The Price of Blood

by Patricia Bracewell

  She waited until Catla finally settled herself on the bed with her youngest brat.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Catla studied her, then frowned and began to chew nervously at her lower lip.

  She is jealous, Elgiva thought, irritated. But she’s too cowardly to say so.

  “Out with it, Catla,” she snapped. “Am I flaunting too much gold for my lord’s hall? Are you afraid that the sight of me will drive his men mad with desire?”

  She was only half in jest. She wanted his men to be inflamed by the sight of her. That was the point.

  “Does Cnut know that you will be in the hall for the gathering?” Catla asked, her voice little more than a whisper. “Thurbrand says that women are not welcome, that they will be discussing men’s business.”

  Elgiva snorted. “Cnut’s business is my business,” she said. Many of the men who would be there had once been her father’s thegns, men who would harbor resentments against the king and Eadric. Cnut had not asked that she be there, but he would not be fool enough to dismiss her, not after she entered with Cnut’s son—the grandson of Ælfhelm and of Swein—in her arms. And if Thurbrand didn’t approve, he could go hang. “Where is Thurbrand now?” she asked Catla.

  “He is talking with Cnut and some others who came with us.”

  “What others?” Then looking down at her waist she said, “Tyra, fasten that girdle more tightly or it’s like to slip off and trip me.” To Catla she said, “Who came with you?”

  Catla had turned her attention to the child on her lap, who was attempting to dive headfirst onto the floor. “Two Danish ships landed today at the mooring below our steading,” she said absently. “Cnut’s men. You’ll know them. They’ve been here before—Arnor, Eirik, all that lot.”

  Elgiva froze. So Arnor was back! He had been away for so many months that she’d begun to hope the bastard was dead.

  Likely he had messages to deliver to Cnut before the larger meeting began. And if he had brought news from the south, she wanted to hear it. Besides, she had a score to settle with Arnor.

  “That will do!” she said to Tyra, although there were still bracelets and rings aplenty in the coffer. She spun around, pleased by the musical, jingling sound of gold on gold, and she pointed to the nurse who held her swaddled, sleeping son. “Come with me.”

  Walking close beside the buildings to avoid the slick mud in the middle of the yard as well as the score or so men gathering there, she made her way to the hall. Bypassing the wide, main door she slipped through a smaller entrance at the back leading to a narrow, private chamber that Cnut claimed for his own whenever he was in Holderness. As she had expected, she found him seated there, with Thurbrand standing to one side and a servant close by. Arnor straddled a bench in front of Cnut. The shipman’s face, she noted, was marred by a yellowish bruise around one eye and a nasty cut on his lower lip that was not quite healed. An accident, she wondered, or a brawl? She hoped it had been painful, whatever the cause.

  When she entered, Arnor abruptly broke off whatever he’d been saying, and every face turned to her. She offered no greeting, but walked straight to Arnor.

  “Bring the child here,” she called to the nurse, who stood hesitating at the chamber door.

  The girl scurried to Elgiva’s side, and the babe, disturbed by the cold and the movement, began to whimper. Elgiva pushed the girl toward Arnor, who recoiled as if he’d been struck.

  “Nay, the bairn will not harm you,” she said. “He’s no knife yet to dangle before your eyes, although I have one.” She touched the bejeweled hilt of the knife at her belt. “But I would have you look closely at him.” She drew back the blanket to reveal the fine down of red-gold there, a match to Cnut’s hair and beard. “Do you still insist that this is not Cnut’s son? I warn you. His father has already acknowledged him, and all the women on this holding were present at his birth.” She said to Cnut, “This vermin threatened me when last he was here and claimed that you had not fathered my child. I want him to admit to his lies, and I demand—”

  “Be quiet!” Cnut interrupted her. The baby was squalling now, and Cnut motioned to the nurse. “Take the child away. Elgiva, I would hear Arnor’s news. Sit you down and be silent, or get out. You,” he barked at the servant, “get your mistress a chair.”

