“Where are we to go now?” she asked.
“There is a passage through the northern wall,” Wulf said. “It is here, somewhere in this storeroom.”
He darted forward, but Elgiva did not move. The reek of sheep dung and wool assailed her nose and her eyes. She watched as Wulf wedged himself between the casks and the stacks of grain, stamping his feet on the wooden planking of the floor as he went.
“It has to be underneath us,” he said.
“But it could be anywhere,” Elgiva protested. Groa was making her way among the boxes of candles, grunting as she heaved them aside to peer at the floor. “What if it is beneath the casks or buried under the bales of wool? There is no time to move all of that.” Shouts and screams continued to shatter the air, and she set the jewel casket on a box so that she could put her hands over her ears to block out the sounds of panic.
“Emma’s reeve is no fool,” Wulf said, coming to stand next to her and turning with a frown to survey the vast chamber. “The door will be hidden but not inaccessible.”
Elgiva followed his gaze to where the sheep cowered and bleated.
“The sheep?” she asked, incredulous.
“The sheep,” he replied, with a curt nod. He glanced around and snatched up an empty sack that lay in a corner by the archway. Then he vaulted over the low wattle fence that hemmed in the flock, terrifying the already panicked sheep and scattering them. Their temporary paddock had been thickly strewn with straw, and as Wulf walked along the back wall of their enclosure, he swept the filthy stuff away with his boot. But there was no sign of an entrance to a passage.
Undeterred, he started along the west wall. After a few steps he crouched and used the sacking to clear a space in front of him, revealing a large iron ring. Half standing, he pulled at the ring, and a segment of the wooden floor rose.
It was made of thick oak, far too heavy for one man to lift alone. Elgiva, following Groa’s lead, scrambled over the fencing and into the paddock as Wulf uncovered a second iron ring. Together, straining, they managed to lift the flooring away.
In front of them, a flight of stairs led downward into darkness.
Elgiva stared into the hole and froze. The old terror of small, dark spaces clawed at her like some feral beast. She could not go down there. If she went into that black maw, the earth would swallow her, and she would never come out again. She would be trapped inside the belly of the mountain, unable to breathe, unable to see. She would die there, clawing at rock walls, gasping for air. It would be better to die at the hands of a Dane.
Wulf had darted out of the storeroom, and now he returned holding a torch. Groa had retrieved the jewel casket, and she held it out toward Elgiva.
“No,” Elgiva said, shaking her head and pushing the casket away. “I am not going down there. There is no need. The raiders will be stopped. They will not come inside the city gates. Wulf, you will protect me, and we will all be safe.”
But her brother grabbed her arm, holding it like a vise until she squirmed with the pain of it.
“I will not be here to protect you, Elgiva,” he hissed, his face close to hers. “I am leaving, as our father ordered. Like it or not, you are coming with me.”
Elgiva tried to back away from the yawning darkness at her feet, but Wulf held her firmly.
“Groa!” he barked. “Help me. We have to move!”
Elgiva felt Groa pushing her from behind, while in front of her, still grasping her wrist, Wulf took the first two steps down into the darkness.
“I am afraid,” she wailed, trying to free her hand from her brother’s grip.
“Breathe, my lady,” Groa whispered in her ear. “You must take slow, deep breaths. Sit down on the top stair and let your brother guide you down into the passage. I will be right behind you. Nothing will harm you, I promise.”
Still she resisted, staring at the narrow black hole and the walls that appeared to lean inward, while her brother tugged at her wrist.
“Elgiva,” her brother said, his voice fierce. “Move now or I will take Groa and leave you behind!”
Groa placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “You must watch the torch, my love. Look at the light and nothing else.”
Trembling and nauseated, she crouched and managed to sit down on the top step. She had to cover her mouth with her hand and work hard to swallow back the bile. Then she turned and grasped Groa’s skirt.
“You won’t pull the boards over the entrance behind you?” she asked Groa. “We can come back?”
“I cannot shut it, my lady,” Groa assured her, “it is far too heavy. But there will be no need to come back, my love. There is daylight below, I promise. Look at the light, and follow your brother. There’s a good girl.”
Wulf yanked her arm again, pulling her down into the darkness. She tried to take a deep breath, as if she were going underwater, but her lungs refused to fill. Then she was into the passage, and she nearly gagged on the stench of mold and rot. With her free hand she groped the rough, slimy wall, trying to slow her plunge into the dark. Shying and halting, she pulled against her brother’s grip, barely holding her panic at bay as he drew her inexorably down slippery, uneven stairs.
Wulf cursed her, urging her to go faster, while Groa’s voice floated down from behind her like a constant waterfall, encouraging and coaxing her. But as she descended, resisting every step, the sound of their voices faded while the roar of her terror grew and echoed in her ears.
She tried to do as Groa bid her, to watch the torchlight. But its brightness in the dark hurt her eyes, and so she closed them against the pitiless glare. Then she saw a different space, smaller even than this endless tunnel, and darker, and she was a child again, on her back, unable to move or even to breathe. She could not bear it, and she opened her eyes to escape, and she was back in the tunnel, where Wulf was a shadow against the torch’s flame.
