“Those men are a gift from King Swein, sent here to protect me while my husband wages war in the south.” She seated herself on the bench against the wall and gestured for him to join her. “Twenty extra mouths to feed and twenty pairs of eyes to watch my every move. Alas, you and I must pay the price, for a time at least.” For a very long time, probably, but she would tell him about the child later.
“So I may look, but I may not touch,” he murmured. “A cruel fate, lady. Send me away again soon so I will not be tempted beyond my strength to resist.”
She laughed. They were pretty words, but Alric had resisted her for years when her father and brothers were alive. He would do so again when necessity demanded, and she had no doubt that he would find some willing wench—or several—to satisfy his appetites. And that was another advantage to being a man.
A servant brought them ale, and when he had gone she set her cup aside and turned to Alric.
“Tell me what news you bring from the south. I know that the king called out his army but no other word has reached this godforsaken place.”
“The king gathered his forces at Salisbury last month, that much I know for certain. There were rumors of a battle, but I could not discover if it really took place.”
“So you know nothing more than I do.” She stood up and began to pace. It was maddening that she should have no more information than a common alewife.
“I know that Godwine of Lindsey took far fewer men to the levy at Salisbury than he should have.”
She spun to face him. “Men actually refused to take up arms?” That would have been like a knife thrust to the king.
“They took to their heels rather than march south to fight, and not just in Lindsey. I would hazard that all across eastern Mercia there were men who had no great desire to risk their lives for lands not their own, and for a king who no longer has their trust.”
She sank to the bench again, thrilled by the possibilities this raised.
“So our efforts to turn men against the king have been fruitful,” she said.
“They have indeed. And if Æthelred could not raise a host that outnumbered the Danish army, I doubt very much that he would have hazarded a pitched battle. The slaughter would be too great. If it had occurred we would have heard something by now, even here.”
She nodded, reassured by his words. Æthelred saw himself as doomed. It would take very little pricking to weaken his confidence. Besides, he was a coward. He would not fight if he could find a way to sidestep it.
“What news of my cousin?” she asked. “Did you speak with Aldyth or her husband?” Siferth and his brother, Morcar, were the most powerful of her kinsmen, and they were bound by oath to avenge the deaths of her father and brothers—deaths ordered by the king. If there was to be a true uprising against Æthelred, her kin must set it in motion.
Alric took a long pull from his ale cup before setting it on the bench beside him.
“I did not meet with the brothers,” he said, “and the news I have of them will give you little joy.”
She scowled at him. “Out with it then,” she said. “Do not taunt me.”
“You are not the only one courting your kinsmen,” he said. “Since last I spoke with them some six months ago, they have entertained both of the king’s elder sons. The king, too, has favored them. At Bath in September he granted them several estates that once belonged to your brother Wulf. When I arrived at your cousin’s manor, Siferth and his brother had already left to join the king’s host. I cannot say where their allegiance might lie—with you, with the ætheling Athelstan, or with the king.”
His words were like a splash of icy water. She felt as if the cold from outside had crept into the chamber, into her bones even. She shuddered, picked up her cup, and took a deep swallow.
“You are right,” she said. “That is ill news indeed.”
“Lady”—his voice was a seductive growl as he leaned to whisper in her ear—“they are men of wealth and property. They are in the king’s eye. They cannot hide in the forest like lesser men. They cannot even make their way to you here for fear of drawing the king’s men after them and putting you at risk. Eadric has been nosing around Siferth’s estates searching for you, and your cousin is terrified of him. You cannot press too hard for their support. Not yet.”
She was forced to admit to the truth in his words, although they did little to reassure her. Siferth and Morcar, like all of Æthelred’s nobles, had much to gain by joining the winning side in the power struggle that was taking shape within the realm. And they had much to lose if they made the wrong choice. As yet she had nothing to offer them or others like them except the promise of future reward from an enemy king. They did not even know of her marriage to Cnut, for she had been sworn to silence until Swein and Cnut were prepared to make their bid for England’s throne.
But she was tired of waiting, tired of living like an anchorite in this forgotten corner of Æthelred’s kingdom.
She ran her finger around the rim of her silver cup and considered what she could do to bring about the downfall of the king and so end her exile. What would happen if she should go to her cousin, seek refuge there until her confinement? Siferth was oath-bound to give her his protection. If she were to tell him that the child she carried was Cnut’s son, what then? Could she not compel Siferth to forsake Æthelred? The men of Lindsey and the Five Boroughs would follow Siferth’s lead, and that should be enough encouragement to draw Swein to England by next summer.
She tapped her fingers against the cup. There was Cnut to consider. He would forbid it, would claim that it was too soon. But Cnut, if he was alive, was in far-off Wessex. He could not stop her.
Swein’s shipmen, though—out there in the yard—they would try to keep her in Holderness. She would have to make her preparations for the journey without alerting them to what she was about. It would take time—weeks, perhaps—but it could be done. And when all was ready, a great feast for the Danes and a liberal hand with the mead would allow her to slip away. She would take her own men, loyal to her alone, to guarantee her safety on the road; and she would leave word for Catla that she was making for Jorvik, in case that lout Thurbrand should try to find her.
