The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  I must leave you soon, my Emma, she had said when Emma had been called to her side. I have seen more than sixty winters, child, and I am weary.

  Emma had insisted that Margot would soon be well, and she had been cheered when her old nurse had nodded and smiled in agreement. Margot had kept to her bed, asking for pillows so that she could sit up and take some part in the household activities going on about her. Every day, though, she had seemed to grow somehow smaller, and Emma had read the truth in the lines graven on her face. Yesterday morning, Christmas Day, she had asked that Godiva and Æthelflæd be brought to her bedside. After blessing them for the journey they were about to take, she had complained of being tired. Emma had ordered a servant to carry her to this chamber so that she could sleep, but once here, Margot had begged to speak with a priest and they had been closeted together for some time.

  After that, whatever strength had been supporting the old woman had seemed to desert her, and now Emma guessed that it was only a matter of time before her spirit ebbed slowly away.

  As she held the familiar hand, the ancient eyes flickered open and Margot smiled.

  “I am glad that you are with me,” Margot whispered in the Frankish that had been her first language.

  Emma replied in the same tongue, “I will never leave you.”

  December 1009

  London

  Athelstan paced while Archbishop Ælfheah delivered instructions from the king. He did not like what he was hearing, but he could hardly blame the messenger; Ælfheah was merely doing as he was bid. When the archbishop was finished, Athelstan turned to him and studied the face of this man who had been his adviser for as long as he could remember, and who had often interceded with the king on his behalf.

  “So I am to remain here in London? I am forbidden to leave the city for any reason?” he queried, hoping that he had somehow heard it wrong.

  They were in the great hall of the London palace and Ælfheah, seated at one of the trestle tables, gestured toward the sealed parchment that lay in front of him.

  “No doubt there is more written there—the penalties if you should disobey. I have not read it.”

  “Jesu! He still mistrusts me. He is like to exile me next, or brand me an outlaw!”

  “Then you must prove him wrong by obeying him to the letter,” Ælfheah urged. “And as you are in charge of London’s defense, his command that you remain here strikes me as neither unreasonable nor unusual.”

  But the king had made him a prisoner of London! He was forbidden from setting foot outside the city, even if he was needed elsewhere—and that was exactly the situation he was facing now.

  “Archbishop.” He rested his hands on the table, bringing his face close to Ælfheah’s to impress upon him the import of what he was about to say. “A large host of Danes has left their camp at Benfleet. Half of their force remains behind to guard their ships, but the rest of the army has gone north. Five days ago they burned Hertford. I do not know where they will strike next, but there is nothing to prevent them from following Ermine Street northward to lay waste to every town and abbey between here and Stamford.”

  The archbishop’s lean face had paled as Athelstan spoke. “Another winter campaign?”

  Athelstan straightened, wishing that he had better news to give. “They are not content, apparently, to wait for spring before taking up arms again,” he said. “Foul weather does not seem to deter them, and mark me, Archbishop, they do not fear us. Why should they? We’ve made no effort to stop them.”

  “Have you sent word to the king?”

  “I have, but my message will not have reached him yet, and I cannot wait another week for his reply. The men of London are already gathering arms and supplies, and as soon as we are ready I intend to lead them north. At the very least we can harry any raiding parties who might try to break away from the main force. With any luck we might even reduce their numbers, perhaps even find a likely place to bring them to battle. You can see why I chafe at this order from the king that would keep me penned up here inside the city.”

  “Let Edmund lead the force that you would send, then. If you ignore the king’s order—”

  “Is it the king’s order?” he snarled. “Or is it Eadric’s?”

  Ælfheah grimaced. “Both, I expect.”

  “I thought as much. So even you, Archbishop, cannot wean the king from the counsel of his pet vulture.”

  Ælfheah’s expression was grave, and he looked suddenly weary. That was no wonder, Athelstan thought. Asking the archbishop to separate the king from his beloved ealdorman was asking much indeed. Even the pious Ælfheah could not perform a miracle.

  “I have tried to reason with the king,” Ælfheah declared. “I have counseled him against placing his trust in Eadric, but I cannot reach him. Your father is sore afraid of something—I know not what. Some nameless dread is eating away at him.”

  “He sees visions,” Athelstan said. He had once seen his father’s face—a mask of horror—when the king was in the grip of a waking nightmare. “Portents of danger he calls them. If they have driven him to place his trust in a man like Eadric, then they must be from the devil himself.” He began to pace again, his mind so filled with misgiving that he could not keep still.

  “You must not judge your father so harshly,” Ælfheah reprimanded him. “He carries the burden of a kingdom upon his shoulders, and the Danes are an ongoing scourge upon this land that greatly troubles him.”

  “It is my father who is the scourge upon England.” He glanced at Ælfheah, saw the apprehension in the man’s eyes, and sighed. “Have no fear, Archbishop,” he said. “Despite what my father believes, I do not intend to relieve him of the burden of his crown.” Although, he thought, it may one day come to that. He scowled and tried to massage some of the tension from his neck. “By Christ, though, I would like to rid us of Ealdorman Eadric. My father, my brother Edwig, my sister Edyth—they are all of them besotted with the man.” He should have listened to Wulfnoth, should have made some move against Eadric before the debacle at Sandwich. Instead Wulfnoth was in exile and Eadric’s influence and power had only increased.

