(2013) Shadow on the Crown

by Patricia Bracewell

  Nonetheless, they had come far too close.

  He ate little, for the specter of his own death gaped before him like a yawning pit. When he could bear the tension no longer, he rose to his feet and, bidding his guests to continue their revelry, pleaded weariness and left the hall. Calling for torches and candles—for he wanted no shadowy corners in his rooms tonight—he sought the solitude of his chamber.

  Once there, pacing to and fro in the silence, no amount of light could wipe from his mind the image of a gleaming knife poised to strike. It was retribution, he had no doubt—recompense for the murder of a king.

  Twenty-four years ago he had seen just such a blade glinting in a raised hand, a flash in the dark. No one had intervened that night; no champion had stepped forward to save a king’s life. He had watched in horror from the shadows at the top of the stairs, a scream caught in his throat as Edward fended off that first blow. But there had been so many blows after that one. Too many. Edward had been butchered at the hands of men he had trusted.

  He stopped his pacing to stand before the crucifix where Christ hung in agony.

  Today’s attack was a judgment upon him sent by God as punishment for that murder done at Corfe. His own hand had not wielded the weapons that killed his brother, but neither had he done all he could to prevent it. He had seen the riders coming, had seen the moonlight gleaming on their swords, and he had not had the wit to cry a warning to Edward. He had stood there, mouth agape with a cry that never left his throat.

  When it was all over, he was given Edward’s crown.

  Yet today, his son—who so resembled that dead king—had seen the danger and had come to a king’s aid. Athelstan might have been enthroned tonight if he had hesitated but a little. He had not. He had intervened in God’s act of retribution. But God, Æethelred knew, would not relent.

  He fell to his knees before the cross, closing his eyes and bowing his head, and pleaded a silent prayer for mercy. He had made reparation. He had encouraged the cult that revered his brother as martyr and saint. He had built a shrine for Edward’s holy remains, had invested abbeys in the martyr’s name. What more could he do that he had not already done?

  Yet even as he prayed, a cold dread crept over him.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of—” But the psalm caught in his throat, and some force—like an invisible hand beneath his chin—compelled him to lift his head and gaze upon that familiar, tortured figure on the cross. To his horror he saw that the face gazing back at him was Edward’s face. It was Edward’s blood that poured from a dozen gaping wounds and Edward’s eyes that glared at him with unspoken accusation.

  Æthelred tried to look away, to escape the relentless power that held him, but he was trapped in that pitiless gaze. His vision blurred with tears, and a cold, searing pain scored his breast once, and again. The stink of burning flesh assailed him, and he wailed in terror, because he knew that it was the stench of his own punishment come upon him, and that death—and worse than death—awaited him.

  For surely in that terrible night beyond the grave lay judgment, and his brother, Edward, would be waiting.

  Elgiva, striding down the passage that led toward the king’s chamber, heard Æthelred’s bitter cry and quickened her pace.

  She had not been duped by his assertion that he was weary and needed rest. Something unpleasant had occurred, she was certain of it. She had seen it in the uneasy glances that passed between the king and Athelstan and had read it in Emma’s brittle, unsmiling face.

  There had been whispers, too—vague rumors of some mishap on the minster green. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, she had slipped away from the feasting shortly after the king did. If there were some treachery afoot, her father would want to know of it.

  She was nearing the king’s chamber, relieved to see a door ward posted there who knew her well, and who might be persuaded to allow her in, when she heard Æthelred cry out. The guard stared at the door, horror struck, but made no move to open it.

  “Did you not hear that, fool?” Elgiva demanded. “The king calls for aid; get you inside, man!”

  The guard hesitated, then rapped heavily on the door. “My lord?”

  When there was no response he rapped and called again, but Elgiva shoved past him and thrust the door open.

  Æthelred knelt on the stone floor with his back to them, his arms flung wide, mirroring the image of the crucifix on the wall. He gave no sign that he heard them enter but continued to face the rood as if in a trance.

  The door ward stopped in his tracks, looking as though he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Elgiva put a finger to her lips and motioned him out of the room.

  Alone with the king, she regarded the kneeling Æthelred with a frown. Whatever had happened today it must have frightened him to his very soul to bring him so to his knees. She would have preferred almost any other response but this. She was used to men drinking themselves into a stupor—her father did it often enough whenever he was troubled, so she had some experience at grappling with a man’s reeling body. She was far less confident of her ability to grapple with a reeling soul.

  Silently cursing men and their foibles, she knelt at the king’s side and, not knowing what else to do, she spread her arms wide. She did not know what prayer Æthelred sent heavenward, but hers was a heartfelt plea that she would not have to kneel here for very long.

  After a time she glanced at the king’s face and saw, with mild disgust, that it was wet with tears. Embarrassed at the sight of such unmanly emotion, she began to gingerly pat his back, as she might a weeping child.

