As they dined on roast boar and a pottage of pulses and vegetables, Elgiva studied the æthelings. They had been sorely tested since last they came within this hall, yet the misfortunes of war, and even the death of their young brother, seemed to have left them unscathed.
Athelstan still wore an air of command, far more striking now than before. Even her father and brothers seemed somehow diminished in his presence, as if they instinctively recognized a quality of leadership in him beyond what his position as heir to the crown conferred upon him.
Edmund, she decided, was much the same. He had always been a changeling child, far darker than his brothers and with no look of Æthelred about him at all. His skin was still swarthy and his beard dark.
It was Ecbert who had changed the most, but she was not certain that it augured improvement. Sporting a fair, somewhat scrawny beard, he had lost his quick smile and puppylike enthusiasm. There was a sober thoughtfulness in his mien now that she found worrisome. She still harbored thoughts of wedding him, and he would suit her purposes far better if he did not think too much.
Athelstan’s voice, responding to some question of her father’s, drew her attention.
“It was Swein Forkbeard who led the attack on Norwich and Thetford,” he said. “He could not resist the lure of the mints and their silver.”
“Think you he knew of the mints?” her father asked casually, his attention focused on his meat.
“Consider the towns that Forkbeard has targeted,” Athelstan said. “Norwich and Thetford this year, Exeter, Dorchester, Wilton, and Salisbury last summer. All of them sites of my father’s mints. Forkbeard knew exactly which towns would yield the most treasure. The question is, how did he know?”
He sat back in his chair and looked at the ealdorman. Elgiva, watching the two men, felt a subtle change take place in the mood at the table. She saw that a pulse had begun to beat at her father’s temple, and she knew from long experience what it signified—tension, distress, anger. Danger. Next to her Wulf stiffened, his gaze flashing back and forth from his father to Athelstan. The knuckles of the hand that held his small knife were white.
“Forkbeard,” her father said slowly, his eyes focused on Athelstan now, “is a hero to many in the Danelaw. They are more Danish than English there, and Forkbeard’s exploits are woven into most of the tales sung in every hall north of the Humber. Many men living in Northumbria, or even Mercia, would gladly supply him with any information that he might desire about English silver. Your father’s new archbishop at Jorvik will have his hands full coaxing that brood, most of them Viking spawn, into submission to the king’s laws.”
“The archbishop will need assistance with that, to be sure.” It was Ecbert who spoke now, measuring out his words slowly, as if he chose them with great care. “You, as Northumbria’s ealdorman, will be in an excellent position to offer him aid. Has not your son, Ufegeat, been hard at work there, making himself well-known among the landholders, and even the freemen? Can we assume that he is laying the foundation for their allegiance to Wessex in the event that Forkbeard should ever challenge my father for his crown?”
Elgiva’s heart began to race. She had not been able to learn what her brother was about in Jorvik. Yet again she wondered what schemes her father and brothers were weaving.
“My son is there by my orders, yes,” her father said lightly, “testing the wind, you might say. When the moment comes”—his eyes flashed at Athelstan—“assuming that it does come, we will need to know whom we can trust. Some men, I fear, may need persuading.”
Athelstan had kept his gaze fixed on the ealdorman, watching for some sign of discomposure, but he could see nothing. The man was as impossible to read as the blank face of a boulder. Ecbert had played his part well, his words suggesting links between the family of Ælfhelm and the Northumbrian men sympathetic to Forkbeard, and still the old man had given nothing away.
It was possible that there were no links, but Athelstan had heard and seen enough during his stay in Jorvik to make him doubt that. All three of them had sensed it—that sudden silence fraught with menace whenever they walked into a gathering of men. The silence would last only moments, but the menace lingered like a foul smell.
