Eadric Streona grinned as his hawksman lured the bird in.
“She’s the finest north of the Thames River!” he declared with immense pride. “I reckon there are few to beat her to a kill.”
Affably, Alfhelm agreed but privately ridiculed the boasting. Why, he had several birds in his mews at York to put this overweight crow to shame. There was an unwritten rule of hunting etiquette, however: never praise a bird in the mews over one in the hand. Alfhelm had learned that lesson when he had been a young man with barely a scratch of stubble to his chin. Unless certain beyond doubt of something, keep your mouth shut—as he prudently would with Forkbeard’s tempting offer. No one knew of it, save Alfhelm and King Swein, not even Godegifa—tell her, his shrew of a wife, and the world would hear of it within four and twenty hours!
The King of Denmark had his eye cast on England for his own, had a fancy for carving an empire. Already he held Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, although adding England would not be easy. He would need a safe harbour and the security of not needing to watch his back. An alliance of royal marriage, Swein’s second son, Cnut, with Alfhelm’s daughter, was a sure way to receive all he required. Only one other knew of the proposed alliance: Swein Forkbeard’s messenger, a man trusted for his discretion and loyalty. Through him, Alfhelm had sent acceptance of the offer, with condition of a suitable dower, his trust for secrecy being left with God and the blind belief that all poor men had only the wit to serve the one Lord.
Streona’s invitation for Ealdorman Alfhelm to join him for a few days’ hunting at his Shrewsbury manor had initially caused alarm. Did Æthelred know? How had he heard? Who had told? For several nights Alfhelm had not slept, sweat soaking the linen sheets, bruising blackening under his tired eyes. By day he could not concentrate, could not think straight…God help him, what if Æthelred knew?
He delayed his answer to the invitation as long as might be possible, but if he were to decline, could that not also alert suspicion? Cause questions to be asked? Relations between Alfhelm and Æthelred had fallen to an implacable hostility, and Godegifa urged him to accept, insisting this was a gesture of reconciliation from the King. He should go to Shrewsbury, she insisted, while she, with the rest of the family, would proceed to the Christmas court and await him there.
“We have been quiet along the Welsh borders these last few months,” Streona was saying as he acknowledged his hawksman, who, with the bird now hooded, returned the creature to his master’s gloved fist. Stroking the soft feathers of her breast, Streona added, “It can be dangerous here at Shrewsbury, for it is the only crossing of the Severn River for many miles.” He took hold of the hawk’s jessies more firmly as she began to flap her wings, twining the leather laces through his fingers. “The Welsh princes are too engrossed in their interfamily squabbles at present. With good fortune, they’ll hack each other’s heads off and save us the bother.”
He turned to Alfhelm, said, with a bland, neutral expression, “As will the Danes with Swein Forkbeard. I hear there are rumblings of unrest along his borders also? Æthelred is thinking the man has bitten off a lump of ambition too large to swallow.”
Alfhelm could not give a clipped penny for the problems of the Welsh borders, nor their interest in the squalid town of Shrewsbury. It boasted nothing more than a few peasants’ huts, an apology for a market, and an insignificant monastery of elderly and deaf monks. Let the damned Welsh have the place! He pricked his ears at Streona’s comment on Swein Forkbeard, however. Was this a test? A sounding of how the river ran?
“I know nothing of Forkbeard’s troubles,” Alfhelm stated with bald indifference. “As long as he stays away from Deira, I have no interest in him at all.” He shifted in his saddle, spread one hand, and smiled. “I am concerned that my backside is blistered, my toes are frozen, and my stomach is growling for food, though!”
Streona laughed, dug in his spurs, and urged his horse into a canter. “Then we shall return to my manor; I have a fine Italian wine I want you to sample.”
The track was narrow and winding, slippery in places, steep in others. Streona led the way, at ease in these woods, for he had hunted here since childhood with his brothers and father. When the track widened, he slowed his horse to a walk, lengthened his reins to allow the animal to lower its head, gain its breath. Steam rose from its thick bay coat, its neck wet with sweat. Beckoning for Alfhelm to ride beside him, Streona deliberately dropped a few yards behind the two servants riding ahead.
