Her first instinct was to slap him, but with an effort she governed her rage. This was Æthelred’s fear speaking. He was like a dumb animal cruelly baited, and so lashing out at anything within reach. If she gave him an excuse to hurt her, he would do so with savage glee. She must not lose her head now, for she was completely in his power.
She wrenched her hand from his grasp and said, icily, “I was a virgin when I wed you, my lord king, and I was pledged to no one before I gave you my hand. As for Swein Forkbeard’s choice of target, I would not presume to guess what is in his mind. Surely he would see all of Wessex as the property of the king.” She folded her arms against her body. The room was cold, and the king’s sour smile made it seem colder still.
“Nevertheless,” he replied, “the destruction of Exeter will, I fear, adversely impact your income, and I have so informed your brother. You would do well to consult with him regarding some means of additional financial support, since you will receive little from your Exeter holdings until the devastation there has been repaired. I promise you that you will receive nothing more from me until you complete the task that, virgin or no, you were sent here to do. Shall we?” He gestured toward the bed.
She stared at him. This was a man who had paraded first one mistress and then others before her, almost from their wedding day. Yet now, based on acts that he had spun out of his own foul imagination, he would brand her a whore. She despised him. She did not want him to touch her, did not even want him to speak to her. Whatever compassion she had felt for him had evaporated, and she wanted nothing more than to get away from him.
“Are you not afraid, my lord,” she said, with as much cold disdain as she could muster, “that I will contaminate your hallowed sheets?” Perhaps he would merely cuff her and throw her out of the room.
There was no flare of anger in his eyes, though. All she saw in his face was cold calculation and, to her astonishment, a kind of grim amusement.
“You are right,” he said. “Why should I sully my bedding with a Norman whore? You need no bed to fulfill your role as royal vessel.”
He grasped her arm and shoved her toward the long table. For a moment she was bewildered. Then, with deliberate, steady pressure upon the back of her neck, he forced her head inexorably downward. She reached out instinctively to brace herself against the hard wooden surface, but she could not resist him—could do no more than turn her head to the side just before her face hit the table.
“I can call my servant in to hold you down, if you like,” he whispered in her ear. “Or you can do your duty like a good wife. Which will it be? You must tell me.”
He demanded an answer, she guessed, because he craved her complete submission to his will. Absolute power over someone else was, for Æthelred, the ultimate arousal.
“I shall do my duty,” she grated through clenched teeth.
She felt him lift her gown so that her warm flesh was exposed to the cold air. His hands grasped her hips to pull her hard against him as he entered her. She clung to the edge of the table with her fingers, and with each deliberate thrust she watched the candle shiver.
When he was finished, as she lay there, stunned and humiliated, he wiped himself with the hem of her robe.
“You will attend me here tomorrow night in this same fashion,” he said, “and you will continue to do so until you can inform me that you are with child. Get out.”
She pushed herself from the table and adjusted her skirts, but she did not hurry. She would not give him the satisfaction of running from him, and she would not show him any fear. She glared at him, her chin held high, then stalked toward the door.
“Emma.” His voice stopped her before she could lift the latch and escape from his loathsome presence.
She did not turn to look at him. She had not the stomach for that.
“You will stay away from my son,” he said. She could hear him filling his cup again. “Do you understand me?”
So. This was more than punishment for some imagined, long ago tryst with the Danish king. This was some phantom, feral competition between the king and his son. What did he guess of her feelings for Athelstan, or of his for her? Surely if he knew the truth her punishment would have been far worse.
“Do you understand?” he repeated, more sharply.
“Yes, my lord,” she said.
For the next three nights Emma attended her husband in his chamber, returning afterward to her own bed, where she lay curled protectively around the womb that she prayed held the seed of a child. On the fourth morning she woke to find her linen stained with blood. There would be no child, and she grieved her loss with an aching heart and secret, bitter tears.
