The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  The men of the north would not be persuaded to renounce their oaths to the English king, to pledge themselves to Swein and Cnut, unless they were guaranteed that another royal line—sprung from the bond between the Danish king and the northern nobility—would take its place. For that she needed a son.

  All that day and for three days after, she refused to see anyone except Tyra, who brought her food and drink and who bound her leaky breasts. On the fourth day she had tired of self-pity. She rose from her bed, allowed Tyra to dress her, threw on a heavy cloak, and went outside. Walking was still difficult for her, but she made her way slowly, unhindered by anyone. She left Thurbrand’s enclosure and took the eastward path that led to the cliff above the sea. It was a familiar route, for she had walked this way many times to search the horizon for Cnut’s ship.

  Catla, she knew, was following her. Probably the girl feared that she would throw herself from the high headland, although how Catla thought she could prevent it, Elgiva could not begin to guess. But she had no desire for self-destruction. She merely wanted to stand in the wind, to feel it buffet her, to make her feel alive again.

  She came to the cliff edge, to the end of the only world that she had ever known. The sea was the color of steel, and from the horizon to the middle heavens, loops and swirls of cloud were massed in a huge bank of scarlet and black that was strikingly beautiful.

  She was aware of Catla beside her now, and she said, “I will not jump, you need not worry. I have faced calamities far worse than this and they have not defeated me. Have you sent word to Cnut that he has a daughter?”

  “It has been done, lady, but . . .” Catla’s voice dwindled to nothing, and Elgiva wanted to scream at her to grow a spine.

  “What is it that you would tell me?” She looked into the white face beside her. The girl was weeping, her nose wet and red, and all of a sudden she knew what it was that Catla could not bring herself to say. “The babe is dead, then.”

  “She was thriving,” Catla mewed, “but this morning the wet nurse could not waken her. It was as if her spirit just slipped away in the night.”

  Elgiva turned her eyes back to that wall of cloud hanging over the sea. The wind gusted against her so that her cloak swirled and her eyes watered, and for long moments she was silent, watching the play of cloud and light.

  “The child’s death is of no consequence,” she said at last. “It was a girl, and what use have I for a girl? Cnut needs a son, and now he must come back to England to give me one.”

  But she recalled the cold look that her husband had cast upon her before he went away, and her heart faltered. She frowned at the sea and the sky that lay between this kingdom and the land of the Danes. The mountainous clouds had shifted so that they looked no longer beautiful but ominous, a looming darkness riddled with fiery light; and suddenly she was afraid.

  Without a son to draw him, Cnut might never return. She would be left alone here—a forsaken concubine with no man, no child, and nothing to cling to but her bitter hatred for Æthelred and for his whey-faced Norman queen.

  A.D. 1008 This year bade the king that men should speedily build ships over all England; that is, a man possessed of three hundred and ten hides to provide one galley or skiff; and a man possessed of eight hides only, to find a helmet and breastplate.

  —The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

  Chapter Fourteen

  September 1008

  Corfe, Dorset

  Athelstan settled into a corner of one of the wide, cushioned benches that lined the walls of Corfe’s royal lodge. A servant placed a cup of ale close to his hand, and several dogs ambled over, one of them nosing his booted foot before flopping against it with a grunt. A thin haze of smoke from the fire pit hung just below the roof thatch, and the hall smelled pleasantly of wood smoke and roast meat. On the walls, deer hides and antlers hung as mute testaments to the lodge’s purpose and to the wealth of game on this Isle of Purbeck.

  He stretched, rotating his right arm before him as he tried to ease muscles unused to the demands of a hunting bow. The summer had been uneventful, thank God, and this refuge peaceful—at least until his brothers and their companions had descended upon it like a pack of young wolves. For the moment, though, tired from stalking deer in the hills, the men were relatively quiet, and he thought there could be no better place to spend a dank September afternoon.