“The King, Alfhelm, has asked me to intervene between you and him. He is aggrieved that there have been some unfortunate misunderstandings.”
“Not on my part! It is Æthelred who wishes to throw honours at Bernicia instead of Deira.”
“With Waltheof dead, he could not leave Bernicia without an Ealdorman. Surely you see that? And it seemed fitting for Æthelred to give Uhtred one of his elder daughters as wife.”
They rounded a bend, and for a few strides the trees thinned, allowing a view of the river and the town. The low winter sun illuminated the calm water into a shimmer of sparkling light and reflected off the golden cross that topped Shrewsbury’s abbey. The ash woods were silent, apart from the thud of the horses’ hooves on the grass track and the slight ruffle of a breeze whispering through the bare winter branches.
As if he were remarking on the weather or the condition of his horse, Streona added, “Nor, my Lord Alfhelm, can Æthelred have you agreeing to an alliance of marriage for your daughter to Forkbeard’s son.”
A blackbird, with a sudden, shrilled alarm and a flutter of wings, hurtled from a thicket, causing Streona’s stallion to shy, almost unseating his rider into the undergrowth. The dogs were running loose, their tongues lolling, tails constantly waving. The two bitches were ahead, noses down, following a scent; the dog stopped to cock his leg against a fallen, fungi-covered tree, pricked his ears at a sudden noise, and plunged off to the left, disappearing into the tangle of a hazel thicket. He barked once, then yelped, was silent.
His eyes closed, Alfhelm silently thanked God for the diversion.
“Curse that dog,” Streona snapped. Halting, he drew the short-shafted hunting spear from its holder, dismounted. “I have never once been out without him causing inconvenience.” He called to the men ahead, who came trotting back. “You two, see if you can get round the side and flush him out. I will wager the animal has got himself stuck down a badger’s hole again.” Striding forward, he slashed at the undergrowth, forging a path through, cursing as brambles caught at his cloak.
Alfhelm also dismounted, Streona waving his hand to direct him to the left.
“I cannot see him,” Alfhelm said, peering into the wild undergrowth. “No, wait, what’s that?” Something was thrusting forward, moving fast and with much noise.
A boar, head down, squealing in its sudden anger, shot out from beneath the entwined hazel, its small piggy eyes instantly seeing the men, its snout wrinkling at their unpleasant odour. Eadric Streona and Alfhelm reacted together, both aware of the danger a boar could bring to an unwary man on foot. Those tusks, stained with what could only be the dog’s blood, as effective as any blade. Eadric, his reaction quick and accurate, hurled the hunting spear, the point burrowing deep into its target.
Intending to reach his horse and his own spear, Alfhelm stumbled, fell forward, sprawling to the ground with a muffled groan.
The boar, already veering away from the men, scuttled across the track and disappeared. Streona stood beside the body of Ealdorman Alfhelm. “It is not wise to make bargains with Vikings,” he said as, with a twisting wrench, he pulled his spear from between the dead man’s shoulder blades. “Nor to trust a messenger in my pay.”
A stroke of good fortune, the dog running off like that and disturbing a boar. Æthelred would be most pleased with the innocent account of a tragic accident. Most pleased. Enough, Streona hoped, to be rewarded, as Uhtred had been, with his own Ealdormanry and the hand of a royal daughter as wife.
33
D
ecember 1006—Cookham, Berkshire
Cold-blooded murder,” Ufgeat, Alfhelm’s eldest son, hissed, his eyes wide and blazing with rage. “It was planned murder!”
Wulfheah, younger by one year, clutched at his brother’s arm, halting it from reaching for a dagger. His face was as blanched as Ufgeat’s, his shock as deep, but his discretion more controlled.
At the women’s side of the hall, Lady Godegifa was slumped to the floor, her distressed sobbing penetrating as high as the smoke-wreathed roof beams. Her daughter, Ælfgifu, knelt at her side, unsure what to do, her own tears coursing down her cheeks. The hall was in uproar, the women clustered beside Godegifa, the men on their feet, talking, shouting, waving their arms, all as unsure as the twelve-year-old girl. Only Æthelred and the man standing before him, Eadric Streona, appeared unruffled.
