Читать книгу The Price of Blood - Patricia Bracewell - Страница 17

Holy Saturday, April 1006

Cookham, Berkshire

The day before Easter was meant to be one of silent reflection and prayer. At least, it was for some, Emma thought as she sat in isolated state beside the king and looked out upon the subdued company that had assembled for the Holy Saturday repast. It was not so for England’s queen, nor for those of her household who must cater to court guests and prepare the great feast that was to be held on the morrow.

Although she would not show it with even the slightest gesture, she was weary from the stresses of the past week: From welcoming the highborn of England to the year’s most important gathering; from pondering an endless string of requests from abbots and bishops who sought her patronage; from answering the multitude of questions posed by attendants, stewards, and slaves; and from the hours of almsgiving on Maundy Thursday and the interminable rituals of Good Friday.

But it was more than exhaustion that made her muscles stiffen and her stomach clench, more even than the hunger brought on by the string of fast days that made up Holy Week.

Beside her, Æthelred sat robed in a mantle of deep blue godwebbe that shimmered in the candlelight like a dragonfly’s wing, but his face was dark with suppressed anger. She could only guess at the source of his displeasure, for he rarely confided in her. Instinctively, though, she felt it must be rooted in fear and so she, too, was fearful.

Æthelred was most dangerous when he was afraid.

The king was a man of dark moods, and she thought she had grown used to them. But this most recent ill humour seemed heavier than any she had yet seen. She had told herself that it was because of Ecbert’s death, still raw in all their minds, especially after yesterday’s mournful Good Friday service, with its vivid reminder of death’s agonies. But although this brooding had begun with Ecbert’s passing, she felt that something else was feeding it, and that the storm brewing within Æthelred could erupt at any time into cataclysm. Anxiety made her neck ache, as if she bore a leaden chain across her shoulders.

Reminding herself that it was fruitless to dwell on something she could not remedy, she turned an appraising eye on the sons of the king, most of whom she had not seen since Christmas. The three youngest had arrived earlier today, boisterous and jocular when they entered the royal apartments until they caught sight of their father’s thunderous face.

Edgar had grown like a wheat stalk in a matter of months. He was thirteen now, and his face had lost the roundness of boyhood. His long hair, pulled straight back from his forehead and bound behind his neck with a woven silver band, had darkened to the colour of honey. A sparse beard covered the point of his chin, and that gave him something of the look of Athelstan. He was nearly as comely as his eldest brother, too, with blue eyes that were turned upon the king just now with sober speculation. Not quite a man yet, Edgar, but serious for his age.

Far more serious than the brighter-haired Edwig, who, at fifteen winters, should have been the more responsible one. There was a carelessness about Edwig, though, and she had sometimes glimpsed in him a callous disregard for others that she did not like. He and his elder brother Edrid – the two of them so near in age and looks that they could be taken for twins – served along with Edgar in the retinue of Ealdorman Ælfric, and attended the king only on the high holidays and feasts. Even when they were children she had known them but little.

She watched as Edwig took a stealthy swallow from a leather flask at his belt – some strong liquor, she guessed, forbidden on this holy night, when only watered wine would be served in the king’s hall. Afterwards he waved away some protest from his frowning, twinlike brother, Edrid, who was clearly the good angel to Edwig’s bad.

She glanced at the king to see if he had witnessed Edwig’s transgression, but Æthelred’s brooding gaze was fixed upon the two eldest æthelings, Athelstan and Edmund. They stood to one side of the fire pit at the centre of the hall, deep in conversation with two men whose faces she could not make out until one of them turned and the firelight flickered on a handsome, chiselled cheek and black, curly hair.

And then she knew them – the sons of Ælfhelm, who had arrived without their sire or their sister, Elgiva. Æthelred would surely read treachery in their absence. Did he know, though, with certainty, of some perfidy that Ælfhelm might be planning? Was that the cause of his foul mood?

‘I think, my lord,’ she ventured, although she had little hope that he would respond, ‘that you are troubled by the absence of Elgiva and her father.’

‘I am troubled by a great many things, lady,’ he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Would you care to have me enumerate them?’

But she refused to respond in kind.

‘If it would give you ease, my lord,’ she said.

‘Nothing will give me ease except death, and I have no desire for that as yet. Not for myself, in any event. What if I were to tell you that I think my sons are consorting with my enemies? What would you say then to give me ease?’

His words chilled her, and she glanced again to where Athelstan was speaking with apparent urgency to the sons of Ælfhelm. She placed her hand upon the king’s arm and said gently, ‘You judge your sons too harshly, my lord. They are never your enemies.’

There were those, she knew, who would counsel her to speak ill of her stepsons – that as the king’s esteem for them lessened, his regard for her own child must increase. As queen and mother of the heir, they would say, it was her task to put forward her own son and so garner greater status for him and, through him, for herself.

Yet she had no wish to turn Æthelred against the elder æthelings, and that was self-serving, too, in its own way. For she believed that if Æthelred should die while her son was still a child, the witan would place a warrior king upon the throne – someone who could wage war against England’s enemies. It would be Athelstan who would rule the kingdom; Athelstan who would hold her fate – and that of Edward – in his hands.

When that happened, her world would change utterly, and how was she to prepare for it except by cultivating the goodwill of her stepchildren for Edward’s sake? Æthelred’s tally of years was forty winters long now – many years longer than the men of his line who had come before him. And with each year that passed, the tension grew more pronounced between an ageing king who could not relinquish one jot of control and the grown sons who were eager for advancement and responsibility – especially Athelstan.

She felt as though she walked a sword’s edge between them – the king who was her husband, and the ætheling she could not help but love and whom she defended at her peril.

‘My sons,’ Æthelred said, ‘covet my crown, and would take it from me if they could find a way to do so.’ He nodded towards the group near the fire. ‘Even now Athelstan is garnering support from the sons of Ælfhelm for his claim to the throne.’

She looked again to where Athelstan’s fair hair showed golden against Edmund’s darker locks and the black curls of the sons of Ælfhelm. The king could not possibly read what matter they were discussing any more than she could. But she knew that although Athelstan might oppose his father at the council table, he would not reach out his hand betimes to take the throne. He had given her his pledge on that, and she trusted him to keep it. Æthelred had enemies, she did not doubt it – too numerous to count. But Athelstan could not be numbered among them.

‘My lord,’ she said, weighing her words carefully, for if the king suspected her feelings for his son, it would do Athelstan more harm than good, ‘you do your son an injustice. Should he raise his hand against you it would weaken the kingdom, turn the men of this land one against another. Athelstan must know this, and I think he would do nothing that would place this realm in such peril.’

‘Would he not?’ Æthelred asked bitterly. ‘Lady, there is much that goes on, within the court and without it, of which you know nothing. It were best you keep your mind upon matters of your household and the schooling of my daughters. Leave my sons to me.’

He stood up abruptly and left the dais, disappearing into the passage that led to his private chamber. A moment later, she saw a servant hurry to the group at the fire and escort them from the hall, following in the king’s wake. She did not like the look of that.

She beckoned the king’s cupbearer to her, a red-cheeked boy of ten whose father was the lord of several large estates within her dower lands near Exeter.

‘Take a flagon of wine to the king,’ she said, placing a silver penny in his palm as he bent to fill her cup, ‘and linger in the chamber in case he should have need of you. Tomorrow you shall tell me, and no one else, all that you hear.’

The boy nodded and left. Emma rose from the table to mingle with the men and women in the hall, but her thoughts were still directed towards the chamber of the king. Æthelred was correct when he said that she did not know everything that went on at court.

Still, she knew a great deal, and in Æthelred’s court, knowledge was power.