  “Edyth is bound to him in wedlock,” Ælfheah protested. “She has no choice but to take his part.”

  Athelstan frowned. He did not like being reminded that his sister was wed to a man he so despised. “It will go hard for her when my father dies,” he murmured, almost to himself, “and she will be forced to choose between husband and brother.” When the throne was his, Eadric would be exiled, and Edyth could stay or go—he did not care. Then he faced Ælfheah again, for now that they were speaking of Edyth he could pose the questions he had wanted to ask from the moment the archbishop had arrived. “Did you see my sister at Headington on your journey here?” The more important question he offered as an afterthought. “Did you see the queen?”

  “I did, for the king entrusted me with messages for Emma. To speak to her on his behalf, to give her pledges of his affection. Both your sister and the queen are to join him at Worcester. When I left Headington five days ago, preparations for the move were already under way, although—”

  He stopped short, and Athelstan turned to see what had distracted him. Edmund had come into the hall and was striding purposefully toward them, his face grim.

  “Forgive me,” Edmund said, “but my news is urgent. The Danes have raided St. Albans and are making for Berkhamsted.”

  “Berkhamsted!” Athelstan stared at Edmund in disbelief. “They are headed west, then?”

  “West,” Edmund said flatly. “Our men captured one of their scouts and managed to drag some information out of him. He may have been lying, but I do not think so.” He paused and frowned, as if reluctant to share what may be misinformation.

  Athelstan, impatient, snapped, “What, then?”

  “Thorkell intends to torch Oxford, to avenge the Danish folk who were massacred th
ere on St. Brice’s Day.”

  “God have mercy,” Ælfheah whispered. “That burning was seven years ago. Does the vengeance never end?”

  “Not in this world, Archbishop,” Edmund answered. “No injury is ever forgiven—no outrage forgotten.”

  “So if they’re making for Oxford,” Athelstan said, “they’ll likely go through Aylesbury.”

  Edmund nodded. “And from there to Headington, where there is a bridge across the Cherwell.”

  But Athelstan was already thinking about what needed doing, and now he turned to Ælfheah. “Edyth and the queen, you say, are on their way to Worcester?”

  “Edyth, certainly, intended to leave Headington quite soon,” Ælfheah replied, but now his face had gone gray. “One of the queen’s Norman attendants, though, fell ill just before I set out for London. You know the woman—the healer, Margot. Emma would not leave her, and she planned to remain with a small household at Headington.”

  Athelstan cursed. That put the queen and her people directly in the path of the Danish army.

  He called for messengers to bid his war leaders join them, for they must be consulted and new plans laid out. Some hours later, after debating the best course of action to take, the men sought their beds at last. As Athelstan stalked from the hall he snatched up the letter that Ælfheah had delivered from the king. He would read it later, if only to discover what his punishment would be for disobeying his father’s command to remain in London.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  December 1009

  Headington, Oxfordshire

  It was late afternoon, and Emma guessed that outside the palace walls the winter-bright day must be fading to dusk. In this chamber, though, all daylight had been banished—the shutters pulled tight and only a few candles burning in the darkness, as if to remind those present of the greater darkness that awaited them all. It comforted her that of the few folk remaining within the palisade, most of those who could do so had gathered here, not at her bidding, but out of respect for the woman who had been healer and counselor to her household for so many years.

  Only once before had she kept a deathbed vigil, watching alone at the side of the twelve-year-old son of the king. Her sorrow then had been for the child who would not see manhood, for the promise of youth that would never be fulfilled. This time was different. This time her grief was all for herself.

  The familiar, beloved face of her old nurse beneath its white cap was more pale even than the pillows that cushioned her head. Margot lay in a deep slumber, yet even so Emma half expected her to sit up and scold her for wearing only one shawl and for covering her hair with such a thin headrail.

  I was in a hurry, Margot, she would have excused herself, and you were not there to find me something more to the purpose.

  Margot’s gray hair was just as Emma had often seen it in the early dawn—neatly braided in two long plaits that lay atop the bedclothes. But her forehead bore the cross of ashes, and her hands the linen gloves that marked the dying. She had been sleeping just so most of the day; now, though, each breath had become a labor. The voice that had advised and sometimes admonished Emma would soon be stilled forever, and already she missed that wise counsel.

  To her right, at the foot of the bed, the priest read psalms from a little book by the light of candles placed on either side of him. Emma wondered if Margot could hear him, and if she would understand prayers of comfort murmured in Latin. She wished that the priest would be silent so that she could whisper to Margot in the Frankish tongue, but death had its rituals that must be honored. At such a time as this, the presiding priest ruled, even in the halls of the king.

  As she watched the rise and fall of Margot’s breast, the intervals between each shuddering breath lengthening every time, it occurred to her that although she and the others here had come to pray and to witness, in the end death was a private thing, a journey that could only be made alone. In that, it was not unlike the task of giving birth.

