The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  Emma closed her eyes, filled with a desperate yearning to see her daughter, to have not just her sons but all three of her children with her. She had never meant for Godiva to be away for long, and the enemy army that had been the cause of her daughter’s exile would be gone by day’s end. In a few months the good sailing weather would arrive. Perhaps then, by midsummer at the latest, Godiva could come home.

  She heard the chamber door creak open, and she looked up and saw Wymarc’s son, Robert, there. He was a sturdy boy of eight now, and his face had the same genial good looks as Hugh, the father he had never met. He glanced toward the circle of women, found his mother, and offered her a quick smile; then, clearly on a mission of some import, he hurried to kneel at Emma’s feet.

  She was glad to see him, for glimpses of Robert and Edward, dwelling in the household of Ealdorman Eadric during this London sojourn, had been infrequent. Just now Robert’s face was flushed and he was breathing hard. Something had brought him here at a run.

  “I see that you have news,” she said, setting her mother’s letter aside and giving him her full attention. “What is it?”

  “A dragon ship has put in at the hythe nearest the eastern wall, my lady. The shipmen have asked to speak with you or with Lord Athelstan, but Ealdorman Eadric has forbidden them to come any further into the city.” He paused to grab a breath. “He purposes to meet them at All Hallows Church. Edward is to go with him.”

  She frowned.

  “Did Eadric send you to me?” she asked.

  “Nay, lady. I came of my own accord. I thought that you would wish to know.”

  She nodded. Indeed, she did wish it; neither was she surprised that Eadric would withhold this news from her. In Æthelred’s absence the senior ealdorman had been granted a king’s authority, and it was no great leap for him to assume the power of a queen as well—especially a queen only newly released from childbed.

  A far more disturbing question was what the shipmen wanted.

  She flicked a glance at Father Martin, who was looking at her, his brow arched in speculation. “This may have to do with Archbishop Ælfheah,” he suggested. “Perhaps he has at last agreed to allow his ransom to be paid.”

  “Pray God you are right,” Emma replied. It still chafed her that when Eadric had supervised the final gafol payment to the Danes, he had not raised the issue of the archbishop. If there was to be some negotiation for his release now, she did not wish to leave it in Eadric’s careless hands.

  “Was anyone else summoned to attend this parley?” she asked. “Lord Athelstan and his brothers, or the bishop of London?”

  “He sent for no one, my lady. The other æthelings, as far as I know, are all without the city. Eadric and Edward, along with a company of men, are already in the yard preparing to set out for All Hallows.”

  So if she was to be a party to this parley, she must move quickly.

  She ordered hearth troops summoned and horses saddled, then slipped into the woolen cloak that a servant had fetched for her.

  “Wymarc, you will attend me. Father Martin, please send someone to alert Bishop Ælfhun. If this is about Ælfheah, he will want to be there.”

  As she and Wymarc hurried down the outer stairway that led to the yard, Wymarc observed, “Eadric will try to stop you from going with him, Emma. I hope you’re ready for an argument.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she replied. “Eadric has usurped far too much authority these past weeks. It’s time someone reminded him that he’s not the king.” As Wymarc had warned, Eadric was not well pleased to see her. He strode toward her with his hands raised to prevent her from joining the gathering company.

  “My lady,” he said smoothly, “the king would not wish you to involve yourself in—”

  “The king is not here, Lord Eadric,” she interrupted him. “I hope you will not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

  She made to brush past him, but he clasped her arm to halt her.

  “You are under my protection and you will do as I say.” There was a subtle threat in the silky voice, and the smile he turned on her was cold.

  She said nothing but looked pointedly at his hand clutching her arm.

  Two of her Norman hearth men drew near and, seeing them, Eadric loosed his hold on her and stepped aside with something approximating a bow.

  “Who is it that wishes to speak with me?” she asked, sweeping past him so that he was forced to fall into step behind her.

  “It is the Danish leader Thorkell,” he said, “along with whatever crew he’s brought with him—fifty shipmen if not more. They make a formidable force, and they are dangerous men.”

  “All men are dangerous, my lord,” she snapped. “What can you tell me of this Thorkell? You met him when you turned over the last of the gafol, I believe.”

  “He is as brutal and merciless as every other Dane, and near as powerful as King Swein. He is in league with Swein in some way, although he has denied it. I don’t believe him. Thorkell is a liar, and he knows just enough English to make his lies appear truth. It’s likely he intends to make some further demands of us and threaten more murder and pillage if we do not agree.”

  Demands for what? Would this Thorkell have come himself to barter for Ælfheah? Perhaps, if the stakes were high enough. The original price for the archbishop’s release had been three thousand pounds, but it was possible that now an even greater sum would be asked.

  Or, if Thorkell was as devious as Eadric claimed, he might have some darker purpose altogether, something that none of them could discern.

  Some darker purpose. Her mother’s voice slipped into her mind, and she was a child again, listening to a cautionary tale about the treachery of men. Your grandfather William did not discern his enemy’s darker purpose, so when the parley was requested he willingly agreed to it. By mutual consent they left their weapons outside the church; but some days before, his enemy had concealed a sword within, for he was shrewd as well as treacherous. The sword, alas, did its work, and with a single stroke William’s reign was ended.