Once more she set her cup aside and turned to Alric, placing a hand upon his arm.
“How many days,” she asked, “will it take us to reach my cousin’s estate in Lindsey?”
London
The queen’s chamber was crowded almost to bursting, and Emma, searching frantically for her daughter, found her in the arms of a stranger. The young woman’s white breast glimmered in the candlelight, and Godiva’s tiny hand patted the bare flesh while she sucked greedily, wide eyes fixed on the face above her.
Emma threw off her cloak as she strode across the room to claim her child.
“Give me my daughter,” she said.
The wet nurse looked up, startled, but she made no move to relinquish Godiva.
“The babe was hungry, my lady,” she said. “She was crying for ever so long—”
“Just give me the child,” Emma snapped.
Obediently the young woman slipped her finger into the voracious little mouth at her breast. Godiva began to howl, fists flailing, clearly outraged at being plucked from the one thing that gave her pleasure.
Emma snatched up her screaming daughter and carried her into the tiny chamber where Edward once had slept. Margot followed, as Emma had known she would, with a servant at her heels. Without a word, Margot took Godiva from Emma’s arms, dandling the protesting infant while the servant assisted Emma with her gown. Moments later Emma was seated with her daughter at her breast.
Margot dismissed the servant, then stood with her hands folded in front of her.
“When I did not hear Godiva crying I feared the worst,” Emma chided, although Margot’s disapproving stance seemed to imply that somehow she was the one at fault.
“You must not blame that young woman,” Margot said.
“I do not,” Emma said, calmer now that Godiva was safe in her arms. “I blame you. How could you give her to another when you know that I need the child as much as she needs me?”
“Her need is for sustenance, my lady,” Margot said, “not necessarily for you.”
Feeling as if she’d been slapped, Emma had to bite back a bitter retort.
“Emma,” Margot said, “you are a queen in peril, in a city that is likely to be under attack very soon. You belong to all of London, not just to this child. There are many, many people who will make demands on you, and they will draw you from your daughter’s side. It is happening already. If you cannot attend her when she has need of you, your child will suffer far more than you will. I promise you, your mother did not permit you to suffer in such a way.”
Emma swallowed the knot in her throat.
“My mother was wed to a man who had need of her at his side, who sought her counsel—not one who shut her out.”
“Yet there are many in this city who welcome your counsel, and you have a duty to them,” Margot insisted, her voice gentle now. “If you do not place your daughter into the hands of someone who can provide for her every need, you will be constantly torn between caring for your babe and caring for your people.”
Emma closed her eyes. She did not want to hear this now, and especially not from Margot. She could ignore the advice of others, but Margot was the only person left to her whom she trusted utterly. And now she wanted her to be wrong.
“Leave me,” she said. “We will speak again presently.”
Alone with her daughter, Emma shifted the child to her other breast. The baby was already growing heavy with sleep. Emma could feel the tug and pull of Godiva’s mouth slow as the child slipped into a doze, a little pearl of milk forming at the corner of her mouth. She had to rouse the child to suck some more just to relieve the heaviness of her breast.
She knew that Margot spoke the truth, but she could not bring herself to make the sacrifice that was being asked of her. She had nursed Edward for a full year before the demands of her position had forced her to give him over to another, and even then it had nearly broken her heart to do it. Godiva, barely four weeks old, was at the center of her life—as she should be, for daughters belonged to their mothers in ways that sons could not.
But she had not reckoned on the arrival of a Viking fleet and the urgent demands upon her that would result from it. Overseeing the city’s response to the refugees and the sick, offering comfort to the stricken and reassurance to the despairing—these were the tasks of a queen. The Londoners would turn to her to lead them in their intercessions with God, as she had today. She must be free to move about the city, and she could not take Godiva with her.
She gazed into her daughter’s sleeping face, at the tiny bow of her mouth and the round, fat cheeks. For a moment she could only marvel at the tenderness that gripped her. She had once feared that because she had given her heart to her son, there would be no love left for another child. How wrong she had been.
She knew what was best for her daughter but, God forgive her, she could not relinquish her to another. Not yet. Not so soon.
“I cannot give you up, little one,” she whispered, grazing her finger against the soft skin of her daughter’s cheek. Then she sighed and kissed the tiny nose. “But it seems that I must learn to share you,” she said.
She would welcome that young woman as one of her attendants, and between them Godiva would have two mothers to nurse her, at least for a little while.
November 1009
Three days after the last of the Danish warships had sailed from Wight, their prows bent toward some objective that none could know for certain, Athelstan, with the king’s permission, had at last set out for London. He took with him his brother Edrid, twenty of his mounted hearth troops, and thirty Middlesex men on foot who had accompanied him from London in September. It took six days to reach the Thames Bridge, and by then he knew where the Danes had gone. Smoke hovered above the eastern horizon, and the bridge into London was choked with Kentish folk seeking refuge from the shipmen who were already raiding as far west as Greenwich.