A.D. 1003 Then was collected a very great force which was soon ready on their march against the enemy; and Ealdorman Ælfric should have led them on; but as soon as they were so near, that either army looked on the other, then he pretended sickness, and he began to retch, saying he was sick. . . . When Swein saw that they were not ready, and that they all retreated, then led he his army into Wilton, and they plundered and burned the town.
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Chapter Thirty-four
August 1003
Winchester, Hampshire
The city of Winchester lived in a fog of apprehension and fear for seven agonizing days. On the horizon to the southwest a thin smudge of smoke showed a sickly yellow-brown against the relentlessly gray skies, for the invaders burned every village, hamlet, and croft that lay in their path. A steady stream of refugees brought word of the Danes’ northward progress.
Winchester itself had been bled of most of its able men, for they had taken up arms and marched west with Ealdorman Ælfric to make a stand against the foe. Those left behind took their turns upon the city walls, watching for signs that the invading army was drawing near. All commerce stopped. Shopkeepers and craftsmen shut their doors. No one was left to work the mills, and bread became scarce. Only the huge stones of the palace mills turned, and they worked from first light to full dark. At midday the gates of the palace were flung wide and servants distributed flour to the citizens who formed a line that wound past the Old Minster, through St. Thomas Gate, and up into Ceap Street. Inside the walls of the two great churches and the confines of St. Mary’s Abbey, the monks and the nuns stormed heaven with prayers for mercy.
On the eighth day after the Danes had attacked Dorchester, the fate of Winchester was decided on a plain to the west, near the town of Wilton. Two days after the armies met, Athelstan and Edmund heard an account of what occurred from Ecbert, who had witnessed it firsthand.
“We came within sight of the enemy in the early afternoon.” Ecbert spoke from his sickbed, and Athelstan moved his stool closer to hear him better. “Christ, we were close to each other. We were close enough to see their faces, the ugly bastards.” He stopped and swallowed several times before going on. “The men on both sides were in a frenzy, ready to fight. We were taunting each other, shouting insults and curses. Not that we could understand each other’s words, but the meaning was more than clear.” He tried to fake a grin, but it twisted into a grimace.
“I hope you picked up a few Danish obscenities,” Edmund said. “They might come in useful sometime.”
Ecbert laughed, then groaned.
Athelstan, impatient to hear the tale, growled at Edmund. “Don’t interrupt him. What happened next?”
“We had stopped midmorning so the men could have something to eat. Ælfric had called his battle leaders, a dozen or so of us, to break fast with him. I forced myself to swallow some bread and meat, and while we ate, he laid out his plans for the coming battle and gave each of us our orders. We knew what to do, how to place our men. . . . We knew it all. But we never got the chance to do it.”
Ecbert stared at the opposite wall, as if he could see the events recurring, right there in front of him. A fine sweat
dewed his forehead.
“We were not yet into position,” Ecbert went on, “and I was still mounted when I first realized that something was wrong. The Danes had already formed a shield wall, and they had begun to bang their swords against their shields, ready for battle. It was like thunder, that sound, only it was as if the thunder was inside my head. I closed my eyes against the pain of it, but it would not go away. When I opened my eyes again I saw Ælfric only a few steps from me. His thegns had surrounded him, and he was on the ground, on his hands and knees, spewing his guts out.”
He closed his eyes and placed a big hand over his face.
“I just sat there, staring at him, with this awful pounding in my head and a gnawing gripe in my belly. I remember feeling dizzy, and then I saw Osric, who had been sent to parley with the Danes, ride up and just slump off his horse, as if he had been struck by an invisible arrow. My own pain had gotten so bad that all I could think of was that I had to dismount before I fell, too. I made it to the ground, and then I was retching, and my hands shook so that I could not even hold onto my reins. Christ, the pain in my head and my gut was so awful that I would have welcomed the thrust of a Danish sword to put an end to it.”
