(2013) Shadow on the Crown
Page 34
All about him the cloying scent of incense mingled with the sobs and wails of the congregation as they prayed for God’s mercy. Æthelred, his face cradled in his hands, strove to empty his mind and heart of all despair. Surely such an outpouring of prayer and grief as this around him, such a thundering upon the gates of heaven from so many voices, would reach the ears of the Almighty.
He begged for forgiveness while the Latin chanting of the clergy rose and fell like the tides of the sea. Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.
He imagined his own father, seated at the side of the Lord in a blissful heaven, raising his hands to quell the storm that threatened his son’s kingdom. Was this not a vision? Was it not a sign of God’s forgiveness? In the comforting words of the Pater Noster he heard a promise that all would yet be well, and as Æthelred joined in the swelling music of the prayer, he was lifted at last out of his fear and bitterness. His heart grew lighter, for if God forgave him, what had he to fear from Danish raiders or blood-soaked phantoms in the night?
When the service ended, a messenger, soaking wet and filthy with mud, was waiting for him in the minster’s west porch. Æthelred regarded him with misgiving. The wretch could not have brought him ill tidings, for he had prayed. They had all prayed.
“Well?” he asked.
“The Viking army is coming this way, my lord, three thousand men strong and led by the Danish king.”
The solemn mood of the morning was shattered as if by a lightning stroke. A physical shudder of movement and sound rippled through the crowd behind the king and, impatient for more information, Æthelred raised his hand for silence.
“Have they crossed the Stour?” he demanded.
“Yes, my lord. Early this morning.”
That meant that in four days’ time Swein’s army would be at the city’s gates. He dismissed the messenger and, as the congregation behind him dissolved into panic, he made for the palace. He must rely on himself now, for God had abandoned him utterly.
Immediately he summoned his counselors to his private chamber. He called for maps, and with his nobles grouped around him at the trestle table, he studied the parchments set before him. With his index finger he searched for Dorchester, but the news of Forkbeard’s advance had seared his mind like white-hot steel, and he could not focus his thoughts upon his task. The calm that had descended upon him in the church had deserted him, replaced by a growing sense of doom.
“Forkbeard’s army,” he said, “will reach the gates of our city in a matter of days unless we find a way to stop it.” Even now he found it hard to believe that such a monstrous calamity could be about to engulf them.
“Offer them enough gold,” Ealdorman Leofwine muttered, “and they will skulk back to their ships soon enough.” He folded his arms across his chest, as if he considered the matter settled.
Æthelred scowled.
“Think you that they have not already taken gold and silver from the ruins of Exeter and Dorchester? Nay, they want more than our treasure. They want to fall upon us like ravening wolves and swallow us alive. They would destroy everything of beauty and of value in this land. In Exeter they left not one stone standing upon another. If we do not stop them, Winchester will suffer the same fate.”
They stared at him, denial in their eyes. They still did not perceive their peril.
“My father is right.” It was Athelstan who spoke, and Æthelred regarded him with surprise, for that phrase was not one his son was wont to use. “Forkbeard seeks vengeance for the murder of his sister and her family. Already he has speared his army deep into Dorset, farther than ever before. We must bring together a force that will match the Danes’ and engage them before they can make it to our gates.”
At this there was a clamor of voices, but Æthelred ceased to listen. The golden circlet upon his head had grown heavy and leaden, and now his temples throbbed with a piercing pain. Beneath the pain lay the chill finger of dread that bespoke the silent, looming wraith of his brother.
He could not see Edward, but he could feel him watching from the shadows with fierce, triumphant eyes. Was it the fetid scent of fear that brought him here? Surely the terror of death had been the last emotion that Edward had known upon this earth. Did his shade long to smell it now upon his brother’s still-living body?
He tensed his shoulders against the pain that forked from his head to his neck, borne, he was certain, on Edward’s baleful gaze. The words that he had read months before on a scrap of parchment surfaced in his mind to plague him again with their message of doom.
And now thou art cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood.
Who had written those words? Was he here, a member of his council, perhaps even one of his sons? How many of these men, he wondered, resting his gaze hopelessly on one face after another, would throw their bodies in front of a sword to protect him? Which of them would even feel sorrow if he should die? Ælfric, perhaps, he thought, glancing at his father’s old friend. As for the rest of them, if they should see him cut down he had little doubt that they would quickly rally to Swein’s side.
Today his nobles would demand that he lead them against Swein. But he would not place his life in their hands.
He could trust none of them.
When the rain had been swept away and replaced by a golden afternoon, Emma sought the haven of her garden. She had spent much of that morning directing the servants in sorting through the myriad items that had to be packed up and readied for removal in the event that the Danes attacked the city. Silver candlesticks, golden plates and chalices, jewelry, glittering hair ornaments, gem-studded gowns and robes, fur cloaks, beautifully illustrated manuscripts—all the trappings of royalty had to be itemized and packed away.
