(2013) Shadow on the Crown

by Patricia Bracewell

  “Lady . . .” The word was spoken with a long, slow sigh. “There is nothing of greater import to me than the brief moments I spend in your presence.”

  Groa, standing beside Elgiva, snorted.

  Elgiva glared at her. “Get you away from us a little,” she spat at the old woman. “You know your business.”

  Groa moved away, and Alric urged Elgiva deeper into the shadows, until they stood against the church wall, hidden from all eyes by a massive stone column.

  “I want you to tell me what my father is planning,” she whispered. “I am weary of working toward an end that I cannot see.”

  “I would tell you if I could,” he whispered back, “but I do not know myself. I am but a weary messenger. What news have you for me?”

  He placed himself behind her, so close that the front of his body touched the back of hers. Gratefully, she eased her weight against his solid warmth, then she felt the edge of her veil lifted, and a finger gently caressed the back of her neck. She gave a little gasp of surprise and released it in a sigh of pleasure. He was taking liberties, to be sure, but why should she not receive some recompense for the tedious hours she had spent waiting for him?

  “My news,” she whispered, “is that Lord Athelstan waited upon the queen yesterday, but she refused to see him.”

  The messenger’s cheek grazed hers, his beard pleasantly rough against her skin.

  “Did you see him?” he asked.

  Now his lips brushed against her neck, and she turned her head aside to give him easier access, shivering when she felt his tongue trace her ear.

  “No, I did not,” she said, allowing the slightest hint of a pout into her voice. “Dearly would I have loved to spend a few stolen moments with the ætheling, but alas, I was disappointed.”

  His hand found its way inside her cloak and began teasing her breast through the fabric of her gown. “I would make you forget your disappointment, my lady, if you would but let me,” he whispered.

  “I do not doubt it,” she said, catching her breath at the exquisite torture of his touch. It had been long ere the king had taken her to his bed, and when he had, it had never been like this. She would like nothing better than to rut with this fellow who seemed to know his way so delightfully around a woman’s body, but she dared not risk getting a babe from such a one as this. “I have other news,” she said. “Would you hear it?”

  “I am at your command,” he said.

  Ah, she would love to try that, but not today.

  “Ealdorman Ælfric goes to see the ætheling at Norton tomorrow,” she whispered.

  The hand at her breast stilled.

  “And what of the queen? Will she go to Norton?”

  “No,” she said, pressing herself against him, gratified when his hand began to minister to her again. “Nor am I to go. Ælfric takes his granddaughter and the Lady Wymarc in his train, though, at the queen’s behest. I am certain that one of them will carry a message to the ætheling from the queen.”

  “Think you that the queen will make tryst with him?”

  Elgiva did not think it likely. If Emma had wanted to see Athelstan, she could have done so yesterday. It would be foolish for her to attempt a secret meeting, for there were too many people around her. Unless, of course, the queen and the ætheling actually planned to run off together. . . .

  Elgiva opened her eyes to stare, unseeing, toward the front of the church. Was that what her father hoped—to catch the queen in a traitorous act with the king’s son? She tried to puzzle it out, but the messenger’s hand had moved from her breast, inching ever downward in a slow, desultory caress until she could not focus on anything but the sensations his fingers evoked. She reached inside her cloak and pulled his hand back up to her breast.

  “I cannot tell,” she said smoothly, “what message the queen will send the ætheling. Tomorrow she will journey to the estate of Lord Egwin for two nights.”

  “Who will attend her?” He nipped at the tender spot beneath her ear, then lifted the hem of her cloak and slipped a hand beneath it to press her feverishly against the hard root of him.

  “All of her attendants will go, and a large armed force from the fortress is to serve as escort,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice even. Beneath her cloak both of his hands stroked her now, one at her breast while the other moved insistently between her legs. She would have fallen to her knees like some pilgrim if he had not held her close against him. She shuddered in his arms, and her moans joined the plaintive cries of the faithful.

