(2013) Shadow on the Crown

by Patricia Bracewell

  A wild shout from outside that was taken up by other voices and repeated over and over drew her quickly to the window, her heart in her throat for fear that she would see her brother in chains. Instead she saw men in the yard below dashing toward the fortress gates, pulling on helmets as they ran. Their mail glinting in the bright sun, they struggled to make their way out of the stronghold through waves of panicked citizens, who were trying just as desperately to get in. Some of the townsmen carried swords. Women were burdened with children and bundles.

  In the great hall someone began to scream so piercingly that Elgiva’s flesh puckered. Other screams joined the first, one after another, like geese sounding an alarm at the sight of a predator, and she placed her hands over her ears to block out the noise. Groa had risen and stood with her now at the open shutter, the scarlet silk forgotten as it fluttered to the floor.

  On a distant hill a warning beacon sent smoke upward in a straight column through the still, blue air. From this vantage Elgiva could not see the city walls or the river, but there was no need. Only one thing could cause this kind of panic.

  The Danes had come at last, and Exeter was under attack. Whatever her father’s plans might have been, they were in ruins now.

  She thought of Emma, safe outside the city with her Norman reeve. Hugh would see the beacons and guide the queen to some place of refuge, while she, who had thought to escape this wretched city today, was as likely as not to die here within its bloodred walls.

  Æthelmær’s Manor, near Exeter, Devonshire

  Athelstan sat at table in the great hall of his father’s thegn Æthelmær. He had come to this gathering of nobles of the western shires with some reluctance. Æthelmær, though, had been adamant that he meet with these men, insisting that as the heir to the throne and to numerous royal lands in the counties of Devon and Somerset, it would be to Athelstan’s advantage to foster ties to the men who would one day serve him.

  “The king concerns himself with affairs in Winchester and London,” Æthelmær had said, “yet he is king of Exeter and Totnes, of Lydford and Dorchester as well. To have some commerce with the eldest ætheling can only solidify support for the throne.”

  And so two days ago he had journeyed here, to this pleasant manor an hour’s ride north of his own extensive lands at Norton, and with every passing moment he became more ill at ease. It was not just that he disliked being at such a distance from Exeter while the danger from Danish raiders was still so high, although that was unsettling enough. But there was an undercurrent of dissatisfaction among these men and at the same time an effusive deference toward him that he found discomfiting.

  The final, midday feast of the gathering had been consumed, and the men at the tables were drowsy with food and drink. The scop had taken his place in the center of the room and had begun to sing a tale that each of the listeners, Athelstan guessed, knew well. It was an old saga rarely recited in its entirety at one sitting. Today the scop began not at the beginning of the tale but at the description of an aging, joyless king who waged war against a mortal enemy. Then, clearly with some plan in mind, the singer slowed his rhythm and skipped ahead to the lines that introduced the brave hero of the tale. With a throbbing intensity he sang of the men who urged the young warrior to lend his aid to the ineffective king. And as the scop recited the verses that told of Beowulf’s determination to assume control of the battle against the monstrous foe, Athelstan felt the force of a dozen pairs of eyes trained upon him.

  Not a word had been spoken about his father’s inability to protect the land from the ravages of the Northmen, or of the crippling taxes that the men at Æthelmær’s table paid in geld to buy off the Viking raiders. Nevertheless, here in this hall he was surrounded by the most powerful of the nobles in the southwest, and this particular section from the old poem was a thinly disguised entreaty that he assert his authority against an aging father.

  Point taken, Athelstan thought. And if he should act upon this appeal and challenge his father for the throne, would these same men support his claim against a father and king who would cling to his crown with all the sinewy strength of the fabled monster? Would they have the courage to follow the son, in spite of the oaths they had made to his father?

  A stir at the bottom of the hall drew his attention, and he saw one of Æthelmær’s retainers sprinting toward the dais.

  “The beacons have been lit, my lords,” he cried, even before he reached the high table, “coming from Exeter.”

