The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  Cnut.

  He had been a youth with fiery hair and his father’s black eyes, no more than fourteen winters old, she guessed, when she had struggled to break free from him on a shingled beach awash with moonlight. Athelstan had come to her aid then, but she had never revealed, even to him, that her captor was King Swein’s son. Had she done so, Cnut would surely have been delivered into Æthelred’s hands; and because she could not be certain of his fate after that, she had kept silent.

  What delusion had been in her mind that night? Had she believed that an act of mercy on her part might work some change in Cnut, who had been England’s enemy from the moment he was born? Had she truly been that foolish?

  The worst folly appears in the guise of wisdom and valor, Ælfheah had warned. It seemed to her that those words pertained far more to her than to Athelstan. An act that she had believed courageous and merciful had in fact been the greatest of follies. Cnut was now a man and a warrior, and he was come again to prey upon the English. Who could say what horrors the people of England would face—had already faced—because of a choice that she had made on that lonely beach when she had thought herself to be so merciful and wise?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  January 1011

  Redmere, Holderness

  “It was not some enemy’s hall that they plundered and destroyed in Northamptonshire! It was mine!” Elgiva, still enraged by news that had reached her a month before, stalked back and forth in front of Alric. She had kept her fury bottled inside for weeks, and it was a relief to loose it at last. “I am Cnut’s wife and so the daughter of their king. My holdings should have remained untouched by those hounds!”

  “The raid was at night, my lady, and none of them could have known that the hall belonged to the wife—”

  “They should have known! My steward opened the gates and submitted to them, and then they gutted him! Explain that!”

  Alric shrugged and she wanted to slap him.

  “Likely they were drunk,” he said.

  “Drunk? Of course they were drunk. They were besotted with lust for rape and murder. I’ve seen such things with my own eyes.” Had seen it, and had tried for years to wipe it from her memory. Even now it came back to her—the glint of sunlight on steel, and butchered flesh where once there had been a woman. She cursed.

  “It was Hemming’s men who plundered your lands,” Alric protested. “He makes no attempt to control them—merely sets them loose, like wolves, and lets them slake their bloodlust on anyone in their path.”

  She turned on him, still furious, for were not all men ravening beasts—Danes, English, Normans, all of them? Not a one of them was any better than his fellows.

  “And what did my husband, who so prizes discipline, do when he learned of this?”

  “He could do nothing, lady. Nothing. Hemming is Thorkell’s brother. The three of them are warlords, and they do not berate each other or their men for ravaging enemy lands.”

  “I am not the enemy!” The argument had come round to the beginning again. She threw herself into a chair, exhausted. Disgusted.

  “Cnut does not trust Hemming,” Alric offered. “He would like to be rid of him and all his shipmen. Thorkell won’t hear of it, though, and there’s an end to it.”

  No, that was not the end. If Cnut would do nothing about Hemming, then she would.

  “Where is this Hemming now?” she asked. Cnut was at Thurbrand’s steading, and Alric had brought word that he would be with her on the morrow. “Is he with Cnut?”

  “No. He and his brother stayed in the south, enjoying the comforts of the bishop’s palace in Rochester. You will not, I fear, have the pleasure of meeting Hemming.”

  “I would find it no pleasure, I promise you,” she said, “but I thank you for what you have told me. You have given me much to consider.” Hemming did not know it, but he had sparked a blood feud between them. She would make him pay for ravaging her lands, although it would not be anytime soon. She must be patient, but when she took her revenge she would enjoy it all the more for the wait.

  Two weeks later Elgiva lay awake in the near darkness, unable to sleep, sifting through a wilderness of thoughts and impressions. The presence of Cnut and two shiploads of Danes had thrown her entire household into a frenzy that had never ebbed. During the daylight hours she had scarce had a moment alone with her husband. Thurbrand had summoned men to meet with him from as far away as Lincoln, and Cnut had ordered her to keep to her own quarters.

  “Your presence in Holderness must remain secret,” he had told her. “I do not wish to wake one morning and find an English army at our gates.”

  “The king’s army has had little success of late,” she reminded him, “and Wessex is far away.” And, she hoped, Æthelred believed her dead.

  “Northumbria is far too close, though,” he argued, “and Uhtred would welcome an excuse to pillage Holderness. He is like a sleeping bear and, as you know, an old enemy of Thurbrand’s. It would be unwise to rouse him.”

  And so, although she did not like it, she had kept to her quarters and away from the private councils conducted in the hall. At night, though—and the nights were long and sweet—she had Cnut to herself.

  She turned on her side to look at him. He, too, was sleepless, his face pale in the dim firelight, his gaze pinned to the roof beams, oblivious to her.

  She did not like it when any man was oblivious to her.

  She sat up, pulled the thick fur covering from the foot of the bed, and wrapped herself in it before leaving Cnut’s side. As she had hoped, her withdrawal from the bed had caught his attention.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m pouring us some wine. Something is troubling you, and if you will not speak of it to me, at least the wine will make us both drowsy.”