  “So she travels with far more than a few trusted men.”

  She caught her breath and, languid with pleasure, forced herself to focus on what he had said.

  “Her reeve insists upon it,” she said, shaking her head a little to clear it. Why was he so concerned with the number of men guarding Emma?

  “If you learn that she will venture outside the city walls with only a small guard . . .” Both his hands fondled her breasts, thumbs massaging ever so gently. “. . . you must send me word immediately. You cannot wait for even one hour.”

  A tiny shiver, this time of fear, coursed through her limbs. “Did you relay my words of warning to my father?” she asked. “Did you tell him to be wary of plotting against the queen?”

  He kissed the back of her neck, but his touch no longer distracted her, and now she waited impatiently for his reply.

  “I relayed your message, lady. Your father bids you to do all that he commands and to trust in his judgment. Whenever the queen leaves the city, send word to the inn on the Ceap, just below the fortress gate. Look for me there day or night, whether you have news to give me,” he nipped her ear gently, “or something else.”

  He caressed her backside once, set her firmly on her own two feet, and slipped away. Elgiva bowed her head over her clasped hands. Her father’s assurances gave her little comfort and his commands annoyed her. Still, her interview with his thegn, Alric, had certainly been worth the wait.

  Ealdorman Ælfric’s company spent a week at Athelstan’s estate at Norton. When they returned to Exeter, Emma wasted little time in drawing Wymarc aside. Together they walked along the ramparts, where Emma could be certain that no one would overhear them.

  “Lord Athelstan bid me say that he will not return to Winchester,” Wymarc said. “He wishes to come here where he can be of service to you. I am to tell you that he cares not what his father may think, or believe, or command.”

  “But he must care!” Emma protested. “It is perilous to ignore the king’s commands.” Or his suspicions. Sweet Virgin, she was afraid for Athelstan, afraid of where the mounting tension between father and son might lead.

  “He cares only about the Danish threat,” Wymarc went on, “and he fears for your safety. He would have his own men, under his command, set in place here to strengthen the numbers of your guard.” Wymarc frowned at Emma. “Perhaps he is right.”

  Emma shook her head. She feared the Danes as well, but Athelstan had already arranged for the repair of the city walls and set in place rigorous training sessions for the men who guarded the fortress. What more could he do here?

  No, it was Athelstan who would be in danger if his father’s suspicious mind should turn him against his son.

  “How did you leave it with him?” she asked Wymarc.

  “He bid me tell you that if you desire him to return to Winchester, then you must return there as well. He will return here within a sennight to consult with you.”

  That news made her want to weep. She longed to see Athelstan, a yearning that drove her to her knees daily to beg God for pardon. And for that very reason she could not allow him near her.

  “He will be wasting his time,” she said, “for I shall not see him.”

  She may not be able to prevent a conflict between Æthelred and his son, but she would not be the
spark that lit that fire.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  July 1003

  Exeter, Devonshire

  In mid-July, Exeter held its summer fair, and one morning Elgiva made her way through the maze of booths set up along Ceap Street. Accompanied by Groa and one of the fortress guards, she quickly skirted the stockyard and the pens where the bear baiting and cockfights were held, and ambled among the stalls that offered locally made caps and ribbons as well as furs from Norway and leather goods from Spain. Many of the merchants, she noticed with disgust, displayed poppets made in the likeness of the queen.

  Emma’s popularity in Exeter seemed to increase daily. The ecclesiastics thought she walked on water because she had donated a magnificent silver cross to the minster. The townsfolk loved her because her guards tossed silver pennies to the crowds whenever Emma ventured beyond the fortress walls.

  Elgiva hoped that her warnings to her father, which she repeated whenever she met with the delightfully nimble-handed Alric, had convinced him to give up whatever he might be planning. She feared what might result should her father make some move against the queen.