  It was as if he had thrown a fireball into their midst. The hall came suddenly alive with chaotic movement and sound as men overturned benches and shouted for servants or bellowed for their mounts. Athelstan, who had eaten little and drunk even less, thrust his way through dozens of reeling men. With his own cohort at his heels he ran to the stable to find that their horses had already been saddled and bridled. Within a matter of minutes they were riding toward Norton where, he planned, he would gather the rest of his men and ride to join in the defense of Exeter. And as he rode he whispered a fervent prayer that Hugh had already sent Emma north and far out of harm’s way.

  Near Magdalene Abbey, Devonshire

  Emma glared at the man who faced her from astride one of England’s sturdy, native horses. Garbed in a tunic of finely woven scarlet linen, his deep brown cloak trimmed with martin fur and clasped at the shoulder by a silver brooch, her captor could pass easily for a well-to-do English thegn if one did not know that thin face. She knew it, and she knew, too, the thick white fall of hair and the pure white beard, forked and braided.

  Did he recognize her? Had she stumbled somehow into a Danish force making its way inland and scouring the byways for mounts and treasure? She tried to steady her breathing, to still her trembling hands, even as she fingered the thin silver knife at her belt.

  “Tell the queen,” Swein Forkbeard ordered in Danish, “that she will not be harmed.”

  So he knew her, and this meeting was no accident. She schooled her face to blankness as the rider in the green cloak, who came from behind her to tear her reins from her hands and to snatch away the slender knife at her belt, spoke to her in the Frankish tongue, repeating Swein’s assurance of her safety.

  This was a planned attack then, and one carried out with ruthless efficiency. That they apparently had no awareness of her knowledge of Danish was to her advantage though, however small an advantage it might be. She kept her eyes focused on Swein, but she spoke in Frankish to his lackey.

  “My brother once showed you great courtesy, Swein Forkbeard, in his bannered hall at Fécamp,” she said. “I demand that you release me for love of my brother Richard. I am not your enemy.”

  Swein listened to the translation, and then replied, “Nay, my lady, you are no enemy. But you are, nevertheless, a very great prize. We shall see how much your king will pay to redeem you. Speaking for myself, I would give at least half my kingdom for the safe return of a bride such as you.”

  He smiled at her, waiting to see if she would respond to his courtesy. Emma listened to the translation but gave no reply. Would he be so bold as to demand half a kingdom as her ransom? And, indeed, if he were to do so, what would Æthelred’s answer be?

  She had little time to ponder the question. Swein himself snatched her reins and led her horse back toward the spot where her Norman guard had first been attacked. Another rider took his place close upon her left side, and she realized that he was no man but a tall, skinny boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. His mane of red hair had been tied back with a thong, exposing a high, broad forehead above enormous eyes that were the same dark hue as Forkbeard’s. They met her own, appraising her with a solemn gravity that made her question her own assessment of his youth. She recalled how Swein had bragged to her brother about his sons. This, then, must be one of them. Apprentice murderer and brigand. His father would teach him, firsthand, the thrill of savagery. Or perhaps he already knew it. Like
ly this one had been riding the deck of a longship since first he learned to walk. No wonder he had already acquired an aura of experience and command.

  They rounded the curve of the lane and Emma’s gorge rose as the metallic reek of blood struck her like a wave. Knowing that a greater horror was coming, she steeled herself against it. She could not afford to show a woman’s weakness before these men. As they drew nearer to the place where the trees shaded the lane, she clenched her jaw tight to keep from crying out.

  The men of her hearth troop—six Normans who had sailed with her across the Narrow Sea—had been butchered like cattle. Stripped of their armor and weapons, their bodies, bathed in gore, had been thrown into the bed of the cart.

  Hugh, she saw with a mixture of relief and apprehension, still lived. What fate worse than death, she wondered, awaited him? He sat on the verge of the lane, the right side of his body drenched in blood, his hands trussed in front of him. One of the Danes knelt beside him, staunching a wound on Hugh’s sword arm and wrapping it with a strip of linen.

  “Don’t want you to bleed to death before you get us into the fortress,” she heard him grunt in Danish. The other men, busily garbing themselves in the byrnies and helms of her Norman guard, gave a shout of appreciative laughter.

