(2013) Shadow on the Crown

by Patricia Bracewell

  She beckoned to Hilde and drew her aside from her other attendants.

  “You will go back to the hall,” she ordered, “and you will mingle with the servants who bring in food and drink for the king’s counselors. You will attend to all that is said among the great men there, and afterward bring me word of all that you see and hear. Do you understand?”

  The girl looked at her with eyes that held no trace of guile. She was, indeed, the perfect little spy.

  “Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave, but Emma placed a hand on her arm to stop her, for there was yet another duty to be performed tonight.

  “When the meeting is ended you must search out the ealdorman Ælfhelm. Do you know him?”

  The girl nodded.

  “You are to bring him to me. Say nothing of Exeter, Hilde, even if he asks. I would have him hear from my own lips what little can be told of the Lady Elgiva. Do you understand?”

  Hilde nodded, and Emma watched her go with a heavy heart. She did not relish telling Lord Ælfhelm that his daughter had been left behind in the ruins of Exeter—to a fate that none could know but all could guess. Nevertheless, it was a duty that she could not escape.

  Duty, she thought, was the price of queenship. And not for the first time she recalled with bitterness the anguish in Athelstan’s eyes when she had refused to support his bid for the crown. That, too, had been her duty. For the rest of her life she would be bound by duty, and forced to pay that price again and again.

  Æthelred studied the square, handsome face of his eldest son—the thick, dark brows that stood out, bold and startling, below his golden hair, the beard that had thickened and darkened. The young man’s likeness to his dead uncle struck Æthelred anew. He read the same proud determination in Athelstan’s eyes, and a defiant boldness that he hated and admired all at once. This was a son to inspire pride in a father’s heart—aye, and wariness as well.

  The cub had too high an opinion of himself. He would ask pardon, no doubt, for deserting Winchester without leave, but there was no remorse in his eyes. He did as he pleased and expected that all would be forgiven. But there would be no pardon granted today. He must be punished in a way best suited to teach him proper humility, if not remorse.

  “I am told,” he said slowly, “that you directed the queen’s reeve in preparing for the defense of Exeter. Is this so?”

  Athelstan frowned, as if trying to grasp the point of such a question. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate to answer.

  “That is true,” he said. “I consulted with—”

  “And yet,” Æthelred cut him off, “in spite of your best efforts, Exeter has fallen. Word has reached us that it has been destroyed utterly and that many have died. How do you, who were so deeply involved in planning its defense, explain such a catastrophe?”

  Something flickered across his son’s face—a flash of indecision or confusion. Then it was gone.

  “I cannot explain it, my lord,” he said.

  “You cannot explain it.” Æthelred inflected his voice with disapproval, although the answer suited his purpose well enough. “You cannot recognize, even with the evidence stark before you, that it was your own inadequacy that led to the destruction of a thriving town. Are you so blind to the measure of your own failings?” He paused to allow the question to ring in the still air, registering the displeasure of the king in the mind of every person present. No one moved or spoke, and Athelstan’s mouth set in a grim line.

  Yes, his son was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, for nothing he could say would allow him to save face now.

  “Perhaps, then,” Æthelred went on, wielding his voice like a weapon to flay the pup that knelt before him, “having left my court without my leave, you have come back now to give me tidings of some moment. Mayhap you can tell me the number of enemy ships?” He did not wait for answers but flung his questions like daggers, each one louder than the last. “How large is the army? Who leads it? How well is it armed? Pray, Athelstan, what can you tell me that I can use to my advantage?”

  Athelstan felt his face burn with humiliation. It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut, to resist his father’s baiting. He knew how it was that Exeter had fallen, for Hugh had been forced to lead the enemy into the fortress. And he knew that it was Forkbeard who had brought the enemy fleet to England’s shores. But he could not speak of these things without compromising the queen. Any hint of her abduction by Forkbeard would give his father cause to set her aside. Much as Athelstan might welcome such an outcome, Emma would not. Emma would be queen and peaceweaver, and she would relinquish neither role, not even for love of him. She had demanded an oath of silence from him, and he had pledged it. Now he must keep it, whatever the cost.

  He looked into his father’s face and read the triumph there. Jesu, the man was a fool! His mind should be bent toward the defense of his realm, yet there he sat, preening himself like a bird of prey and baiting his son for his own twisted amusement.

  “I can give you no information about the enemy host, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth. It was capitulation, and he knew it. His father had beaten him once again at this, his favorite game. It was ever a skirmish for mastery between them, which Æthelred always won. If Emma was right, and his father feared him, he had yet to see any sign of it. “I await the king’s pleasure,” he said, but he did not lower his gaze. Let his father read the anger there. What did he care?

  “Tonight I consult with my council regarding the Northmen’s threat,” Æthelred said. “Since you have nothing of value to report, take your seat. Do not,” his voice dripped vitriol, “presume to offer advice unless you are addressed. Is that clear?”

  Athelstan made his way to a bench, his gut tight with rage. He glanced around the hall, taking note of who was present. His brothers Ecbert and Edmund eyed him from across the room. Edmund’s face was unreadable, but Ecbert flashed him a compassionate glance that he answered with a grimace. His brothers knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of their father’s wrath.

