She’d lost the child. Nothing else mattered but that. The days of horror as the pestilence felled the members of her cousin’s household; her own fear when she realized it had caught her in its grip of slow, grinding pain; the terrible stench of shit and vomit and death; the blood, slick as sweat, that had fouled her shift and bedding. None of that mattered now because the child that had been growing in her womb was gone.
She might as well have died too, now that all her careful plans were in ruins.
When she opened her eyes again Tyra was there, helping her to sit up. Dear God, she was thirsty! She opened her mouth like a babe to sip the broth that Tyra spooned into her, and she noticed something she’d never seen before. Dangling from a leather thong about the woman’s neck was an amulet of amber with runes scratched upon it. Had the amulet protected her? Was that why Tyra had not taken ill?
Someday she would ask. Today there were other things she wished to know.
“How long?” she murmured.
“Seven days,” Tyra replied.
It had seemed far longer.
“What of Aldyth?” she queried. “How fares my cousin?” Not dead, she hoped. It would be much harder to draw Siferth into Cnut’s camp if Aldyth was dead.
And then she almost laughed, choking on the thin broth, for with no son to strengthen Cnut’s claim to England’s throne, what did it matter? She lay back against the pillows for a moment to catch her breath.
Yet it did matter, she reminded herself, for she had been promised that she would be the mother of kings.
Tyra had not answered her, so she reached out and stopped the woman’s hand with its laden spoon and repeated her question. “How fares my cousin?”
“She did not sicken,” Tyra said.
Resentment flickered in her mind at Aldyth’s good fortune.
“She was spared the worst of it, then.”
“Hardly spared,” Tyra replied. “The pestilence killed many of her people. Her son is dead.”
She recalled the fretful child she had seen when she first entered Aldyth’s hall, and the story that her cousin had told about Eadric’s cruel men; recalled her cousin’s lingering fear for her son. Perhaps it was just as well that the boy had not lived.
“What of my people?” Elgiva asked. “My hearth men?” There had been twelve in her company.
“Three of your men took sick,” Tyra said. “Two died.”
“And Alric? Has he returned?”
“We’ve had no word from him.” Tyra pursed her mouth and dipped her spoon in the broth again. “That means nothing.”
It was a statement of fact rather than an attempt to comfort her. More of Tyra’s truth telling.
Weakly she waved away the broth and rested against the pillows again, trying to focus her mind. Alric had gone south to look for Cnut. He might have taken ill on his road, or he might not, and she had no way of knowing when—or if—he would return. She must simply wait.
Two days later Elgiva finally had enough strength in her legs that they could carry her beyond the guesthouse in search of her cousin.
“She is lost within her grief,” Tyra had told her when, wishing to speak to her cousin, she had sent the slave to fetch her. “She has taken to her chamber, lady, and will speak to no one. It happens that way sometimes. When the need is great, strength can be found to shoulder whatever burden comes. But when the trial has passed . . .” She shrugged.
Elgiva found Aldyth in her chamber, huddled in a chair and staring into the glowing coals of a brazier. She placed a stool beside her cousin and sat down, dizzy and chilled from the effort that it had taken to walk the fifty paces from her own chamber across the manor yard to this one. She said nothing for a while, merely studying Aldyth, who did not acknowledge her presence with even a glance. Aldyth’s hair hung loose and tangled, and although the blanket that Aldyth wore about her shoulders hid most of her black woolen cyrtel, the hem was torn and dirty. Elgiva recalled that her cousin’s body servant was one of those who had died. She wondered when her cousin had last washed herself and changed her gown. She wondered what she could say to pull the woman out of whatever dark space she had withdrawn to.
She decided to say nothing. Not yet. Instead she went over to the coffer near her cousin’s bed, opened it, and pulled out a hairbrush and a ribbon. She dragged the stool around so that she could sit behind Aldyth, and set to brushing her cousin’s dark, dirty hair. She might as well have been grooming a horse for all the response it earned her. She did not stop, though, until she had teased out all the tangles. When she began to braid the long tendrils, her cousin spoke at last.
“I want you to leave as soon as you are well enough to travel.”
Elgiva paused in her braiding. It was not what she had thought to hear, and she could hardly believe that her mild cousin would be so callous.
“I am your kin,” she protested, “and your guest. Surely you would not turn me out of your hall in midwinter.” She completed the braid, secured it with the ribbon, and stood up to confront her cousin. “Why do you want me to leave?”
“Because when my husband returns I do not wish him to find you here,” she said dully, still staring at the fire. “He will ask questions, and there are too many things that I must answer for as it is.”
That was true, she reflected. Aldyth would have much to explain. The pestilence. The new graves in the churchyard. The dead child.
“So you will tell him nothing of Eadric’s visit here? Of the murdered servant girl? You will say nothing of me and of what I can promise you?”
Aldyth looked up with those cow eyes of hers. “I will tell him nothing that Eadric and the king may one day use against him.” Her eyes were large and beautiful but vague, as if there were nothing behind them but mist.