He had sent a message ahead to London’s bishop requesting a meeting, and when he entered his hall on Æthelingstrete he found a party of city leaders waiting for him. After dispatching someone to the palace to advise the queen that he would attend her before day’s end, he turned to the men who were gathered around a trestle table in the center of the hall. He greeted each of them, gestured to them to sit, then took a place on the bench beside Bishop Ælfhun.
“When did the first ships arrive?” he asked.
“More than ten days ago,” the bishop replied. “They’ve set up camps on both sides of the Thames, and they’ve been plundering any vessels that enter the river’s mouth. We’ll see no goods from the Low Countries while the Danes squat beside the river, but our landward supply routes north, east, and south are still open.”
“Our ships are still in place on the river?” Athelstan asked.
“Yes, still moored in three lines at Earhith, and that was a good decision, my lord. They’ve met the Danish ships twice now, and turned them back both times. The main body of the land force, though, has moved to the north shore, within striking distance of London. Our defenders continue to man the walls as you instructed. We’ve added more men as newcomers enter the city but, truth be told, the number of those seeking refuge has increased our burden rather than lessened it. The queen has been meeting daily with city leaders to deal with at least some of the difficulties that we’ve been facing.”
Difficulties, Athelstan thought grimly. What a polite way of describing the provision of food and shelter, setting up a system for disposing of human and animal waste, and keeping peace among fractious countrymen in crowded conditions and wretched weather. Difficulties that, if not resolved, would lead to pestilence and death. Judging from the crowds he’d seen today trying to get into the city, the difficulties were only going to get worse.
It was well after nightfall when he set out at last for the palace. Despite the growing number of people inside London’s walls, the city was quiet due to watchmen stationed outside each church to enforce the curfew.
It was almost too quiet. It was as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for an axe to fall.
When he passed St. Paul’s, the voices of the brothers at prayer floated into the clear night, the Latin verses of compline echoing in the alleys around the massive stone church, and he caught snatches of the psalm.
My ravenous enemies beset me . . . crouching to the ground, they fix their gaze like lions hungry for prey.
The psalm was unfamiliar, but it seemed an appropriate choice, given the enemy camped farther downriver. He hoped that the lion was not yet ready to pounce.
Inside the palace gates a servant scurried up to take his horse. Athelstan could see light glimmering from the high windows of the queen’s apartment, and he moved in that direction but the lad stopped him.
“If you are come to see the queen, my lord, you will find her on the ramparts,” he said.
“So late?” Athelstan asked.
“It is her habit to go up to the tower each night. I think she looks at the enemy watch fires, to see how close they’ve come.”
He found Emma at the northeast corner of the wooden tower, barricaded against the cold by a heavy cloak and hood, her figure lit by a nearby torch. She was looking out over the marshes that spread beyond the city walls to the north and east as if she were held spellbound by whatever she saw in the darkness beyond.
He placed his hand over hers on the parapet, and as she grasped it in silent welcome he followed her gaze into the distance. Hundreds of fires glowed out there, pinpricks of light marking the enemy camp. They were, he guessed, less than a day’s march away. A larger
blaze burned amid the smaller ones, and he studied it for a moment, trying to puzzle out what it was.
“Barking Abbey is burning,” Emma said, answering his unspoken question. “The nuns are safe, for they have been sheltering at the bishop’s estate here in the city. They brought with them everything that they could carry—books, relics, vestments—anything of value. But they could not bring it all.” She sighed. “This will be a blow to the abbess. She has been praying that they would spare her church, at least. I wonder, will anything out there be left standing when they are finished?”
There was no despair in her voice, only frustration and anger that seemed to match his own.
“We should have prevented this.” It was Eadric’s doing, all of it. Every life lost, every village ravaged could be laid at Eadric’s feet. “My father should never have allowed Thorkell and his army to return to their ships. You heard what happened at Salisbury?”
“That Eadric advised the king to avoid a battle, and that you and he nearly came to blows. Yes, that much I know. How the king and Eadric intend to rid us of this enemy I have not been able to discover.”
“I should have murdered Eadric,” he snarled, “and rid us of one enemy, at least. As for those bastards”—he jerked his chin toward the distant fires—“we have to meet them on the field of battle and come away the clear winners. But to do that our leaders must be of one mind, and right now that is impossible. We are our own worst enemies.” He took both her hands and turned her so that he could look into her face, its features sculpted in the flickering torchlight. The last time he had seen her she had been ripe with pregnancy. Now she looked drawn and tired. Stretched. Yet still she was beautiful. “How is it with you, lady?” he asked. “And with your daughter?”
“We are well enough,” she replied, then she frowned. “You spoke of Eadric; has he gone with the king to Worcester?”
Ah. So she knew where the king planned to spend the Yule. Then she must know of his youngest sister’s imminent nuptials as well.
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