The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  “It is not their intention to starve us,” she protested. “It would take too long. They strike swiftly and move on. It is what they have always done.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace.

  “This army is vastly different from the forces we have faced in the past, even the force that Tostig led against us two years ago. Their commander is a man named Thorkell, and if even half of what is said of him is true, he is as skilled a warlord as any we have yet seen. His army is not made up of thugs recruited from alleyways and docksides. These men are seasoned fighters. The question is: What do they really want? What does Thorkell want?”

  “Whatever it is,” she said, “he is searching for it in the southern shires. The people there need your help.” She reached for his hands, clasping them tightly in her own. “The king needs your counsel. Go to him. That is where your duty lies.” She gazed at him—at the golden hair, the eyes far bluer than any others she knew, the tender mouth framed by the trim, fair beard. She would keep this memory of him safe in her heart, against the time when he was far away.

  For a long moment they looked one upon the other, then slowly he drew her into his arms so that her head rested against his shoulder. For several heartbeats she allowed him to simply hold her while she drew strength from the shelter of his embrace. It was a moment stolen from time, and she wanted to savor it, for she did not know if there would ever be another like it.

  “It is not London I fear for,” he whispered, “it is you. Promise that you will send me word if you have need of me.”

  “I promise,” she said, lifting her head, willing herself to draw away from him, for it was perilous to remain even a moment longer clasped within his arms. But in the next instant his mouth found hers, and instead of pulling away she returned his passionate, lingering kiss with all the yearning that she had kept locked within for so long.

  When at last he released her, he brushed his lips against her hand, and then he was gone.

  Emma pressed her fingertips against her brow, for her head ached from the effort of keeping back her tears. She had been right to send him away, she was certain of it. But dear God, it was going to be so hard to face each day knowing that she would not see him, would have no word of him. She took a deep breath and for a time she did not move, comforted somewhat by the silence and the peace of the chapel.

  One by one the people she loved—Edward, Wymarc, Father Martin, Hilde, and now Athelstan—had been forced to leave her. She did not know how she was to bear this last leave-taking, although she had always known that it had to come. Athelstan owed his duty to his father, the king, not to her.

  Gently she caressed her swollen belly, fearful lest her grief hurt the babe, reminding herself that, although so many had left her, she was not alone. The child was always with her, and Margot, too, would never leave her side.

  She took a deep breath and swallowed hard against the knot of anguish that lingered in her throat. There were others, too—women who even now were gathered in her chamber, anxious and frightened. Their losses were far greater than hers, and her place now was with them.

  She left the chapel to return to them, with little to offer in the way of comfort other than news of what the king was planning to do. She doubted that it would help them much, but it was all she had to give.

  A.D. 1009 And everywhere in Sussex, and in Hampshire, and also in Berkshire, they plundered and burned, as their custom is. Then ordered the king to summon out all the population, that men might hold firm against them on every side . . . On one occasion the king had begun his march before them, as they proceeded to their ships, and all the people were ready to fall upon them . . .

  —The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 1009

  Salisbury, Wiltshire

  Æthelred stood alone upon the rampart of the hilltop fortress and squinted up at the blank sky. The sun was hidden behind a roof of cloud, but he judged that it was near midday. In the still air, the smoke from thousands of campfires fingered skyward, and almost as far as he could see, the plain below was blackened by a vast army. His army. And now that Eadric had at last arrived with his levies, his force numbered more than three thousand strong. His heart swelled at the sight of them. He had beckoned, and they had come. Such was the power of a king.

  Their banners proclaimed their territories and allegiances—Wessex, East and West Mercia, Northumbria, East Anglia—each fyrd well separated from its neighbors with guards in place to keep men of one region from savaging those of another whenever ale scattered their wits.

  Armies were like packs of hunting dogs, he reflected, liable to attack anything that crossed their path if they were not kept leashed. Most of the levies had been waiting here for weeks, and tempers were short and violent.

  Which was exactly how he wanted them, now that the enemy was nearly within their grasp.

  The Danish shipmen, led by that whoreson Thorkell, had done just what he had feared. They had ravaged from the Isle of Wight north through Hampshire and into Berkshire like a killing tide, taking whatever they could carry and burning what was left. His own army had been forced to wait until their numbers were strong enough to confront the bastards, and meantime the people of England could do little more than pray.

  And so they had prayed, ordered to their knees by decree of his archbishops—a pointless exercise unless he could back those prayers with steel. If he could but keep the men in his ranks from turning on one another for a few days more, he would unleash them upon the Northmen as they returned to their ships.

  He cast one last glance at the ordered rabble below him, then made his way down the palisade steps and, flanked by two hearth guards, crossed the green to his pavilion. Just inside the entrance to his tent he halted, assailed by a multitude of impressions as he contemplated the handful of men gathered within.

  Athelstan, his face a grim mask, stood at a table between his brother Edrid on one side and Uhtred of Northumbria on the other. They were intent upon a strip of parchment spread out before them—a rough sketch of Uhtred’s battle plan, he supposed. Athelstan would welcome the coming conflict, for he was eager to avenge every burned village and plundered abbey. He was like a young wolf, bristling with outrage that, for now at least, was aimed at England’s enemies. Whether he could be trusted to follow orders remained to be seen.