“I am of your blood, Aldyth,” Elgiva reminded her. “I have a right to ask for your shelter and you have an obligation to grant it, especially in times such as these.” Her cousin could not hide behind that fog in her mind for much longer. She must be made to understand the gravity of the step she was about to take.
Aldyth’s gaze went back to the brazier. “My first obligations are to my people and to my king, not to you. I should never have welcomed you into my hall. It was disloyal to the king, and this pestilence was sent to punish me for my sin.”
Elgiva wanted to slap her. Æthelred was a wicker king, an empty thing of sticks and straw. What kind of God would punish people for turning against such a ruler?
“Do you really believe that I am the one who brought the pestilence down upon you?” she demanded. “Aldyth, there was sickness in your hall before I even came here.”
“Then perhaps it was your child that the pestilence was sent to destroy!” Aldyth stood up, no longer passive but angry, as if somewhere inside her a fire had seared away the haze. “The Danes are burning our towns and laying siege to our cities. They would destroy us, and you would have me help them! I will not do it, nor will I allow you to drag my husband into your schemes. He is oath bound to the king, and the penalty for breaking that oath is death. I have watched my son die. I will not condemn my husband as well.”
“Yes, your son sickened and he died,” Elgiva spat. “My father and brothers died as well, only they were murdered by order of the king. Whether you help me or not, Aldyth, I will see that king punished, and you are mad if you think that you can hide from what is to come. One day there will be a Danish king on England’s throne, and those who have not been his friends will be treated as his enemies.”
“Then your new king will be no different from Æthelred! What is there to choose from between them?”
Again she felt the urge to slap sense into her cousin. The difference between the two kings was that one of them would lose.
“If Siferth supports Swein and his son,” she urged, “the rewards that come to you will be vast. You must see—”
; “I want no rewards! I want my son back! There is no king on earth who can give me that!” Aldyth collapsed into her chair, dropping her head into her hands as she began to weep. In a strangled voice she said, “I want you gone from here before Siferth returns.”
“And if I refuse to leave?” She could not leave without speaking to Siferth. He would understand the risks and rewards far better than Aldyth could.
Then her conviction faltered. Swein of Denmark had sworn that he would not displace Æthelred until she had given Cnut a son, a child meant to be the rallying point for the men of the north—and she had no son. Swein would not come now for another year at least.
“If you do not leave,” Aldyth’s voice was coldly poisonous now, “I will send word to the king that you are here.”
Elgiva stared at her for an instant, the words ringing in the air between them. Then she slapped the cow-eyed fool. It was a backhanded blow, and her ring scored Aldyth’s cheek, but Elgiva doubted that even that would bring her cousin to her senses.
She stormed from the chamber and left Aldyth to her terror and her tears.
A.D. 1009 Then after midwinter [the Danes took] an excursion up through Chiltern, and so to Oxford . . .
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Chapter Twenty-Four
December 1009
Headington, Oxfordshire
Edyth’s apartment, lit by candles, torches, and a brazier that was impotent against the bitter cold of predawn, was in a state of turmoil. Emma was paying little heed to the fuss, although she was dimly aware of servants hauling bundles and boxes out of the chamber and occasionally colliding with one another as they went in and out. The wet nurse for Edyth’s three-week-old daughter paced among them as she tried to hush her whimpering charge. A young slave was crawling about the rush-strewn floor, frantically scrabbling for the earrings and pins that had scattered when she dropped a jewelry casket. Edyth helped as best she could by standing over the girl and scolding.
Emma, though, was seated in a chair, cradling Godiva, who was fast asleep in spite of the chaos all about her. She studied the small, round face beneath its linen coif, and her heart was heavy with the knowledge that when next she saw her daughter, Godiva would not look the same. Infants changed from week to week, and she could not say how many weeks it might be until she held this one in her arms again.
Swaddled in her cocoon of blankets, Godiva felt heavy and solid against her breast. The child had thrived these past weeks as the wet nurse that Margot had found for her, Wynflæd, took more and more responsibility for her feeding and care. Wynflæd would have all the care of Godiva now, and that only made this parting so much the harder.
After a time, aware that the commotion about her had lessened, she looked up to find Edyth standing in the center of the chamber that was emptied now of traveling chests and servants. Wynflæd stood a step behind Edyth, wrapped in a heavy cloak and carrying an armload of Godiva’s shawls and blankets.
“If we wish to reach Eynsham before nightfall,” Edyth said, “we must leave soon.”
Emma felt as if she had just been wakened from a dream—one that she did not wish to relinquish.
“I will carry Godiva down to the wain,” she said. Wynflæd nodded and hurried to help her rise from her chair.
“You’ll waken her,” Edyth hissed softly, “and if she starts crying, then Æthelflæd will start and we’ll have no peace.”
“I doubt she’ll waken, my lady,” whispered Wynflæd. “I fed her well a bit ago and she’ll sleep for a good long while now.” She glanced from Emma to Edyth. Then, as if she could see the tension that shimmered between the two women, she said, “I’ll just go down and get settled, by your leave.”
