The guard had already dismounted and now he approached a tall, mounded shape that proved to be a tarp-covered pile of wood and kindling, ready for lighting. Using a flint and steel, he soon coaxed a spark, and then flames bloomed into the night.
“Take the lady down to the beach,” Swein said to his son. “If she stays near the horses, she might take it into her head to run again.”
The boy led her down a steep, narrow track that led to the shore. She took one quick glance back, to where the guard was stripping the horses of all their gear. That would go with them in their ship. Silver bridle rings and tooled leather would fetch a handsome price at the market in Rouen. No doubt Swein was sorry that he could not take her mare with him as well. Ange tossed her head and nickered to Emma, and then the boy tugged at her hand and forced her farther down the path, and she had to look to her footing.
On the beach she huddled in a fold of the cliff to escape the sharp wind that swept across the land toward the sea. Still, she was cold, weary, and heartsore. She gazed sullenly toward the dark waves, and after a time a single pinpoint of light appeared. The dim hope she had held onto—that the ship would not arrive to meet them—flickered and died.
Athelstan, leading his men along the western shore of the River Otter, saw a signal fire blaze into life on the promontory across the river. Soon after, he saw an answering light at sea that rose and fell with the surge of the waves. There was a dragon ship out there, drawing slowly toward the shore.
They had come to the right place, then. Somewhere on the other side of the muddy estuary Emma was Swein’s captive. He would not give her up without a battle.
He halted his men. “Remember, Forkbeard is worth more to us alive than dead,” he told them. “We want him and we want the queen, both alive and uninjured. There are at least two men with Swein, maybe more. If we hope to get out of here with our own skins intact, we had better be quick, because if we are still on the beach when that ship reaches shore, we are dead men. Is everyone clear? I want Swein alive,” he repeated.
The three men grunted grudging assent. They had ridden for many miles with the stench of Exeter’s burning in their nostrils, and Athelstan knew that his order to spare the Danish king galled them. But Swein was a great prize. He could be bartered to purchase peace for England for decades to come. That was assuming, of course, that they could win the skirmish ahead.
He grasped his shield, drew his sword, and urged his horse forward, slantwise across the mudflats. Ahead of him he could see the broad shore of the Narrow Sea, where moonlight glinted on smooth, round stones. They reached the shingle, and the noise of their horses’ hoofbeats must have alerted the Danes, for as Athelstan drew closer he saw two men on the beach ahead, facing him with swords drawn. Two other figures lurched away along the shoreline, their progress slow and fitful because one of them, surely Emma, seemed very disinclined to go.
Good girl, he thought. Fight him every step of the way.
He spared a glance seaward and saw the ship’s signal light rising and falling as the vessel’s oars strained against the outgoing tide. Thirty Danes would be over the side and making for the beach as soon as the ship found shallow water, but with the tide and the wind against them they were making slow headway. There was time yet.
He focused on the two armed men who stood separated by several feet now, their cloaks tossed aside and their feet set wide apart, ready for battle. The man closest to the water was white-bearded, tall, and fiercely sturdy. Forkbeard. The other warrior, younger and brawnier, suddenly ran toward them with a roar, as if to intercept the riders before they could reach his companion. He raised his sword in both hands, and as one of Athelstan’s men surged forward to meet him, the Dane struck a blow aimed not at the rider, but at the horse. The animal screamed in agony as it crashed to the shingle, pinning its rider beneath it.
Athelstan skirted the downed man and horse and paid them no further heed, for all his senses were focused on Swein Forkbeard. He had dreamed of facing the man a hundred times, had thought of little else for months. All his desire was to outwit, outthink, outmaneuver this Danish pirate who called himself king. He might not have the skill to beat him in single combat, but if he could hold him at bay for a time, he and his men might be able to disarm him at last. He was probably a fool about to lose his life, but he had two weapons that Swein did not—his shield and his rage.