“That is a grave accusation,” Æthelred said, his back straight, his hands gripping the scrolled arms of his chair. “Especially since my shire reeve has explained his account with succinct honesty.”
Streona spread his hands, palms uppermost, held low and placating. “I was aiming at the boar; it came from nowhere. Your father stepped in the path of my spear…You must believe there was nothing I could do, Ufgeat. Nothing.”
“You lie!” Ufgeat shrugged out of his fifteen-year-old brother’s grip, took a step towards Streona. “I can read the lie on your face as plain as I can read the text in God’s Bible. You lie!”
Raising his hands, Streona turned to the King. “I have explained the situation, have told openly of this tragic, most horrible accident. If there is anything I can do to help the widow Godegifa and her children, then pray tell me of it, and I will undertake your wish. More than this I cannot do. It was an accident. An accident.”
The men had come forward to gather before the dais, their feasting half completed, forgotten, the food abandoned to congeal and grow cold. Few of them, the Lords and nobles of England summoned to this Christmas court, held any regard for Streona, but to accuse him of murder without sustainable evidence? Even if half of them did believe the accusation to be the truth, they could not condone the challenge.
Ufgeat was having none of it. “Papa was an experienced huntsman; he would never have stepped towards a charging boar. What do you think he was? A fool?”
Dropping his hands to his sides, Streona shook his head. This had to be handled carefully. “No, boy, your father was an efficient and loyal Ealdorman. But nevertheless he…”
Ufgeat had heard enough. The dagger was somehow in his hand, and he was leaping forward, plunging it down towards the elder man’s chest.
Streona twisted away, his mouth contorted with panic and horror. The King’s cnights were running forward, grabbing hold of the boy, knocking the dagger from his hand, and dragging his arms behind his back. To draw a blade in the presence of the King was a crime carrying the punishment of death.
Streona was unharmed; the blade had been turned and had not penetrated his tunic, but the sickness rose in his throat and piddle dripped from his bladder. He was an arrogant and ambitious man, and he possessed not a mouldering grain of courage.
“Grief is exercising your tongue and your sense, boy,” Æthelred roared, coming to his feet, his finger raised in warning. “Both I and my reeve of Shrop-Shire shall accept your spoken apology for this foolishness and think no more of it.” He paused, waiting for a response.
Ufgeat, his arms pinioned behind his back, scowled, said nothing.
“I am waiting,” Æthelred snapped. “Your father’s death was an accident; admit to that, and I shall be lenient about your indiscretion.”
His nose bleeding, his breath coming in gasps, Ufgeat struggled against the men holding him. He raised his head high, stared directly at Æthelred. “My papa was convinced there was a reason for Streona inviting him to hunt at Shrewsbury. Now we know what that reason was. He was lured there to meet his death!”
The gasp of disbelief at Ufgeat’s signing of his own order of death filled the hall as if uttered by one single voice.
Æthelred ambled slowly to the edge of the dais, descended the four wooden steps, and stooped to pick up Ufgeat’s dropped blade. He lifted it, weighing its balance, before pointing its sharpened tip at the lad’s throat, nicking the skin so that blood trickled down the white flesh. Quietly said, “If I were you, boy, I would retract that accusation and plead for my forgiveness and mercy.”
Everyone was silent, breath held, no movement. The wind rustled through the reed thatch of the roof; the hearth-fire crackled and spat a dance of flaring yellow sparks as a log shifted. A dog scratched vigorously at his belly for fleas, his leg drubbing like a drum roll on the wooden floor.