  Another of his cubs, Edwig, hovered near his brothers, oblivious to everything but the ale cup in his hand. He swayed unsteadily, no doubt lost in some drunken dream and unaware that the archbishops Ælfheah and Wulfstan were eyeing him with disapproval. The young fool would prove utterly useless at today’s council, but at least he wasn’t off somewhere brawling in the mud.

  Ulfkytel of East Anglia stood with Godwine of Lindsey and Leofwine of Western Mercia, the three of them arguing vehemently and pointedly excluding Ealdorman Eadric, who watched them from a half-dozen steps away with feral, catlike eyes.

  There should have been two others here, but he had already sent Edmund and Ælfric to Winchester, with as many men as he could spare—a necessary precaution in case the Danes attempted an assault on his royal city.

  That left him with this lot—all of them as surly and fractious as the men in the camps below. He could smell the tension streaking between them, acrid as lightning. Yet these were the men whom he must chivy into doing what he needed done, despite the fact that one of them was a useless wastrel, another a son he could not completely trust, and the rest of them as ready to turn on one another as they were to slaughter Danes.

  “Uhtred!” he barked, covering the length of the pavilion in a few swift strides and taking his place behind the council table. “What do your scouts tell you about the enemy’s numbers?”

  The men had followed him to the table and, like him, they looked to Uhtred, waiting to hear the answer.

  “Near four thousand, my lord.”

 
Larger than his own force. They would be at a disadvantage from the start.

  “How will an English force of three thousand defeat a Danish force of four thousand?” Leofwine snarled.

  “We were outnumbered three years ago at Durham,” Uhtred replied, “and we butchered the Scots. We can—”

  “At Durham,” Eadric interrupted, “you crushed the Scots between your forces and the city walls. They couldn’t escape. Here, we don’t have the walls, we don’t have the numbers, and we don’t have the—”

  “Peace!” Æthelred said, scowling at Eadric. “Listen to the plan that Uhtred has devised, and then I will hear your counsel.”

  While his son-in-law laid out the battle plan, he studied the faces around the table, weighing their reactions. Their allegiances would come into play now, and it would take all his skill to persuade them to work together. For years he had nursed their petty rivalries to keep them from banding against him. Now, though, he needed them to act with one purpose.

  When Uhtred had finished, Eadric spoke into the silence.

  “I am not willing to place my levies beside those of Lindsey,” he said, “unless Godwine can assure me that his men will stand firm and not slink away the moment they see the Danes approaching.”

  So it begins, Æthelred thought, as Godwine began to shout and he was forced to raise a hand for silence.

  “Eadric,” he snapped, “do you question the valor of Godwine’s men?”

  “I question their loyalty,” Eadric replied. “I have lately come from Lindsey, and there is some devilry brewing there. Someone has been stirring up anger against you, my lord, and the men there cannot be trusted.”

  A chorus of shouts rang out at this, but Æthelred paid them little heed, for inside his head a single name burned—Elgiva.

  If she was indeed alive, could she be sowing disloyalty among the men of Lindsey—men who had once sworn allegiance to her father and brothers?

  “I am told”—he heard Eadric’s voice as if it came from a great distance—“that Lord Godwine did not arrive here with his full levy. That some refused to fulfill their oaths to fight.”

  Æthelred snapped his mind back to the men around him. He looked at Godwine. “Is it true?”

  “I came with all the men that I could muster,” Godwine spat, “and at the appointed hour. My lord, we have been stranded here for weeks while Eadric dragged his feet in the north. Because of him we are forced to fight our enemy with the sea at our backs and after they have already ravaged three shires.”

  “Because of me,” Eadric insisted, “the king perceives the peril that you would have kept from him. My lord king, I would counsel you to rethink the wisdom of this battle. Do you wish to hazard the fate of your kingdom on a single throw of the dice, outmanned as we are and with the loyalty of our forces in question? Better to let Thorkell and his men return to their ships and sail back to Denmark. We have little to gain by stopping them and much to lose if we should fail.”

  Æthelred wanted a moment to consider all that had been said. He raised a hand for silence, but Athelstan ignored him.

  “Why should Thorkell return to Denmark?” his son demanded. “Why should he abandon the cow he has been milking for two months? His army has ravaged unhindered because we have been too few to withstand such a mighty force. Now that we have the numbers to meet him in battle it would be madness not to move against him.”

  “And if our king should fall in this battle,” Eadric countered, “then you, my lord Athelstan, would be quick to take your place upon the empty throne, would you not?”

  Æthelred saw his headstrong son lunge for Eadric, saw Uhtred thrust himself between the two men. He shouted for his hearth guards, but even they could not prevent Athelstan from wrenching a hand free to jab a finger at the ealdorman.

  “You watch your tongue, you bastard,” Athelstan shouted. “I will see you—”

  But Æthelred had heard enough. He slammed his fist upon the table to silence them all.

