Читать книгу The Price of Blood - Patricia Bracewell - Страница 22

July 1006

Cookham, Berkshire

The midsummer sun was at its height as Athelstan rode with Edmund and a dozen of their hearth guards along the Camlet Way towards the royal manor at Cookham. The road here, just north of the bridge that crossed the Thames near Shaftsey, cut through a forest of oaks, and he was grateful for the cooling shade. As they neared the river the trees thinned, and a horn blared from the walls of the burh that guarded the crossing.

Good, he thought, the guards are vigilant. He counted fifteen of them on the palisade. His bannermen, riding at the head of his company, signalled to them, they signalled back, and the wail of the horn faded. Casting a critical eye on the fortified structure perched on the island midriver, he noted that two new watchtowers had been added since last he was here.

‘It looks like Ealdorman Ælfric has been strengthening the shire’s defences,’ he said to Edmund. His brother made no reply, and Athelstan, irritated, scowled at him. ‘Edmund, something’s been eating at you all day. Are you going to tell me what it is, or are you going to continue to keep me in suspense?’

Edmund scowled back at him, but finally he broke his sullen silence.

‘How much will you tell the king about what you’ve been doing?’

It was a fair question, and one that Athelstan had been asking himself for weeks as he met with thegns all through the Midlands in an effort to stem their outrage over Ælfhelm’s murder. He had told them that Ælfhelm had been consorting with men close to the Danish king. He had done what he could to convince them that his father had been forced to move against the ealdorman, but he had not been able to defend the king’s tactics – the ruthless butchery of Ælfhelm and his sons. When pressed he had vowed that if he were on the throne, he would be far more open and even-handed in his dealings with his nobles than his father had been.

It was a promise not likely to endear him to the king, should he hear of it.

‘Are you afraid that I will end up like Wulf and Ufegeat?’ he asked Edmund. Poor devils. They had been mere pawns in their father’s dangerous game, yet they had died miserably in a dank and fetid stone cell, their wounds, it was rumoured, gone untreated. Siferth and Morcar, it seemed, had been granted possession of the ravaged bodies of their kinsmen for burial, and they had borne witness to the consequences of the king’s wrath. Word of it had spread through the realm like wildfire.

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Edmund turned the question back at him.

‘Yes,’ he growled, ‘I am. The king sees enemies everywhere and I am hardly invisible. But if he demands an accounting from me, I will give an honest answer. Someone has to speak openly to him about the uncertain temper of his nobles.’

Edmund was silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘The king’s enemies are everywhere. Our northern border is under attack by the Scots, and the king’s spies have warned that the Danes will strike before summer’s end – God alone knows where. I think he was right to make an example of Ælfhelm. He has made it clear that he will punish treachery and disloyalty. It used to be that gold and lands and preferment were enough to keep men loyal. No longer, though. In times such as these, fear of punishment may be the only thing that will compel men to cleave to their king.’

‘But he is a weak king, Edmund, and no warrior. If the men inside his realm turn against him, it is because they fear he cannot protect them from the enemies who press us from outside. Mark me, there is a storm coming and we are ill prepared to meet it. Jesu, with Ælfhelm dead there is no longer an ealdorman in Northumbria or in Mercia. Who will organize the defence if the Danes strike the towns along the Trent or the Ouse?’

‘Eadric of Shrewsbury, judging by the trust the king has placed in him lately.’

‘Eadric!’ Athelstan snorted. ‘He is a henchman, not a warrior.’

‘Warrior or not, he is better than no leader at all,’ Edmund countered.

As to that, Athelstan had his doubts. What they needed was time – time to consult over the leadership of the northern shires, time to bring in the harvest, time to prepare and stock the burhs for defence. He had begged the churchmen he had spoken with to pray for time so that they could gather strength to meet their enemies.

But as Edmund said, there was already fighting along the border with the Scots, and he feared there was an ill wind blowing across the Danish sea. The one thing that the people of England did not have was time.

They were over the bridge now, the island behind them, and the gates of the palace rose ahead, reinforced, he noted, by a triple guard. Within the walls all was clamour and mayhem, far surpassing the everyday comings and goings of servants, retainers, and men-at-arms. He had difficulty guiding his mount past men sorting through piles of arms and equipment, women and children scurrying from building to building weighed down with bundles, and grooms loading horses and pack mules.

