The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  “The Danes that we are dealing with are thugs,” he growled at last. “Their actions do not deserve the kind of courtesy you would offer them.”

  “The Danes hold Canterbury and two hundred of your subjects! Surely their welfare is what is at stake here.”

  “And who would you have me send, lady, to lick the boot heels of their captors? That is what it amounts to, is it not?”

  “Yes, my lord. I fear you are right in that, and it is to Eadric’s credit that he is willing to do it. But surely he deserves the support of men of equal status. Another ealdorman at the least, and although you do not wish to send a churchman, I beg you to reconsider. Most of the men and women imprisoned in Canterbury are God’s servants. Surely they will be in need of His consolation during this time of trial. Did none of your bishops offer to go?”

  He barked a humorless laugh. “All of my counselors now in London offered to go—two bishops, two ealdormen, and three of my sons. Their esteem for Ælfheah is admirable.” His tone was bitter.

  How he must resent this show of support for the archbishop, she thought. He must wonder if they would respond in the same way had he been the one captured.

  “Do not begrudge them an opportunity to be of service, my lord,” she said, “to you as well as to Ælfheah. Send your ablest men to barter for his release. For if you do not, your ministers may fear that, should they find themselves in similar peril, you will do even less for them. Their trust in you will be strained.”

  For a time he said nothing, and she waited in tense silence, aware that he was weighing her words against his own fears and resentments and suspicions.

  “You are like the rest of them,” he said at last. “You have a fondness for the archbishop.”

  He set down his cup and rubbed his face with his hands. She could see how exhausted he was and she wondered how long it had been since he’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. Not in all the years that she had been wed to him, she would hazard.

  “You have a fondness for the archbishop as well, my lord,” she said. “I think that, more than anything, you are angry with him because he was among those taken captive.”

  “I am angry that I must haggle with these Danish vermin! And yes, I blame Ælfheah for not finding some way to escape before the city fell. Instead he tried to negotiate with the devils. He’s a damned fool.” He expelled a long breath. “But I would not have it said that I made light of Canterbury’s ordeal. I will send another ealdorman to accompany Eadric. Now that I think on it, as most of the ransom payment will be drawn from ecclesiastical coffers, the bishop of London should participate as well. Canterbury, though, is in ruins, and a loss not just to the Church, but to all England; for that I will always blame Ælfheah.”

  The next day Emma watched from the steps of the king’s hall as Eadric departed for Canterbury in the company of Ealdorman Ælfric and Bishop Ælfhun. Seven days went by, and there was no word from them, nor any lessening of the frightening rumors that leaked into Emma’s apartments from the streets of London. One of the worst claims to reach her was that the archbishop had been allowed to die of thirst. She tried to dismiss it as groundless, yet she knew that such stories often had some basis in truth, and there had been talk, as well, of pestilence in Canterbury. Could Ælfheah have succumbed to disease?

  She had no answer, and there was another worry on her mind now, too, for she was convinced that she was with child. It should have been a time of rejoicing, but the grief and uncertainty surrounding the fate of the Canterbury hostages weighed upon her, and she feared for her unborn babe. She had miscarried in the past, and Margot was not here to help her if it should happen again.

  Godiva was her frequent companion now, and on the eighth day after the delegation had left for Canterbury they sought refuge out of doors from the uneasiness within. The day was fine, likely one of the last of the season, Emma guessed. The fruit trees in the palace orchard, already denuded of apples and plums, were ablaze with autumn color, and in spite of the sunshine, a chilly breeze hinted of cold weather to come.

  Emma sat on a blanket with Godiva in her lap, Wymarc at her side and a number of her women nearby. When her daughter held up a small hand, the prelude to a favorite game, Emma laughed and obediently clasped it. She mimicked nibbling the tiny fingers, eliciting squeals of delight from Godiva. A moment later, though, her daughter began a new game, scrambling away to gather an armful of gold and russet leaves that she distributed among Emma’s household.