Emma watched her go and thought, not for the first time, that Wynflæd had been a gift sent to her by God. Turning to Edyth she asked, “Will you spend the next two nights at Eynsham?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted to put off the moment of leave-taking, unable yet to bring herself to part with Godiva.
Edyth gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes,” she whispered, “and we will stay longer if a storm blows in, or if one of the children appears sickly, or if God sends an angel down and warns us that we mustn’t leave the abbey. My lady, if you do not trust me to care properly for the child, why do you not keep her here with you?”
Now it was Emma’s turn to sigh, for she was still not convinced that she was right to send Godiva away. There were rumors, yes—of a Danish army on the march, of towns set afire in the east, of a new enemy fleet landed at Maldon. She had sent riders out to learn if there was any truth to the tales, but the men had not yet returned and she was still uncertain what to do. Edyth, though, had no doubts. She had determined to go to the king, to risk her newborn to the hazards of bad weather and winter roads rather than chance being caught here by the Danes. After two sleepless nights Emma had agreed that Godiva must go as well.
“Of course I trust you, Edyth,” she replied. “It is just that it is hard to part with her. Surely you understand that.” She looked down at the sleeping child. “I’ve had her for such a little time.”
Edyth sniffed. “You make it sound as if you will never see her again.” At Emma’s reproachful glance she crossed herself and murmured, “Forgive me. I should not have said that.”
Yet Emma could not dismiss the words. She asked herself yet again if she erred in sending Godiva away from her just now. The rumors may be groundless. Even if they were true, the Danish army would probably never come near Headington. They would stay close to the coast, for there would be great risk in journeying so far inland where they might be cut off from their ships.
But an army, she knew, was an unwieldy monster, incapable of rational thought. She still remembered all too clearly with what casual cruelty the Danes had murdered the men and women on the plain outside of London.
Yes. She was right to send Godiva away.
“You have the letter that you are to give to your father?” she asked.
“I do; and the letters for Edward and Father Martin. Emma,” Edyth whispered urgently, “it is time for us to leave.”
Emma nodded and followed Edyth down the narrow stair, reflecting that, had events not intervened, she would be going with her to Worcester. She had hoped to greet Wymarc there when she arrived from Ely with young Robert, whose recovery from the pestilence had been such welcome news. She had anticipated long conversations with Wulfa, newly wed to the king’s thegn Ulfkytel.
More than anything, she hungered to take Edward into her arms, to once more have her son close by her side.
The moment that Archbishop Ælfheah had handed her the king’s letter summoning her to court she had begun making plans for the journey—nearly two weeks, she had reckoned it would take, in wintertime.
But much had changed in the past few days, and the reunion that she had envisioned was not to be, for she found that she could not leave Headington yet. God’s hand was at work, and she must bend to His will. One day, she hoped, His plan would become clear to her.
Outside the hall, thirty men-at-arms waited, some horsed and others on foot. The pack animals stood in a line behind the covered wain that held the nurses and children. Emma kissed Godiva lightly on the cheek, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and handed her into Wynflæd’s care. She blessed Edyth as well, and embraced her, although Edyth’s response was stiff and forced. There had been no reconciliation between them these past weeks, despite Emma’s efforts.
There are some battles, my Emma, Margot had told her, that you cannot win. This with Edyth is one of them.
Margot had been right, of course. Emma watched, regretful but resigned, as Edyth took her place inside the wain, and the procession moved out of the yard in the stark dawn light.
Chilled by the cold and by her own sense of loss, she went indoors. There were not many of her people about, for she had need of few personal attend
ants and had sent most of them with Edyth. Her hearth troops had stayed behind though, as well as grooms to care for the mounts, in addition to the attendants and slaves who made up the Headington household even when the king was not there.
She made straight for the chamber set aside for high-ranking guests, where less than a week ago Archbishop Ælfheah had been housed. Today a woman kept watch there over a still form that lay in the great, curtained bed.
Emma went first to the hearth to warm her hands, and the servant, seeing her, stood up.
“Has there been any change since last night?” Emma asked.
“She woke once, my lady, and took some broth, but it’s barely enough to keep a mouse alive.”
“I shall sit with her awhile now,” Emma said. “Try to get some sleep.”
The servant nodded and crossed the room to crawl beneath the bedding on a pallet there, while Emma took her place upon the stool. She reached for the pale, wizened hand that lay against the coverlet, chafing the palm gently, for the flesh was chill in spite of the room’s warmth.
How many times had this hand come to her aid? Far more than she could possibly recall. She could remember clinging to it as a little girl, and she recalled its cool, dry touch against her feverish skin when she had some brief childhood illness. It had comforted her in grief and steadied her when she was frightened. It had guided her babes into the world and been ever at her service, even from a time before she could remember.
She sent her mind back over the past few months, searching for the moment when she first knew for certain that Margot was ill, but she could not find it. To be sure, her step had been less quick of late, and she had grumbled often at her own forgetfulness. But she had never complained of pain or even weariness, until one morning she had not been able to rise from her bed without help.
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