The king’s household was preparing to move, but there was nothing orderly or methodical about these preparations. Something was wrong, something more pressing than the Scots’ invasion of far-off Northumbria.

He and Edmund dismounted, tossed their reins to a groom, and went into the hall. Here, too, all was chaos, except for a table full of scribes who sat writing furiously on wax tablets. Instructions from the king to his royal thegns, Athelstan guessed. He paused to address a steward who was hurling curses at a trio of slaves that was frantically packing silver candlesticks and goblets into chests.

‘What is amiss?’ he asked.

‘Danish ships have been sighted at Sandwich, my lord. We’ve not been told yet where we are to go, but word has come down that we are leaving on the morrow.’

Athelstan glanced at his brother and knew that they were thinking the same thing. Time had just run out.

Inside the royal apartment, the king sat at a central table with a small circle of advisers about him. Athelstan, flicking his gaze around the chamber, found Emma in an alcove lit by a bank of candles. Her Norman priest, Father Martin, stood at a writing table beside her, his stylus moving swiftly across the parchment laid out before him.

Emma must have heard them enter, for she looked up just then and their eyes met, and held, and the silent communion that was both torment and consolation flashed between them. Then she looked away, and he turned his attention to the men around the king. His younger brothers were there, as was Ælfric, Ealdorman of Hampshire. Bishop Ælfheah was there too, and then he corrected himself, for the man who had been bishop of Winchester was now archbishop of Canterbury – one of the wisest appointments his father had ever made. There were several lesser lords among the assembly as well, and he noted with misgiving that Eadric of Shrewsbury stood at the king’s right hand.

With Edmund right behind him, he made his way through the men gathered about the table. The king drew his gaze from a roughly drawn map that covered most of the table to frown at them and, to Athelstan’s surprise, gestured them to come closer.

‘I had not thought to see you here,’ his father said, ‘but your arrival is timely. You’ve heard?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied. Apparently it took the threat of a Viking army to win him his father’s regard. He peered at the map. ‘How large is their force?’

‘Sixty ships, curse them. Near two thousand men. They have already begun to move west from Sandwich.’ He expelled a breath and sat back heavily in his chair. ‘I had not expected them to come so soon,’ he murmured. ‘I thought we had another month at least.’

‘Is it Swein who leads them?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, but that is the only good news,’ his father said. ‘With the harvests not yet in we will be short on men and on food stores. Christ!’ He ran his hand wearily over his eyes. ‘We shall have to fortify the burhs across Wessex and strike at them piecemeal, harry their flanks like midges in a swamp.’

Athelstan glanced at the faces around the table and found there little relish for this plan. It was what they had done for years, and for years it had been a tactic that had led to failure. What they needed to do was to bring a massive army against the shipmen and beat them back into the sea, but England was ill prepared for such an endeavour. Any army they could raise would be composed for the most part of men whose hands were more used to grasping the handles of a plough than the hilt of a sword, while their enemies would be fierce Danish shipmen who were weapon-trained and battle-ready.

Athelstan turned to the archbishop. ‘If they strike at Canterbury, will the city be able to hold against them?’ he asked.

‘Our walls are in good repair,’ Ælfheah replied, ‘so we can withstand them for some days.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘Likely they have not come to lay siege but to strike quickly and grab whatever is not nailed down. It is the smaller towns and abbeys of Kent and Surrey that will be vulnerable if the raiders sail westward’ – he moved his finger along the line that marked England’s southern coast – ‘and if they decide to strike to the north it will be the towns along our eastern shores at risk.’

The king was frowning at the map. ‘I will call out the forces of Mercia and Wessex, all the men who can be spared from the fields and even many who cannot. Their commanders will meet me at Windsor to organize the defence, but it will take time for them to gather. Meantime we must get fighting men into the burhs in the southeast as soon as may be. The Danes will not stray far from their ships, so we should strive to keep them confined to the coast.’ He turned to Ælfric. ‘How many of your house guards are here with you?’

‘Thirty men, my lord, all well armed and mounted,’ the ealdorman replied.

‘Good. You will lead them to Rochester and summon the fyrd of Kent to you there. You will have to scour the countryside for whatever provisions you need.’

Ælfric nodded, and the king turned to Eadric. ‘You will go north into Mercia, muster whatever force you can there, and come to me at Windsor as soon as you may. Athelstan, you will ride with the queen’s Norman retainers to Lewes and summon the men of Sussex. Provision them however you can. Take Edrid and Edwig with you. Edmund, you and Edgar and your men will escort your sisters and the queen to Winchester and take charge of the fyrd there. Do not attempt to meet the shipmen in a pitched battle.’