Athelstan studied his brother as he lay there, limp and spent. Ecbert was not yet recovered although the events he related had happened two days before.
“The men are saying,” Athelstan said slowly, hating to burden his brother with the news but knowing that he would hear it sooner or later, “that Ælfric was terrified at the sight of the Danes.”
Ecbert cursed. “Even sick as I was I could hear the men around me muttering, calling me a worthless, puling coward.” He sighed. “In truth, that’s what it must have looked like.”
He sat up and grabbed Athelstan’s arm, but his grip was weak.
“I was afraid, Athelstan,” Ecbert whispered. “That much of the calumny is true. But it was not fear that struck me down, I swear to you! It was some kind of curse, some heathen magic that drove us to our knees. I do not know how they did it.” His voice broke, and he sank back into his pillows. “I do not even know what happened after that. The rest of it you must tell me.”
“There were ten or so men stricken like you,” Athelstan said. “You and Ælfric, Osric, Edric, Brihtwold, Lyfing. All the leaders, do you see? When the leader is sick, the whole army is hindered. There was no one left to command, and so the entire host fell back. The Danes won the battle without lifting a sword.”
“It must have been treachery,” Edmund insisted. “Some Danish spy made it through the lines and poisoned the food or the drink.”
“But it had been hours since we had eaten,” Ecbert protested. “Surely poison would have worked sooner than that.”
Athelstan said nothing, for he had no answers to give. Some force, he was certain, was assisting the Danish king. He had no idea, though, if it was the hand of God, of man, or of the devil. He sighed, frustrated and disheartened. They had suffered a defeat, it was true, but in the end it was not as bad as it could have been.
He told his brother the rest of the tale, all the events that Ecbert had not seen, because he had been lying in a covered wain, lost in fevered dreams as he was carried back to Winchester.
Ælfric’s great army, leaderless, had been forced to retreat. Many of the men had drifted away to return to their homes and farms. Most of them, though, had stayed together, making their way to the royal city.
“The Danes swarmed first into Wilton, and then Salisbury. They looted homes and businesses, and they took a massive haul of silver from the minters’ workshops and storerooms. That booty seemed to content them,” Athelstan said dryly. “They did not attempt to lay siege to Winchester. We owe thanks for that to the remnants of Ælfric’s host, who joined us on the walls as we prepared to defend the city. The Danes, seeing that, bypassed Winchester completely and went south along the Avon. We sent men in their wake, and I expect we will soon hear that they have taken ship for home.”
“So our father will not have to bribe them with yet more silver to go away and leave us in peace,” Edmund said.
“If we gave them any more silver,” Athelstan growled, “their vessels would likely sink with the weight of it.” He looked at Edmund and saw in his brother’s eyes his own fear reflected there. “The Danes will not leave us in peace for long. You and I both know what Forkbeard will do with all his newly gained wealth.”
Edmund nodded. “He will build more ships, and he will buy more men.”
“And then,” Athelstan said grimly, “he will come back.”
Chapter Thirty-five
September 1003
Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire
It was Ealdorman Ælfhelm who carried word of the sacking of Dorchester, Wilton, and Salisbury to his sons and his daughter in Northamptonshire. Elgiva watched her father’s arrival from the doorway of the great hall, flanked by Wulf on her right and by her eldest brother, Ufegeat, on her left. The autumn air was chilly, and she held the welcoming ale cup ready in her hands as their father dismounted and made his way up the steps toward them.
She had not set eyes on him since the spring, and she was struck by how much older he seemed to her now. Had her father really aged so much, she wondered, or were her senses merely more acute? Ever since she had been granted the vision of the white hart it seemed to her that everything looked different—older, darker, even threatening. Was this the gift granted by that vision? If so, she would just as soon give it back.
She had ordered a meal prepared, and as her father sat down to his meat and ale, all three of his children listened attentively to his tale.
“It is certain then,” Elgiva said, after he had described Ælfric’s untimely illness and the English retreat, “that the Danes have left our shores for good?”