  Now she felt the tension in the room. She had been too intent on facing down Arnor to notice it before. Whatever news the shipman had brought, it had fouled Cnut’s usually genial temper. She sat down next to her husband and swallowed her anger, but she could not resist casting a surly glance at Arnor. The lout raised an insolent eyebrow in response, and she had to suppress an urge to demand that someone blacken his other eye.

  Cnut said to Arnor, “I’ve heard at least four different tales today of how Hemming died. Do you know the truth?”

  She drew in a quick breath. So Hemming was dead!

  She looked at Cnut, but she could read no joy or even relief in his face. Instead he appeared worried by news that should have filled him with satisfaction. What was wrong with the man that he could not recognize a gift when it was handed to him?

  She turned her attention back to Arnor, who was speaking of an agreement that had been forged between Hemming and Archbishop Ælfheah. Then he gave an account of Hemming’s death at table and of the attack on Canterbury that followed some days later—all of the events months old, yet they had heard no whisper of them until now.

  She had been right about Hemming, she thought with satisfaction. He would have turned against both Cnut and his brother if he hadn’t been stopped. He deserved to be dead and his mischief buried with him. That Alric had dispatched him in a manner that cast blame upon the archbishop was a masterstroke. It could not have gone any better. Perhaps she should reward him with yet another ruby for that alone. She wanted to ask for more details of Hemming’s death, but given Cnut’s mood, she dared not interrupt.

  “What of Thorkell?” Cnut asked. “He must have returned to Rochester by now. Did you speak with him?”

  “Oh, aye. We spoke,” Arnor said, “although he did most of the talking. He does not believe that the archbishop killed Hemming, my lord.” He ran a knuckle along the cut on his lip. “He blames you.”

  Hearing this, Elgiva felt the tiniest flicker of unease. Beside her, Cnut froze, then leaned forward, eyes wide with shock.

  “How? I was in Denmark!”

  “Aye. But our friend Alric was at table with Hemming when he died, and he’s not been seen since.”

  “Alric!” Cnut repeated.

  “I don’t believe it!” Elgiva could not keep silent. If Alric was tied to Hemming’s death, her role in it might come out, and Arnor already harbored suspicions about her. She had no idea what Cnut would do if he discovered that she had ordered Hemming’s death, and she had no wish to find out. “Husband, you cannot believe that Alric would—”

  “Hold your tongue, woman!” Thurbrand snapped, glowering at her. “It is what Thorkell believes that matters.”

  “I’m to give you a message from Thorkell,” Arnor said to Cnut. “I’m to say that he knows Hemming is dead by your command. That there is bad blood between you now, and should you ever come within his reach, your life is forfeit.” He fingered his jaw. “It is not a message I’ll soon forget,” he said. “I’ve fewer teeth than I once had, compliments of Thorkell’s men.”

  Thurbrand sucked in a breath. “If Thorkell has become your enemy, Cnut,” he said, “then whoever killed Hemming has done you an ill turn.”

  Cnut’s face was furrowed now with concern. “Hemming was poisoned, you say,” he murmured. “Is that a certainty?”

  “So Thorkell says, and he had it from men who were present at the feast and close to Hemming’s table,” Arnor replied. He fixed accusing eyes on her. “Poison is a woman’s weapon.”

  Cnut was studying her now, as well, with questions in his eyes.


  Beneath his steady gaze, the golden chains around her neck felt tight, and she found it difficult to swallow. They were all looking at her, and she licked her dry lips, searching for some way to turn their suspicions elsewhere. It would do no good to rage against Arnor, for Cnut would side with his trusted shipman, even against his own wife. Thorkell, though, might suit.

  “There is no proof that anyone murdered Hemming,” she said. “Thorkell claims you did it, my lord, and we all know that is false. I’ll wager that even Thorkell knows it. Consider what he gains by accusing you. How many thousands of pounds of Æthelred’s silver that has been pledged to you will now go to Thorkell instead?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Thurbrand muttered, “By the gods, she may be right. Your father has never trusted Thorkell. Perhaps he has been wise in that.”