  She saw Hugh’s gaze focus first on her and then on Swein, and she did not miss her reeve’s sudden jolt of recognition. Yes, he would know Swein. Hugh had been at Fécamp when the Danish king had descended upon them that Christmas. Hugh’s eyes slid to hers again, but she looked away. She could not bear to see the fury and the frustration in his face. This was her fault, for insisting on leaving the fortress with such a small guard. Her fault, but all of them would have to pay the price.

  She wanted to search the hill for signs of Wymarc and Margot, but she did not dare. She prayed that they were safely hidden, and that they would stay that way. She did not like to think what Swein, who was out to avenge the brutality visited upon his sister and her family, would do to them if they fell into his grasp.

  “How many losses?” Swein demanded.

  “One, sire. Sigurd. He died well.”

  “He would have done better to live. We need every man. Leave the wain behind,” Swein ordered, “and make haste to Exeter. The ships will already have been sighted, I’ll warrant, and the beacons lit.” He nodded toward Hugh. “Can he ride?”

  “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Halfdan! Help me get this piece of carrion on to his horse.”

  Once Hugh was mounted, Swein drew up beside him so that the two men faced each other.

  “There is a hidden entrance into the fortress at Exeter,” Swein said, while the man cloaked in green translated his words into Frankish. “You will lead these men into the city through that secret gate.”

  Emma kept her face passive, but her mind worked feverishly. So that was why they had spared Hugh. Exeter fortress—so well fortified, so painstakingly prepared by Hugh and Athelstan to withstand any assault by the Danes—might be taken with relative ease if even a small band of men made it inside and managed to open the gates to the larger force without the walls. Swein must have had spies in Exeter who had ferreted out the secret of la posterle.

  Hugh said, “The passage you speak of is locked from within.”

  “Locks can be broken,” Swein said, grinning. “Sometimes your God even works a miracle. Perhaps you will witness one.” His smile disappeared. “Now, you will obey every order that these men give you. If I learn that you betrayed them by word, by deed, or by even the briefest glance, your queen, although she will live to be ransomed, will not remain untouched. Do you understand?”

  Hugh’s mouth, bruised and bloody, twisted into a sneer. “Not even Swein Forkbeard would be mad enough to harm Æthelred’s queen and Duke Richard’s sister,” he said, his voice ringing with scorn. “There would be nowhere in Christendom for you to hide from their revenge.”

  “Harm her?” Swein smiled again, this time a taunting leer. “Nay, I would do her no harm. But we might have some sport together, she and I. Do you not think that it would be a great joke if Æthelred were to ransom his wife only to discover that her womb was quick with my child?”

  Emma felt the bile rise again in her throat, while Hugh responded by spewing a torrent of Norman curses at Swein.

  “I am already lost!” she shouted to Hugh in the Breton that she prayed only he would comprehend. “Do not aid . . .”

  Swein turned with lightning speed and cuffed her so hard across the face that her ears rang. Hugh, even bound as he was, lunged his mount at Swein, but two men dragged him off his horse, raining blows upon him until he was subdued. Emma watched it in shock and rage, only dimly aware of the taste of blood in her mouth.

  “Halfdan,” Forkbeard barked, “you and the boy will ride with me to Otter Mouth to take ship. The rest of you know what to do. Gisli, if the Norman survives these next few hours, bring him with you to the ships. We may have further use for him.”

  Then he was leading Emma past the wain with its grisly cargo. The boy and one other followed in their wake.

  Her mind a blinding thicket of terror, anger, and dread, Emma strove to grope past the burning pain of it, to calm herself into stillness and rational thought. She knew where she was being taken—to Otter Mouth, he had said, where a ship would pick them up. The River Otter lay to the east, between here and the River Sid. She remembered crossing it on her journey to Exeter. It would likely take them many hours to reach the river’s mouth.