Jorvik was a city rife with secrets, filled with men of uncertain allegiance. It was the likeliest place to find men who might aid Forkbeard, as someone had certainly aided him when he abducted the queen last summer. Men in the north were restive, and this man, Ælfhelm, bore a grudge against the king, however expertly he might conceal it. Ælfhelm had gambled that the king would wed his daughter, an alliance that would increase his own prestige and influence. When the king wed Emma instead, and then took Elgiva to his bed, Ælfhelm made no protest. He must have imagined that he would be rewarded for his generosity, but the king had done the unthinkable. He had taken the girl and given nothing in return. She was granted no status as either wife or concubine, and Ælfhelm’s gamble had brought him nothing.
How Archbishop Wulfstan must have raged at the king for his dallying with Elgiva! Athelstan wished he could have been there to hear it. He had thought little about it at the time. In Jorvik, though, the archbishop had warned him that Ælfhelm might seek revenge, and had explained why. Athelstan had realized only then the depth of the enmity between his father and this man, and slowly events had begun to fall into place.
Someone in the queen’s company at Exeter had kept Forkbeard informed about the queen’s movements. That could have been Elgiva, or her handmaid Groa. Someone supplied the Danish king and his retainers with horses, had hidden them and fed them and housed them. Ælfhelm had two sons who could have arranged such matters while their father remained at court. Many things pointed to Ælfhelm and his family as supporters of Forkbeard, yet Athelstan could not accuse any of them of disloyalty to the king, nor could he point to any specific act of treachery. He could prove nothing. He would have to wait.
He nodded to Ælfhelm.
“You are correct that some men will need to be reminded of their oaths to their rightful king. It would be wise, I think, to assist you in that by forging stronger ties between the House of Wessex and the Ealdorman of Northumbria. I will speak to my father.”
He purposely gave no hint as to how such ties might be forged. Let Ælfhelm think there may be a marriage offer forthcoming. If nothing else, it might prevent him from taking any precipitous step in Forkbeard’s direction. Dangling the prospect of a marriage alliance might buy them a little time. He might even convince his father to make some conciliatory gesture toward Ælfhelm.
He turned to Elgiva and smiled.
“I hope that you will accompany your father to the Christmas witan in Oxfordshire next month,” he said, loud enough that Ælfhelm could hear him.
She turned to him with an uncertain smile.
“I hope for it as well,” she said, “for I have been kept under lock and key here all summer because of the Danish threat. Still, I do not know if my father will give me leave to go.”
There was only a hint of dissatisfaction in the gentle lilt of her voice, and she wore the demure expression of a submissive daughter. Athelstan had to stifle a laugh, for Elgiva was as submissive as a wildcat, and every man at the table knew it.
“Then my brothers and I must hope,” he said, “that your father will brighten our Yule feast by bringing his most beautiful treasure with him.”
The girl cast a glance at her father, and Athelstan, too, looked at the ealdorman to see if he would respond. But Ælfhelm’s visage remained as dark and unreadable as the sea.
Chapter Thirty-eight
December 1004
Headington, Oxfordshire
Elgiva urged her horse onto the bridge that spanned the River Cherwell, following in her brother’s wake as he led their little company toward the king’s palace. The riders had to cross the narrow bridge one at a time, and as Elgiva reached th
e middle of the span, her nervous mount tossed its head and sidled, frightened by the rain-swollen torrent raging below. As she struggled to keep the horse from crashing against the wooden railing, Elgiva could see the water surging hungrily toward the wooden planks beneath her, and she cursed the horse under her breath. Finally, she made it to the other side, and then she cursed her brother, who merely grinned and told her to get used to it.
He was right, she thought. She would have to cross this wretched bridge every time she wished to attend a royal function at the palace. It was her father’s fault for settling her in a convent instead of in the apartments of the queen, where she rightly belonged. Emma would surely have welcomed her if her father had asked, but he made no secret of the fact that he wanted Elgiva where he could keep close watch on her. Apparently he would prefer to see her drown as she tried to cross the river rather than trust her alone within the walls of Æthelred’s palace.
