Patricia Bracewell - The Price of Blood

‘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.

August 1006

Holderness

Riding along a narrow track in Alric’s wake, Elgiva guided her horse across a shallow stream, one of several that had flowed across their path today. A heavy fog hung in the air, thick as a woollen veil. As she wiped her wet face yet again, she decided that the people of Holderness must be all but invisible. She had seen a few scattered villages early on, their fields planted in long strips of rye or oats; and there had been the occasional flock of forlorn-looking sheep barely discernible through the mist. But for the most part this seemed to be a vaporous land, eerie and empty, as if everything alive had been sucked out of it.

Already she hated it, and she was determined to leave this miserable place as soon as ever she could.

Bored, because there was little of interest to see, she reflected on the events that had brought her here. It had taken far longer than she could have anticipated – nearly four months when she tallied the weeks together. Alric had found them a ship in Chester the very day they had entered the town and, tucked among bales of leather and tuns of salt, they had set sail with the morning tide. That ship had taken them only as far as a port belonging to one of the Wælisc kingdoms, and they had been stranded there for – how long had it been? Two weeks? Three? However long it was, it had seemed longer, stuck in a fishing hamlet that was nothing more than a scatter of shabby crofts beside the sea. When they at last found another vessel to carry them further south, it reeked of fish.

Then Alric had found a trader hauling tin from Cornwall to Southamtun – a port much too close to Æthelred’s royal city of Winchester to suit them, but they had no choice. There the weather had turned against them, and she had lost count of the days she spent penned up, this time in the guest chamber of a squalid harbourside inn, fearing that if she stepped outside someone from the court might see and recognize her. That was where she’d learned of her brothers’ torture and death, and she hoped never to see that foul place again in her life.

When at last the winds allowed, they had boarded a vessel bound for Hythe, and there caught another ship that carried them past the Isle of Thanet to East Anglia. There were three more ships after that, traders like the others, each one, it seemed to her, less seaworthy than the one before. None of them had afforded protection from sun or wind or rain, and the only seat she’d ever had was the small, wooden chest that Alric had purchased before they left Chester that held her cyrtel and undergown.

Her men’s garb had kept her safe enough from the shipmen, although she had seen more than one brute cast covetous eyes on her fine woollen cloak. Alric’s ready knife, she felt certain, had kept any thieving hands at bay, but nothing could protect her from the stench of the pitch and fish oil that permeated the ships. Nor could anything dispel the fear and sick dread that rose in her throat whenever a sudden squall battered them.

She had learned to avoid eating anything in the hours before they boarded, but how she hated the motion of the waves! They were always the same, heaving the vessels with such force that she had to keep her mouth clamped shut to keep from spewing bile. Even now, although the water roads were behind her, the rhythm of her horse’s gait made her stomach churn.

At least there had been welcome news last night when they had debarked at last at Beverley. King Æthelred had taken up arms against a Danish army that was ravaging somewhere in Wessex. She hoped that it was true. She hoped that a Danish axe would find him and gut him. It was because of Æthelred that her father and brothers were dead, because of him that she was riding across this miserable flat bog of a land.

A damp breeze tugged at her cloak and clawed uncomfortably at her legs, for she was still clad in a man’s tunic and breecs. Her neck was cold too, for her thick hair was braided and tucked into a boy’s woollen cap. As she pulled her hood over her head for warmth, Alric hissed a warning and brought their horses to a halt. The sound of hoofbeats echoed from somewhere ahead of them, growing louder as whoever was out there came nearer. Alric drew his sword. Now she heard horses behind them as well, and afraid that the king’s men had tracked her down at last, she searched wildly about for somewhere to hide. But there was not even a rock or tree visible in this barren wasteland. She snatched the small knife from her belt, clutching it so tightly that her palm hurt. Then she could do nothing but wait.