She would have questioned him further, but a desperate shouting and pounding erupted at the back of the church, and as she turned toward the sound, the door crashed open.
Athelstan stormed in, armed men following in his wake, and his face was such a mask of fury that she almost did not know him.
Thorkell’s men scrambled to their feet, but she moved to the altar to shield Ælfheah’s body, afraid of what Athelstan might do if he saw it. She was too late. He was already striding toward the altar, and he swept her aside as if she were made of straw. He gave the ruined face only one swift glance before swinging around and drawing his sword.
She followed him, clutching his sword arm as he placed the point of his blade at Thorkell’s breast.
“No!” she cried.
In the same instant she saw one of the Danes snatch Edward, pull the boy’s knife from its scabbard, and press it against his throat.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sunday, Easter Octave, April 1012
London
Emma heard the unmistakable whisper of more blades slipping from scabbards, and she knew that the nave behind her was bristling now with English swords. Far more terrifying to her, though, was the frightened face of the Dane who held the knife at Edward’s throat.
Sweet Virgin, if there were to be a slaughter here, Edward would be the first to die.
“Athelstan, stop!” Her cry collided with Eadric’s bellowed command to sheath swords.
No one heeded them. She felt Athelstan’s arm tense beneath her hands, his sword still threatening.
Thorkell stood motionless and silent, glowering at Athelstan, who smiled grimly and jerked his head toward Edward.
“If you think that I care about the life of that boy,” he said, “you are much mistaken. Kill him or let him go; it makes no matter.”
Cries of protest erupted from some in the church, while Eadric spewed a string of invective. At the same time Emma, still keeping a firm grip on Athelstan’s arm, spoke in Danish to the man who was clutching Edward.
“No harm will come to your leader,” she said, praying that he would disentangle her words from the din around them. “Do not kill my son.”
The shipman’s wide, startled eyes flashed to hers, and the hand holding the knife trembled. She kept her eyes on his bewildered face while Athelstan and Eadric shouted at each other, their voices echoing through the church.
“This is madness!” Eadric roared. “These men came here weaponless!”
“These men are Danes,” Athelstan threw back at him, “and all Danes are liars! They swore peace and then they sacked Canterbury. They swore to leave England, yet there are a thousand of them still camped at Greenwich! They are truce breakers, and if there is madness here, it is you who are mad for trusting them! Emma!” She dragged her eyes from Edward’s captor to Athelstan’s face. He was glaring at Thorkell, and she saw no mercy or pity or any thought of Edward. Only rage. “Have you forgotten the innocents butchered before London’s gates?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten what they did to Hilde? Whatever they have said here, you cannot believe them!”
His words were knife strokes to her heart, for she remembered all of it and more. Too much blood had been spent for far too long, but this madness had to stop. She would not see Edward added to the list of the dead.
Her decision made, she took a breath, steeling herself for what she must do. Keeping her eyes fixed on Athelstan’s face, she released his sword arm to grasp the naked blade.
Athelstan flinched, and searing pain shot through her palm, but she did not let go. His shocked eyes snapped to hers and he swore at her, but when she forced the sword point down and away from Thorkell, Athelstan did not resist her pressure.
She placed herself in front of the Danish leader, still clutching the blade.
“These men are under my protection,” she said, and now it was her voice that echoed through the church. “Anyone who wishes to do them harm must kill me first!”
And then, because she could think of no better way to assure the Danes that she was their ally, she shouted the words again—this time in her mother’s tongue.
• • •
Emma’s cry was greeted with a profound silence. Every man there, Athelstan guessed, was mazed by the flood of Danish words that had just spilled from the lips of an English queen.
He flicked a glance to Emma’s bleeding hand and then back to her face. She was glaring at him with fierce, unyielding eyes, and he was baffled by her willingness to protect such a man as this.
“What lies has he told you that you would defend him?” he cried.
Christ! What misguided conviction had possessed her? With a single step she had placed herself at the mercy of the Danes. They needed no weapons. They could use Emma and her son as shields and make any demand they wished. He would be powerless to stop them.