He saw the king’s sword flash in the moonlight, and he wheeled his horse to dodge the slashing, downward stroke. Before Swein could raise his sword again Athelstan leaped from his mount to land on his enemy, hammering his shield against the king’s sword arm. Swein grunted and staggered a step with the blow, but did not fall. Athelstan pushed himself away from his enemy, knees bent, sword and shield ready to meet the next thrust. He repelled it with his shield, following it with a stroke aimed to disarm rather than kill. Swein sidestepped it easily, and they traded more blows, so many that Athelstan’s arms grew weary as he parried and dodged, twisted and slashed, fending off a warrior skilled in arms whose mind was bent on slaughter.
Emma, desperate to escape Cnut’s brutal grip on her wrist, threw herself to the shingle and was surprised that the tactic worked. Freed for a moment, she scrambled to her feet and ran back toward where the men were battling on the beach. One rider had gone down, but two others were trading blows with the big Dane. The third man had his back to her, moving with an agile grace, and it seemed to her that he did not fight Swein so much as use his weapons to fend off Swein’s repeated sword strokes. She had barely managed to grasp all this when Cnut, with a curse, tackled her from behind, and she fell headlong. She clutched one of the smooth fist-sized stones beneath her, and when Cnut dragged her to her feet she smacked it against his ear and twisted out of his grasp again, stumbling toward the melee.
She had nearly made it to one of the horses when Cnut brought her down once more, so hard that she was knocked breathless. He landed on top of her, but he was up in a moment, pulling her arm sharply and causing her to cry out in pain.
A second cry rang out over the beach then, and both Emma and her captor looked in the direction from which it had come.
The king of the Danes was standing, disarmed, with his back to the cliff face. Two men in mail stood facing him, each with a sword point placed against his throat. A third man was running toward her on the shingle, and she saw that it was Athelstan. It was he who had shouted, and now he stood only a few steps away, sword pointed at Cnut. The boy made to reach for his own sword, but Athelstan’s blade touched his breast, and Cnut froze.
“Tell the lad,” he said to Emma, “that if he does not release you the king will die. Tell him to do it now, or Swein dies. Now!”
Emma translated the words, but Cnut was already looking past Athelstan, his eyes fixed on his father. She saw the desperation in the boy’s face, as if he were trying to work out what Swein would want him to do.
“Now!” Athelstan repeated, and Cnut, understanding, pushed Emma away from him, toward her rescuer. She felt like a game piece, shuttled from one player to the next, only this game was deadly. Two men lay broken and bleeding on the shingle, and she realized with sudden horror that more were about to die, for now a chorus of shouts from the dragon ship drew all their eyes to the sea.
A score of men, determined to reach the shore to defend their leader, had thrown themselves into the black, raging water, struggling against the falling tide. Their armor and weapons dragged them down, though, and Emma saw several of them disappear beneath the waves. Still, others came on as the ship drew inexorably toward the shore.
Athelstan may have cornered Swein, but he had run out of time.
He ignored the oncoming Danes, though, and she realized now, as he must have known, that none of them would strike while Swein stood unarmed with swords at his throat. As Athelstan stripped Cnut of his weapons and motioned him toward Swein, she ran to gather the horses, h
er heart pounding. Athelstan held all of their lives in his hands now. What was he going to do?
A half-dozen Danes stood on the shingle at the waterline. They were well trained, for although wet and battered by the sea, they formed a shield wall as if by instinct. Swein had but to nod, and they would attack.
She moved so that she stood close to Athelstan’s side.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now I barter for our lives,” he said to Emma. “Speak for me so that all will hear.”
She nodded.
“I will grant you your life, Swein of Denmark,” Athelstan roared, and Emma repeated in Danish, “but in return I demand that you grant the queen her freedom. You will allow us to escort her unhindered to Winchester. And you will swear to this by all the gods that you honor.”
Swein cocked his head to one side, his eyes hard on Emma’s. She looked from Swein to Athelstan, who still held his sword against Cnut’s breast. She knew that she should tell Athelstan that this was Swein’s son, that the boy might make the perfect hostage.