  As she considered the purchase of an amber necklace, Elgiva glanced up to see Alric standing in the shadow of the South Gate, deep in conversation with two men. One of them, a thickset fellow with lank blond hair that hung about a face twisted in an unpleasant scowl, was someone she did not recognize. But the other man, hooded and caped in black, turned suddenly, and she realized with a shock that it was her brother Wulf.

  Instinctively she moved toward the group, but they swiftly disappeared into the shadows of the gateway. What, she wondered, was her brother doing in Exeter? Why had he not sought her out? Surely he was here at her father’s command, but to do what? And who was his disreputable-looking companion?

  There were too many riddles, and she did not like riddles. Wulf must be part of her father’s plan, whatever it was. When next she saw Alric she would demand to see her brother, and she would insist that Wulf tell her what her father was intending to do.

  Emma stood in the doorway of the tiny wooden structure that served as the fortress chapel. In this quiet spot the clamor of life in the burh faded away, and she always found solace within its walls. As usual, her eyes were drawn to the sanctuary lamp that hung from a chain beside the altar, its flame aglow, like a star come to earth. As she grew accustomed to the dim light, though, she made out a slight form kneeling beneath the lamp, head bowed in prayer.

  Hilde again. Emma had found the child here often since her grandfather Ælfric had left Exeter to return north. Emma felt sorry for the girl, certain that she was mourning the father whom she had so lately discovered—the father who, according to Ælfric, had no wish to see his child.

  Emma placed a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. Hilde immediately sprang to her feet. Then, seeing who it was, she dropped back to one knee.

  “My lady,” she whispered.

  Mindful of the promise that she had made to Ælfric at Middleton Abbey, Emma said, “Burdens become lighter if they are shared, Hilde. If you wish to talk to me, I will listen.”

  The girl did not reply, but a single tear coursed down the side of her nose, and she wiped at it with her fingertips.

  “Come,” Emma said, taking her hand. “Let us sit together for a while.”

  She drew her to a squat, wooden bench, and together they sat down, hand in hand, eyes drawn to the comforting light of the altar lamp. They sat in silence, for Hilde seemed unable to speak. At last Emma said, “If I were a girl whose father had forbidden me to see him, I think that I would be torn between grief and anger.”

  It was a gentle prodding, but it seemed to loosen the girl’s tongue.

  “He wants no part of me,” Hilde said in a small, tight voice. “He is my father, my own blood, but he does not want to see me. He hates me, and I do not know why.”

  “Oh, Hilde,” Emma said with a sigh, putting an arm around the thin shoulders. “He does not hate you. But you are part of a world that he left behind many years ago. Mayhap he believes that it is better for both of you that your worlds remain separate.”

  “It is not better for me,” Hilde said, her voice breaking with her effort not to weep. “It is a punishment, but I have committed no crime.”

  “No, of course you have not,” Emma soothed. But Hilde’s father had committed a very great crime. The child was too naïve to recognize that Ælfgar, even in his blinded, lowly state, could be considered a threat to the king. The man had been condemned a traitor, and as such he cast a long shadow. Anyone who contacted him, even now, would be suspect.

  In forbidding his daughter to visit him, Ælfgar was doing what little he could to protect her.

  “Your father is but thinking of your future, Hilde,” she said to the girl. “Because of his past actions, your kinship to him cannot help you, and may even harm you. I suspect he has forbidden you to see him because he sees it as his duty.”

  “But is it not my duty to visit a father who is ill and imprisoned? Is that not what God commands us? To honor thy father? To visit the sick?”

  The face that looked up at Emma was filled with misery. Emma knew that she ought to respond with calm logic, to explain to Hilde that it was not God’s will at issue here but the will of the king. She doubted that Hilde would respond to logic, though, and Emma could scarcely blame her for that. The girl was within a few hours’ ride of a father she longed to meet, yet she had been ordered to keep her distance.

  Even to Emma it seemed unfair. Hilde was but twelve summers old, still a child, really. What harm could it do to allow her to spend an hour with her father? And if it was managed with care, who would know?