Before Emma answered him, the big Dane snarled a command, and Athelstan readied himself to make a rush at Edward, certain that the bastard who held him was about to slit his throat. Instead the brute released the boy, thrusting him away unharmed before tossing the knife into the shadows behind him.
He saw Emma draw a deep breath, almost a sob, but she did not step away from the man she was shielding, nor release the sword.
“Thorkell has told me things that you have not heard, my lord.” Her voice was commanding—and ice-cold. “You are in no position to judge if they are truth or lies.”
A sudden chorus of cries rang out from the back of the church, and chancing a quick glance over his shoulder Athelstan saw the bishop of London shoving his way forward.
“In the name of God, what is happening here?” Ælfhun elbowed his way to Emma’s side, and casting a horrified glance at her bloody hand, he gently pried it from the blade. “Put your weapons down!”
Athelstan made no move to obey, nor did his men. He continued to clutch his sword, his eyes on Thorkell, alert for the slightest flicker of threat.
“Archbishop Ælfheah lies there murdered!” he spat. “And the queen would defend his murderers!” This was all a ruse; it had to be. Emma had been beguiled by lies, promises—he did not know what. “These shipmen would gain entry into the—”
“These shipmen,” Emma cut him off, “have come to us weaponless, bearing the body of our archbishop and an account of his death. Their leader wishes to speak with the king. It is not for Lord Athelstan or for any of us to determine the truth of their story. Only the king can do that.”
Athelstan stared at her, helpless with rage at her blindness, for how could this be anything but some trick that would lead to disaster?
“They have cozened you, lady! Do not fall prey to their lies, I beg you, for they will betray us!”
And then he despaired, for she was looking at him with eyes of stone. She would not listen to him. Whatever this Thorkell had said to her, she believed him.
Eadric, too, moved to stand beside her, and now there were three of them shielding the Danes from the English. Emma had wrapped her bleeding hand into a fold of her cloak.
“Put your sword away, my lord,” Eadric snapped. “Have you not spilled enough innocent blood already?”
“Blood has been spilled all across England, Eadric,” he snarled, “by these men and others like them. Or had you not noticed?”
From just behind him Edmund hissed into his ear, “Leave it. You are wasting your breath here.”
But he could not leave it.
“What of the dragon ship out there? What of the fleet that still lies at Greenwich? My lady, do you mean to welcome all our enemies into London?”
He had meant it as a taunt to make Emma think twice about what she was doing. To his surprise, she frowned, then held a brief, whispered exchange with the Danish leader.
He glanced at the faces of Eadric and the bishop, and he read their uneasiness at not being party to what
passed between the queen and the Dane. Yet neither man made a protest, and it dawned on him that the balance of power in this chamber, perhaps even in the kingdom, had shifted the moment that Emma had seized that naked steel.
And surely Emma knew it.
“The Danish ship,” she announced, “will return to Greenwich. Eadric, I would have you send some of your men with them, to keep watch on their doings. Thorkell has agreed to this. He and his companions will be escorted to the palace by my house guards, where they will await the king. Word of Ælfheah’s death must not stir beyond these walls until the Danes are safe within the palace, lest some misguided soul seek vengeance.” Her defiant eyes met his. “Does that satisfy you, Lord Athelstan? Will you and your men put away your swords now?”
The very air seemed to crackle with tension. He could order his men to slay the Danes, slay even Eadric, and that would be one less enemy to deal with. But he could not guarantee the safety of Emma and the bishop if it came to a bloodbath. When all was finished, whatever the outcome, he would have to face the king’s justice, and he was not prepared to lead his brothers in rebellion.
Which left him no choice. He sheathed his weapon and signaled to his men to do the same.
“I am not satisfied in the least, my lady,” he said. “And mark me, you will have cause to regret what you do here today.”
That night in his London hall, Athelstan sat scowling into a half-empty wine cup as his brothers recounted what had occurred after he’d stalked out of All Hallows.