  “Thorkell has powerful allies,” Cnut said, “and my father’s fear is that he may one day make a grab for Denmark’s throne. I disagree. I do not believe that Thorkell wants a kingdom.”

  “What does he want, then?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Who can say? Gold? Power? Renown?”

  “He may well want the throne of England,” Thurbrand suggested. “How does he factor in Swein’s plans for unseating Æthelred?”

  “Thorkell’s part is done. His role, although it was never spelled out to him, was merely to weaken England’s resistance. That much is accomplished. Next summer, before the English can recover their military strength, my father will lead his invasion. Thorkell is welcome to be a part of it, but he is not necessary.”

  “Then Thorkell no longer matters,” she said, breathing a little easier. “You do not need him.”

  “Perhaps not now,” Cnut said, “but who can say what lies ahead? And it matters to me,” he said, getting to his feet and beginning to pace, “because he has been my friend. He would not accuse me unless he believed I was guilty. He must think that I have broken my oath, both to him and to Hemming, and that is a grievous thing.”

  “You set far too high a value on loyalty,” she scoffed.

  He looked at her coldly. “Loyalty is a rare commodity, Elgiva. How am I to convince men to trust me, to follow me into battle, if they believe that I might one day betray them?”

  Thurbrand grunted. “Women have no understanding of the greater affairs of men,” he said. “Send your lady away, Cnut. She has no place here.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Cnut spoke first.

  “The men are already gathering in the hall,” he said, and she realized that she had been hearing the buzz of voices for some time. “You know your part, Thurbrand,” Cnut went on. “Get in there before some fool discovers a grudge and starts a fight. I’ll join you shortly. Arnor, go with him. We will deal with Thorkell and his threats later.”

  When they were gone she went to stand before Cnut. She had come through this little crisis about Hemming’s death unscathed, and now they must both prepare to meet with the great men of northern Mercia. She ran her hands along the embroidered dragons that graced the sleeve of his tunic and admired the ornate silver belt buckle and the intricate inlay work of his scabbard and sword grip. He wore no crown upon his head, but the golden brooch that fastened his fur-lined cloak was the size of a man’s fist, and that was gold enough for now. She would be proud to stand at his side, for he carried himself like the king that he must one day be.

  “This meeting will be a great success,” she said. “I do not doubt that the men of Holderness and the Five Boroughs will pledge themselves—”

  “What do you know of this business between Alric and Hemming?” he asked, pinning her with dark, suspicious eyes.

  She looked at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence—a look she had mastered long ago.

  “I know nothing more than you do, husband,” she lied.

  He grunted, but she could not tell if he believed her.

  “And have you had any word from Alric in the past six months?”

  “No.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “Tyra tells me that you have learned how to prepare a great many herbal infusions. Elgiva,” he said slowly, “have you been toying with poisons?”

  “No, husband, I have not.” It was another lie, but it rang true even to her ears. Thank the gods she had managed to keep her potions secret from Tyra the truth teller.

  For a moment he just stared at her, studying her face as if he would peel back skin and bone, and read what was in her mind. It made her shiver.

  “It worries me,” he said, “that Alric fled from Rochester when he did. It marks him as guilty.”

  “Can you not put yourself in his place?” she demanded. “Imagine yourself an Englishman seated at table beside a Danish warlord. You suddenly realize that your host is, inexplicably, dead.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Cnut, you told me yourself what Hemming’s men were like. Wouldn’t you flee, for fear they would murder you and ask questions later?”

  “That is a possible explanation,” he said, his face grave, “although it seems unlikely.”

  He lifted his hand to run his knuckles lightly along the side of her face, to finger the fine linen of her headrail, to graze the back of her neck. She searched his eyes for some sign of what was in his mind, willing him to kiss her, for then she would be certain that he had believed her. But he did not kiss her.

