The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  “To witness my sister’s marriage to Ulfkytel,” he said, “yes. Surely Wulfa has asked the king to allow you to be there with her.”

  “Has asked and been refused,” she replied. “The king is still angry with me, despite my efforts to appease him.” Her voice was bitter. “He asked me to intercede with my brother Richard, to request Norman help after so many of our ships were lost in the spring. I did so, but Richard very regretfully declined. He has his own more pressing concerns that demand ships and men. So I have earned the king’s displeasure once again and remain an outcast from the court. In any case, Worcester is too far away—too long and difficult a journey for my daughter. Even with an enemy army outside our walls, she is safer here.” She turned to look again at the fires burning on the horizon. “How long, do you think, before they march upon the city?”

  He squinted up at the clear night sky, riddled with stars.

  “If the weather holds,” he said, “it will likely be within a few days.”

  “Can we beat them?”

  “No,” he said, frowning at the campfires so numerous that they mirrored the stars up in the sky. “But we can keep them outside the city until they grow weary.”

  “And then they will strike somewhere else, someplace less able to withstand them.”

  “Unless God intervenes,” he said, “and keeps them weather-bound until the spring.”

  Before the next dawn a storm blasted in from the east accompanied by lightning and thunder so biblical in their fury that Athelstan wondered if the abbess of Barking Abbey had called down the wrath of Saint Ethelberga on the men who had savaged her shrine. The storm lashed London for three days, and on the fourth day, when the rain had ceased, a nearly impenetrable fog crept up the Thames Valley to lie like a dead thing upon the river and the city. It mingled with the smoke from the city’s dwellings, making it impossible to see across even the narrowest of lanes. Londoners were accustomed to the noisome vapors, but those unfamiliar with the city had to be warned away from the river, for even the rushing sound of the water was deadened, and one careless step might lead to a watery death.

  All that day the wet, cloying mist smothered London and the surrounding countryside, and if there was an army out there, it hadn’t been seen or heard. Athelstan’s scouts reported that the enemy remained in their camp near Barking. At a meeting with London’s war council, he speculated that Thorkell might not risk moving his men in the fog across the unfamiliar, sodden moor that lay between Barking Abbey and London.

  “But he might send a smaller force against us under cover of the fog,” he cautioned, “to test our defenses and catch us napping. Our men on the walls must remain wary.”

  In midafternoon, with Edrid at his side, Athelstan walked the ramparts between the Aldgate and the Bishopsgate. This, the council believed, was where Thorkell would focus any attack. The enemy would likely wait until the fog lifted, but there was no guarantee of that. Sentries stationed on the wall had to remain alert, no matter how exhausted they might be from long hours of keeping watch in the impenetrable mist.

  Athelstan spoke a word of encouragement to each man he passed. At the same time he listened for the usual clamor of activity from the streets below. But London was hushed, for the fog muffled every sound. Even the church bells ringing the hours were muted, as if their tongues were made of clotted wool. It was not the weather alone, he knew, that had silenced England’s greatest city. The knowledge that an enemy could be but an arrow’s flight away, waiting to strike, was a burden that each citizen carried like a dead weight. Fear was as palpable as the droplets in the mist.

  As he and Edrid approached the wide platform above the Bishopsgate, a cloaked figure appeared almost immediately in front of them.

  “I hope to God,” a gruff voice growled, “that you haven’t rationed all the ale in this damned city. I’ve been riding for days and I could use a drink.”

  “Edmund!” Athelstan cried, reaching for his brother’s arm and clasping it in greeting. “God alone knows how you found your way here through this infernal swill, but you are most welcome. I thought that you were on your way to the king at Worcester. Did you get lost in the fog? Did you bring any men with you? Wait. Let us get out of this murk so we can talk in comfort.”

  When they were seated at a scarred table in the watchtower beside the Aldgate, he repeated his questions.

  “I was summoned to Worcester, yes,” Edmund replied, “but I left Winchester before the summons could be delivered.” He grinned. “At least, that is what Ealdorman Ælfric will swear to when the king asks for me. I think Ælfric would have come with me, for Emma had sent him word of the army perched on your doorstep. But unlike me he could not bring himself to ignore a summons from the king.” He paused to toss back some ale, then said, “As for men, I’ve brought nearly twenty of Ælfric’s best warriors with me—you will know most of them—as well as arms and supplies. We would have been here sooner but the storm slowed us and then we nearly had to crawl the last ten miles. Christ, how long has it been like this?”

  Athelstan rubbed the back of his neck, aching from the weight of his mail shirt. “It started this morning and God only knows when it will lift. I cannot decide if it is to our advantage or not. The king’s levies may have returned to their homes for the winter, but Thorkell’s men have been making a nuisance of themselves in Essex and Kent. We have been able to do little to hinder them except to provide refuge for those trying to escape them.”

  “You think they’ll attack London?”