  A plan began to take shape in her mind, and she smiled down at Hilde.

  “One day soon,” she said, “I think that I shall go riding toward Torverton and Magdalene Abbey. You and several others shall come with me. Perhaps even Margot will want to come, for the abbey, I think, is known for its leechcraft. Once we are there, well, I cannot promise that we can convince your father to speak with you. But we can try.”

  Hilde looked up with a face that glowed as brightly as the flame burning beside the altar.

  “Oh my lady, truly?”

  “Yes, but listen to me now. This is to be our secret. I will mention it to Hugh tonight, but you must act as if you know nothing about it. Can you do that?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Good. Now get you to the hall. They will be setting up the tables soon, and you will be missed.”

  Alone in the chapel, Emma pondered what she knew about Hilde’s father. He was a man who had betrayed his own father and turned against his king. When forced to choose between Æthelred of England and Swein of Denmark for his lord, he had chosen Swein. Why? What had driven a man of honor to make that choice?

  She thought that it might be worth her while to discover the answer to that question. Hilde was not the only one who might benefit from this visit to Magdalene Abbey.

  That evening Elgiva listened with half an ear to Hugh’s tedious, nightly recitation of Emma’s schedule of visitors for the following day. It was only when Emma raised an objection that Elgiva paid closer attention.

  “I wish a day of respite, Hugh,” Emma said. “I have listened to the complaints and entreaties of so many lords in the last month that my head is crammed with them.” Hugh began to object, but she raised a hand to silence him. “No, I will not be denied this. I require one day outside the city with only my ladies and a few guards to attend me. It need not be tomorrow or even this week, but it must be soon, and you must arrange it. So look to your schedule and tell me when it is to be.”

  Hugh named a day a week hence, and Emma nodded, satisfied.

  Elgiva bit her lip. This was what her father’s man had been waiting for weeks to hear.

  Do not wait even
a single hour, Alric had cautioned her. Yet she could not simply stroll out of the fortress, particularly at night, without being stopped and questioned. She might be able to bribe one of the porters to let her out of the hall, but then she would have to cross the grounds, where a hundred or more men were quartered in tents with guards posted all around. She would never even make it to the gates.

  No. It would be fruitless to attempt it now. She would have to wait until the morning.

  Long before first light, while the queen and her other attendants yet slept, Elgiva rose from the bed that she shared with Groa. Shivering in the chill darkness, she pulled on an old gray kirtle and a shawl, fastened Groa’s headrail clumsily over her braided curls, snatched up the knife she used at table, and silently slipped from the queen’s bedchamber.

  Averting her face from the Norman guard, she mumbled a Frankish greeting to him—one of the few phrases that she knew. In the hall the servants were already scurrying about, setting the tables and benches in place for the day’s first meal. Elgiva snatched a ewer from the high table. If anyone asked, she was drawing ale for the queen. But as she scurried down the steps of the great hall, no one paid her any attention.

  At the foot of the stairs she set the ewer behind some wooden casks, then made her way along the edge of the narrow inner yard. Her route took her behind the clay ovens, already giving off a pleasant warmth and glow in the darkness, as the kitchen slaves fed kindling into their mouths. She passed the cook fires heating kettles filled with water for the queen’s morning ablutions, rounded the dovecote, and arrived at the gate that opened into the burh’s outer grounds.

  She stopped there, acutely aware that she would be out of place should anyone spy her in this bastion of armed men. But she decided that the predawn darkness, lit by only campfires and torches, would hide her if she moved quickly. Keeping her eyes down, she walked purposefully along the path that ran beside the fortress’s outer walls, avoiding the soldiers’ tents, stepping aside for men bearing buckets of water or loads of wood, and holding her breath as she passed the pits where a line of men stood pissing and genially cursing the cold and each other. No one spoke to her or even gave her a second glance. At the gatehouse she stepped up to the burly guard posted there.