  “My lord,” she whispered, hardly knowing what it was that she said, “you must not despair.” She groped for some reassuring words and snatched frantically at something the bishop had said in today’s interminable sermon. “Our Savior hears and answers the prayers of even the humblest wretches who put their faith and trust in Him. How much greater will His compassion and love be for the king who holds all our care in his hands?”

  At first he made no response, and she wondered if he was indeed in a trance and had not heard her. After some moments, though, he eased his rigid stance, sitting back upon his heels and dropping his face into his hands. Gratefully, she too relaxed.

  “God has no compassion for me,” he murmured. “He has allowed the devil’s servant to smite me.”

  She could make little sense out of that except that whatever had happened, he seemed to believe it had been orchestrated by God Himself. That was a sin of pride if ever there was one. She suppressed a snort at Æthelred’s vanity.

  “Tell me what happened today,” she whispered. “You may find that it eases your mind to speak of it,” she said hopefully. “Come, my lord king. Will you not tell me?”

  She would have liked nothing better than to rise from her knees and escort him to the plush comfort of his royal bed, but to attempt it might shatter the delicate spell that, for the moment, bound them. Instead she continued to stroke his back and shoulders, to ease her fingers along his neck and scalp. She saw the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved a great sigh, and he began to unburden his heart.

  She listened to his account, struck by the audacity of the attack. The creature with the knife must have been insane, for surely he could not have expected to escape with his life. Only a madman would attempt such an enterprise.

  “He was sent by heaven to punish me,” Æthelred said, his gaze once more fixed on the figure of Christ on the cross. “He did not succeed, but others will follow.”

  She closed her eyes. What sin blackened Æthelred’s soul that he anticipated such fierce, divine retribution? That would, indeed, be a secret worth knowing. She opened her eyes and considered the man beside her. His face was white and waxy with exhaustion, like a man who had been a long time ill. He was weak, this king, and she felt nothing for him but scorn.
Yet, she reminded herself, all men were weak.

  And he was still a king.

  She scooted forward and turned so that she could gaze into his face.

  “But my lord king,” she whispered, “do not you see that this may be not a judgment sent upon you, but a warning to you? Even if God allowed this devil to pursue you, he did not succeed. Your son protected you, and surely that, too, was the work of God.”

  She had his attention. The creases on his brow deepened into a frown, and she could tell that he was digesting her words. She pressed her advantage.

  “You are right to pray, my lord, and you must pray for guidance. As you have said, this man may be just the leading edge of some greater, more terrible wave about to break upon us. Do not you see that you must rouse yourself to fight this scourge?” She groped for something appropriately biblical. “You must be the David, my lord, who conquers Goliath. You must be the Sampson who destroys the Philistines. Be a king who is ruled by your courage and your passion, not by your remorse for acts that cannot be undone.”

  She held her breath. What if she had gone too far? Would he spurn her for presuming to tell him what he should do?

  She looked into his eyes and saw a sudden flicker of heat there, but it was not the heat of anger or desperation. Encouraged, she leaned forward and gently grazed her tongue against his lower lip, and he responded by pulling her fiercely against him.

  The coupling that followed was swift and rough. It gave her no pleasure, but she did not care. She had at last made her way into the arms of a king. She had roused him from his torpor, and surely he would reward her accordingly. Groa had predicted a royal destiny for her, and now she was certain that, before very long, all that she deserved would be within her grasp.

  Emma slept little the night of St. Æthelred’s feast, for the Danish curses howled by the king’s assailant continued to echo inside her head. In the morning she asked to speak with Æthelred, and when she was denied, she grew uneasy. Why would he not admit her? Was he afraid of all things Danish now, including a queen whose mother had Danish blood?

  Throughout the day she tried to discover what was taking place in the king’s apartments, but she could glean nothing, and her apprehension grew. She felt as helpless as a mouse in a box, bereft of light and sound. She dared not speak to anyone about what had happened in the minster yard, for the king had forbidden it. She dared not even set her fears down in a letter to her brother, lest it should be intercepted.

  In the afternoon, weary from an endless chain of questions that her mind continued to spin, she went alone into the palace garden in search of respite. All she could do was pace, a victim to doubt and misgiving.

  She decided that she must find some way to speak with Athelstan. There was no one else to whom she could confide her fears, and surely he would know what was in the mind of the king. She longed to see him, to speak with him and draw comfort from his counsel.

  She longed for a great many things, she thought, that she could not have.

  Then she saw Athelstan enter the garden and approach her through the lengthening afternoon shadows, and it was as if some good angel had taken pity on her.

  “I hoped to find you here,” he said, his voice urgent. He drew her into the small, sheltered copse in the garden’s farthest corner.

  “Tell me what is happening,” she begged. “I have been able to learn nothing, and I am afraid of what the king may be planning.”

  But he ignored her question to ask his own.

  “You know what he said, don’t you?” His eyes searched her face. “The man wielding the knife, you understood him.”

  She remembered her mother’s advice, to keep secret her knowledge of the Danish tongue. It will not endear you to your new lord, and may breed mistrust.

  When she made no reply Athelstan answered his own question.

