The Price of Blood (7 page)

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 toward 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 toward 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.

Chapter Seven

Holy Saturday, April 1006

Cookham, Berkshire

T
he king’s chamber was alive with light—banks of candles turning the night to day and reminding Athelstan that his father did not like the dark.

The king was afraid of shadows.

But his father feared other things as well, and there was suspicion in the hooded blue eyes that swept over the four of them: Ufegeat, Wulf, Edmund, himself. He felt like a warrior in a shield wall, but without benefit of either shield or blade.

Did the king suspect that they had been speaking of Elgiva and a marriage alliance? Was that why they had been ushered in here? If so, he was going to need the tongue of an angel to convince his father that his only intention was to save the kingdom, not steal it.

There was a long, heavy silence while a cupbearer slipped in and filled the goblet that stood on the table beside the king’s great chair, and then the silence was broken by the tread of boots and the creak of leather. Six of the king’s retainers, handpicked to do his bidding and ask no questions, filed into the chamber. Two of them stepped forward to flank the king. They were men whom Athelstan knew well, but when he probed their faces, they did not meet his eyes.

His palms began to sweat. He had often been called to answer to his father for what the king considered misdeeds, but there had never been armed men at his back before. He looked a question at the king, but his father’s eyes were fixed on Ælfhelm’s sons. Following that glance he saw a fine sheen of sweat on Ufegeat’s forehead, and next to him Wulf’s face was so pale that it looked to be carved from wax.

A thin shaft of fear sliced through him, and he cursed under his breath. There was some undercurrent here that he could not read, something to do with the sons of Ælfhelm and, likely, their father. He recalled now what Edmund had told him in London about trouble in the north, and recalled as well the many rumors that had sifted through the hall like smoke today—rumors about Ælfhelm’s absence from this gathering that, like a fool, he had not heeded.

It would not surprise him to learn of some treachery that the ealdorman was planning. For a long time now he’d had his own doubts about where the man’s true loyalties lay, although he had never been able to prove anything. If the king had discovered that Ælfhelm and his sons were plotting some move against him, then he and Edmund might well be deemed guilty by association.

Anxiously he watched his father, who rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, fingered his beard thoughtfully, and addressed Ufegeat.

“I would know,” the king said slowly, “what it was that you and my sons were discussing in the hall.”

His tone was not threatening, but Athelstan knew his father, knew that it was a ploy—a swordsman’s feint to disguise a second, far more lethal, thrust. He stepped forward to give his own explanation, but the king raised a hand to stop him.

“I wish to hear it from the son of Ælfhelm,” he said.

Ufegeat cleared his throat, and the noise of it was loud in the chamber’s tense silence.

“The æthelings,” he said, “broached the subject of a marriage alliance with my sister. They wished to know if we would support it.”

“My lord,” Athelstan began, but his father’s quelling hand silenced him yet again. He cast a nervous glance at Ufegeat.

“And what was your response to my sons’ proposal?”

“My first question, my lord,” Ufegeat said, “was whether you would agree to any such betrothal. I reminded your sons that it breaks with custom for an ætheling to wed while his father still lives.”

There was censure in his voice—disapproval of anything that might defy the king. Athelstan glared at him, but Ufegeat ignored him.

“Indeed, it does break with custom,” the king said. “But you have another reason, do you not, for rejecting such a proposal? Is not your sister already pledged?”

And there was the second sword thrust. Stunned, Athelstan gaped first at his father, then at Ælfhelm’s sons to see their response. Ufegeat’s face had become a blank wall. Wulf, though, looked like he was going to be sick. Was it true, then? And if it was, who had bargained for Elgiva’s hand?

“My lord,” Ufegeat said stiffly, “I cannot say what arrangements my father may have made regarding my sister. He does not apprise us of every plan that he undertakes.”

“No,” the king said, his face thoughtful. “Perhaps not. A wise father does not share all his secrets with his sons.”

His eyes, hard and mocking, flicked toward Athelstan, who flinched as the barb struck home. His father had a great many secrets that he kept from his sons.

The king turned to Ufegeat again. “Yet your sister appears to know something of your father’s intentions,” Æthelred observed. “Surely you do not expect me to believe that Ælfhelm would confide in his daughter and not in his sons?”

Ufegeat shrugged. “Elgiva is but a woman, with a woman’s desires and a meager understanding of the affairs of men. She longs to wed, to be sure, but I cannot speak to what fantasies she may have spun from the whispers of servants and from her own feverish imagination. I certainly will not be held to account for it.”

“Ah, but you will, my lord,” the king said, his bland voice belying the threat in his words, “as will your father and this brother of yours.” He raised his hand and the guards took hold of Ælfhelm’s sons.

Ufegeat resisted, struggling against his captors until one of them cuffed him about the face.

Staggering, his mouth bloody, Ufegeat cried out, “We are guilty of no crime, my lord. You cannot prove that we have done anything wrong.”

“Yet I deem you guilty of treachery against my throne,” and now the king’s voice was sharp as steel, “and in this I am your only judge.” He gestured to his retainers. “Take them.”