This morning she had heard her father order her escort, composed of Wulf and five of her father’s men, to take her directly to the queen’s chamber door and to stay with her at all times. It would have been humiliating if she had thought for one moment that they could actually do it. The men, however, would not be welcome in the apartments of the pregnant queen. And later, when the feasting and the drinking in the great hall began, it would be easy to lose herself amid the crowd. As for the serving girl who plodded along behind her on a donkey, Elgiva had plied her with enough silver to keep the girl mindful of where her allegiance lay.
For a time they rode along the river, and it was not long before her cloak was spattered with mud. Jesu, she was sick of the mud. It was inescapable, more persistent even than the rain that, for the moment, had dwindled into mist. When she left Northampton six days ago she had imagined that as she traveled south she would find the sun, or at least a break in the rainfall. But they had seen nothing but foul weather, and the journey had taken two days longer than it should have. It had been a wet summer and fall, and it seemed that all of England had turned to bog.
She peered sideways through the drizzle at her father’s man, Alric, who now rode beside her. A year had passed since she had last seen him, on that morning in Exeter when he had deposited her so abruptly at the fortress gate. He had trimmed his hair and shaved off his beard so that he looked completely different—and not nearly as handsome as before. His attitude toward her today was different as well. He had greeted her with a cool solicitude that was nothing like the smoldering attentions he had lavished upon her in Devonshire. Even now he would not meet her gaze, and she wondered what horrible punishment her father had promised to any man who cast a lecherous eye upon his daughter.
She looked past Alric to the masses of colorful tents and pavilions that had sprouted like mushrooms upon the meadows of the royal estate. They would house the retinues of the men who served on the king’s council, and she saw her father’s banner set amidst a flock of tents on the higher ground, a choice spot set aside for the retainers of the most powerful of the king’s ealdormen.
The muddy road curved and began to slope upward, and as their company neared the palace a pack of yelping dogs shot through the gate, followed by a troop of horsemen who gave little heed to the folk scurrying out of the way. She recognized the king, his saffron-colored cloak flying behind him, and she picked out Athelstan’s bright head, as well as her father’s grizzled mane. She glanced at Wulf and saw him scowl at the riders. No doubt he would prefer the excitement of the hunt to the boredom of waiting for her beside the queen’s chamber door.
Good. He deserved to be as unhappy with his lot as she was. When he helped her from her horse a few moments later, she gave him a sour look, and he returned it in kind. Then she climbed the steps to the queen’s apartments.
To her surprise, the men-at-arms at the queen’s door wore the king’s badge on their tunics. Then she remembered that Emma’s Norman retinue had been numbered among the dead in the rubble of Exeter. The queen would have to depend completely on English folk now for servants and retainers. How loyal, Elgiva wondered, would they be to their Norman mistress?
Shedding her male escorts along with her muddy cloak, she stepped through the screens passage into the queen’s apartment and breathed a sigh of relief. For the past year she had been under constant surveillance by her father or her brothers or their spies. There were probably spies here as well, but at least they would not be tattling to her father.
She peered around the room, which was brightly lit by banks of candles as well as by the blazing central fire that sent smoke wafting upward, where it lay like a mantle among the roof timbers. The place was even more mobbed than she had expected. The king’s summons to the witan had drawn all the powerful nobles of the kingdom to Headington, and all their wives and daughters must be housed in these apartments. All but the Lady Elgiva of Northampton, she thought bitterly.
The women stood in knots of five or six, some with toddlers clinging to their skirts, some whose servants were burdened with babies. Their chatter was subdued, except for the squeals that emanated from a group of young girls seated on the floor near the door where the king’s three daughters held their own little court.
Gesturing to her maid to walk ahead and clear her passage, Elgiva threaded her way through the chamber. She passed a long embroidery frame that had been set up along one wall, where a number of women plied their needles, some industriously, others with the kind of weary boredom that Elgiva herself suffered whenever she undertook such a task.
She knew some of them, but many faces were unfamiliar—an indication of how far out of touch she was with the lines of power near the throne. She would have to remedy that.