  He was fond of this hall, in spite of its sordid history of treachery and murder. He did not know the exact spot where his uncle, the sainted King Edward, had been slain. His father could have shown him the place, but he had not set foot here since the day Edward died, and it was the king’s distaste for Corfe that made Athelstan value it all the more. His memories of this place were unsullied by his father’s glowering presence or by the memory of a king who had been murdered decades ago. His brothers felt the same, and it had become their retreat, a place where they could spend time together with their companions.

  By common consent no women were allowed—not even servants, although there were girls aplenty in the nearby village, always eager for royal companionship and a little silver. He suspected that his youngest brother was enjoying the embrace of some willing maiden right now, for Edgar had stopped at one of the houses in the village as they’d passed through, waving the rest of them to go on without him. He would have his pick of the girls, to be sure. With his even temper, comely face, and liberal hand, Edgar was even more popular around here than the martyred king who drew pilgrims and their purses to the village church dedicated to him.

  He picked up his cup and slugged back a mouthful of ale, wiping his lips afterward with the back of his hand as he eyed each of his younger brothers in turn. Edmund, who liked to keep his ear to the ground and who paid well for information, stood with a group of men near the fire, his dark head cocked to one side. He glanced now and then toward the door, but for the most part he seemed to be listening intently to what was likely some nugget of local gossip. If it were useful, Edmund would share it with him later.

  Off to one side of the hall, Edrid and Edwig had cleared a space on the sleeping platform and were throwing dice with half a dozen companions. He watched their gaming for a while, frowning when Edwig rose to his knees, leaned toward one of his men, and began to cuff him sharply about the face. His victim did not even attempt to fend off the blows—Edwig was an ætheling, after all—and Athelstan was about to put a stop to it when Edrid ordered his brother to leave off. Edwig laughed uproariously and turned back to the game, nearly falling off the platform as he did so because he was filthy drunk.

  Christ, he’d been drunk for days. The fact that he’d managed to stay astride a horse this morning was a testament to either his skill or his luck, neither of which could be counted on forever. Drunk or sober, Edwig took great pleasure in needling men until he’d driven them past caution and almost invariably to violence. Twice now the king had paid wergild for beatings that had ended in death. Edwig, though, would not always be able to count on his father or his brothers to get him out of trouble. One day, thought Athelstan, he would come to a bad end.

  That thought brought to mind the words of the foreboding prophecy that he had succeeded in muting but that nevertheless still rang in his memory. True words or not, he reflected, Edwig’s road would surely be a bitter one if someone did not throttle some sense into him. Although, at seventeen, it was likely already too late.

  His musings were interrupted when a man came through the screens passage and addressed Edmund, who, Athelstan suddenly realized, must have been watching for him. A moment later the newcomer made his way purposefully to Athelstan’s bench. It was Wulfnoth of Sussex, one of the king’s thegns. He had been traveling hard, for his boots and cloak were mud-spattered, and the face beneath his short thatch of gray hair was lined with weariness.

  Athelstan nodded to him, noting that the hall had suddenly cleared until only his brothers and an ancient, trusted servant remained
. Old Osric busied himself fetching stools and more ale, and Athelstan took another pull from his cup to fortify himself against whatever his brothers and Wulfnoth were about to spring on him. As he swallowed he glowered at Edmund.

  What was he up to now? Surely this was not about Elgiva again; the girl had not been seen for two years, and if she had any sense at all she was tucked up in some safe haven in the lowlands across the sea. Wulfnoth could have nothing to do with her.

  Could he? Was it possible that he had found her in Sussex somewhere, hiding under their very noses?

  Muttering a curse under his breath he sat up a little straighter and wished he were with Edgar, happily whoring in Corfe village.

  “It appears,” he observed ruefully, “that someone has called a council.”

  “Stinking waste of time, councils,” Edwig slurred. He had propped himself against one of the hall’s columns, ale cup in hand.

  Athelstan was impressed that Edwig could stand up at all. “Should we not wait for Edgar?” he asked.

  “I have sent for him,” Edmund replied. “Wulfnoth, here, represents a number of the southern lords. He wishes to speak of Eadric.”

  Not Ælfhelm’s daughter, then. Thank God.