Athelstan watched, his gut churning, as the king’s men dragged Ælfhelm’s sons from the chamber. They were not gentle. Ufegeat and Wulf tried to protest and were silenced with vicious blows.

When they had gone he turned to stare at his father, who was still flanked by two of the guards and who was eyeing him now, wolflike, as if taking the measure of a rival.

Would he and Edmund be dragged off as well, locked away until his father decided on their punishment? And if so, for what? He still did not see what Ufegeat and Wulf had done that was so wrong.

“What is their crime?” he asked.

The king reached for the wine cup at his side, drank deeply, then set the cup down so hard that the sound made Athelstan flinch.

“Ælfhelm has betrothed his daughter to a Danish lord,” his father said, “and they were privy to it. You saw their faces.”

If it were true, it would explain the ealdorman’s absence from court as well as his sons’ terror at being hauled before the king.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“The lady herself sent me word, insisting that her brothers could not be trusted.” His father’s voice was sardonic. “Is that good enough for you?”

“My lord,” Edmund said, “there must be a blood alliance between your line and that of Ælfhelm. It will garner you the support of all the Mercian nobles against any other—”

“Support for
me
?” the king cried. “And what guarantee can you give that they would not support whoever weds Ælfhelm’s bitch?”

There it was again—that suspicion that always lay like a wide gulf between them.

“We have sworn our allegiance—to you and to Emma’s son,” Athelstan protested. “We are not traitors.”

“Aye, so you say,” his father scoffed. “But actions speak louder than any vow! You would have conspired against me with Ælfhelm’s sons had they not had schemes of their own in hand! If what you intended was in
my
interests, Athelstan, why did you not speak of it first to me?”

“And what would you have said to such a plan?” he demanded. “You would have humiliated me by saying it was foolish, then you would have accused me of disloyalty. What must I do, my lord, to convince you that I am neither a fool nor a traitor?”

He glared at his father, struggling to quell his rising anger, for he knew very well that there was nothing he could do. The king scowled back at him, but before either of them could speak again, Edmund stepped between them.

“My lord,” he said, “we are certain that Elgiva is the key to securing allegiance in the north.” Athelstan almost laughed. His brother was beating a dead horse, and in any case, Elgiva was not really the issue here. “If you would but agree to—”

“I will not reward treachery!” his father thundered. “And I will not be tutored by my sons!”

“No!” Athelstan shouted back, frustration overcoming caution. “Nor by anyone else! You refuse all advice! Why is that? Are you so confident in your decisions, my lord? Was it not you who chose to make Ælfhelm the ealdorman of Northumbria? Yet now you are not so pleased with that decision. How are you to undo it? You cannot legally strip him of his lands and his powers unless you can prove—”

“I am the king!” His father thrust himself to his feet as he bellowed the words. “And I am the law!”

He glared at them, and Athelstan, staring into his father’s livid face, despaired. His father would never listen to him, not while he felt so threatened.

“What will you do?” he asked, although he feared to hear the answer.

The king waved a dismissive hand as if weary of the conversation, then took his seat again. Closing his eyes, he massaged his forehead, and for some time said nothing. He looked tired, and it seemed to Athelstan that every year of his long reign was etched upon his face.

After some moments his father muttered, “A hunter does not wait for the boar to charge before throwing the spear.” Then he looked at Athelstan and growled, “I have done what is necessary. Now, leave me. I would be alone.”

Athelstan felt Edmund grasp his arm to urge him away, but he was not yet ready to leave. He wanted to know what his father would do to Ufegeat and Wulf. Ælfhelm would not sit idly by while the king held his sons captive, nor would the other lords take their arrest lightly. They, too, had sons.

“My lord—”

“Get out, Athelstan, before I set the guards on you!”

He did not doubt that his father would be as good as his word, so he shut his mouth, bowed stiffly, and followed Edmund out of the chamber and back to the hall. There was no music ringing through the high roof beams, no scop reciting a tale, no rumble of voices. This was Easter Eve, when Christ was in the grave and all men were to reflect on the suffering and death He had endured for their sins. The Winchester bishop stood upon the dais reading a sermon to the assembly. Athelstan paused only long enough to cast a swift, reassuring glance toward Emma, whose eyes—full of questions—met his. Then he followed Edmund, threading his way through the hall and out the door.

When they were alone, standing next to one of the clay ovens still warm from the day’s baking, Edmund muttered several colorful curses, then said, “You should have just made off with the girl and wed her.”

Athelstan barked a mirthless laugh. “If I had, I would be with Wulf and Ufegeat right now, probably in chains. And God knows where Elgiva would be.” He frowned. “Come to that, I wonder where she is. With Ælfhelm, I assume.”

“Or with her new Danish lord, whoever that may be,” Edmund suggested.

“If Elgiva betrayed her father’s plans for her, she clearly has no desire to marry whoever it is.” Athelstan recalled the haggard look on his father’s face near the end of their interview.
I have done what is necessary
, he had said. What was it, exactly, that his father had done? “I’ll wager that the king has already taken some action against Ælfhelm,” he said. “I wonder what mischief he’s set in motion, and what trouble is likely to come of it.”