  Arrayed near the king were all four of his ealdormen, with their supporters and retinues close by. Old Ælfric of Hampshire looked pale and drawn, and did not meet his eye. Next to him, Leofwine of Hwicce sat with his usual solemn expression. They were the old guard, older even than his father. They would do their best to give good advice, and his father would ignore them.

  The third ealdorman, Godwine of Lindsey, thin and scrawny, toying nervously with the thick ring that was his badge of office and far too big for his womanish hands, would have little to offer. Next to him sat Ælfhelm of Northumbria, as big and hale as ever.

  Jesu. Ælfhelm would want news of his daughter.

  He muttered a curse under his breath and hoped that he would not have to be the one to tell him that Elgiva had been left behind in shattered Exeter.

  He signaled to a servant to bring him mead. There was no reason why he should not get drunk. The king did not want his advice, although his counselors were abysmally few in number tonight. There should have been five more ealdormen, but his father had chosen to leave those positions of power unfilled, because, in his wisdom, he mistrusted any who might challenge him. The king wanted to keep his nobles weak and maintain power and wealth in his own hands, and he had succeeded most admirably.

  Now, in Forkbeard, the ealdormen and the king faced a formidable foe, although they did not yet know the extent of their peril. Athelstan doubted that they could win a confrontation against the Danish king, and it was all too likely that one or more of these men was supporting Forkbeard in secret. Did his father suspect that?

  Of course he did. His father suspected everyone.

  After a series of interminable prayers, the messenger from Dorchester stood before them and relayed his news. It was precious little. The city had been attacked and set afire. The raiders had struck at night, and the messenger hi
mself had no knowledge of who led them nor how many of them there might be. That announcement was followed by a debate over whether the shipmen would march inland from Dorchester or return to their vessels and strike farther along the coast.

  Athelstan signaled for his cup to be refilled.

  The next debate was over the size of the force that should be raised. After that they addressed the issue of leadership, and after that they wrangled over which shires would contribute men and arms to the land force.

  Three hours later, Athelstan had emptied five cups of mead and the council had come to a momentous decision: They would decide nothing tonight. The king proclaimed that there would be time enough for them to consider what actions to take once the raiders had made their next move.

  Athelstan, too, came to a decision. He decided that he was drunk, and that he liked it. It provided an excuse to wave off the questions of his brothers and avoid Ælfhelm. Ignoring everyone, he stumbled vaguely toward his chamber. When at last he found it he threw himself, fully dressed, upon his bed.

  He slept fitfully, troubled by dreams of Emma standing amidst shattered, flame-scorched city walls.

  While the king’s council met in the hall, Emma and her household shared a quiet repast in the women’s quarters. The gloom that the travelers had carried with them from the south seemed to descend upon the chamber like a black fog, and there was none of the usual bustle that came with unpacking after a long journey. Indeed, Emma thought, glancing about her, there was little to unpack. Jewelry, gowns, furnishings—all had been left behind. And that was the least of it. Her heart lurched as she thought of the men who had died at the hands of Swein’s shipmen, and of so many others who were missing.

  They could not all be dead, she told herself. Some of them must have escaped, must have hidden or found some way to barter for their lives.

  She beckoned to one of the kitchen servants who she hoped might have news.

  “Has there been any word from Exeter, Ebba?” she asked.

  Ebba, her broad, red face aglow with self-importance at being so addressed, said eagerly, “Oh, aye, my lady! The whole of Exeter is burned, and all the folk in it are dead. Dorchester is burned as well, and it is only by God’s grace that we’ll escape being murdered in our beds. The friar who preaches outside the Old Minster has said that the Northmen will kill us all, that it is God’s—”

  Emma raised a hand to stop her, cursing herself, because the woman’s ranting would do more harm than good. “Who told you that Dorchester was burned?” she asked.

  “A messenger came from the south tonight with news for the king. He stopped in the kitchens for a bite and some ale, and he said that Dorchester was afire.”

  Emma frowned. So, Swein Forkbeard had struck two towns now, both of them with stout, heavily defended walls. He must have a large host, then. Would he be bold enough to attempt to capture Winchester? She feared that he might, and looking about the chamber, she realized that she was not alone in her fear. She could see the wine goblet trembling in Wymarc’s hand, and even Margot looked deathly pale.

  “We must not despair,” she said. She was frightened, too, but she did not believe that Winchester could be destroyed. It was unimaginable. “Doubtless the king will lead a force against his enemies soon, and drive them back to their ships.”

  And what of her, then? What if the king should send her away for safekeeping—to join his children at Headington, perhaps?

  She folded her hands beneath her breasts, where even now a child might be quickening. Her dilemma was minor compared to the enormity of the threat from the Danish army, but she must determine how to deal with it. It had been a week since she lay with Athelstan, and she had only a little window of time now to make sure that, if she did bear a child nine months hence, it would be recognized as Æthelred’s. She must find her way to the king’s bed, and soon.