  “They are camped less than a day’s march to the east, so I would be surprised if they did not try. I hope to give them little joy for their efforts, though. Our walls are firm, and there has been no sign of siege engines so far. Anything heavy would get bogged down out there on the moor, especially in this weather.” He frowned. “They have had plenty of time to build small catapults, though, and there are likely men among them with the skill to do it. If they can cobble something together with sufficient range, they might lob enough stones at us to shatter our ramparts and get through. Still, the palisades are high and the ditches outside the walls will keep them at a distance. I think our worst threat will be from fire arrows. We’ve organized teams all over the city to deal with them, and certainly the weather has lessened that danger for the moment.”

  “They might lay a siege,” Edmund said, frowning. “They were able to surround Canterbury back in August.”

  Athelstan shook his head. “We’re protected by the river,” he said. “We’ve placed ships across the Thames at Earhith and two more lines of them just east of here, downriver from where the city wall meets the water. They can’t get to us with their own vessels unless they somehow break through all three lines, and our navy—well, what’s left of it—won’t make it easy for them. They can’t surround us and they can’t surprise us. Canterbury, if you recall, was attacked at night with no warning, and had no opportunity to bolster its defense with seasoned warriors. London has been preparing for weeks.”

  Edmund stroked his short, dark beard thoughtfully. “As you say, the Northmen are fond of striking when their victims aren’t looking. So what are they up to while we’re not looking?”

  “In this damned fog,” Athelstan said, “it could be just about anything. I’ve got men watching them from the hills above their camp, but for the moment they seem to be staying put.”

  He saw that Edrid, seated across the table from him, was frowning, chewing on some idea that he seemed reluctant to voice.

  “Out with it, Edrid,” Athelstan encouraged him.

  Edrid set down his ale cup and said, “Ealdorman Uhtred told me that a good commander always thinks like his enemy. So how would you attack London, if you were Thorkell?”

  “A heavily fortified city like this?” Edmund asked. “I wouldn’t even try. I’d go around it. Hit someplace else that was less well defended.”

  Athelstan cons
idered the question, thinking back to the last time the Danes had brought down a fortified English town.

  “At Exeter,” he said, “they used stealth. They found the hidden entrance into the city and sent in a small raiding party to open the gates from the inside.”

  Edmund shook his head. “That couldn’t work here. There are no secret entrances into London.”

  “True,” Athelstan agreed. “And every gate has a dozen men on guard at all times, day and night. When they open at dawn, anyone who wants entry has to make a thorough accounting of himself, and if he even smells foreign he’s turned away.”

  “What about the river gates?” Edrid asked. “Those are far easier to breech.”

  “But our ships have barricaded the river,” Athelstan said again. “Unless the Danish ships stage a full-on naval attack, they can’t get through.”

  “What if they don’t use ships?” Edrid asked. “What if they use small boats—wherries, say—that hold only one or two men? Wait for the incoming tide, slip a score of boats into the water, and you’d be carried right past the blockade. At night, in this fog, nobody could see them; couldn’t even hear them.”

  Athelstan looked at Edmund, who was staring back at him, horror blooming in his eyes.

  “Sweet Holy Mother of God,” Edmund whispered.

  “They could do it,” Athelstan said. “They wouldn’t even need to attack the river gates. The wall along the water is low enough that they could scuttle over it like rats.”

  “Let’s say they make it over the river wall and into the city; where would they go?” Edmund asked.

  Athelstan did not hesitate. “The Whitgate,” he said, “in the eastern wall, close to the river. If I were planning this, I’d have more men waiting outside there, ready to storm in once the first group attacked the guards and opened the gate.”

  “But how would the men inside the city find the Whitgate?” Edrid asked. “Even if they know it exists?”

  “Thorkell’s men must have taken a dozen merchant ships in the Thames estuary over the past weeks,” Athelstan said. “Most of them would be piloted by men who could navigate blindfolded along London’s bankside and all the boatyards and alleyways below the bridge. I don’t doubt that Thorkell could find at least one man who could be persuaded to guide a force into the city in exchange for his life.”

  “Could they do it tonight?” Edrid asked. “Could they put together such a plan so quickly, using the fog as cover?”

  “Every seaman in Christendom knows about London’s fogs,” Edmund said. “They may have worked out the plan months ago, hoping they would get a chance to use it. Athelstan, can you be certain that Thorkell’s army still lies up at Barking? Could the bastards have moved toward the city without your scouts knowing it, or without us hearing it?”

  “In this damned swill I cannot be certain of anything,” Athelstan said. “They won’t attack until the morning, though. They’ll want their men to be fresh.”

  “What about the men slipping in from the river?” Edmund asked.

  “They would have to wait for the tide to turn in their favor.”

  “The tide was flooding when I crossed the river just after midday,” Edmund said. “Could they already be in the city?”

  “I don’t think so,” Athelstan said, trying to think as Thorkell would and working out a plausible plan in his head. “They would not try to enter the city in daylight, even with the fog. They’ll come in the fourth watch, I expect, when the tide starts to flood again.” He clapped Edrid on the shoulder. “Good work, brother,” he said. “And for your reward you can sit up with us beside the Whitgate tonight.”

  He shouted for his hearth troops and sent runners to all the city commanders with orders to double the men on the wall. Then he led his brothers and their company of warriors through the silent, murky streets toward the Whitgate.

  If Edrid’s conjecture was right, they would see battle before dawn.