That last order was directed to all of them, but Athelstan found the king’s faded blue eyes looking intently into his own and he knew that it was meant for him more than anyone else. His father judged him too eager for battle. In this instance, his father was probably right.

‘If the Danes approach,’ the king continued, ‘you should have plenty of warning. Gather the villagers and their livestock into the burhs and defend them there. For now we can do little more than try to minimize the damage.’

Minimize the damage. Athelstan had to swallow a curse, for this was not the time to question a policy that his father had followed for twenty years. Jesu! It near maddened him that once again the best outcome that they could hope for was to confine their enemy to the coast. Three years ago that tactic had failed utterly, and the Danish army had thrust its way into Wiltshire. Two years ago the shipmen had pillaged and burned fifty miles into East Anglia. How far would their enemy strike this time? How many towns would be ravaged?

Dear God. If they could do no more than minimize the damage, then they were defeated before they’d even begun to fight.

Emma had listened to the king’s commands with growing dismay. His decision to entrust her son into Edmund’s care without the benefit of her Norman house guards to protect him filled her with foreboding, and now she rose swiftly and approached the king.

‘My lord, I would speak,’ she said, and the men around him gave way so that she could kneel beside his chair.

She was risking his displeasure by daring to appeal to him in front of his council, but she had no choice. To trust her son to Edmund’s care would be to take a far greater risk.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘I would go with you to Windsor, my lord,’ she said. ‘I cannot be seen to cower in Winchester like a nun behind cloistered walls while the king and his sons face this threat. My place, and that of our son, is at your side. I beg you, husband; do not send us away from you.’

She saw the surprise on his face, and then the frown as he considered her words. He would not imagine the real reason behind her request – that she feared what Edmund might do if she and her son were in his power. Only Athelstan would know what was in her mind, and she risked a quick glance in his direction and saw him scowling at her. He would think her fears were groundless; but Athelstan trusted Edmund, and she did not.

‘A war council is no place for a woman,’ Æthelred objected.

‘My lord king.’ Archbishop Ælfheah was standing beside her, and now she felt the gentle pressure of his hand upon her shoulder. ‘The queen’s request bears some merit. At Windsor you will meet many nobles whose lands will be under no immediate threat from the Danes, and they will not be eager to take up arms. Some of them may even bear you ill will. If your nobles see that your sons have taken the field and that the queen herself stands firmly by your side during this time of trial, it can only help your cause.’

He did not mention Ælfhelm, but Emma guessed that the name was echoing in all their minds. She did not doubt that the new archbishop had dispensed more than a few blistering words of condemnation into the king’s ear over Ælfhelm’s slaying at Shrewsbury. And when the council session began this morning Ælfheah had made no secret of his conviction that the arrival of the Danes was God’s punishment for the king’s treachery towards his ealdorman.

Now she called down a silent benediction upon Ælfheah and held her breath as she waited for the king’s decision. At last he waved an impatient hand at her.

‘Whether you go to Windsor or Winchester makes little difference to me, but I will ride at dawn. If you wish to attend me to the war council, then make certain that you do not delay my departure, for I will not wait for you.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said. ‘I shall be ready.’

She rose to her feet and left the chamber, leaving Father Martin to finish the correspondence they had begun together.

As she strode through the great hall she heard someone call her name, and when she paused and turned, she saw that Archbishop Ælfheah had followed her from the king’s chamber.

‘I would speak with you, my lady, if you can spare me a moment.’

‘Of course,’ she answered as they left the hall and entered the shade of the covered walkway that ran the length of the building. She paused there and touched his arm. ‘Thank you, Archbishop, for convincing the king to grant my request. It means a great deal to me.’

Ælfheah had ever been a friend to her, as well as to the king and to his sons. As they stood face-to-face, his wise grey eyes kind, she could see the worry in the frown that creased his forehead. Of course he was worried. The Danish raiders were heading west from Sandwich, and Canterbury was directly in their path.

‘Your request was a shrewd one, my lady,’ he replied, ‘and courageous. Your mother, I think, would have done the same were she in your place.’ He placed his hand upon hers and smiled. ‘Indeed, she is the reason I wish to speak with you, for as you know I am recently come from your brother’s court.’