  “Ah, the infamous Eadric,” he said, raising his cup to Wulfnoth, who, everyone knew, detested Eadric. Jesu, they all detested Eadric, but Wulfnoth had more reason than most. “The man who was promoted to ealdorman above at least one other far more deserving candidate.” he said, nodding toward Wulfnoth, who scowled, “and whose influence with the king appears to be growing daily. My sister’s adored husband and my father’s darling. What more is there to say about Eadric?”

  “That he is as vile a piece of murdering, thieving scum as ever fouled your father’s court.”

  “Oh, that’s harsh,” Edwig sneered. “Surely there’s been someone at least as bad in, what, thirty years?”

  “Not that I can recall, my lord,” Wulfnoth growled. “Eadric’s actions have convinced a great many men that your father’s rule has lasted well past its appointed time. There are prayers offered daily that God will gather the king to His bosom as soon as may be and thus rid us of Eadric.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Edwig said brightly. “Shall we all say amen?”

  “Shut up, Edwig,” Athelstan said. He turned to Wulfnoth. “I have avoided my father’s councils all summer, since my opinion is rarely consulted and always ignored. What is Eadric up to now?”

  “Your father has put him in charge of the fleet,” Wulfnoth answered. “He is taking ships.”

  Athelstan leaned forward, suddenly more alert. This was a wrinkle he knew nothing about. The king had ordered all of his thegns to build ships—some lords having to build as many as ten, depending on how much land they owned. It was something that he had been urging his father to do for years as part of their defense against the Danes, but it was only when Eadric had raised the idea at this year’s Easter council that the king agreed to it. By then Eadric had brought in shipwrights from Normandy, offering their services to the English magnates at three times the normal rate. By next spring, England would have a massive new fleet, and Eadric would be very, very rich. Some might call it unscrupulous. Eadric merely called it good business.

  “What do you mean, he’s taking ships? The vessels that the king ordered built cannot possibly be completed yet.”

  “Not the new ships. Eadric has sent armed men into the ports of Kent and Sussex carrying writs demanding that all seaworthy ships be turned over to him, at sword point if necessary.”

  “To what purpose?” Athelstan asked.

  “To patrol the coast through the winter, they say, although everyone knows that the Danes would never risk sending an entire fleet across the sea during the winter gales. Our ships are all forfeit to the crown, which means, of course, to Eadric. If we want to replace them, we’ve got to build new ones.”

  “Using Eadric’s shipwrights,” Athelstan said.

  “Exactly. He’s bleeding us dry and growing fat at our expense. If a man does not have the silver to pay for building more ships, Eadric will gladly take land instead. The bastard will own properties all over Kent and Sussex before he is done.”

  “He sounds brilliant,” Edwig blurted. “Here’s what we do. We take all the silver and gold in the kingdom, give it to Eadric, and when next the Danes come raiding, we tell them to plunder him. Problem solved.”

  “This is no subject for jest, lord,” Wulfnoth snapped. He turned to Athelstan. “The king has placed Eadric in charge of our coastal defenses. Aside from the fact that he is getting rich off the appointment, he knows as much about ships as a swineherd. None of the men in the southern counties want to trust their defense to Eadric, and they are questioning their oaths of loyalty to the king. They fear that his dependence on Eadric is the result of a mind weakened by age. I’ve heard men say that if someone else does not seize the reins of power, the king will place them in Eadric’s hands, and then we are surely lost.”

  Wulfnoth locked his eyes on Athelstan’s, and the message in them was easy to read. The men he spoke for wanted a new king.

  But to unseat a king, one must have an army.

  Athelstan felt all their eyes on him now. They had thrown him a challenge as if it were a banner, and they were willing him to pick it up and run with it. But where did they expect him to go? How many of them would follow him toward what was certain to be the edge of a cliff?

  Years ago he had thought to raise an army against his father—a wild, desperate desire borne of youth, frustration, and rage. He had learned caution since then. Jesu! Just having this conversation imperiled them all.