  His head was pounding, and he felt as if a weight was crushing his chest. He glowered at the men around him, each one in turn—until he met one who should not have been there. His brother’s face stared at him from among his counselors—a malignant smile playing on his bloodless lips.

  He flinched backward at the sight and spat a curse. Fingers of ice began to creep along his arms, and his legs trembled. He had to clutch at Ælfheah beside him to keep from falling.

  Edward had done this. Edward had sown discord among his war leaders and Edward would bring disaster upon them all. This battle was what his brother wanted, and now he understood that if he were to commit to it, the outcome would be disastrous.

  Steadying himself, he placed his hands upon the table and glowered at his brother’s bleeding face.

  “We will not bring the Danish host to battle,” he snarled. “Let the shipmen pass unchallenged. Let them take their plunder and go.”

  There was a pounding in his ears now, and beneath it he heard cries of outrage and protest. Athelstan’s voice, though, pierced through the roaring in his head.

  “This is madness!” his son shouted. “The men, the arms, the provisions, all have been gathered here for the purpose of bringing the raiding army to battle. Yet now you ask us to stand aside and let them go to their ships? Shall we bow to them as they pass, lord king? Should we offer to help them carry their plunder, or would you have us feast with them before they take ship?”

  He would have cuffed his son, but he hadn’t the strength. He closed his eyes to rid himself of his brother’s foul presence, but when he looked again the grotesque thing still hung there before him.

  “Get him out of here,” he shouted at the guards. “Get them all out.” He pointed at Eadric. “You will stay.”

  While the tent was cleared he continued to glare at Edward’s wraith, watching as it faded into nothing. Still, his head pounded like thunder and his stomach griped him. When a servant approached with a cup of wine he backhanded it to the ground. “Get out!”

  Someone had brought him a chair and he slumped into it as Eadric rounded the table and dropped to one knee beside him. Eadric’s expression was carefully bland, although Æthelred did not doubt that he must be wondering what ailed his king. Let him wonder.

  “Now you will tell me,” he ordered, “what you would not say in front of the council. What is happening in Mercia?”

  “There is unrest in the Five Boroughs, in Lindsey and in scattered areas throughout Mercia. I cannot discover who is behind it.”

  “You cannot?” he snapped. “Christ, what use are you then?”

  “I crave your pardon for failing you in this, lord king.”

  Eadric’s expression was remorseful, but Æthelred saw something else there, too—some hint of further knowledge that Eadric had not yet shared.

  “What is your counsel then?” he asked.

  “I have none. Athelstan, though, is well liked among the northern magnates. He may be able to advise you.”

  At this Æthelred looked more sharply at his ealdorman, for there was an accusation buried in his words. “Are you saying that my son is courting the favor of the northerners? How? He has been in London since June.”

  “Someone is courting them, my lord; I cannot say who it is. Godwine and Leofwine must know something, although I’ll wager they want to keep any word of it from reaching you.”

  Æthelred studied the smooth, comely face before him, looking for any sign of deceit. He knew that Eadric had no great love for either Godwine or Leofwine. Or for Athelstan, come to that. But the ealdorman’s countenance showed only concern. “Why should they keep it secret from me?” he asked.

  Eadric shrugged. “No ealdorman wishes to be perceived as impotent, my lord, and unable to quell unrest within his province. Or perhaps”—he hesitated an instant, then continued—“perhaps these men are at the very root of it.
Or it may be that they know who is behind it yet are unwilling to intervene. If it is one of your sons who is sowing trouble, they may be looking to the future, and so covertly supporting him.” Eadric frowned. “Or they may yet have ties to Ælfhelm’s daughter. Elgiva is still out there somewhere. She has little love, sire, for either you or for me, and she is skillful at getting men to do her bidding.”

  Yes, Elgiva could be very persuasive. She had held even him in thrall until he had wearied of her. What might lesser men not do at her behest? If she was alive, her place of refuge remained a mystery, one that he would see resolved before he raised his hand against his counselors or his sons.

  “You will return to the Five Boroughs,” he said to Eadric, “to Siferth’s estate. His wife may know something of her cousin, so linger there for a time. See if you can persuade her to tell you what she knows. Go to the estates of Godwine and Leofwine as well. You may learn something there. They were close allies of Ælfhelm.” And now he recalled the face of Ulfkytel, who had stood between Godwine and Leofwine at the council. “What do you know of Ulfkytel?” he asked. The man had served him well in the past, but if Godwine and Leofwine were false, then Ulfkytel might be false as well.

  Eadric was silent for a time, his expression thoughtful. At last he said, “Ulfkytel is a fierce war leader—near the equal of Uhtred. I think he will not easily be swayed from his oaths of loyalty.”

  Æthelred understood the question that Eadric did not voice. Who held Ulfkytel’s loyalty? “We must make certain of his allegiance,” he said slowly.

  He had one more daughter to spend. Wulfhilde was—how old? He could not remember. Surely she must be of an age by now to wed. She would make a fitting bride for Ulfkytel. In return for a royal daughter and her dowry, Ulfkytel must help him stem the tide of disaffection that was seeping across his kingdom. And if Elgiva was at the root of it, then Eadric must find her and put a stop to it.