Yet she said nothing, and she could not tell why, except that she could not bring herself to use the boy as she’d been used.
Long moments passed and Swein made no reply. Emma’s heart beat hard against her ribs. Swein could order his men to take her and to kill her rescuers, but it would cost him his life and the life of his son. She did not think it was a price that he was eager to pay. But what if he lied? What if he promised to let them go, and then set his men upon them?
She remembered, then, Ælfgar’s words: Swein combines courage with honor. If that were so, then Swein would be true to his word. Still, it was a risk.
Finally the Danish king called out, in a voice that all of his men could hear, “I swear by Odin, Lord of Valhalla, and by Christus, King of Heaven, that no one will harm the English or the lady! They may go where they will, and my shipmen will not follow or detain them. So I give them my pledge.”
Emma nodded to Athelstan. He lowered his sword and saluted the king. And then, as if they were comrades in arms instead of mortal enemies, the Danes helped the English place their dead companion on a horse.
Before they rode north, Emma looked back once toward the beach. Cnut stood on the shingle, his back to the sea, his face upturned toward her. He stood motionless, merely watching her with dark, fathomless eyes.
“What is it?” Athelstan asked, worried no doubt that the Danes might have made some threatening move.
“Nothing,” she said, her gaze still locked with that of Swein’s son, wishing she could read his thoughts. “Will the Danes leave us in peace now, do you think?”
“If you mean will Swein keep his word and let us return to Winchester unmolested, yes. If you mean will he keep his dragon ships away from our shores, not a chance of it,” Athelstan replied. “Not while my father is king.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
August 1003
Ætheling’s Lodge, near Otter Mouth, Devonshire
Athelstan placed another log on the fire to ward off the morning chill. Outside the walls of the hunting lodge—his own secret retreat from the world—the dawn was breaking over the fields and the nearby forest. He could not see it, but he could hear the birds’ morning calls, could feel the subtle change in the air that came with the rising of the sun. Soon the kitchen servants, the herdsmen, and the grooms would be stirring, but no one would disturb him here until he called for them.
On the bed across the room, Emma lay asleep beneath a pile of furs. He had kept watch over her through the ragged hours of darkness, unable to sleep himself, for his mind was still busy sorting through the events of the long night and imagining the dire reckoning that the coming day was likely to bring. He had mourned his dead companion, Eadsige, who lay now at the Priory at Otterton. He had given the brothers there silver to offer prayers for his soul, to bury him in hallowed ground, and to forget that a nobleman and his companions had ever been there. Then he had sent Eadmer and Ælfmær to Norton with word for Wymarc that Emma was safe.
And beyond that, what? With Swein and his host prowling the western shires the dawn was not likely to bring good tidings. Swein had been robbed of his greatest prize, but he would find some other way to take his vengeance and fill his ships with silver. Exeter, he feared, was but the beginning. Swein’s spies would likely have assured him that the king’s forces were ill prepared to parry whatever blow he might strike, and they would be proved right.
Athelstan rested his head against the wall behind him and stared, unseeing, at the roof timbers outlined by the firelight. If he had taken more men with him yesterday, would he have been able to capture Swein? He did not think so. It was not lack of men but bad timing that had thwarted him. He had come to the shore too late. He could have taken Swein only if God had ordained it, and God had chosen otherwise. Perhaps the bishops were right, and the people of England were being punished for their sins.
Even so, he suspected that English hands had assisted Swein. How had he known that Emma rode out yesterday with only a small guard? How had he known where to find her? Someone in the queen’s service must have fed information to Swein or his agents, and if they had done it once, they could do it again.