She had been glad to have something to distract her from thoughts of what must be occurring in the king’s chamber—the council session to which she had not been invited. Indeed, she had had no discourse at all with the king, in spite of his promise that he would meet with her this morning. The news from the south had disrupted everything, and she wondered if normal life would ever return. Her need to speak with Æthelred, to lay the foundations for drawing him into her bed, nagged at her, setting her already frayed nerves even more on edge.
This morning at the minster she had read the terror in her husband’s eyes when he learned that his greatest enemy was loose in the land. She guessed that Æthelred’s fear of Forkbeard could not be any greater even if the Danish king sprouted horns and a tail, and she mistrusted her husband’s thinking when he was frightened. It was fear that had led him to the ill-considered and ignominious massacre of St. Brice’s Day. Now that events were spiraling out of Æthelred’s control, she dreaded what his response would be. He was not likely to think things through, and he could not be expected to listen to advice from anyone, least of all from her.
She was brooding upon these thoughts when she saw Athelstan enter through the gate and make his way toward her. He took her hand in his to kiss her ring, and she made a conscious effort not to cling to his fingers for even the briefest moment. She was the one who had set the boundaries between them—she could not cross them, no matter how much she longed to do so.
“What has been decided?” she asked.
He told her, briefly, of Æthelred’s battle plan.
“You were right about my father’s fear,” he said. “He is mad with it, I think. He trusts no one, not even his ealdormen, except for Ælfric. I think he is afraid that if he allows anyone else to lead an army they are likely to join forces with Forkbeard instead of fight against him. The king’s entire defense hinges on whatever troops Ælfric can muster from Hampshire and Wiltshire in a matter of days.”
“Has he cause for such fear of his nobles?”
He looked at her squarely, his strong
, dark brows set in a scowl.
“Of course he does. My father’s ealdormen do not trust him any more than he trusts them. But, dear God, if Ælfric should meet the Danes and lose—”
“But Ælfric is a good leader,” she protested, “and loyal to your father.”
He swept her words aside with an impatient gesture. “It is not his loyalty that worries me. Ælfric will have to face a Danish shield wall of three thousand seasoned warriors, while our army will be made up mostly of farmers and householders with little training in battle and God knows what in the way of armor and weapons. How will they be able to withstand the Danes? There is likely to be a slaughter, and all because we have not prepared to face so large an enemy host. My father insists on holding his hearth troops, men who can truly fight, in reserve here in Winchester, as a last measure of defense. He is wrong. It would be better to throw as many experienced, well-armed men as we can against the Danes in the first attack rather than divide our forces this way. It would be best of all if the king should lead the army, or at the very least ride at Ælfric’s side. The presence of the king would stiffen the resolve of our warriors.”
“Have you told him any of this?” she asked.
“He will not listen to me! I have offered to add my hearth troops to Ælfric’s force, but the king will not allow even that. My brother Ecbert goes with Ælfric. I am bid to stay behind and arrange for the city’s defense, to make up for the debacle at Exeter.”
She knew how he must chafe at that. It was bad enough that the sack of Exeter had been laid at his feet, but now he must watch his brother ride off to battle while he stayed behind. Yet she was glad that he would remain. If the worst should befall them, she wanted him near.
“If your father has put you in charge of our defense,” she said stoutly, “then he has done at least one thing right.”
“You are wrong,” he said, looking utterly defeated already. “There is nothing that feels right about this. Emma, listen to me.” He took her hand in his. “You must leave the city now, for only God knows what may happen in a few days’ time. Go to London and prepare a ship, so that if the Danes should have the victory, you can seek refuge at your brother’s court in Normandy. There is no reason why you should stay here.”
She read the urgent plea in his eyes, but before she could even frame a response, she saw that the king’s steward, Hubert, had entered the garden and was hurrying toward them. She stiffened and pulled her hand from Athelstan’s grasp, but she could not tell what the steward had seen. Hubert, whose long, pointed nose always made her think of a rat or a weasel, addressed Athelstan.
“My lord,” he said, “the king requires your presence in his chamber.”
The smooth face beneath the fringe of brown hair gave no indication that he had noticed anything amiss between the queen and the king’s son.
“I will come directly,” Athelstan said, and then turned to Emma. “Think on what I have said, my lady. Act upon it, I beg you.”
When he was gone his plea echoed in her ears.
Leave. Seek refuge in Normandy.
He was not the first who had urged her to run. Ælfric’s son, the blinded, bitter Ælfgar, had said much the same thing.
She could imagine what lay ahead. The savagery that had taken place in the lane near Magdalene Abbey would be as nothing compared to the carnage to come.
She covered her mouth with hands that trembled as she thought of Groa, and of all the others who lay dead in the rubble of Exeter and Dorchester—walled cities that had not been able to withstand the Danish onslaught. Why should Winchester be any different?
She was afraid of what was to come. Dear God, she wanted to flee, to take ship across the Narrow Sea, driven by her fear and by the fury of the Danish king. But she knew what kind of welcome she would receive in Normandy. Her mother, who had chosen her for this role of queen, would despise her for her weakness.