  The light in Emma’s bower had been dim all day in spite of the high window and the extra candles she had called for. Now it was nearly dusk, and like the other women seated around her, Emma squinted so that she could better focus her eyes on her task—in her case the stitching of a long seam in the side of a plain linen scyrte. In times of war, her mother had taught her, delicate embroidery work was an affront to God and to the men who risked their lives for their lord. The wounded needed warm, serviceable garments to replace torn, ripped, bloodstained linen that often had to be cut away from mangled flesh. So for many days now, all over London, women had been seated at their looms or bent over strips of linen or wool, making their own preparations for battle.

  When a servant entered to announce that Father Martin had arrived and was begging an audience, Emma looked up in alarm. The priest was supposed to be attending Edward in Ely. What would make him journey here, especially now, with an army camped just outside the city walls?

  She nodded to the servant, called for wine, and glanced at Margot. Gray eyes met hers with gravity, their message clear.

  Stay composed. There are many eyes upon you. Whatever happens, do not forget who you are.

  With an effort of will Emma lodged her needle in its fabric, set the scyrte aside, and folded her hands to steady them. Margot rose and came to stand beside her.

  Father Martin, his cloak already discarded, the hem of his robe wet and muddy, hurried into the room and dropped to one knee before her.

  “Edward is well,” he said even before she had a chance to ask after her son.

  A weight lifted from her heart at these words, but as she gave him her hand and bade him sit, she searched his face for some clue to his mission. It had been seven months since he had accompanied Edward to Ely, and Martin looked little changed, although there were lines of weariness and worry about his eyes.

  “Something is amiss, though,” she said. “Tell me what it is.”

  “There is pestilence at Ely, my lady,” he said.

  One of the women in the chamber cried out, and although Emma quelled her with a glance, she, too, was alarmed at this.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Many have fallen sick, and some have died, young and old alike. Peterborough Abbey has been struck as well. Abbot Ælsi deemed it unsafe for Edward to remain in the fens, so the prior and I were charged with escorting him to the royal manor at Headington. Eight days ago we set out, accompanied by all of Edward’s Norman guards, and we made it as far as Northampton when bad weather forced us to take shelter.” He paused for breath. “Your son begged us to bring him here to London, but when the prior explained that he was bound by holy vows to obey his abbot’s command, Edward accepted his fate. You would have been proud of him, my lady.” He gave her a wry, tired smile. “Nevertheless, I am here at Edward’s request to beg you to meet him at Headington, although I warned him that it may not be in your power to do so.”

  She imagined Edward, angry at being thwarted in his wish to return to her, striving to be a brave ætheling when he was simply a little boy who wanted his mother. Her heart ached for him.

  “I fear you will have to disappoint your young lord when you return to him,” she said. “He must look to Wymarc to console him in my absence.” She saw a shadow fall across Father Martin’s face, and her heart lurched again. “What is it?”

  “Robert fell ill on the morning that we left Ely. His mother stayed behind to care for him and for the others who were suffering.”

  She felt Margot’s hand upon her shoulder, and she reached up to clasp it, to steady herself against this news.

  Margot asked, “What is the nature of the pestilence?”

  “It begins with head pain and fever, followed by a painful cramping of the stomach. The body rejects all nourishment.”

  “The flux,” Margot muttered. “And those who are weak at the start will waste away, while the strong, like Robert”—Emma felt a reassuring s
queeze at her shoulder—“will mend. Still, sending Edward away was a wise course of action. Father, did you hear any rumors of sickness as you came south?”

  “None.”

  Margot nodded. “It might be a disease wrought from the foul air of the Fenlands,” she said. “The pestilence may not thrive outside the mires of East Anglia”—she drew a heavy breath—“yet I mistrust this fog that has come upon us here in London.” Her gaze seemed to lose focus, and she murmured to herself, “The airs are thick and fetid, and I fear they are laced with evil humors. Mary Thistle might ward off whatever is coming, and I had best begin brewing it.” She beckoned to a servant. “As if we did not have enough troubles to vex us.” She was shaking her head as she hurried out of the chamber.

  Father Martin watched her leave, then turned to Emma.

  “Is she well?” he asked.

  Emma sighed. “Yes, but the years are taking their toll, I fear, and she is burdened with the care of us all. Her mind is wonderfully lucid, although when she fixes on an idea she forgets all else.”

  Her own thoughts still lingered on Wymarc and Robert, and on the events at Ely. She questioned the priest for more details, garnering from him a clearer understanding of the part that Wymarc had played in tending the sick and in urging the abbot to send Edward to safety.

  “Edward will find Edyth at Headington,” she said, “where she is awaiting the birth of her child.” What kind of welcome would he receive from his half sister, who had only ever regarded him with resentment? A chilly one, she suspected. Likely Edward would have need of a friend. “For Edward’s sake, Father, I would have you return to him as soon as you can—tomorrow if you feel up to the journey.”

  She would be sorry to see him go so soon. She had missed him these past months, for he had been more than her spiritual adviser. He had been her confidant, her supporter, and her friend.

  Edward’s need, though, far outweighed her own.

  “And what should I tell your son?”