On the bed Emma stirred, and he glanced over to where she lay, half hoping that he had not disturbed her and half hoping that she would waken so that he could share his thoughts with her. They had spoken very little last night. He had brought her here, as far from Exeter and the coast as they could travel in a few hours. She had asked him about her people, and he had been able to assure her that Wymarc was safe at his stronghold, and that Margot had probably sought refuge with the brothers at Magdalene Abbey. He could tell her little more, for he had no certain knowledge of the fate of Exeter, although he feared the worst. After that she remained silent throughout the journey, offering not a word of complaint as he led her as swiftly as he could to this refuge.
Once here, though, whatever internal strength had supported her throughout her long ordeal finally gave out. She had wept, inconsolable, blaming herself for all of it—for the deaths of the guards who had tried to defend her, for the men, women, and children that she was certain must have died at Exeter, for her rash journey outside the fortress with a company too small to defend her properly.
He had wanted to comfort her, had tried to take her in his arms, but she had fought him like a wildcat. He could only stand aside and let the storm pass, mute witness to her self-recrimination and despair. Finally, her fury spent, she had succumbed to weariness and fallen into a deep sleep.
He sat forward and dropped his head into his hands. The blame for all belonged not to Æthelred’s queen but to Swein of Denmark. And along with Swein, to Æthelred of England, for the slaughter last November that had drawn the Danish force to these shores. Emma’s brother Richard had played a role as well, with his cunning neglect of his treaty responsibilities and a well-timed journey to his southern borders that had left his northern harbors at the disposal of the Danish fleet. Ranked against the deeds of men of such power, Emma’s part in this disaster was of little account.
When Emma opened her eyes, she heard birdsong. She blinked. The nightmare of Swein and of Exeter, of blood and of terror had been all too real, yet here she was, safe in England, tucked into a warm bed inside a room that smelled familiarly of wood smoke.
She searched for Athelstan and saw him close by, his head in his hands as if he were praying. She recalled the night before, how he had tried to comfort her and she had raged at him. Such fury would have been acceptable in a man. A man could vent his anger through brute force, could throw things, fight, even murder his enemy in combat. A lady, though, and especially a queen, must ever be serene. A queen must channel her guilt into prayer and focus her rage into the lethal tip of her embroidery needle. Last night she had done nothing of the sort.
How would this man, whom she loved
, look at her now that she had railed at him like a madwoman? But far worse than that—would he, or anyone, ever grant her forgiveness for the devastation wrought on Exeter because of her? She felt the tears welling in her eyes again as she thought of it, but she swiped at them quickly. Today she would be in control. Today she would be a queen again.
“My lord,” she said, sitting up.
He raised his head and came to kneel at her bedside.
“How fares the queen?” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand.
His palm felt rough but warm as he drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them. It was the lightest of touches, that grazing of moist lips upon sensitive skin, but it told her that whatever she may have to face elsewhere, here there was forgiveness.
“I am myself again,” she assured him. “But, dear God! I wish I knew of some way to go back in time so that I could relive yesterday. I would do all differently.”
He sat upon the bed and squeezed her hand.
“Even could you do so,” he said, fixing her with a steady gaze, “there is no guarantee that the outcome would be any better than what it is today. Mayhap it could be worse. Swein Forkbeard is a crafty enemy. What happened yesterday was likely only one of many plans he had devised for the assault upon Exeter and the taking of a queen. No one can know for certain what would have happened had you, or I, or Hugh or anyone around you acted differently than we did. Be thankful, as I am, that you are here, safe, and not in the bowels of one of Swein’s dragon ships.”
She regarded him with a kind of wonder. That he refused to fix any blame on her at all struck her as nothing short of miraculous. Yet even as she marveled at his generous words, her mind reeled at the memory of the peril that he himself had been in last night. Swein, had he but known it, had had not only Æthelred’s queen within his grasp but the eldest ætheling as well.
“My lord,” she said, “I am grateful to you for my life, and I am grateful to God that He guided you and held you in His hand. And yes, you are right when you say that the outcome could have been far worse. Had you been captured, or injured, or killed—”
(2013) Shadow on the Crown Page 30
