Had he learned, at so early an age, the trick of hiding his thoughts and feelings? It had taken her far, far longer.
Once more she wanted to weep.
“Do you remember me, Edward?” she asked.
“You are the queen,” he said promptly in a high, clear voice. It was a politic answer, and very correct.
It was not at all what she had hoped for.
She drew him to a bench and for some time they spoke together—she asking probing questions, he providing answers that revealed very little. Eventually a servant came to fetch him, to ready him for the evening meal, where he was to sit at the king’s right hand. When he left her, Edward bowed once more, as stiff and formal as when he first entered the chamber.
She watched him walk away, his back straight and his chin high.
That much, at least, he had from her, although he could not know it. He had been her son once, her darling, her world. Who, she wondered, her heart riddled with grief, did he belong to now?
December 1010
Near Saltford, Oxfordshire
“I think we must have taken the wrong turning at the last crossroads,” Edmund said. “We should have been there by now, surely. Are you certain that you know where you’re leading us?”
Athelstan merely grunted. He knew where he was going. He glanced behind, at the half-dozen men and packhorses that traveled with them, assured himself that there were no laggards, then looked to the path again.
A thin blanket of snow covered the ground, pale in the winter light. The sky was the color of dirty slate, and a late-afternoon breeze bit forehead and cheek, sharp as a blade. Until now Edmund had voiced no complaint nor said much of anything at all. Athelstan had been grateful for his brother’s companionable silence, but he knew that Edmund’s patience would not last much longer. Nevertheless, they rode for some distance before Edmund spoke again.
“Athelstan, we must be lost. You cannot possibly know where this stone circle is. It’s been—what—nine years since we were there? And we had a guide then, not to mention the minor point that we came at it from a completely different direction.”
“We’re on the right path,” Athelstan replied, using the tone of command that brooked no argument.
For a time Edmund relapsed into a brooding silence, and then, as Athelstan had expected, he put it all together. “You’ve been to see her since then, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “For Christ’s sake, why? You said she was a fraud. Why go back to consult her again? And why are we going now?”
Why. He had never spoken to anyone about what the seeress had said to him on that first occasion, or ever breathed aloud the even more ominous prediction she had made when he saw her next—that he and his brothers would walk a bitter road.
He had tried to convince himself that she was a fraud, that a man would be a fool to take her dire prophecies seriously.
But three of his brothers were dead, and for the past year, not just the sons of Æthelred but everyone in England had been walking a bitter road. After the slaughter at Ringmere had destroyed much of Ulfkytel’s army and sent those left alive running for their lives, the Danes had sorted themselves, as far as he had been able to make out, into five groups, some horsed, some on foot. They fed on food stolen from the mouths of English children. They forced English men to watch while their wives, sisters, and daughters were raped. They stole whatever loot they could grab, and depending on the mood of the shipmen and their leaders, they torched what they could not carry. From East Anglia to the Fosse Way, and from the Thames Valley to the Fenlands, for seven months England had been brutalized and burnt.
Through it all he had been ordered to stay within the walls of London, under threat of banishment should he disobey. He had railed against this punishment, but Edmund had called him a fool.
“What do you imagine that you would do even if you could quit London?” Edmund had demanded. He had gestured to Athelstan’s bandaged left leg, slashed and broken at Ringmere. “It will be months before you can walk or ride a horse. You are no use to anyone until that’s healed, so stop complaining that you’re being ill used.”
Once his leg had healed it had taken weeks to regain the strength necessary to ride or to stand and wield a sword properly. During that time he had chafed at Edmund’s reports of English levies defeated in one shire after another. The Viking decision to split their force had made it impossible to anticipate where they might strike next and so raise a defense. For England, the summer had been one long string of disasters. The kingdom was verging on ruin, walking the bitter road that the seeress had foretold. Even he did not know what he expected to gain by consulting her again. She had never spoken him good fortune, and he feared that whatever she might tell him today would be no better. Yet he felt compelled to find her, to look once more upon the face of one of the Old Ones as she stood there in the midst of the stones. Perhaps he just wanted reassurance—that if her ancient race still survived in this land, his own people were not doomed.
Edmund, obviously irritated by the long silence, broke it with a string of curses. Then he demanded, “How many times have you spoken to the cunning woman?”
Athelstan hesitated, for once he admitted to it, Edmund would want to know more.
“This will be the fourth time,” he said at last. “And no, I will not tell you what she said to me.”
Edmund cursed again, but there were no further questions.
In the distance ahead of them Athelstan could now make out the sentinel stone on the ridge, its shaft pale against the sky’s lurid darkness. When they drew up beside it he searched the hollow for the black-clad figure. The stones were there, jagged and dark against the snow. But this time, for the first time, she was not waiting for him.
He frowned, searching the stones and then looking carefully among the oaks that surrounded the ring. Where her small cottage had once stood—a thing of wattle, daub, and thatch—there was only a jagged mound of snow beneath trees whose bare limbs were blackened and burnt.