‘My mother is well, I hope,’ Emma said quickly. Ælfheah had brought her several letters from her family, and she had read nothing in them to alarm her.

‘She is well, yes,’ he assured her. ‘I think she may outlive us all. She is a formidable woman, and in the short time that I spent in her household I developed a great admiration for her. Your brother is wise to look to her for advice and assistance.’

‘He places great trust in her,’ Emma said. Once, she had thought to play the same role, of adviser and confidante, to her husband, the king. Æthelred had quickly disabused her of that idea.

‘She has skills that make her particularly valuable to Richard. I happened to observe an audience that your brother held with an envoy from the Danish king.’ Her alarm at hearing this must have shown on her face, for he added quickly, ‘Normandy’s cordial relations with Denmark are, in some ways, to our advantage; nevertheless, the king will hear no word of the envoy from me. What I found of most interest in the exchange, though, was that your mother acted as interpreter. She can speak to the Northmen in their language, and as I listened I wondered if that gift had been passed to her daughter.’

She looked away from him, not knowing how to answer, not wanting to lie to a man she trusted and admired. But she had kept her knowledge of Danish as secret as she could. Margot and Wymarc knew; and Athelstan, who had guessed her secret years ago. There were two others: Swein Forkbeard and his son, who had held her captive one wretched summer’s day that had seemed to last an eternity. She had not been able to stop herself from cursing them in their own tongue.

She looked into Ælfheah’s face again, and knew that in hesitating she had already given him an answer.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘The king does not know, I take it. But my lady, this skill of yours may be of use to him should he need to negotiate with our enemy! It could earn you a place at his side if—’

‘It could also earn me the enmity of those who would accuse me – and my brother – of sympathizing with the Danes.’ It was what Edmund would believe of her, if he knew. It would be like handing him a weapon to use against her and against her son. ‘Although you might not speak to the king of my brother’s dealings with that Danish envoy, Archbishop, others will.’

His eyes now were grave and she did not wish to hear whatever he was about to say. She did not want this man to think badly of her.

‘I recognize the risks,’ he said, ‘but I beg you to give me your trust in this matter. Give me leave to reveal your secret if I see the need to do so. It will not be done lightly, I promise you.’

She hesitated again.

She trusted the archbishop, of course, but in the world of the court, knowledge was power. Whoever learned her secret from him would hold mastery of a kind over her, just as Ælfheah did now. Nevertheless, this man was one of the wisest at court, numbered among the king’s oldest friends and most trusted counsellors. It would be wrong to hinder him from using all the tools at his disposal for England’s benefit, should he have need of them.

‘I give you my leave,’ she said. Perhaps the situation might never arise. And if it did, she must hope that she could find a way to use it to her advantage.

‘I will guard your secret with my life,’ he said, taking her hand and clasping it between his own. ‘I give you my oath on that.’ For a long moment he searched her face, then he smiled. ‘You are very like your mother, Emma, and you are wise, I think, beyond your years. Should you ever again need me to intercede with the king on your behalf, you have but to ask.’ He made the sign of the cross on her forehead, whispered a blessing in Latin, then squeezed her hand. ‘Now I will take leave of you, for both of us, I believe, have much to do.’

She parted from him to hurry towards her quarters, for he was right – she had a great deal to do if she was to leave with the king at first light. As she walked she pondered all that Ælfheah had said to her.

She believed that her mother would have approved of her request to accompany the king to his battle council. But if Gunnora had ever done such a thing – and Emma suspected that she had – it would have stemmed from her desire to support her husband and to stand beside the man she loved. In that, she and her mother differed.

Her own decision was more a matter of expedience. She was the mother of the heir, and so she must, perforce, be the king’s ally. But it was a bitter alliance, for there was no affection and little respect between them.

He used her body at his whim, but in the four years that she had been wed to him he sought neither her company nor her advice. Her presence at his council table would not change that. Nevertheless, she would learn a great deal and, most important, Edward would be with her, and far out of the reach of his half-brother Edmund.

Sweet Virgin. She wished that she could trust Edmund as Athelstan did. Certainly she admired the loyalty he showed his eldest brother and she even respected Edmund’s determination to see Athelstan inherit the throne. But he was far too much like his father, and that was the cause of her mistrust.

She could not dismiss the fear that, like Æthelred, Edmund would not baulk at murder to accomplish his ends.