Ever since her return from Exeter her brothers had kept her mewed up within the palisade that surrounded the estate, for fear of Danish raiders. Whenever she did get leave to set foot beyond the walls, whether to ride into nearby Northampton or to hunt within their own woodlands, she was accompanied by an armed force and, invariably, one of her brothers. She was heartily sick of her brothers.
“It is certain that they have left our shores, for now,” her father replied. “Anyone who believes that they are gone for good is a dreamer or a damned fool.”
“And in which category would you place our beloved king?” asked Ufegeat.
He held his cup out toward Elgiva and motioned for more ale, as if she were no more than a serving wench. Her eldest brother’s arrogant attitude maddened her, although, truth be told, he treated her as he treated all women—as if the whole purpose of female existence was to cater to him. She poured the ale into his cup but muttered a curse under her breath.
Ufegeat sat back in his chair with his brimming cup and waited for his father to respond to his quip.
“Æthelred is a dreamer and a fool, as you well know,” her father grunted. “You saw it firsthand in Cumberland two years ago, did you not? When the fleet ran into a storm and was unable to meet with the land force at the appointed time, the whole action turned into a debacle. It was a waste of time and money, all because Æthelred had neither the imagination to foresee what might go wrong nor the intellect to plan for it. And because he is so damned unlucky, invariably something does go wrong, and the result is disaster. It has happened over and over again. This episode at Wilton is just the latest example. It is hardly a wonder that our king has no stomach for fighting. Instead he prays and weeps and dreams that all will be well. But he cannot dream the Danes away. They will hit us again next summer, to be sure. The only question is where.”
“They will not strike us here, will they?” Elgiva asked, afraid, eager for reassurance. And if they did come, sailing up the Nene from the Wash or marching northward from Wessex, there would be warning beacons lit, surely. There would be time to run.
>
“Have no fear,” her father said. “They will not strike anywhere near here.”
She saw a glance pass between her father and Ufegeat, just the briefest knowing look, so swift that she wasn’t even sure that it had really been there.
“You sound very certain of that, my lord,” Wulf said.
Her father shrugged. “Swein would not strike so far inland unless he was mad, or unless he was prepared to challenge Æthelred for the entire kingdom. He is not mad, and I do not believe that he has the numbers of ships and men that he would need to overrun all of England.” He lifted his cup to his lips and muttered, “Not yet, at any rate.”
Elgiva stared at him. “You think that is what he wants?” she asked. “You think he would make himself king of England as well as king of Denmark and Norway?”
It was a terrifying thought. If it were true, there would be no place to hide from the fighting. No corner of the kingdom would be safe. Dear God, her father would likely shut her up in a convent for safekeeping, and then she would go mad.
Her father waved a dismissive hand.
“Do not trouble your head about it, daughter,” he said. “Your brothers and I will protect you, whatever comes.”
Elgiva snorted. “My brothers have been protecting me for weeks, now, and I find it unspeakably tedious. I wish the Danes would stay at home in their own halls. I shall pray that if this Forkbeard sets out a-viking to our shores again, a storm will come along and swallow up his entire fleet.”
“Forgive us, Elgiva,” Wulf said, “if we do not count on your prayers to be answered. I’ve observed that you tend to be rather lax about saying them.”
She ignored him. She did not really believe in the power of prayer to effect change in the lives of men. Why should God care what mortals did to one another? It was not as if what happened in this world could affect Him, for good or for ill. Besides, were not all Christians praying to the same God? Was the Almighty supposed to choose one side or the other in a battle, designating reward or punishment by the number of prayers sent heavenward? Such a concept of God could only have been invented by some arrogant male, someone like her brother Ufegeat, who had already founded an abbey for the specific purpose of praying for his immortal soul. He seemed convinced that this would allow him to disobey all ten commandments while on earth yet still find a place reserved for him in God’s heavenly kingdom.
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