  Which of his favorites, she wondered, was sleeping with him now? And how was she to displace her? Æthelred would think it strange if she showed a sudden ardor for his embraces, so she would have to be patient. There was time yet. He had said that he would speak with her on the morrow. When she saw him she must be obedient and compliant. She must offer him comfort and respite from the troubles that beset him. She must welcome him to her bed.

  And could she imagine that he was someone else?

  Her courage faltered at that. The father was not the son, and never would be. Yet what else could she do? She must be a wife to the man that she had wed—and never forget that he was the king and held her fate in his hands.

  For the next few hours the talk swirled among the women like the water in a stream, touching lightly on topics as if they were stones, then flowing onward to something else. Emma noticed that Wymarc alone did not join in the conversation but remained wrapped in a grief that she bore in silence. There was nothing that anyone could do or say to help her, and Emma feared that Hugh’s loss—for she was certain that he was either dead or a prisoner of the Danes—would weigh heavily upon Wymarc for many long months to come. She grieved for her friend, and wondered again if there was a place in this world for love.

  It was very late when Hilde returned, followed by Lord Ælfhelm. Emma had sent all her women to their beds, and now, alone with Elgiva’s father, she contemplated the man before her.

  He was not an easy man to deal with, or even to look at, this Ælfhelm. His face was seamed and scarred, with large, irregular features—the kind of face that frightened small children. His wild black mane of hair hung to near his shoulders, and his thick beard was shot through with streaks of white. It had always astonished her that such a man could have sired three such beautiful creatures as Elgiva and her brothers.

  He was built like a bear, and he had a belligerent manner, cowering to no one, not even the king. Indeed, she had seen him look upon Æthelred more than once with an expression of subtle contempt—something she suspected her husband suffered because he had no other choice. Rich in land and silver, Ælfhelm was the most powerful of the king’s ealdormen, and the kind of man who could instill fear with just a glance.

  He was looking at her now with hooded eyes. She clutched her hands together, anguished by the pain she was about to inflict.

  “My lord Ælfhelm,” she said, “I must be the bearer of ill tidings tonight. It grieves me to tell you that your daughter was within Exeter’s fortress when the city was attacked. Groa was with her, and I continue to hope and pray that they were able to escape, but I do not know their fate.”

  She looked on him with pity, steeling herself to cope with his grief, yet, to her bewilderment, it did not come. His face, as hard as granite, showed no horror, no sorrow, not even surprise. It was like a blank wall, and she could not read it at all. Could a man, even one as unfeeling as this, be so stoic? Did he care nothing for his daughter?

  “You should turn your prayers to better purpose, lady,” he said, his voice dull and flat, “for my daughter is well enough.”

  Emma gazed upon him now with wonder and with sudden hope. If Elgiva had escaped the sack of Exeter, perhaps she had brought others with her.

  “She is safe then? She is unharmed?”

  “Oh, aye. The shipmen did not rape her, and for that I suppose I must be grateful. Never mind that for near a year she was the king’s whore,” he snarled, “when she should have been under your protection.” He must have seen her start of surprise, because he raised an eyebrow. “Did you think I did not know? And after the king wiped his hands of her, did you think I would entrust her to your care again without taking measures to ensure her safety? I am not such a fool, lady. My men shadowed you all the way to Exeter, and my son kept watch there to protect his sister against any threats. When the beacons were lit, Wulf spirited her away, while you, I am told, were safe outside the city.” His eyes glittered, cold and hostile, but his face remained expressionless. “Would you hear Groa’s fate?
She died under the blade of a Danish battle-ax.” He bared his teeth, but it was not a smile. “Is there anything else you wish to know? Lady?”

  Emma merely stared at him, assaulted by his words and too stricken to attempt a response. When she remained silent, he bowed and turned away. She watched him stalk from the chamber, her mind reeling from the force of his loathing.

  How he must hate her. She had ever known that Elgiva was her enemy. Now she realized—and she should have known it long before this—that Ælfhelm, too, was her foe. And he was far more dangerous than any of his children.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  August 1003

  Winchester, Hampshire

  There was no dawn the next morning. Heavy black clouds blanketed the sky, and a drenching rain turned the palace grounds and all the streets of Winchester to thick, flowing mud. Æthelred, his black-robed queen at his side, led a procession of ealdormen and clergy, of noblemen, their wives, and as many townsfolk as could walk or hobble, in a solemn procession from the palace steps and down the dripping, tree-lined path that led to the Old Minster. Inside this, the largest church in England, beneath the massive golden shrine of St. Swithin, Bishop Alfheah led them in prayers of supplication.

  Æthelred gazed in despair at the magnificent, gem-studded, gold-and-silver reliquary that his father had commissioned to honor St. Swithin. King Edgar the Peaceful, his father had been named. He had honored God and the Church, and his reign had been marked by peace and prosperity instead of the constant threat of fire and sword.

  Æthelred had tried to follow his father’s example, had granted land and income to the bishops of Christ’s church and appointed able men to positions of ecclesiastical power. He had even erected the high stone tower that housed the sixteen bells now tolling in mourning for his wretched people. But God had rejected all his efforts and would not listen to his pleas. His sin was too great, his brother’s voice beyond the grave too strident.