brother wanted from him as expiation for his sin. But it was too great a sacrifice. Even Edward’s black vengeance would not compel him to it.
Swiftly Æthelred rose to his feet, and pitching his voice so that it could be heard in every corner of the hall, he answered Athelstan’s challenge.
“I will not send my sons, nor any man’s sons, on such an ill-considered, perilous venture. The hazards far outweigh any gains, and it is not to be thought of, now or ever.” He fixed Athelstan with a contemptuous look that brooked no argument. “There’s an end to it.”
He stalked from the dais, desperate to escape curious eyes and to shake off the clammy chill that enveloped him now like a fog. He knew, even without seeing it, that a shadow followed in his wake. Edward would show him no mercy, but God help him, the retribution that his brother demanded was far too high. He would not pay it, let his brother’s bloodied shade do what he would.
Athelstan stared, thunderstruck, at his father’s retreating back. The king had asked for no considered opinions but had treated his suggestion with contempt.
And when, he asked himself, had it ever been otherwise? His father had always dismissed his counsel. Even the king’s gift of the Sword of Offa had been an attempt to placate him, as if he were a mewling babe who could be silenced with a toy.
He turned from the empty throne and elbowed his way through the crowded hall, with Ecbert and Edmund at his heels.
“What are you going to do?” Ecbert demanded.
“Now that the king has humiliated me in front of the entire court?” he asked. “I am going to leave, of course. What other choice do I have?”
Ecbert moved quickly to plant himself directly in Athelstan’s path.
“You cannot leave the court without his permission!” he protested.
“Watch me,” Athelstan said, shoving his brother aside.
“Surely you don’t propose to fire the Danish fleet all by yourself.” This from Edmund.
Athelstan barked a laugh. “Without a sealed writ from the king I am powerless to raise the ships. No, Swein’s fleet is safe from me. I will wait for word of Armageddon at my estate at Norton.” His lands lay within a half day’s ride of Exeter, and if, God forbid, the Danish force should strike there, he could at the very least spirit Emma out of danger.
Suddenly he found Edmund once again blocking his way.
“Stay away from her,” his brother said in a low voice, his face dark with warning. “She is not worth the risk that you are taking.”
There was no need to ask whom he meant. Edmund despised Emma, and if anything should happen to her, he would likely rejoice, not mourn.
In that instant Athelstan felt his tenuous hold on his rage—against his father, against the Danes, against God Himself—give way. He lunged for Edmund’s throat but almost immediately found his arms pinned from behind.
“Stop it!” Ecbert hissed in his ear. “We’re on your side, you fool. You risk losing your properties and titles if you leave.”
“If the Danes attack,” Athelstan said, shrugging out of his brother’s grasp, “the king will have far more to worry about than a son who disobeyed him by going off to confront the enemy.”
He stalked away from his brothers. Already he had wasted precious time trying to persuade his father to make the first strike against Forkbeard. With midsummer less than a week away, and the Danish fleet perhaps already poised to sail across the Narrow Sea, there was little time to lose. He could make it to Exeter in five days with swift horses. His sense of foreboding, of some calamity about to befall all of them, was stronger than ever. Whatever was to come he would face it at Emma’s side, or die trying to reach her.
Middleton, Dorset
It was the Lord’s Day, and in St. Catherine’s Church on the ridge above Middleton Abbey, Emma knelt before the small altar. The Mass was done, yet she lingered to pray alone for a time in the solemn quiet of the chapel. Early morning light streamed, honey colored, through the thick yellow pane of the window set into the wall behind the altar, and the sweet, heavy fragrance of incense hung in the air, masking, for the moment, the odor of damp that clung to the lime-washed walls and rush-strewn earthen floor.
When Emma had finished her prayers she stood up and turned to find that Ealdorman Ælfric, too, had lingered in the chapel. He rose when she did, bowing to her with grave dignity.
“My lady,” he said softly, “may I speak with you a little?”
“What is it, my lord?” she asked, seating herself upon one of the benches that lined the chapel walls. She signaled to Wymarc, who had been waiting near the church door, and in a moment Emma and Ælfric were alone together in the quiet of the little chapel. “Pray, sit down,” she said to the old man.
He lowered himself onto the bench next to her, his wrinkled brow even more furrowed than usual. Tall and gaunt, grizzled and gray, he reminded Emma somewhat of her father. There was the same gentleness in his face whenever his eyes lit upon her, and the same kind of genial smile of affection. Her childhood memories of her father had become so entwined with this man that she could not help but look upon him with the same regard that a daughter might.
He gazed at her gravely, large hands clasped together upon the folds of his brown cloak.
“Do you know aught of my son, my lady?” he asked.
“Your son?” she said, surprised by the question. “No, my lord. Only what you told me at Wherwell . . . that you lost him some time after Hilde’s mother died.”
“Lost him, aye,” he said, nodding. “That is true enough. Yet it is not the entire truth.”
This did not surprise her. She had often been forced to settle for half-truths at the king’s court. She said nothing, though, merely watched the old man as he looked down at the strong, sinewy hands in his lap. When he trained his dark eyes upon her again he said, “My son is lost, although not dead.”
He told her a piteous tale, then, of a headstrong son who after the death of his young wife had left his baby daughter in his parents’ care and, in spite of his father’s protests, disappeared from all their knowledge.
“We thought that he, too, had died, perhaps even among the many who lost their lives in the battle against the Danes at Maldon in ninety-one. Then, the year after Maldon, when Swein Forkbeard struck in Kent, the king called out the fyrd to meet the enemy, and I was to lead the ships that would cut off the Danes’ retreat after the battle.” He paused, grazing a hand across his brow as if he would wipe out the memories there. “The night before we would have set our trap, as our host camped on the Thames bank, my son appeared at my tent, hale and healthy. To me it was as if Lazarus had come back from the dead, for I had thought Ælfgar buried in the fens at Maldon. To this day I do not know if any of what he told me that night—of his capture by Danish shipmen and his repeated efforts to escape—was truth or lie. I did not bind him in chains, for I did not know then that he was Forkbeard’s man, body and soul.” He gazed at her, his eyes bleak with grief. “It is said that the Danish king has a power in his gaze that captures and holds men’s hearts. I think it must be true.”
Emma recalled the power and calculation she had read in Swein Forkbeard’s eyes. She could not speak to how it might affect the hearts of his followers. Swein had inspired her only with fear.
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