The walls twisted to the left, and she could sense them moving, sliding closer together. She could hear the rock breathing, alive and malignant. It would not let them escape now that it had them in its throat. Why could the others not see it?
She could not catch even the smallest breath, and panic bloomed in her breast. She had to go back, to crawl if she must, but she had to get out into the open. Gasping, she wrenched herself free from Wulf’s grip and scraped both hands against the wall, trying to turn around. Her foot slipped, and she fell sideways against him. There was a clatter, the walls trembled, and then with a hiss the world went black. The scream that had been building in her throat tore loose, and she screamed and screamed until a hand slapped her into silence.
“You little fool!” Wulf’s voice was as hard as the stone of the walls. “I swear I will leave you here if you do not shut up and keep moving.”
He clasped her wrist again and once more dragged her relentlessly downward. She was blind now, and whimpering, helpless against both her brother and her fear. The darkness, like the rock, was a living thing, its wings beating at her like a host of devils.
She was going to die here, and she did not want to die. She began to wail, and Wulf jerked her arm.
“Shut up!” His voice was a snarl, and again she was struck in the face, and then pushed so that her knees crumpled beneath her, and she slid down the wall. She crouched on the step, sobbing, cowering with terror. She heard her brother cursing and a sound like mice scrabbling, and she began to scream again. The rock was bearing down on her from above, trying to crush her, to grind her beneath it. She lifted her face, and the darkness drew the breath from her body like a succubus, its black mouth shaping itself implacably against hers. She tried to fight it, but it was too strong. Like a silent wave it engulfed her, and beyond that there was nothing.
Norton Manor, Devonshire
When Athelstan led his men into the manor courtyard he called for fresh mounts and news.
“My lord,” said the groom who took his horse, “one of the queen’s ladies rode in only moments ago, asking for you. She was in a terrible state, and they’ve taken her up to the hall.”
Athelstan ran, fearing he knew not what. He had not yet reached the hall when he saw Wymarc hurrying to meet him. Her muddied gown and tangled hair spoke of hard riding, while the terror in her face hinted at something much worse. In a moment he had reached her, and he clutched her shoulders to steady her. She was trembling violently, and tears streaked through the dirt on her face.
“What has happened?” he demanded. “Are you hurt?”
“Not hurt,” she said hoarsely. “Please, my lord, I must speak to you alone.”
Her agitation infected him. He drew her away from the furtive glances of his retainers in the forecourt, busy with preparations for departure.
“The queen?” he asked, steeling himself for the reply. Emma must be dead. Wymarc would never have left her side otherwise. It came to him not as a thought but as a shadow, black as the mouth of hell, that darkened the whole world.
“They took her. I don’t know how many. It was a trap, and we could not help her. He wants half the kingdom.” Her voice rose as each phrase tumbled incoherently on top of the last in her urgency, and she began to cry. “You must get her back, my lord, quickly. He threatened to rape her. You must go now. No one else can help her. There is no time.”
Athelstan shook her. “Who has taken the queen?”
She looked at him, mouth agape in confusion and terror.
“Forkbeard.”
He stared at her in stunned disbelief. Not dead then, but at the mercy of a vengeful Forkbeard. The shadow that had fallen over him deepened.
He questioned her closely, aware of the passing of every precious minute. He called to a servant to fetch the monk who had accompanied her, and between them they told him what they had heard as they lay hidden in a tangle of shrubbery that lined the narrow defile where the Danes had attacked Emma’s guards.
“You are sure that you heard him say the River Otter?” he asked Brother Redwald.
“I cannot be sure that he meant the river,” the little monk said in dismay, “for he was speaking in the Northman’s tongue. But I heard the word otter, or what sounded to me like otter.”
Athelstan considered it. There was no question that Forkbeard would make for the sea, for it was his only escape route. He would likely have a ship waiting for him somewhere along the shore. The Otter Mouth was a likely choice. The bank of red cliffs that faced the sea there would be a familiar landmark to any shipman with a passing knowledge of the southern coast. And the shallow caves that dimpled the landward face of the high, narrow spit that bordered the Otter’s eastern bank offered shelter and protection to anyone who might wish to escape the notice of folk living nearby.
And if Brother Redwald had misheard?
Then he would search for them in the wrong place, and Emma would be lost. She would be lost in any case if he did not get to her in time. He may already be too late, but he had to make the attempt.
“How many men?” he asked.
“Forkbeard and two others,” the priest said. “All the rest went to Exeter.”
Yes, that felt right. It would take few men to guard the queen if one assumed that no rescue would be attempted. Swein might have a surprise in store for him if he underestimated Emma, though. Jesu, he hoped she would not do anything that would bring her to even greater harm.
He gave orders swiftly, and his men responded as they had been trained to do, with efficiency, silence, and speed.
He turned to Wymarc who stood braced against the wall, huddled in her cloak, her face in her hands, a picture of despair.