  She poured two cups from a jug that she had set there earlier in the evening, still untouched because their bed play had distracted them. They’d been too drunk on each other to bother with wine, for this was their last night together. On the morrow he would sail south again, to Rochester and his fleet.

  As she returned to the bed he sat up, and she admired the lean beauty of him and the way the firelight turned his hair and beard to copper. Their sons would be beautiful. This time when he left her, he would leave a boy child growing in her womb. She was certain of it.

  She handed him the cup and watched for his reaction as he drank.

  He looked at the cup, then at her.

  “I’ve never tasted wine like this. What have you done to it?”

  “Tyra and I have been mixing honey and herbs into the wine,” she explained. And unknown to Tyra, she had been using some of the methods that she had learned from the Sámi woman for certain purposes of her own. She tasted the wine. “This is our best effort so far, I think. Honey, ginger, and cinnamon.” And nutmeg, to make a man more potent, but she saw no need to mention that. The spices had been costly, but she hoped they would be worth the price. “Do you like it?”

  He brought the cup to his lips, his eyes on hers, swallowed, and nodded.

  “I like it well,” he said.

  She smiled, pleased, and handed him her cup to hold as she crawled back onto the bed beside him.

  “It has magical qualities,” she said. “After one cup you will unburden yourself of all your troubles, and then your wife will take you into her arms and make you forget them.”

  “You need no spells or magic to learn what troubles me,” he said. “You need only ask.”

  She settled herself, cross-legged, beside him, the fur around her naked shoulders and the wine cup in both hands.

  “Is it something about King Æthelred’s second gafol offer that concerns you? Surely you did not expect him to immediately agree to your demand for forty-eight thousand pounds, did you?”

  He frowned and looked into his cup, thoughtful.


  “Æthelred thinks to play a game with us, thinks to outwit Thorkell. He is mistaken. The English king has lost already, although he does not yet know it.”

  The words sounded like one of Tyra’s prophecies, and they made Elgiva shiver.

  “He has offered you thirty thousand pounds,” she said. “Are you saying you will not accept it?”

  “No, of course we will not. They have given us until Easter to make our reply, but I think we will not wait that long.”

  “So you will tell them no and demand—what?”

  He leaned over and kissed her ear. “That is a secret.”

  She ran a finger around the rim of her silver cup, not looking at him, not wishing him to see her displeasure. Second only to men ignoring her, she disliked it when they kept secrets from her. But she would not pursue it. She wanted no quarrels tonight. She must keep him here in her bed so that he would leave her with a son.

  “Will you tell me what is troubling you, then?” she asked.

  He drained his cup and put it aside.

  “I find that I am yoked to a madman,” he said, resting back against the pillows and clasping his hands behind his head, “and I cannot seem to disentangle myself.”

  “Hemming, you mean.” She bit her lip. She must not rail at him about the burning of her hall as she had railed at Alric. It was hard, though, to keep the words from spilling out.

  “Hemming is a man of little wit and even less judgment,” he said. “He and Thorkell have the same blood in their veins, yet one is the exact opposite of the other. Thorkell is everything that Hemming is not, but he will not listen to a word against his brother. Believe me, we have argued about Hemming more times than I care to list.”

  “My lord,” she said, “you must find a way to rid yourself of this Hemming.” She peered into his face, waiting for him to look at her, and when he did she continued. “If the limb of a tree is diseased, you have to cut it off, or so Tyra has instructed me. If you are not ruthless with Hemming, you put your entire venture at risk.”

  “That is my greatest fear,” he agreed, “that Hemming will make some foolish move that will shatter my father’s plan for England’s conquest—about which Hemming knows nothing. Yet for now, I need him. And aside from that, we have sworn oaths to each other. If I break my oath, commit some treachery against him, I will lose all standing, even among my own men. And Thorkell would surely seek revenge for his brother’s sake. No, it is not to be thought of. Still,” he said, frowning, “I am uneasy about Hemming.”

  “Do you fear that he may turn against you? Surely not! You are Swein’s son. If he should strike . . .” She stopped, for was not Hemming’s ravaging of her lands a blow against Cnut, albeit a subtle one?

  As if he read her mind, Cnut took her hand and kissed it.

  “The burning of your hall was a blunder, not a planned strike.” He frowned. “It is an excellent example, though, of Hemming’s witless leadership. Had Thorkell or I or even Alric been near, it would never have happened. I can do nothing about it now, but someday, I vow, I will build you a palace where your great hall once stood.”

  He slipped her cup from her hand and tossed it to the floor. Gathering her into his arms, he kissed her deeply, his fingers moving purposefully to her breasts and to her woman’s parts. But if the sweet wine and the touch of skin on skin had driven Hemming from his mind, it had not worked so on her. She was bound by no oath, and she had a score to settle.

  The next morning, early, Elgiva went in search of Alric. When she found him, she drew him aside, away from the crowd of shipmen in the hall and into one of the curtained alcoves, where they were hidden from prying eyes.