  There were two lessons in that story: Always know your enemy’s intent, and never put your life into his hands.

  In going to meet Thorkell, was she ignoring the lessons that her grandfather had bought with his life?

  They had reached the horses, and a groom helped her mount while Eadric continued to protest and she continued to ignore him, her mind still on her grandfather’s fate. She glanced at Edward. He was tall for a lad of seven winters, and in the saddle he looked every bit the young warrior, right down to the knife that was sheathed at his belt. He wore a simple woolen tunic and mantle that were a far cry, thank heaven, from the brilliant raiment that Edyth, still at Windsor with the king, would have chosen for him. Despite his modest garments, though, he carried himself as one who knew very well that he was an ætheling and that it was his right to be a witness to this meeting.

  In spite of that, and remembering her grandfather’s fate, she was tempted to order him to remain behind.

  Edward returned her gaze with nothing more than a solemn nod, as if to remind her of the vast gulf that had grown between them. She could imagine how much wider that gulf would grow if she should forbid him to accompany her. He was a king’s son, and he would resent being treated like a child. In his place she would feel the same; so she said nothing to him about staying behind.

  Besides, she assured herself as she returned his nod, this parley could only be about Ælfheah. There would be no darker purpose, no weapons, and no danger.

  When they reached All Hallows, they found that a small crowd had gathered outside. It was Sunday, and they would be curious, Emma supposed, as to why armed men had surrounded their little stone church, keeping them from their worship.

  “How many of them are in there?” Eadric asked one of the guards at the door.

  “Only six, my lord,”
was the reply. “We’ve posted twice that number of our men inside, keeping watch.”

  “You’ve taken all the weapons?” he asked.

  “Yes, lord.” The guard jerked a thumb toward an array of knives, swords, and even a bearded axe that rested against the church wall. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then seemed to think better of it, for he clamped his lips shut and stepped aside.

  Emma saw no point in crowding even more men into the building, so she ordered her hearth guards to remain outside. Then she followed Eadric, now divested of his own sword, into the church, with Wymarc and Edward just a few steps behind.

  The interior was dim, and while Eadric stopped to speak to one of the Englishmen ranged along the wall on either side of the door, Emma paused to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom.

  At the far end of the church she could see the Danes clustered together beneath one of the high windows, separated from the English by the length of the nave. They were clad in the mail tunics that marked them as warriors. Whatever their business here, they were nervous. She sensed their restlessness in their shifting movements, could hear it in the quiet rasp of metal rings grating one against another.

  She could hear as well the murmur of a single voice, and she traced the sound to a priest who knelt before the altar. He was facing the nave, whispering prayers over something that lay on the floor before him.

  When she realized what it was, arranged there on the paving stones below the altar step, she was suddenly afraid. Her fear pushed her forward until she was gazing down at a length of soiled linen. Once it had been an altar cloth. She knew it well, for she had stitched some of the golden roods at its hem with her own hands, and with her own hands she had offered it to the Canterbury archbishop—a gift from the royal family. Now it was a shroud, and with a sinking, hateful certainty, she bent down and drew a corner of it aside.

  What she saw made her press a hand to her mouth to still the keening wail that rose in her throat. She knew it to be Ælfheah, although his face was so terribly damaged she scarcely recognized him. One side of his head was nothing but a pulpy mass of crushed bone and raw flesh, while the other side bore a score of wounds from what must have been a multitude of blows. Someone had cleansed his face and bound his shattered jaw closed with a strip of linen, yet there was no mistaking the cruel death that he had suffered.

  A swelling rage engulfed her, and from somewhere beyond it she heard Wymarc weeping and Eadric shouting to the men at the door to allow no one inside.

  She lifted her gaze from Ælfheah’s body to glare at the Danish leader—a huge man with an ugly scar on one cheek and a head shaved bare except for a long tail of hair that hung down his back. He was watching her with wary eyes beneath thick, dark brows.

  He was right to be wary. Ælfheah’s blood cried out for vengeance and every impulse urged her to take it—to call for slaughter here in the sight of God. Yet she could not do it, for she had taken upon herself the burden of royal responsibility, and these men had come here unarmed and under truce.

  “I have honored your request for parley,” she said, her voice breaking despite her efforts to control it, “but I did not think to meet with such a display of treachery as this.”

  The big man took a step toward her, and she tensed, ready to deflect an assault. There was movement behind her—Eadric, she guessed, reaching for the sword that he did not have.

  But Thorkell dropped to one knee, as did all those with him.

  “Not my treachery, my lady,” he said, stumbling over the English words. “I tried to save him!” He grasped a silver cross that he wore on a leather thong about his neck, and it struck her that it, too, like Ælfheah’s pall, might be one of the spoils from Canterbury. “I swear to you,” he said, looking at her with eyes that did not falter from her own, “I swear that I offered all my silver to save him. But they wanted blood. I could not stop them!”