  Watching her two-year-old walk stolidly away from her, bestowing each leaf as if it were a missive of great import, Emma called to mind the meaning of Godiva’s name—God’s gift. It was a reminder that a mother could not cling to her children, for what God bestowed He might take away again all too soon. It was the pattern of life, and she had already tasted its bitterness when Edward had been taken from her. Remembering this, she yearned to clasp Godiva to her breast, to hold time and the world and even God at bay.

  A movement near the gate drew her eyes in that direction, and when she saw Ealdorman Ælfric approaching she pushed herself to her feet and hurried to meet him. Some of her attendants made to follow at first, but she stopped them with a gesture, and they fell away like a scattering of autumn leaves.

  “What news do you bring from Canterbury?” she asked. Hungry for whatever he could tell her she led him to a bench and sat down beside him.

  “It is heavy news, my lady,” he said, taking her hand in his big paw. “Eadric and the bishop are making their reports to the king even now, and I was given leave to bring word to you.”

  He paused then, and she tensed as a dozen fears assailed her. She waited for him to tell her that Archbishop Ælfheah was dead or so gravely ill that he could not live.

  But Ælfric fixed his gaze upon Godiva, and Emma suspected that his thoughts just now were all of his granddaughter Hilde, whose death at the hands of the Danes was still a fresh wound. Unwilling to press him, she studied his face with growing concern as she marked the changes that grief had wrought upon him.

  She had never been certain of his age, knowing only that he was one of the king’s elder counselors. In these last months, though, ever since Hilde had died, Ælfric’s anguish seemed to have withered him. His face was grown so thin that spare flesh hung in folds beneath his eyes. His hair and beard, once the color of steel, had gone pure white.

  Finally, her eagerness to hear what heavy news he would impart forced her to break the silence.

  “Is Ælfheah dead then?” She watched his face, dreading the answer he would give.

  He looked as if startled out of a daze. “No, he is not dead, although many in Canterbury were killed or savaged.” He shook his head. “The city and the cathedral are in ruins, and I doubt that we will ever know how many lives were lost. The archbishop, though, is far too valuable to kill, not while our enemies have a hope of claiming a ransom for him. They are demanding three thousand pounds for Ælfheah alone, although there are scores of other hostages as well. When the Danes have finished with Canterbury, it will likely be wrung dry of everything of value.”

  “All because they blamed Ælfheah for the death of this man Hemming?”

  Ælfric nodded. “They claim that Ælfheah poisoned Hemming when they were at table together. The archbishop has protested his innocence, of course, but they do not believe him, or at least they say that they do not.”

  “They must let him go, though, when the ransom is paid,” she said. “What is being done to gather it? I will contribute. I have jewels that will go some way toward meeting the Danish demand.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “There will be no ransom paid,” he said. “Ælfheah has forbidden it.”

  She stared at him, thunderstruck.

  “He cannot forbid it,” she protested. “He must be set free. The kingdom has need of him. Dear God, the king has need of him!”

  “Emma, he is th
e archbishop of Canterbury, so yes, he can forbid the payment of any ransom.”

  “But why? It is unthinkable. Someone must speak to him and—”

  “I did speak to him. I tried to reason with him, but he is determined that he will not submit to the Danish demand. He insists that if the ransom is paid it is the same as admitting guilt in the matter of Hemming’s death. He will not allow it. And as to the price on his head, he says that Canterbury has paid and paid again. He will not ask his people to sacrifice any more.”

  “But if others pay, and not the people of Canterbury! Or if the king should withhold the last of the tribute until Ælfheah is set free—”

  “If the king should do that, the Danes will strike yet another city, and then another, and there will be no end to it. Æthelred cannot interfere in this matter! It is between the archbishop and the Danes, do you not see that? The truth is”—and here he took another deep breath—“I do not believe that Ælfheah wants to be released.”

  Once more his words astonished her. “Did he tell you that?”