She found the queen at last, in a far corner of the apartment, where a tall screen protected her from the heat of the fire and provided a modicum of privacy. She almost did not recognize Emma at first. Her face, which Elgiva had always considered too thin and pale, had grown round, and was flushed, she presumed, from the closeness of the room. There were blue crescents of fatigue beneath her eyes, and the smile that she turned on Elgiva looked strained.
Elgiva had little experience with pregnant women, but if it meant looking like this—bloated and haggard—she did not think that she would like it at all. The queen half-reclined on a bed, her body bolstered by cushions and pillows. Margot sat on the floor in front of her mistress, with Emma’s feet in her lap, rubbing briskly at the queen’s swollen ankles and calves. Nearby Wymarc sat in a low chair suckling a babe.
She regarded the babe with mute astonishment. She had not heard that Wymarc had borne a child, or that she was even wed. Who was the father then? Could it possibly be one of the æthelings? She was still contemplating this as she bent her knee before the queen.
“Welcome, Elgiva,” Emma said. “I have longed for some time to see you, if only to prove to myself that you survived the terrible events at Exeter last year with no hurt.” She paused as Hilde, who had appeared from behind another screen, offered Elgiva a cup of wine.
“I thank you, my lady,” Elgiva said, accepting the cup and taking the stool next to Emma.
“We all suffered some hurt, though,” Emma continued, her eyes exploring Elgiva’s face, “because of those we lost at the hands of the Danes. Groa’s death must have caused you great pain, I think. We have mourned her, and we still remember her daily in our prayers.”
Elgiva could think of no reply to this. Groa, who did not believe in Emma’s God, would hardly have thanked Emma for her prayers. Indeed, she had had little love for the queen, and had not balked at murdering Emma’s unborn child. Would the queen still offer prayers for the old woman’s soul if she knew that?
She schooled her face to an expression of grief, but she did not grieve for Groa. She was still too furious with her for allowing herself to be run down by those two bastard Danes.
“It is true that we have all suffered loss,” she murmured. “Even th
e king lost a child who was dear to him.” She twitched her face into earnestness. “But you, my lady, will give him another son very soon, I pray. I see that many have come to be witness to your joy and assist you at the birth.” She gazed expectantly at Emma. This was the moment when the queen should invite her to attend that birth.
Emma smiled. “I fear that I am surrounded by more ladies than will likely be of any use,” she said, “and far more than I desire. The king has given me leave to seek a private retreat for my confinement, and I will do so soon.”
“Indeed.” Elgiva felt her bid for a place at the queen’s side slipping through her fingers. “But will it not be unwise for you to travel, my lady?” she asked. “I have been on the road myself for some days, and every mile of the journey was fraught with peril. The roads are mired in mud, and all the rivers are swollen. Just crossing the Cherwell today seemed a great risk. Surely, in your condition, to travel any distance would be far too great a danger, both for you and the child.”
And how strange was this, that she should be urging her greatest enemy to have a care for her safety!
Emma tilted her head ever so slightly, as if contemplating the suggestion. “You may be right,” she said. “I will consider your advice.” She rearranged herself on her bed, the topic of her confinement obviously closed. “I fear, Elgiva, that you have missed the opening sessions of the witan, but the great welcome feast is set for tomorrow, and you are in good time for that. And since you are here with us now, you must dine with us today.”
“It would be my pleasure, I thank you.” She had not been dismissed, exactly, but it was not the invitation that she had looked for. She hid her disappointment behind her wine cup, eyeing Emma as the queen leaned back against her cushions and closed her eyes.
Emma may have been living in penury a year ago, but her status had obviously improved now that she was ripe with the king’s child. Her wrists were covered with golden bangles, and the golden necklace at her throat was studded with garnets. The embroidery of her gown, too, was gold, and the hems of her sleeves were liberally sprinkled with jewels. The shoes that Elgiva could see peeking out from beneath the bed were lined with fur. Add to that the number of women she was so generously accommodating within her apartments, and Emma’s wealth appeared to be great indeed.
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