“You will stay here until you receive word from me. Tell no one what has happened.”
Within minutes he had sent a force of twenty men riding hard toward the besieged city and ordered a culver sent to the king with word of the attack on Exeter. He kept six men behind to protect the manor and the folk who had sought refuge there when the beacons were spotted. Then he mounted his horse, and with three close companions he rode like the wind for the mouth of the River Otter.
Exeter, Devonshire
Elgiva opened her eyes to find Groa peering down at her. The light was dim, but she could just make out, above Groa’s head, roof beams and smoke-stained thatch. She lay on a filthy wooden floor with her head pillowed in Groa’s lap. The mountain had not collapsed upon them, then. They had managed to escape from the tunnel that she had been certain would be their grave.
“What is this place?” she asked. There was a vague roaring in her ears, and she felt giddy. She could see little, for the room they were in had no window openings and no source of light other than what leaked in through the eaves of the roof.
“It is a storeroom next to the sword maker’s forge outside the city walls,” Groa said. “A hidden door there,” she pointed to one wall, “leads to the tunnel.”
Elgiva sat up. The world seemed to spin for a few moments, and she had to close her eyes and pull in several deep breaths, but then her head cleared somewhat. She twisted around, looking for the hidden door, but the wall of fitted planks was so well made and the lighting so poor that she could not make it out. The room held numerous wooden boxes filled with ingots of iron, bales of wire, and assorted implements that she could not name.
“Where is my brother?” she asked.
“He has gone outside to see if the way is clear. Drink this.”
Groa placed a dripping cup in her hands. She took a few sips of the water, not at all certain that, sick and dizzy as she was, it wouldn’t rise back up again. But she felt better afterward. A moment later the outer door opened and Wulf slipped in. She realized suddenly that the roaring in her ears, like the steady rush of ocean waves, was the distant shout and clamor of men.
“They are ransacking and burning the houses that lie outside the city walls,” her brother said. “It will not be long before they make their way here. We have no time to lose.”
He pulled Elgiva to her feet and picked up the jewel casket and thrust it into her hands. Then he led her toward the door and out into the light of late afternoon. She blinked at the brightness of it, and then Wulf was pulling her after him, running along a track that wound through the little settlement outside Exeter’s northern wall. Groa followed behind.
Elgiva thought it strange to see cottage after cottage deserted and silent, as if this were a place inhabited by ghosts. Everyone must have fled to the shelter of the city walls or deep into the woods at the first alarm. But abandoned curs growled and snarled at them, and more than one felt the flat of Wulf’s sword and scuttled away howling. At one spot they had to step over the body of an old man. Elgiva saw no sign of blood on the body. She wondered if he had died of fright. It was, as she could attest, a formidable enemy.
Finally they came to the end of the cottages, and her brother paused to scan the outer perimeter of the suburb—a wide swathe of meadow that she guessed was the site of a local market. Beyond it lay the forest.
“My men and the horses will be waiting for us among the trees, somewhere near the river,” Wulf whispered to them. “Take a moment to catch your breath, and then we’ll make a run for it.”
Elgiva pulled in a breath, but the reek of smoke was strong. God, she wanted to be away from this place! But first they would have to cross that wide, open space. How long would it take to get across it at a run? If the raiders spotted them, they would be at their heels like hounds on a fox. Wulf would be able to hold out against them for only so long.
Her pulse throbbed in her head. The smoke was all around them now, billowing from the cottages that had been torched behind them, and next to her Groa leaned against the cottage’s wooden wall, gasping and coughing. A shout from somewhere close by warned that the attackers were getting nearer. She f
elt a surge of panic. There was nothing of value in this settlement, nothing to distract or delay the shipmen. What if they found her, and took her? How would she save herself?
She could barter the jewels. No, they would simply take the jewels and kill her, or worse. She would offer them information, then. She could show them the hidden entrance to the fortress. Surely that was worth her life. And she would promise them silver. Her father would pay for her safe return, more than they could get if they sold her into slavery.
Wulf grabbed her hand.
“Now!” he whispered, nodding over her head to Groa. He pulled Elgiva with him as he darted into the open space.
Elgiva ran as fast and hard as she could, but her thick skirts hampered her, for Wulf clasped one hand and with the other she clutched the casket of jewels. Desperate, she yanked her hand out of Wulf’s grasp so that she could pull the clinging linen away from her legs, and then she was able to run faster. She had her eyes on the trees at the edge of the field, though, not on the ground in front of her, and she missed her footing, sprawling on the tussocky grass. The little casket bounced and flew open, spewing brightly colored jewels. She got to her knees and began to gather them up, and it was then that she realized that Groa had lagged far behind her. Glancing back she saw that the old woman had halted, hands clasped against her chest as she struggled for breath.
Someone would have to help Groa or she would never make it across the field before the Danes spotted her. Elgiva looked at the jewels in her hands, at Wulf who ran on, unaware that she had fallen, at Groa so far behind, and at the cottage on the edge of the field where flames had begun to lick at the thatch.
(2013) Shadow on the Crown Page 28