“The Danes must have struck here, too,” Edmund observed. “Christ, how did they find it? This is the middle of nowhere. Athelstan, if she truly had the Sight, she would have seen what was coming and fled. We’re wasting our time, and it will be nightfall before long. I would like to sleep in a bed tonight, even if it is only in a raw, half-built hall, which is all that we’re likely to find after this summer’s horrors.”
But Athelstan was only half listening, already urging his horse down among the oaks that surrounded the standing stones, making his way toward that mound that he could see on the other side. He hoped that Edmund was right and that, unlike so many others, she had taken warning and managed to slip away. She would have had little enough to carry with her, certainly nothing that a shipload of Danish raiders might covet.
When he reached the blackened trees he dismounted and strode over to the mounded snow. Some of it had already melted away, so that he could see some of the collapsed, charred timbers beneath. Edmund joined him, and together they dragged away what was left of the snow-limned posts that had anchored the small building.
When he saw what they’d uncovered, he recoiled, cursing, although he’d been half expecting it. It was similar, he imagined, to what must lie among the countless other ruins that had littered England this past summer—dead bodies with staring eyes, partially burned corpses, figures so mutilated that none could tell if the dead were men or women.
Here the fire had not burned hot enough to turn bones to ash. He was staring at charred, decaying flesh, and holding his breath against the stench of it. She lay where she had fallen, crushed probably when the roof beam had collapsed on top of her.
Had they locked her in and set the place ablaze? Jesu, he hoped it had not been like that.
“Now what?” Edmund asked, his face grim. “We cannot bury her. The ground is too hard.”
“We have to do something,�
� Athelstan said. From what he could see of the corpse, some burrowing creature had already found her. They couldn’t leave her like this. “She lived among the stones. Surely we can find enough of them here to cover her.”
He gestured to his men, and they walked a wide circuit, gathering the largest rocks that they could carry, using them to build a cairn over her where she lay, there beneath the oaks.
And all the time the last words that she had spoken to him rang and rang in his ears until he thought that they would make him mad.
I see fire, she had said, and smoke. There is never anything else.
Was it her death she had foretold with those words? Or was it England’s?
December 1010
Kingsholme, Gloucestershire
When the æthlings arrived at the royal estate two days later it was near dark. Athelstan, with Edmund right behind him, strode into the chamber assigned to them and found Edwig comfortably settled on one of the beds. His brother had a wall of cushions at his back, one booted foot atop the linens and, as usual, an ale cup in his hand.
“Drinking alone?” Athelstan snapped, irritated at the very sight of Edwig. His brother had become Eadric’s devoted shadow, and it was difficult to tolerate him anywhere, much less share quarters with him.
He crossed the room to sit gingerly on the edge of a bed and stretch out his legs. He was tired, his wound still pained him, and he did not think he had the patience to deal with a besotted Edwig.
“No one to drink with,” Edwig said, slurring his words so that Athelstan wondered just how drunk he was. “The king has called a privy meeting, and I was not invited.”
Edmund had gone straight to the glowing brazier, but now he regarded Edwig with interest. “A meeting about what?”
“Peace terms,” Edwig snorted. “Archbishop Ælfheah’s just come from Kent, where he’s been meeting with that bastard Thorkell.” He waved his cup—a salute to the Danes, Athelstan supposed. “The king has gathered his closest advisers to his bosom so that Ælfheah can tell them just how much peace is going to cost us.”
“So what are you doing here?” Athelstan demanded. Drunk or not, Edwig was an ætheling and he should be with the king.
“Banished.” Edwig grinned. “Caught with my breecs down in the chamber assigned to the archbishop.”
Edmund’s face registered disbelief and disgust all at once. “Christ, you’re a fool! What were you doing? Swiving some serving wench in the archbishop’s bed?”
“She was willing,” Edwig protested, “and the chamber was empty! How was I to know Ælfheah would barge in and nearly faint at the sight of my sweet, bare ass?” He gave a high-pitched, drunken laugh.
Edmund looked at Athelstan. “Shall I hit him? If he’s unconscious, we won’t have to listen to him.”
“From the look of him, he’ll be unconscious soon enough. And I want to hear what he knows about that peace proposal. Edwig! What were the terms that the king offered to Thorkell?”
“Usual rotten terms.” Edwig appeared suddenly more sober. “Twenty-four thousand pounds of silver and provisions through the winter. They’re to take themselves off when the sea lanes open and vow never to come back.”
“It will take more than twenty-four thousand pounds to accomplish that,” Athelstan spat. “Thorkell has us on our knees, and he knows it.”
“But that is a huge sum!” Edmund protested.
“He will demand more, though,” Athelstan said, “and the king will be forced to give it.”
Edwig sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
“Athelstan is probably right,” he said, swaying slightly. “But be of good cheer. There is some welcome news. Our northern friend Morcar has found the Lady Elgiva.”
“The devil he has,” Edmund said. “Where is she?”
Edwig raised his cup in another salute. “Dead and buried in a churchyard in Lindsey.”
Athelstan caught Edmund’s eye, and he suspected they both had the same thought. Had Elgiva been murdered by order of the king?
“How did she die?” Athelstan asked.
“Pestilence. God’s hand at work,” Edwig said, mockingly pious as he sketched the sign of the cross. “She went to her cousin—what was her name? Siferth’s wife? The tall one with the big eyes?”