  “Something must be done about Hemming,” she whispered. “Cnut wishes to be rid of him, but he can do nothing because they are oath bound.” She arched an eyebrow at him. She was taking a risk now, but she did not think it was a very great one. “I am not bound by any oath, and I would repay Hemming for his assault upon my hall. I need help, though. Are you willing?”

  “I have no great love for Hemming,” Alric said, “and you have but to command me to have your will done. You know that.”

  “Understand me,” she said. “I am asking for a life, and I will pay you well.” She opened her hand to show him the ruby in the center of her palm. “There will be another such stone for you when the deed is finished.”

  He took the stone, his eyes glistening. Then he took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

  “I would do it for love, lady,” he said, “but I thank you for the gift.” He kissed her palm and then gently bit the flesh below her thumb, his eyes never straying from hers. “How do you wish it done?” he whispered.

  She looked into his eyes and wondered what he had meant by the word love. They had known passion together, and even now his mouth upon her hand roused a hunger for him that made her breath catch in her throat. But it was not love. Reluctantly she drew her hand from his and reached into the purse at her belt, pulling out a clay vial stoppered with wax.

  “Pour this bit of liquid into Hemming’s ale cup. Use it all.” She guessed that it was very potent, but she wanted to be sure that it would have its intended effect. Tyra had taught her how to make potions from dried leaves of all-heal and nettle root, and it was a simple matter to do the same with the root of the hymlice. The difficulty had been to do it in secret, away from the all-seeing eyes of Tyra. “Have a care,” she said, placing her hand against his cheek. “I would not have you discovered.”

  He nodded, took the tiny flask, and slipped away. She waited several minutes before she followed, stepping from the alcove into the hall’s central chamber.

  On the far side of the hall Tyra was packing bundles into one of the supply coffers that would go with Cnut’s men. She looked at Elgiva with an arched brow and a glance so knowing that Elgiva felt a wave of foreboding wash over her.

  But Tyra knows nothing, she told herself. And by the time that Hemming is dead, what she thinks she knows she will have forgotten.

  She left the hall and went in search of Cnut, to bid him farewell.

  Chapter Thirty

  March 1011

  Wherwell Abbey, Hampshire

  It was nearing midday, and as Emma stood with Wymarc in the abbey’s cloister she glanced up at the square of dull sky visible above the central garth. The morning’s steady rain had lightened for the moment to a shimmering mist—a welcome respite, she thought, however brief it may be.

  She dropped her gaze to her daughter and stepdaughter, who were both squatting beside a huge puddle in the convent yard. Unconcerned by either the damp air all about them or the wet grass beneath, both girls were absorbed in the progress of a bit of wood that bobbed on the puddle’s surface. Standing a little to one side, Godiva’s nurse kept a close eye on her charge, not yet two winters old, who now dropped to her hands and knees and seemed about to follow her makeshift boat right into the shallow lake. Eleven-year-old Mathilda, though, was just as watchful as the nurse. She dangled another bit of wood in front of Godiva, who gave a squeal of delight and, sitting back on her rump, promptly lost all interest in the escaping vessel.

  “Mathilda reminds me of her elder sisters when they were that age,” Emma said to Wymarc as they resumed their stroll. “On the brink of womanhood, yet still a child.”

  Now, she thought, all three of the king’s eldest daughters were wed, while Mathilda would soon take the vows that would shut her behind convent walls forever. For the first time in a decade, at Emma’s urging, the sisters had been reunited for the upcoming ceremony.

  “I wonder which of the king’s daughters will have the easier life path,” Wymarc said, “those wed to great lords, or this one, who will be wed to Christ?”

  “If one is not well suited to it, the path will be a difficult one, no matter how easy it may appear to others,” Emma replied. “Can you imagine Edyth as a nun?”

  W
ymarc laughed. “No,” she said. “Even to be abbess would not satisfy Edyth.”

  Even to be an ealdorman’s wife did not satisfy Edyth, Emma thought. She had hoped that Edyth would make plans to leave the court after the upcoming Easter council at Winchester, which was what her sisters intended. But Edyth had made it clear that she would remain at the king’s side. No doubt she would continue to second whatever poisonous advice her powerful husband murmured in Æthelred’s ear.

  Neither an official adviser nor a queen, Edyth nevertheless wielded influence as Eadric’s wife and the king’s daughter, and she was poised to step into the role of queenlike adviser should Emma stray from court for any reason—to visit her estates, to see her son, or to go into seclusion while awaiting the birth of another child.

  She turned her eyes again toward her small daughter, wondering if the Almighty would bless her with more children; wondering if, in that event, she could manage to cling to what little influence she had with the king. On occasion she won a skirmish, like this lengthy stay here at Wherwell. Despite Edyth’s objections she had persuaded Æthelred that the king’s daughters should spend the better part of Lent with Mathilda, beseeching God’s mercy upon the realm.

  It was a realm that had great need of prayers. And if there was any truth in the veiled warning from her mother that had come but two days ago, the kingdom had need of far more than prayers.

  I would not have you relinquish your duty to your husband and king, but I urge you to make for yourself and your household a place of refuge. Choose some stronghold near the sea, I beg you, so that should the need arise, you can send your children to safety.