  “Elgiva,” he said, and there was steel in his voice, “I will wager that the men in there will think you the perfect ornament to my hall. They will want to devour you with their eyes and lose themselves in imagining what lies beneath your gown. But I am the one that they must heed, not you. So you will accompany me in there with Swein in your arms, you will welcome the men warmly, and then you will return to your chamber.”

  She pulled away from him, stricken. “I will not. Most of these men are here because of their kinship to me, and I want to be—”

  “Listen to me!” She had little choice, for he grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a rough shake that made her teeth rattle. “Thurbrand controls his woman by beating her until she is bloody,” he snarled. “I’ll not stoop to that, Elgiva, but I will not have you arguing with me at every turn. You will obey me even if I have to lock you in your chamber with only bread and water until you learn to do as you are told. You have an important role to play in a carefully designed plan, and you will do it without questioning me. I have left you on your own for too long, and although you are mistress of this hall, I am its lord and you answer to my wishes, not to yours. Now go and get our son.”

  He turned her around and pushed her toward the door.

  She gritted her teeth to keep from saying aloud the curse against all men that rose to her lips. There would come a time, she vowed, when she would not have to bend to the will of every human creature that strutted across the land with a cock dangling between his legs.

  Before she reached the door he called her name again, and she halted, waiting for whatever would come next.

  “If I find that you have lied to me about Alric,” Cnut said, “I promise that I will do far worse than beat you.”

  With his words ringing in her head she stepped into the cold, slamming the door behind her.

  “Then I will make sure,” she muttered as she made her way across the yard, “that you never find out.”

  A.D. 1012 This year came Ealderman Eadric, and all the oldest counselors of England, clerk and laity, to London before Easter; and there they abode, over Easter, until all the tribute was paid, which was forty-eight thousand pounds.

  —The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  April 1012

  Windsor

  Æthelred struggled to open his eyes, grimacing against the pain that nagged the right side of his body at head, shoulder, and ankle. He was propped against a multitude of bed cushions in a chamber where candles cast fitful light, and whe
re the gaping blackness beyond the high, narrow windows proclaimed that the hour was late.

  His right foot, tightly bound between two lengths of thin wood, lay atop the bedclothes, throbbing like the very devil. As he scowled at it, a long shadow in the shape of a man crept across the bed, and what had been a vague pain at his temple soared into agony.

  With an effort he turned his head toward the shadow’s source, frightened—uncertain if he was awake or still in the clutch of nightmare.

  “Christ,” he gasped, “Wulfstan.” The ache in his head lessened, and despite the heaviness that seemed to press on all his limbs he was wide-awake now. The leech, he remembered, had given him a potion to ease his pain, and the draught must have sent him to sleep. For how long? he wondered. “What day is it?”

  “It is Good Friday,” Wulfstan replied, stepping closer to the bed and sketching a cross above Æthelred’s head.

  So he’d been lying here, in and out of dreams, for two days. He studied his Jorvik archbishop, whose face and beard were starkly pale against the smudge of his black traveling cloak.

  “Should you not be in London?” he grunted.

  “We should both be in London, my lord. I was on my way there when I learned that you were lying here abed.” Wulfstan lifted his hand, and a young man in monk’s garb emerged from somewhere out of Æthelred’s sight to place a chair at the archbishop’s side. Wulfstan sat down and said, “Edyth bade me welcome, and told me of your fall.”

  “I did not fall,” he snarled. “My infernal horse threw me.”

  They thought him careless and inept, but they had not seen what had happened, there on the London Road, for he had been alone. His heralds had ridden ahead and he had outstripped the hearth troops riding behind when his mount had balked suddenly, mid-stride, stamping and snorting, ears a-twitch. His skin had been crawling with premonition, but he could see nothing amiss until the air around him had seemed to thin and stretch so that each breath became a struggle. In that breathless moment Edward’s form had taken shape, luminous as candlelight, beckoning him toward London. The horse went mad with terror, rearing and plunging, and though he struggled to keep his seat, all feeling in his hands had fled, and the reins had slipped away. He’d known nothing after that until he awoke, his face drenched with his own blood and his body racked with pain.