The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  “I do not know, my lord,” Edmund grunted. “I am not in his counsels.” He looked toward Edward again and said, “I am surprised that the queen is not here today.”

  “She is ill.” Æthelred dismissed the subject of Emma with a flick of his hand.

  Edyth, seated on his left, now bent her head close to his. “The queen’s illness is cause for joy, my lord,” she whispered. “She is with child and has known it for some weeks. I wonder that she has not yet told you.”

  On the bridge, Archbishop Ælfheah, garbed in a brilliant gold chasuble, his miter rising above the heads of the white-robed priests who surrounded him, raised his arms to invoke the blessing. In the ensuing silence, as the archbishop intoned the prayers, Æthelred digested Edyth’s words.

  She was right. If the queen was with child, he should have been told immediately. She’d had plenty of opportunity, for he saw her almost daily, so why had she not done so?

  He fingered his beard as he tried to encompass the mind of his queen. Perhaps she feared that her condition would give him an excuse to bar her from a seat at his council, and of course it would. He would take advantage of it immediately. Let her stay sequestered in the queen’s apartments, where she could not meddle in the affairs of his kingdom. Too many people looked to her for favors and privileges, usually churchmen and usually at his expense; he would be glad of an excuse to put a stop to it.

  His eyes fell again upon young Edward, and he watched as the boy bowed his head in an attitude of prayer that was somewhat belied by his incessant fidgeting from one foot to the other.

  He had never wanted Edward to remain at court under the influence of his Norman mother. Now that Emma was with child again, he could at last pry her son from her side. He would send Edward to one of the abbeys and have him schooled in disciplines far removed from the political lessons that his mother would instill in him. Let them make a priest of him, perhaps even a bishop, so that he could one day be of use to an English king. That had ever been the plan he’d devised for the boy. Despite naming Edward as his heir, he had never intended that the child should actually rule. It had been merely a move to bedevil his eldest sons and to garner the goodwill of Emma’s brother Richard.

  Later today he would speak with the abbot of Ely about taking the boy north with him, for he must strike before Emma could think of some way to prevent him. It would be just like his lady wife to set her favorite bishops or, God forbid, Archbishop Ælfheah against him to compel him to leave the boy in her care.

  The archbishop appeared to have finished his interminable blessing, and now a choir of monks from the abbey at the West Minster began to sing a Latin hymn. Priests posted all along the bridge rail used leafy branches to fling holy water onto the ships clustered below. Soon the ceremony would be over, the tide would have turned, and London’s ships would begin to move with it, eastward toward the sea.

  And still, despite his pleasure at the sight of the ships and his satisfaction at having determined the disposition of his youngest child, Æthelred toyed with his beard and wondered where his eldest son had got to and what mischief he might be planning.

  Two days after the king’s new ships sailed to join the rest of the fleet at Sandwich, one of London’s dense fogs wrapped an enormous, wet paw around the city, a grip that only seemed to tighten as the morning progressed. Emma was content to be within doors on such a day, especially here; for the London palace was the newest and finest of all the royal dwellings. Over the past three years, Æthelred had spared no expense in rebuilding and refurbishing what had once been a fortress housing a Roman army. The result was wondrous.

  Her own apartments were constructed of wood above a lower floor of mostly Roman stonework that had been repaired and reinforced. She had housed her Norman hearth guards in the lower hall, while the spacious chambers on the upper floor accommodated her household of nearly thirty women and children. In the queen’s chamber there were windows, narrow and high, with panes made of thick glass instead of horn. Even on days like this, light spilled through them like a radiant waterfall.

  This morning she was seated on a low, cushioned bench, with a small book on her lap and a boy on either side of her. The book’s pages were filled with drawings of strange creatures that thrilled her young companions, although Emma found them unsettling and ugly. What was it about monsters, she wondered, that was so appealing to little boys?

  She turned a page, composing a tale to fit the image that greeted her of a headless man whose enormous eyes, nose, and mouth gaped at her from below his shoulders. By now he was a familiar sight, for this book was a favorite, and she drew her story from bits and pieces of previous tales.

  From time to time she glanced toward the others in the chamber who were listening while they worked. Wymarc, Margot, and Wulfa were clustered on benches in the center of the room, fingers and needles busy. The altar cloth that they were hemming was all but finished, and Emma considered it one of the most beautiful that had been produced in her hall. Made of bloodred silk and trimmed with a wide band of cloth of gold, the central ornament was a golden rood that she had embroidered herself with painstaking care. With every stitch she had whispered a prayer to Saint Bride, the patron saint of infants, imploring her protection for the child growing within her. On the morrow she would tell the king that she was again with child, and she would carry the cloth herself to St. Bride’s Church before she left with the court for Sandwich.

  She had just ended her tale with a desperate fight to the death between two fierce monsters when a servant entered to announce the arrival of the king’s steward, Hubert, who followed only a half step behind him.