“Aldyth,” Edmund murmured. “Her name is Aldyth.”
Edwig snapped his fingers. “Well done! So, Elgiva visited her cousin Aldyth last winter, took ill, and died along with half of the household. The cousin kept it to herself all this time, and Siferth only recently dragged it out of her. He seems to have taken sick now, so it was Morcar who brought the news. Too bad for Siferth, because the king rewarded his brother with a pretty piece of land up in the Five Boroughs.”
“As if he needed any more land,” Edmund observed. “He and Siferth own nearly everything up there as it is. Now all the lands that once belonged to Elgiva will fall to them as well.”
“Lands that they will have to pay taxes on,” Athelstan reminded him. His father was adept at exchanging land for silver and gold—one of his few talents.
“And taxes there will be,” Edwig agreed, getting up unsteadily to pour himself more ale. “The king will likely scrape every penny he can get from every single English hide to make the Danes clear off.”
“His thegns will howl at that,” Edmund said.
Edwig laughed again. “Yes, they will, miserable cowards! Wait until you see the king’s hall. It’s like a kennel full of snarling dogs. They yip at each other about the best way to stop the Danish bastards, but not a one is willing to lift his sword against them. The king curses them, curses the devil, even curses God—although not when there are priests about.” He took a long pull from his cup, spilling ale as he staggered back to the bed. “He cursed poor Ulfkytel for losing that battle up at Ringmere. Swore that our sister was wasted on an East Anglian who didn’t have the sense to die when he lost his battle; even threatened to take Ælfa back and give her to someone else.” He waved his cup again. “Your coming, my lords, will be most welcome, I promise you—fresh meat for all the hounds to fall upon. Be prepared to lose a little blood.”
Athelstan scowled and got to his feet. He’d heard all he wanted to hear from Edwig.
“Thank you for the warning,” he said, and turned to Edmund. “I think it’s time we let the king and his dogs know that we’re here.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
December 1010
Kingsholme, Gloucestershire
Æthelred studied the man who stood before him—archbishop, royal emissary, longtime counselor. He looked from Ælfheah’s weary face to the golden cross at his breast and the crosier that he leaned upon, with its inlay of silver and gilt.
Sweet Christ! If the man had flaunted such ornaments when he met with Thorkell, the Danes would have doubled their tribute demands and thought themselves cheated even then.
Uneasy, he shifted his gaze from the archbishop to the others who were gathered in the hall—his kin and closest advisers. Edward, the heir, was seated below the dais on his right, arrayed in gold that rivaled the archbishop’s gilding—Edyth’s work, he guessed, and foolish.
Opposite Edward, on the left side of the hall, Emma was clad in a dark gown more fitting to the occasion, her only concession to ornament a silvery veil that hid her bright hair. His daughters sat beside her, their faces drawn and their eyes avoiding his. He had wed them to powerful men; likely they feared some impending clash between their husbands and their father, as well they might. But he had lavished gold on them all their lives, and if they wished to prove their gratitude, they would know on which side their loyalties should lie.
He swung his gaze to the æthelings’ bench. The two eldest were still missing. Was their absence a blessing, he wondered, or a portent of trouble yet to come?
The prayers beseeching wisdom had been said, and now he felt all the
eyes in the hall settle on him, looking to him to signal the archbishop to speak. He hesitated, searching Ælfheah’s face for some hint of the message that he carried from the enemy. He could read nothing, and as he nodded to Ælfheah to begin, he saw Athelstan and Edmund enter the hall and take their places.
So, they had come at last, his disobedient sons. He wanted to ask what business had detained them, but Ælfheah’s voice, filling the air with the force of a sermon, claimed his attention.
“Thorkell has quartered himself for the winter at Rochester, my lord,” Ælfheah said, “much to the dismay of the townsfolk. I met with him there and presented your terms to him. Your offer of winter provision has been accepted, and in order to honor your pledge and ease the hardships imposed on the citizens of Rochester, I have already directed that stores from my own lands be sent to him.”
Æthelred nodded approval. Had the archbishop not given the shipmen the food, they would likely have stolen it in any case from somewhere else. Still, it would take far more than what Ælfheah could provide to feed thousands of men for the next three months. More would have to be sent—a heavy burden on the southern shires, and they would not welcome it.
“Will they take the tribute we offered,” he demanded, “and leave England?”
This was what he was impatient to know, but something in the archbishop’s eyes warned him that he was not going to like what he was about to hear.
“The Danes have rejected the twenty-four thousand pounds of silver I offered them, and have demanded instead the sum of forty-eight thousand pounds.”
The throbbing of blood in his ears all but drowned out the cries of outrage that filled the chamber.
Eadric’s voice came to him through the din. “They are mad!”
“Not mad,” he murmured when he was able to speak. “They are devils.”
They meant to break him, meant to incite rebellion. They had already pillaged most of the northern shires, burned crops, stolen from poor and wealthy alike. The burden of tribute, like that of provision, must fall upon Wessex, and Wessex had been hard hit the summer before.
The Price of Blood Page 33