  “In a fashion, he did. My lady, you know Ælfheah, and you know that he sees God’s hand in everything. He sees this imprisonment as an opportunity to bring God’s Word to the enemy army, and perhaps even to negotiate a lasting peace with them. He wants it, Emma. He embraces it.”

  She felt numb. Yes, she could see that Ælfheah would try to minister to the Danes. And she could even grant that the king must allow it because he had no choice.

  But while Ælfheah was preaching to their enemies, it meant that one less voice would be offering wise counsel to Æthelred. It was a heavy price to pay, and for what? What if Ælfheah’s efforts among the Danes were unsuccessful? What if they grew restive again in the coming months until the last of the gafol was delivered? Whatever the Danes may claim, the attack upon Canterbury seemed to her a violation of the truce agreement that they had made with Æthelred.

  “What assurance do we have that they will not break the peace again?”

  “None,” he replied. He took hold of her hands and held them, regarding her with an expression so filled with concern and affection that it brought tears to her eyes. “That is why I wish to raise a matter with you that has been preying on my mind for many weeks.”

  “My lord,” she said, “we are friends of old. You have but to speak, and you know that I will listen.” It must, she thought, have to do with the king, and she hoped that Ælfric had some useful counsel to offer.

  “It was at my urging, my lady, that your brother agreed to send you here to England to wed Æthelred. I feel as responsible for your safety as if you were my own child. No,” he said, as she began to protest, “hear me out, I beg you. England is far too treacherous a place now for you and your children. The Danish army that is camped in Kent is lawless. It is a mindless beast with no head and no heart, and we cannot foresee what atrocity it may commit next. I beg you to take refuge with your brother in Normandy, at least until the gafol has been paid and this menace has left our kingdom. And do it swiftly, before the winter sets in and the sea passage becomes treacherous.”

  She was silent, turning his words over and over in her mind. Whenever she allowed herself to dwell on the horrors committed at Canterbury, her instinct was to gather her children and flee. But that was the instinct of a mother, and she must think first as a queen.

  She had been urged to flee before this—to go where she would be safe. But she was bound to the king and to this kingdom by solemn vows, by the demands of duty, even by political expediency. What message would it send to the people of England who were struggling against invasion, famine, and disease if she were to abandon them?

  She clasped Ælfric’s hands tightly, knowing that his plea came from his regard for her. Nevertheless, she would not be moved by it.

  “I thank you, Ælfric, for your counsel. But you know that I cannot leave England. My duty is here.” She glanced away from him to Godiva, who was dancing in a pile of leaves. “And the king has already said that he will not allow my children to depart.”

  A silence hung between them for a moment, and then he said, “Not even your daughter?”

  She looked at him then, and the expression on his face was one of grief at the pain that his question must bring.

  She cast her mind back more than a year, recalling Æthelred’s words that had seemed such a threat at the time. The girl can go to Normandy. She is of little use. She had repeated that conversation to Ælfric, seeking his aid in keeping her daughter at her side.

  She had not forgotten the king’s words, merely buried them. Was it the queen in her that had done that, or the mother? And what kind of mother would allow her daughter to remain at risk when she had the means to send her to safety?

  “My lady,” Ælfric said, his voice insistent, “in the streets of Canterbury I saw children who had been torn from their parents’ arms and kept in filthy hovels to await ransom. I saw the bodies of children who had died in burning buildings or had been trampled by—”

  “Stop!” she cried. “You have said enough, my lord. I need hear no more.”

  She stood up and walked a little away from him, her mind in turmoil. She had not yet told the king that she was pregnant, but when she did, he would likely take Godiva from her, as he had taken Edward, and place her where it suited him. Far better to send the child to Normandy where she would not only be safe, but where she would hear her mother spoken of with affection instead of with poisonous lies. Yet any trip across the Narrow Sea would be treacherous, and as Ælfric had pointed out, the fair weather would not last many days longer.