  “Good day, Hubert,” she said, as he made a perfunctory reverence and then stood solemnly before her, hands folded. She eyed him warily, this dark-robed, weasel-faced little cleric, for they had little liking for each other. Hubert had served the king faithfully for decades as private scribe, casual counselor, and, she had reason to believe, household spy. His appearance in her chamber meant that he bore some message of import from the king; and from the smug expression on his face she suspected that she was not going to like what she was about to hear. “There is nothing amiss, I hope,” she said.

  “The king bids you to prepare your son for a journey, my lady. He is to leave for the Abbey School at Ely within the hour.”

  She felt Edward, beside her, give a little start of surprise. She was surprised as well, and frightened; but she would not allow Hubert to see it.

  “What you ask is impossible,” she said, with far more compsure than she was feeling. “It will take far longer than that to prepare my son for so arduous an undertaking. If I am not mistaken, it must be a journey of at least five days to reach Ely.”

  “The necessary preparations have all been completed, my lady. You need only supply the boy with whatever clothing he must have on the journey. The king trusts that he’s given you sufficient time for that.” He wore the confident expression of a man who has just made a winning throw of the dice, and she knew that she was beaten.

  She looked toward Margot, who slipped from the room and would return in a moment, Emma was certain, with a handful of servants. Margot knew as well as she did that there could be no fighting the inevitable. The command that she had so dreaded had come at last. The king would take her son away from her, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Why now, though? And why with such dispatch? It felt like a punishment, although she suspected that it was nothing more than Æthelred carelessly flaunting his power. He would not, though, have it all his way.

  She swallowed what felt like a tide of grief and apprehension that was rising in her throat. She must not frighten Edward. For his sake she had to remain calm, had to make him view this as a huge adventure.

  She wrapped her arm around her son and hugged him to her side.

  “Well, Edward,” she said lightly, “the king has given us an order and we must obey it. You are too old n
ow to study with only Father Martin to help you, so you will go to a great abbey, where you will have many teachers.”

  His face, though, was clouded with doubt.

  “Are you not to come with me?” he asked.

  She ran her fingers through his blond curls, imagining him at Ely, alone and frightened, without any familiar faces about him, without her there to care for him. Then she banished the picture, for if she dwelt on it she would weep, and that she must not do.

  “I cannot come, my love,” she said. “But I am sure that the king will send a grand company with you, with banners and men-at-arms, just as if the king himself were going. Now, here is your nurse to help you choose the things that you wish to take with you. Wulfa and Robert will help too.”

  Edward’s small face puckered with distress as he slipped off the bench, but he did not cry.

  “May I take this book?” he asked her gravely.

  “Of course,” she said, closing the book and handing it to his nurse.

  When the children were gone she turned again to Hubert.

  “Who is to attend Edward on the journey?” she asked. At least it would not be Edmund. He had already left for Sandwich.

  “The bishop of Elmham and the abbot of Ely will take responsibility for him. They each have large retinues, and they are assembling at St. Paul’s, where the ætheling is to join them. The king wishes his son to wait upon him in the great hall before his departure.”

  She nodded, waited until the chamber door had closed behind the steward, then rose from the bench, restless and angry. There was a great deal to do, for she would not send her son to Ely without attendants from her own household. She bid one of the servants to fetch Father Martin and turned to Wymarc, who had come to her side and now took her hand.

  “You knew this had to come,” Wymarc said.

  “He is not yet five winters old,” she replied bitterly. “He is too young to understand why he is being sent away, and I will not allow him to be alone among strangers.” Why had she not prepared for this?

  Because, she told herself, she had not wanted to face it, even in her mind. Now she must find a way to deal with it in the space of an hour.

  She looked into Wymarc’s eyes and saw her own grief reflected there. She saw understanding, as well, and resignation. Wymarc had already guessed what was in her mind.

  “You wish Robert to accompany Edward,” Wymarc said. She drew a breath. “Yes, of course he must. Edward will need a companion.”

  Emma squeezed her hand. Wymarc had surmised some of it, but not all.

  “I wish you both to go,” she replied. “It will be to Robert’s advantage to continue at Edward’s side, and you must attend both our sons. Take lodgings somewhere near the abbey, and send me word of Edward as often as you can. Father Martin must go as well; he will be welcome within the abbey precincts.” She paused, casting about in her mind for what else must be done. “Some of my Norman hearth guards will accompany you, and Edward must have a body servant who can see to his needs, someone we can trust. Young Lyfing, I think.”

  It was all happening too swiftly. She felt as if she were being buffeted by a windstorm, helpless in the grasp of something she could not control. She studied Wymarc’s face, as familiar to her as her own, then pulled her into a long embrace.

  “I shall miss you,” Emma whispered. “I cannot guess how long we may be parted, but Edward must have someone nearby he can turn to should he have need of comfort. Stay as close to him as you can.”

  “I will,” Wymarc said. “He is like my own son. You know that.”

  At last they drew apart, and brushing a kiss against her friend’s brow Emma said, “Make haste. You have very little time.”