  “So you wish to persuade the king to abandon his reliance upon Eadric,” he said. “Urge him to trust in someone more to your liking. Compel him by force, if necessary. Let us consider that option.” He set down his cup and addressed himself to Wulfnoth. “According to you, Eadric controls the fleet and all of Mercia. Ealdorman Uhtred controls Northumbria, and Ealdorman Ælfric most of Wessex. They owe their lands and titles to the king, and they will do whatever he commands. Therefore, any man who thinks to defy the king, perhaps even lay claim to the throne, will have more than two-thirds of the fighting men in the realm pitted against him. How is he to win? Or perhaps you are come to me because you think that if I ask politely, my father will just shrug and hand over the crown?”

  “He’ll never do it,” Edwig said. “Have to fight him for it. Scary prospect.”

  Athelstan ignored him. “Wulfnoth, I understand your fears, but the situation is not as dire as you seem to think. When the shipbuilding is completed we will have nearly two hundred vessels to patrol our shores. That alone may be enough to deter any enemies who think to attack us, no matter who is in command of the fleet. Even Eadric. God willing, we won’t have to fight at all.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t like it,” Edwig said.

  “Edwig, shut up!” Edmund barked. “Athelstan, you have not heard—”

  “My lord,” Wulfnoth interjected angrily, “I have taken the temper of men all over England, not just in the south. They are afraid to trust a king who listens to the poison that Eadric whispers in his ear. They fear for their titles and their lands. They have not forgotten the murder of Ælfhelm and his sons.”

  Athelstan raised a quelling hand.

  “Ælfhelm was a traitor,” he said. It galled him to have to defend his father’s action against Ælfhelm, but the past could not be undone. And to encourage these men in any move against the king was unconscionable.

  “That may be so,” Wulfnoth admitted, “but Ælfhelm was killed before he was given the chance to answer his accusers.”

  “His accuser was the king and his crime was treachery,” Athelstan snapped. “My father’s method of dealing with Ælfhelm was unwise; nevertheless I am convinced of the man’s guilt.” He glared at Edmund, who knew as w
ell as he did that Ælfhelm had been conspiring with the Danes. Edmund had even regarded their father’s brutal response with guarded approval. To Wulfnoth he said angrily, “Have a care what you say now, my lord, for we are perilously close to treason ourselves. Do you trust the king so little that you would break your oaths to him and raise your sword against him? For that is what this must come to.”

  Edmund raised his hands in a calming gesture. “It need not lead to a battle,” Edmund said. “The nobles and their ships are to meet at Sandwich in the spring. If we can gather enough men to our cause we will be in a position to challenge Eadric, wrest control of the ships from him, and strike a bargain with the king.”

  Athelstan shook his head. “It sounds very neat, Edmund. Very civilized. But you have forgotten one significant detail: The king is not one to bargain with his nobles.”

  What was it the seeress had said to him when last he saw her? Strive to grasp what you would have. What he would have was a kingdom entire, but it would likely break into pieces if these men were allowed to follow through with their plan.

  “My lord, we are desperate,” Wulfnoth insisted.

  “Well, I am not.” He stood up abruptly. The others rose as well and the dogs at their feet, alarmed, scattered. “Until I am desperate, I will not take up arms against my father. Nothing that you say, my lord, will shame, goad, or coerce me into doing so. There’s an end to it.”

  Edwig laughed. “You fools. You have not bribed him yet. Offer him the queen, and he might reconsider. Christ, offer me the queen, and I will challenge the king myself.”

  Athelstan had had enough. He turned and smashed his fist into Edwig’s sneering face, watching with satisfaction as his brother spun to the floor, senseless. Then he turned to Edmund.

  “We are finished here,” he said. “And I find that this hall is no longer to my liking.”

  As he stalked toward the door he rubbed his bruised fist. He did not regret the blow, although Edwig’s taunt had been very close to the truth. He would, indeed, try to take his father’s crown if he thought that, by doing so, he could win the queen as well. But he had once laid such a plan at her feet, and she had forced him to see what madness it was. England—all of it—would be his one day, but he must bide his time until the crown fell into his hands. He would not steal it.