And her mother would be right. The queen’s place was here, no matter what the danger. She might, even now, be carrying a child—a son of the royal blood who might one day rule this kingdom. This realm would be that child’s birthright. She would not take him away from it.
She placed her hand beneath her breasts, resting it upon the fine green linen of her gown. She prayed for courage, and that her womb might be quick with Athelstan’s child.
It was very late when, summoned at last by the king, Emma entered his bedchamber. Æthelred sat at the long table on one side of the room, stands of glowing candles all around him, a cup and flagon near to his hand. His steward, Hubert, sat at the table as well, laboring over an official-looking document. He cast her a furtive, ratlike glance that made Emma shiver with sudden trepidation.
The king ignored her altogether, and so she stood where she was, a heavy cloak wrapped around her linen nightgown, her feet cold inside her thin slippers as she awaited her lord’s pleasure. She was uncomfortable in this chamber, this fortress of sovereign privilege. It was Æthelred’s retreat, and she never ventured here unless summoned. Tonight she had been roused from her bed to attend him, and that had not happened before.
Again she felt a slight shudder of unease, and a finger of cold crept along her arms despite the cloak she wore over her nightshift. Nervously she glanced toward the far end of the chamber where the candlelight could not reach. The flickering darkness there preyed on her imagination, for she seemed to sense movement in the shadows whenever she was not looking directly at them.
It was just a trick of the light, she told herself, or the play of a draft fingering the thick curtain that was strung there from wall to wall. Behind that dark drapery were the chests and caskets that held much of the king’s personal treasure. Æthelred’s wealth was legendary, and his kingdom a prize coveted by men who would wrest it from him if they could.
She looked at him, smitten of a sudden with compassion for this man who saw himself as so beset by enemies that he could not trust even his own sons. He seemed to sense her gaze upon him, for he lifted his head just then and met her eyes. His were hollowed, and it seemed to her that the lines of his face too were deeper tonight than they had been this morning. But perhaps that was merely a trick of the wavering light, for the shadows in the room seemed to stretch and shudder like living things as the steward picked up a candle from the table and used the dripping wax to seal the document that he had just completed.
The king motioned to the monk to leave, and the little man rose, bowed, then gathered up his writing materials and slipped out of the room. He cast a sly glance at her before the heavy oak door groaned shut, leaving her alone with the king, and with the shadows that threatened from outside the circle of light. Emma felt another stirring of apprehension.
Æthelred tossed back whatever it was he had been drinking and rose slowly to his feet. He was clad in a nightshirt of fine embroidered white linen, with a thick, dark, woolen cloak thrown over it for warmth. He offered her no words of greeting, nor any invitation to be seated, and the expression on his face was forbidding.
“I have written to your brother,” he said, “to inform him of the attack upon Exeter by Swein Forkbeard, although I do not doubt that Richard knows of it already. Indeed, he may have had word of it even before it happened.”
He shot her an appraising glance, as if he were daring her to contradict him. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, wanted to assure him that her brother could have known nothing of what Forkbeard intended. Yet she was not certain of that herself. Her brother might, indeed, have turned a blind eye to the Danish ships massing on his northern coast. Athelstan had suggested as much, and the possibility that this could be so had gnawed at her all summer long. Yet even if it was true that Richard had known Forkbeard’s plan, she could not imagine how he could have stopped it.
She had no answer for the king, and seeing it, he smiled a cruel, hard smile.
“Do you not think it i
nteresting,” he went on, “that the Danes attacked your dower city, my lady? I have been pondering this, and I begin to think that Forkbeard was aiming at England’s queen rather than its king.” His face was speculative as he awaited her reaction to his suggestion.
Emma feigned puzzlement, but she felt her blood run cold under that gaze, for his words pricked her like the point of a blade. Did Æthelred know of the hours she had spent in Forkbeard’s hands? Was the letter to her brother written to inform Richard that the king was setting her aside?
“I cannot think what you mean, my lord.” She forced herself to speak through lips that had gone suddenly dry.
“Can you think of nothing?” he asked, raising quizzical brows and twisting his mouth into a sneer of disbelief. He moved slowly toward her, took her left hand in his large paw, and began to toy with the ring on her third finger that was the symbol of their marriage bond. “For myself,” he said, “I cannot help but wonder if your brother might have promised your hand in marriage to someone else prior to bestowing it upon me.”
He fixed his watery blue eyes upon her face, looking for her reaction, but she was so astonished by his words that she merely gazed at him with blank incredulity.
“Swein Forkbeard has two sons,” he continued. “Did you pledge yourself to a son of the Danish king, Emma, and then break that vow when my emissary made a better offer?”
“I did not, my lord,” she protested. “Nor did my brother make any such pledge, I assure you.”
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Then perhaps it was the Danish king himself who won your . . . admiration, shall we call it? I asked you on our wedding night if you were a maid, and although I believed you when you assured me of your innocence, I have to wonder about it now. Did you perhaps bestow your favors upon Swein Forkbeard before your brother granted your hand to me? Did I purchase used goods for my bride? It is your lands that Swein has ravaged, Emma, not mine. A spurned lover’s revenge perhaps?”