  Wymarc nodded, and when she was gone Emma pressed her fingertips over her eyes in an effort to compose her face into something resembling equanimity before going to assist Edward. When she took her hands away, she found that Margot was at her elbow with a cup of wine in her hands.

  “Drink just a little,” Margot said. “It will calm you, and that is how Edward must remember you.”

  She took the cup, obediently swallowed once, twice, then handed the cup back to Margot with a grateful smile.

  “I want you to wrap the crimson altar cloth in a length of waxed wool,” she said. “It must go to Ely with Edward. I do not know what gifts the king will send as compensation for sheltering our son, but the abbot will expect recompense from me as well.”

  She could not send Edward empty-handed. Indeed, she would make certain that the abbot was beholden to her. The silken altar cloth embroidered in gold would be but the first gift of many. St. Bride’s would have to wait.

  An hour later, on the steps of the chapel near the west gate, Emma gathered her son into her arms to bid him farewell.

  “I will give you our special kiss,” he said, his arms about her neck.

  She nodded and closed her eyes as he planted kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, her lips, and the tip of her nose.

  “God bless you,” Edward said, just as he always did when he bade her good night.

  “God keep you safe,” she answered, although she was not certain that God could be trusted in this.

  Edward was lifted up and settled, like Robert, in front of one of her Norman retainers. Wymarc rode behind them, and as the company set out, she raised a hand in farewell. Emma watched, dry-eyed, as they disappeared into the mist. Then she went in search of the king.

  He was still in the great hall, where he had taken leave of Edward, surrounded by clerks and attendants, finalizing arrangements, she imagined, for the upcoming ship gathering at Sandwich. She sidestepped Hubert’s attempt to head her off and went straight to the dais, where Æthelred was seated at a table littered with documents.

  “I have followed your command regarding my son, my lord,” she said, “but I would know why you insisted on sending Edward away in such a cold, heartless manner. It was cruelly done, and I wish to know your reasons.”

  Her words silenced every other voice in the hall, but she did not falter. Let them all listen. Perhaps they were as curious to hear the answer as she was.

  “You are distraught, lady,” he said without even bothering to meet her gaze. “I will discuss your concerns with you later.”

  “If you will look at me, my lord, you will see that I am not distraught. I am merely curious. I think, as your queen,” she said, emphasizing the title, “I deserve an answer.”

  He did look at her then, and with the slightest flick of a finger he cleared the room of observers. That gesture was a signal of his power, utilized so casually that one might almost believe that he was not aware of how intimidating it was. But Emma knew the king, and she knew that every word and gesture had a purpose. He was reminding her that although she may be queen, her powers were merely a reflection of his own and of Edward’s as his heir. And now Edward was gone.

  “Are you distressed, lady, at losing your son?” he asked. “Or perhaps it is your son’s apparent eagerness to leave your side that you find so upsetting.”

  The words were meant to cause her pain, and her first instinct was to retaliate. But she had no weapon to use against him. She could not torment him with his son’s lack of feeling for him, because Æthelred cared nothing for that. He desired only that his children should fear him, and in that he had succeeded all too well.

  “Instead of taunting me,” she said, “you should commend me for raising my son to obey your commands without question. I still wish to know why you felt it necessary to send Edward away with so little warning.”

  “I have been told,” he said, idly perusing one of the documents in front of him, “that you are with child. How is it that you have been so unmindful that you have not shared with me such joyous news?”

  So someone had betrayed her. Stunned, she opened her mouth to answer him, but he waved her to silence.


  “It is no great matter,” he went on. “Now that Edward is gone, you will be able to direct all your energies toward preparations for the coming birth. To that end, you are excused from attending my councils—indefinitely.”

  “My lord, I only wished to be certain—”

  “In three days’ time I will depart for Sandwich. You and your household will remain here in London, and until I set out on my journey south you are forbidden to enter my hall or my chambers unless you are summoned. I want no more outbursts such as this. Is that clear?”

  “No,” she snapped, “it is not clear. I am not your prisoner and nor am I a child, yet you would treat me as one. If you do not wish my counsel then I must hold my tongue, but to bar me from the court is to imply that I have committed some crime when I have done nothing wrong. Why must we be always at odds? What is my offense?”

  She already knew the answer. She had offended by shouldering the responsibilities of a queen when he wanted nothing more than a bed mate. Æthelred wanted all preferments, all decision making, all power in his hands. He wanted no rivals near his throne—not his sons, not his nobles, and certainly not his queen.

  “Yes, lady,” he said, “it seems that we must be always at odds. Would you know why? Because against my will I was made to give you a crown, yet that gift has not satisfied you. I have granted you lands and wealth, and I have named your son my heir, and those gifts, too, have not quenched your thirst for influence. You desire to master me, and I will not be mastered. I will use you as it suits me, and just now it suits me to keep you in London while you await the birth of your child.”

  He was watching her now, waiting for her to make a misstep. She did not care. He had already taken her son and barred her from the court. What more could he do to her?

  “And if I should wish to leave London?”