Ufgeat’s gaze wandered over the crowd, taking in the faces of Æthelred’s Ealdormen and his appointed reeves, men like Uhtred; Ulfkell of East Anglia; Goddwin of Lindsey; Leofwine of the shires of Hereford, Gloucester, and Worcester. Men whose positions of authority were as insecure to the whims and fancies of a King as Alfhelm’s had been. To a man, they sneered at Streona, condemning him for his bootlicking. Well, now was the chance to be rid of him, to stand up for the right and justice of English law! The boy glanced at the stares of the waiting, immobile men and women, saw in every one of their embarrassed, cowardly eyes that no one was going to contest Streona’s story. Not one of them was concerned for the truth. He turned back towards Æthelred. Spat full into his face.
As if a storm wind had suddenly thrown open the doors, men surged forward, shouting, protesting, their hands going to grasp his shoulders, to beat at his head, his back, their feet kicking at him. A trestle table was knocked over, the food tumbling to the floor, the dogs snarling and snapping at each other to devour the easy pickings, competing with a flurry of squawking chickens.
Fear tightening in her chest, as if someone had bound a cord around her heart and was pulling it tight, Godegifa blundered to her feet and staggered forward, half running, half falling, pushing her way through the clamour of angry men, ignoring their raised fists, their snarls of rage. She reached the dais, fell to her knees. “I beg you, my son is distraught. He knows not what he says! Please, sir, I am now widowed; do not take my son from me also!”
Wiping the spittle from his cheek, Æthelred regarded her without a trace of compassion. He despised the wife as much as he had the husband. Without her scheming, without her nagging and whining, Alfhelm might have been more obedient and manageable. Fool man, allowing himself to be so manipulated! Æthelred ignored the woman, whose tears were coursing down her cheeks, turned to the younger brother, to Wulfheah.
“And you? Do you accept your father’s death was accidental?”
Godegifa shambled forward on her knees, her hands reaching out to clutch at the hem of Æthelred’s robe. “Of course it was an accident. My husband always was an impetuous man and a blind fool!” Turning her head to Wulfheah, her eyes and mouth taut with fear, she hissed, “Say something, boy! Tell him Eadric Streona was not to blame!”
Wulfheah was scared. His eyes darted from his mother to his brother. What to do, what to say?
“If you speak against justice for our father, Wulfheah, then your soul shall rot in Hell. As shall his, for his murder shall be unavenged.”
Wulfheah wanted to shrivel away and hide. He was a shy lad who had always relied on his elder brother’s guidance and protection. Ufgeat was strong and clever, could do anything, knew everything. He swallowed. Ufgeat was never wrong.
“Streona lies,” he said, his voice small, cracking as it rose in frightened pitch.
***
Emma was not attending the Christmas Day feasting that twenty-fifth day of December, for she was busy about a woman’s duty in her own chamber. Labour had progressed slowly, the contractions swelling as the afternoon had drifted through the evening and into the star-pocked silence of a frosted night. The horse trough froze, as did the stream and buckets of water. With the dawn of Saint Stephen’s Day, tree branches were coated in a white gown of hoar frost and spiders�
� webs glistened as if coated with a sprinkling of jewels.
The boy was born as a weak sun reluctantly lifted itself over the eastern horizon; the birthing not as quick as had been his sister’s, but not as difficult as his elder brother’s. Emma bore down on the birthing stool, sweat wetting her face and body, her under-shift clinging, sodden, to her breasts and swollen belly as she struggled through that last half-hour of pain.
Away from the hall, across the white-rimed courtyard, other screams broke the sharp-tainted air of the crisp winter stillness. Piteous sounds that begged for mercy and a release from agony.
There were those who said that the sons of Alfhelm of Deira had escaped lightly not to be put to a hideous and protracted death, that Æthelred had forgiven an indiscretion caused by grief.
Unable to do anything to save her sons, Godegifa huddled outside the closed door of Emma’s chamber, praying to God that the child should come soon, and that the Queen could somehow intervene on her behalf and stop the nightmare that had so suddenly become her world. But it was all too late, all too hopeless. The child, a son, was born, and Æthelred came to take him up in his arms and name him Alfred. Godegifa was turned away.
It was done anyway; there was nothing Emma could have done to save Alfhelm’s sons. Lenient, they all said, and merciful, to merely to take their eyes, not their lives.
The Forever Queen Page 17