  “How are we to get her away?” she asked, her gaze still focused on her daughter. “There are still enemy ships blocking the entrance to the Thames.” That seemed to be the only difficulty. Æthelred, she knew, would not hinder Godiva’s departure.

  Ælfric had stood when she did, and now he came to her side.

  “They have moored their vessels along the Thames’s southern shore,” he said. “If Godiva takes ship at Benfleet she’ll not be hindered, and she can reach Bruges in a day if the weather is fair. From there it will be easy sailing along the coast to Fécamp.”

  She made no reply to this. Her own voyage along the whale road from Fécamp to Canterbury as Æthelred’s promised bride had been anything but easy. Nevertheless, she could see no other choice.

  She reached for his hand.

  “Will you accompany her?” she asked him. “Will you make certain that she arrives at my brother’s court safely?”

  “You need not even ask, my lady. Of course I will do it.”

  Comforted by this, she beckoned Wymarc. There was much to do to prepare for Godiva’s journey.

  The day of leave-taking came in early October. With her daughter’s hand clasped in hers, Emma approached the two vessels that would carry Godiva and her attendants to Normandy. It was midmorning on the feast day of Guardian Angels, and although the breeze off the water was cold, the sky was clear, empty but for the seabirds that wheeled overhead.

  Only Godiva and Ælfric still remained ashore, and Emma knew that she could not delay their departure any longer. She bent down beside her daughter and gathered her, bundled as she was in layers of linen and wool, into her arms for a final embrace. She had explained this parting to Godiva the night before, but even so she could not be sure how much of it the child understood. After whispering a blessing, she gave her a final kiss, then watched as Ælfric hoisted her into his arms and carried her up the boarding plank. He placed Godiva in the arms of her nurse as the plank was hauled over the gunwale and stowed.

  Left on shore with Wymarc at her side, Emma saw her daughter reach a hand toward her, and she felt tears knot her throat. She whispered, “I do not think that I can keep from weeping.”

  “It will be harder for her, Emma, if she sees you cry,” Wymarc said.

  She nodded. Wymarc was right, she must
not cry. For a few moments longer, as the ship struck out from shore, she watched until her vision began to blur. Then, turning away, she took Wymarc’s arm and began walking back toward the village of Benfleet, her mouth clenched tight against her grief.

  Godiva’s sudden, piercing wail rose above the rush of the breeze and the cries of the gulls. It seemed to wrap itself around her heart and wrench from her the tears that she had tried so hard to contain. But she did not stop walking, and although the temptation to do so was strong, she did not look back.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  November 1011

  Redmere, Holderness

  Elgiva stood beside her bed and lifted her hands to admire the sinuous vines worked in silver and gold along the borders of her wide sleeves. She could not even begin to imagine the worth of this gown, woven of deep-blue godwebbe, with its gilding at sleeves and neck and hem. Swein Forkbeard was a generous gift giver, she would grant him that.

  He’d sent other gifts as well—the silver fillet at her brow, three of the bejeweled chains around her neck, the golden girdle and jeweled knife at her waist, and even the leather shoes that she wore—her rewards for giving Cnut a son at last.

  Well deserved, as far as she was concerned, and just in time. At today’s gathering of Cnut’s supporters, she would appear before them not as merely the Lady Elgiva of Northampton, heiress to vast lands in the Five Boroughs and mistress of the hall, but as the gorgeously attired bride of a Danish prince.

  Tyra held out a small coffer containing golden ornaments, and as Elgiva selected several bracelets to wear, Catla entered the chamber, trailed by the usual flotsam of children in her wake. Elgiva waited for her cry of admiration at the sight of the gown, but Catla didn’t even glance at her. She was too busy fussing over Cnut’s son, lying asleep in his nurse’s arms.

  Stupid woman, Elgiva thought. All babies look the same.

  Except, she corrected herself, Swein Cnutson was far handsomer than any of the creatures that Catla had produced.