  “Of course you understood him,” he said. “Your mother is Danish. Jesu!” He ran a frantic hand through his hair. “Does the king know?”

  “Only Margot knows,” she said, “and now you.”

  He drew in a breath and released it.

  “Keep your knowledge of Danish secret, lady,” he said. “Guard it carefully, do you hear me?”

  “What is happening?” she asked again.

  “The man who attacked the king is mad,” he said, “his wits as shattered as broken glass. I have said as much to my father, but he will not listen. He is convinced that his throne is imperiled by Danish enemies within the realm, and he is taking steps to thwart them. There is to be no Christmas court. Tomorrow the younger children will go to the manor at Cookham, while I am ordered to Headington with Edmund and Ecbert. My father wants us scattered, so that we are less of a target.” He grimaced. “There is more—and worse, I fear.”

  She said nothing, waiting for the next blow.

  “He does not trust your Norman retainers,” he said. “They are all to leave the court. Hugh will go to Exeter to act as reeve there for your dower lands. Your hearth guards are to accompany him, and your women as well, save one or two. You will be confined to the palace—to keep you safe.”

  He had confirmed her worst fears. They would leave Winchester, all of them, while she remained here, a prisoner at the mercy of the king. She would be powerless and friendless, suspected of some imagined infamy.

  She felt him grasp her shoulders as if to steady her, and she looked up into the now familiar blue eyes.

  “How soon?” she asked.

  “Within the week.”

  She closed her eyes. How would she bear it? Without her own folk about her, the winter ahead loomed long, lonely, and frightening.

  Without Athelstan, the days would be endless.

  “Emma,” his voice was urgent again, and she opened her eyes to meet his. “I cannot be certain that this is all of it.” He frowned, his expression grave. “There is a darkness in my father’s mind that I do not understand. You must promise me that you will be wary of him, that you will give him no excuse to cause you more grief. Promise me.”

  She was aware, suddenly, of the silence in the garden. Even the birds had fled, and for the first time, she realized, they were alone, without children or servants or attendants. There were no eyes to observe them, no tongues to interpret every gesture and expression.

  She lifted her hand to caress his cheek, with its rough, close-cropped beard.

  “I promise to be careful.” She held her breath as he turned his head to press his lips against her palm. The tenderness of that touch made her heart dance with joy and her soul quail with terror. “You must go,” she urged, “before someone comes. I pray God will keep you safe.”

  “Do you? I pray for something else—something that is a sin even to think about.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders and he kissed her—a bruising kiss that was as fierce and angry and desperate as a curse. An instant later he was gone and she was left alone with her fear, with the prospect of the dark, lonely winter that lay ahead, and with a heart broken by hopeless yearning.

  One week after his feast day, the king summoned a select group of trusted councilors to a late-night meeting. The small chamber, wreathed in broad banks of candles, glowed with light, while the rest of the palace, and most of the folk within it, slumbered in darkness. Half a dozen more candles burned amid a riot of drinking cups and pitchers of wine on the long table in the center of the room.

  Æthelred, seated at the table’s head, watched the men file in. He read the apprehension on their faces as they glanced nervously at the clerks behind him, who recorded the name of each man who entered. He had given no hint as to the purpose of the council. They would find out soon enough.

  He bid the men seat themselves, and as servants moved among them to fill their cups, the mood in the chamber lightened appreciably. He drank little himself but watched, satisfied, a
s cups were emptied and refilled. Sober reflection was not what he required of these men tonight.

  Finally he motioned for the servants to leave the room, all but the clerks whose duty it was to record what was said here, and what would be decided.

  “We are here,” he said solemnly, fingering his beard, “to resolve the issue of the Danes who dwell within our borders. First I wish to discover the magnitude of the problem. What can you tell me?”

  They needed little encouragement, for he had chosen these men with care. Each one had numerous tales of outrage to relate—incidents of stolen cattle, plundered churches, raped women, and all of it the work of renegade Danes. As the stories were told and the wine drunk, the anger around the table rose until it spilled out in curses and calls for revenge.

  Æthelred let them vent their outrage unhindered. He had already made up his mind about what must be done. The creature that had accosted him in the minster square was merely a symptom of a much larger disease. England was littered with bands of restless Viking mercenaries, seasoned warriors with no allegiance to anyone but their own leaders and the gold that was paid them. They had been of use to him once. Now, having proved that they could not be trusted, they remained in the land like a contagion. Men like Pallig, with too little to occupy them and no ties of loyalty to control them, were cankers that sickened his realm. He had no choice but to cut them out before they formed an army and destroyed him.

  At the far end of the table, Eadric of Shrewsbury described the theft of a herd of horses and the torching of a barn, and then slammed his fist against the board.

  “My lord, these men live among us, but they remain outside the law,” he said. “They answer to no one. We fear, and rightly, the men of the dragon ships who steal our food, our goods, and our women. But we should fear even more the like-minded devils that dwell among us who do not have to cross the Danish sea to murder us.”