  Somehow she had to escape before they reached the waiting ship. She could rely on no one but herself, for help was unlikely. Even if by some miracle Hugh could slip away from his captors, he had little chance of organizing a rescue. Unless, she told herself, the garrison at Exeter defeated the Danes and somehow managed to burn all the ships. But such a feat was unlikely, and if even one ship escaped, it would make for Otter Mouth and Swein.

  No, there would be no rescue.

  Swein set them an even, steady pace. As they rode, Emma cast an appraising eye on her captors’ mounts. Sturdy and well able to carry heavy loads, they would be neither as fast nor as well trained as Ange. She would have an advantage there if it came to a horse race. At the moment, as she rode between Swein and his son, her fingers clutching her reins while Swein kept a firm grip on the lead rope he’d tied to her bridle, she had little opportunity to make a dash for freedom. Nevertheless, they had a long way to go before they reached the coast. All she needed was a moment of inattention, a loosening of his grip.

  And if she could not escape, then she would find a use for the knife, Athelstan’s gift, that was wedged firmly into her boot.

  She whispered three prayers to the Virgin—one for herself, one for the folk of Exeter, and one for all of England. But she kept her eyes open and her head up, looking for an opportunity to bolt.

  A.D. 1003 This year was Exeter demolished, through the French churl Hugh, whom the Lady had appointed her steward there. And the army destroyed the town withal, and took there much spoil.

  —The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

  Chapter Twenty-five

  August 1003

  Exeter, Devonshire

  Elgiva felt her panic rising as she watched the terrified citizens of Exeter crowd into the fortress. They had been through this before, so they knew only too well what lay ahead if Exeter’s defenses failed: pillage, rape, murder.

  She flung herself away from the window. “I have to get away!” she cried to Groa. “I will not stay here to be raped and slaughtered by some brute of a Dane.”

  “Nay, my lady,” Groa said, “I would kill you myself before I would let that happen.”

  Elgiva stared at her in horror. Groa’s eyes burned like coals in her withered face, and Elgiva believed that the old woman would actually murder her if it came to that. She took no comfort in the knowledge.

  Behind her
the chamber door banged open, and she screamed. But it was Wulf who strode quickly into the room.

  “There is no time to lose,” he said, grabbing Elgiva by the arm and urging her toward the door. “Come. There are men and horses waiting for us outside the city.”

  “How are we to get through that mob in the yard?” Elgiva demanded, as Groa wrapped a cloak about her.

  “We cannot. There is another way out of the fortress. Be quick!”

  “Wait!” Elgiva snatched up the small casket that held her jewelry before Wulf herded her out the door with Groa close on their heels. Wulf led them into the great hall, clearing a way through the dense tide of women and children seeking shelter. The poor wretches, Elgiva thought, were looking for some corner where they could hide. This would be their last refuge from the Danes, this bastion perched atop the massive red mound that overlooked the city.

  Even as she followed Wulf’s lurching progress around knots of frightened townsfolk, and past mail-clad men who were trying to organize order out of the chaos, Elgiva shuddered. She could not have stayed here, her back against a wall while Vikings launched themselves against the city below. There would be no way to even gauge the course of the battle except by the sounds of fighting, and if the tide should turn against the defenders, there would be no escape. Death would come rolling into the hall with the sickening inevitability of a massive wave from the sea.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Wulf turned sharply through one of the three broad archways of the undercroft, and then he stopped. Although it was dim within the cavernous space, there was enough light to see that the storeroom was filled to overflowing.

  Over the past weeks the landholders all around Exeter had paid their farm rents to the queen. Elgiva could make out a pen where a dozen sheep had retreated, cowering, to a far corner. They shuddered and bleated in pitiful alarm—not unlike the terrified women upstairs, she thought. Directly in front of her, stacked end on end almost to the ceiling beams, stood casks of all sizes that likely held wine, salt, honey, or hard cheese. Nearby lay piles of sacks filled, she guessed, with wheat and barley. Next to them she could see ropes made of oiled leather, carefully coiled and neatly piled, and next to them bales of wool rising nearly to the rafters. In front of the wool a score of boxes held beeswax candles as long as her arm, and twice as thick.