  “They were your men!” she cried. “Under your command! You expect me to believe—”

  “Nay, they were none of mine! They were my brother’s men, and pagans.” His face was dark with anger, and he spoke haltingly, his words a mixture now of tortured English and Danish. “Since Hemming’s death they answer to no one. They were mad drunk with wine and bloodlust, howling to their gods to grant them fair winds.” He grimaced. “Your priest was their offering.”

  Blot, he named it—spitting out the Norse word for blood sacrifice as if it fouled his mouth to speak it.

  For a time she was speechless, stunned into silence as she imagined what Ælfheah must have endured at the hands of his captors, reluctant to accept that this man was not one of those responsible. She did not want to believe him. She wanted someone to blame, to punish. Yet in his defense she heard again Ælfheah’s words at Gloucester almost as if he were whispering in her ear.

  There is little love between the Norse and the Danish shipmen.

  And on the heels of that memory came another, of Ælfric’s description of the army at Canterbury.

  It is a mindless beast with no head and no heart.

  Eadric, who must have heard all that Thorkell had said, even if he had not understood every word, spoke into her ear, “It is true that he was not among the men we bargained with at Canterbury. But remember, this man is a skillful liar.”

  Emma recalled what Eadric had said of Thorkell—that he was a liar, and devious, and greedy. But the same could be said of Eadric, and so she did not know what to believe.

  She looked to the sanctuary for help, to Ælfheah, lying beneath the altar cloth that she had embroidered and had herself given to him.

  As if he read her thoughts Thorkell murmured, “Ælfheah treasured that gift because it came from your hand. Two seasons he was among us, and I learned to call him friend. But, God forgive me, I could not save him.”

  Stricken by his words she looked at him and saw that the anger in his face had been transmuted into grief.

  She forced herself to swallow her rage, for she had to believe him. What other choice did she have? He had come here weaponless, empty-handed but for the body of a man he swore he had tried to save.

  She drew in a long breath and lifted her eyes to where the light, seeping through the high, narrow windows, had begun to fade.

  These men must leave the city, and soon. Once word spread of Ælfheah’s death, the people of London would demand vengeance, and more blood would be shed.

  She made up her mind what to do, and prayed that she was making the right choice.

  “Rise,” she ordered, “and go to your ship. Your pledges demand that you be gone from England before today’s sun sets.” She could not wish him well, though, and felt no gratitude that he had brought Ælfheah’s body to London. Her horror and despair were far too great for that. “Lord Eadric, assign some men to see that the Danes reach their ship unharmed.”

  Eadric moved to Thorkell’s side, but the big man ignored him and made no move to rise.

  “There is a second pledge, lady, that I must honor,” Thorkell said.

  “What pledge?” she demanded sternly. Now that she had made the decision, she wanted him gone.

  “That I would place myself and my men into the service of your king, should he wish it.”

  Surprised, she flicked a glance at Eadric, and she read cunning and speculation in his face. She could guess what he was thinking. Whoever carried word of such an offer to the king would be in high favor indeed, for Æthelred had long wished for just such an alliance. But could Thorkell’s words be trusted?

  The story of her grandfather’s murder at the hands of an enemy who proffered peace came back to her again. Her mind raced to Edward, standing just a few steps from her. Was there some threat here that she could not discern? But the Danes were unarmed. The only thing that Thorkell clutched was a cross, and now she wanted to believe he spoke the truth.

  “You swore this t
o Ælfheah?” she asked.

  “He feared for you and for your children, and begged me to offer you my protection. I gave him my oath.”

  And now she recognized what this truly was—Ælfheah’s bequest to her, a final act before he faced his death. Whatever dangers lay ahead in the months and years to come, Thorkell and his fleet could be the key to the safety of her children.

  She kept her eyes on the big man’s face, but she knew that Eadric was watching her, watching Thorkell, itching to intervene.

  “This may be a trick,” he hissed. “I told you, he is Swein’s man!”

  “No!” Thorkell spat. “No longer!” His face was flushed and angry again. He spoke not to Eadric, but to her, and she believed he spoke the truth.

  Whatever alliance he may have made with the Danish king had been severed. Even so, other Viking leaders had broken with Swein in the past only to rally to his side again when it suited them to do so.

  “If Swein should one day bring a fleet against England,” she pressed him, “what then? What guarantee can you give that you would not betray us?”

  He stood up, clutching the cross at his breast. He reached for her hand and placed it around his so that the cross was clasped by both. Bending his head to hers, he spoke for her ears alone—and in Danish. “I swore so to Ælfheah, who told me to trust you and no other. Now I swear so to you, by our Savior’s cross.” His eyes locked on hers. “You must take heed, for Swein is indeed coming—and it will be soon.”

  She stared at him in shock, and he gazed back at her confidently, certain that she had understood him.

  The promise that Ælfheah had made to her years before echoed in her mind.

  Give me leave to reveal your secret if I see the need to do so.

  But Ælfheah was not the only one who had known her secret. Swein, too, had known that she spoke her mother’s tongue, and Thorkell had once been Swein’s ally.