  Memories of the midwife and healer for whom childbirth had been the central miracle of life flowed through her mind like water in a stream. It had been Margot who had comforted and reassured her when her first babe had miscarried in a wash of blood, Margot who had eased her fear that there might never be another child. When she had labored for so many hours to bring Edward into the world, Margot had alternately cajoled and bullied her, forbidding her to despair, using her voice and even her body to support her when the pain seemed too great to bear. Margot had coaxed Godiva into the world, and but a few weeks ago she had placed the squalling, red-faced Æthelflæd into Edyth’s arms. She had been a miracle worker in their midst, and Emma knew that she would feel this loss more than any other she had yet faced.

  She closed her eyes to plead for acceptance of God’s will, dimly aware that the chamber door behind her had opened and closed. As she tried to find the words to beg for the spiritual aid she sought, a man’s voice whispered urgently in her ear.

  “Our scouts are reporting that there are horsemen approaching from the east, my lady. We cannot say yet who they are, but they may be outriders from the Danish army. Unless they pass us by and make straight for Oxford, they will be here within the hour.”

  A current of alarm swept through her, and in an anguished instant the remembered sights and smells of carnage assailed her. What was she to do now? A message had come three days ago warning that the Danes were driving west from Berkhamsted; but the Chiltern Hills and days of hard walking through snow and sludge lay between there and here. She had not reckoned that the Danish army could cover that ground so quickly. She had counted on a week’s grace at least, and so had not instructed her people to flee.

  Could she have made so grievous an error, and must all of them pay for it?

  She drew her shawl closer about her, assailed by a sudden, painful memory. Years before she had ignored the advice of someone far wiser than she was and had ventured beyond the walled city of Exeter with an escort that was too small to keep her safe. They’d been surprised by an enemy force in a narrow lane from which there was no escape, and every man with her had been butchered. If God had forgiven her for that, she had not forgiven herself, and she had vowed never again to be responsible for such horror. But sweet Virgin, she could not see how she could have chosen, this time, to do anything other than remain at Margot’s side.

  “The city has been warned?” she asked. Many in Oxford had fled, but there were some, like her, who had pressing reasons to stay behind, or who simply had nowhere to go.

  “We’ve sent riders, yes.”

  “And the palace guard?”

  “The archers are on the palisade.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be done. Thank you for bringing me word.”

  She heard the door open and shut again, but as she began once more to pray for acceptance, for courage, and, most of all, for wisdom, she was weighing her options. Should she alert her small household to the danger bearing down on them? What would it accomplish? If the army was in sight, it was already too late to try to escape. Better to face danger here, within the palisade with armed men atop the walls, than to be caught in the open, running.

  Lost in her anxiety about what the next hour might bring, she was abruptly brought back to the present, for to her astonishment, Margot opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Madame,” Margot said.

  Emma leaned forward to touch her arm, and then realized with a start that Margot’s eyes were not looking to hers but were gazing on the empty space beside her. Seeing what? she wondered. Or whom?

  “Madame,” Margot said again, on a long sigh this time as her eyes closed once more.

  The priest had gone silent, and Emma held her breath, waiting for Margot’s next inhalation—but it did not come. The priest began the familiar Latin of the Pater Noster and other voices, too, took up the prayer. She did not add her voice to theirs, for she felt too sharp a sense of
loss to speak. It seemed to her that she needed Margot now more than ever, when the world was about to collapse about them, and there was likely to be injury and pain, and deaths far less peaceful than this one.

  She watched as Margot’s gentle face, lifeless now, seemed to fall under a shadow, and she felt her throat knot with a grief that she was afraid she hadn’t the strength to overcome. She closed her eyes against her fear, and when she opened them again she saw a thing that sent a prickling up her spine. A white mist rose from the body and hung above it briefly before fading into the darkness.

  Mute with wonder, she looked to the others in the room for some sign that they had seen what she had. Every head, though, was bowed in prayer. She alone had witnessed that final departure—Margot’s soul released from its earthly vessel, for she was certain that was what it was. She tried to find some comfort in this mark of God’s grace, but she could not. Her sense of abandonment pressed upon her like a cross that she was forced, against her will, to bear.

  She knelt in silence for a little longer, praying once more for the strength to confront whatever trials lay ahead, but the sound of shouting filtered through the walls and again her prayer was cut short. She could tarry here no longer. Her duty now was to the living, to help them face, and if possible evade, approaching danger.

  As she stood and turned to leave the chamber she heard heavy footfalls in the outer passage, and the door was thrust open. She tensed as armed men spilled into the chamber. Behind her there was a rustling of leather and wool as the mourners stood up, reverence and solemnity shattered. Someone began to whimper, and there were mingled cries of fear and protest.

  In front of her another man pushed his way through the door—a man whose cloak was trimmed with fur and fastened at the shoulder with a gold clasp. His gaze swept past her, and she saw him take in every detail—men and women, priest and candles, the bed that had now become Margot’s bier.