“The bishop must have summoned every clergyman in London to escort Ælfheah’s body to St. Paul’s,” Edrid said. “The queen and Eadric led a line of mourners that stretched across half the city.”
“And is that not an unholy alliance,” Edmund snarled, “the queen and Eadric? I have warned you for years that Emma is not to be trusted. Now that she’s whelped a second son, she is near to achieving the power that she’s been lusting after since she first set foot in England. Christ! She would strike a bargain even with the devil if—”
“Leave it, Edmund!” Athelstan barked. He had nearly managed to erase the image from his mind of Emma glaring at him with hatred in her eyes and with Eadric at her side. He did not need it thrown in his face.
“Listen to me!” Edmund was shouting now and clearly not willing to let it go. “Eadric and Emma will urge the king to forge an alliance with Thorkell without questioning whether the vermin can be trusted. You know that! And because Emma speaks the Northman’s tongue—and that is something she has craftily hidden until now—Christ! What a liar she is!” He stopped for breath. “Because of that, she is likely to be given a seat at the king’s council. Think you there will be room for us there when Emma, Eadric, and Thorkell have the king’s ear?”
Athelstan took a long swallow from his cup, then slammed it to the table and got to his feet, goaded by the suspicion that Edmund could be right.
Emma was no fool. She must have recognized that if Thorkell pledged his service to the king, her knowledge of Danish would no longer be a liability but an advantage. Why else would she have revealed such a thing after hiding it for so long?
But Edmund had not finished. “The king will surely accept Thorkell’s offer of ships and men,” he went on, “but not without great cost. He will have to tax his nobles yet again and they will not thank him for it. Few of them will be comforted, I think, by the sight of a Danish fleet settled on our shores.”
Athelstan was only half listening to him, for he was seeing again the scene in the chapel—Emma trying to block the sight of Ælfheah’s shattered face, Emma grasping the blade of his sword, Emma stanching blood with a fold of her cloak. And then, abruptly, another memory intruded, of young Edward held fast with a knife at his throat.
He had urged the Dane to dispatch the boy, hoping to gull him into thinking he had hold of a useless hostage. Jesu. Had Emma believed him?
“Athelstan!” Edmund’s voice recalled him to the present. “The men on the king’s council will resent Thorkell. They will balk at having to pay for his fleet, and their discontent might suit our own purposes. We could—”
He rounded on his brother. “What purposes, Edmund?” he demanded. “Would you counsel me again to rebel against the king? How many times must I tell you that I will not walk that road?” He had given Ælfheah his word on that. Even the archbishop’s death did not release him from his vow. “You would have me seize the throne, but where would I look for allies? In the north Elgiva and her brothers are dead; those of her kin who remain have been showered with lands and offices to bind them to the king.”
Edmund was on his feet now, the two of them facing off against each other.
“You cannot mean to stand aside and do nothing,” Edmund protested. “You cannot believe that Thorkell can be trusted!”
Athelstan shoved past his brother. He was not certain what he believed. At All Hallows he had been convinced that Thorkell’s appearance in London had been some ploy to get inside the city’s defenses. Now he was not so sure. Thorkell’s fleet still lay at Greenwich, their sails furled and bound, no threat to London. The men he had sent there for news had reported that, far from being responsible for Ælfheah’s death, Thorkell had gone to great lengths to try to prevent it.
What had the Dane said to Emma there in the church that had made her trust him? He did not know, but something had convinced her that he would keep his word.
“I do not know what to make of Thorkell,” he said. “But I will not make any move that would fracture this kingdom.”
Edmund cursed. “The kingdom is already fractured,” he snarled, “and has been since Eadric murdered Ealdorman Ælfhelm.”
Athelstan turned to glare at him. “And what do you think would happen if we do as you suggest: make alliance with disgruntled northern nobles and raise our banners against the king?”
Edrid stood up and moved to Edmund’s side. “Athelstan is right,” he said. “The king would use Thorkell and his shipmen as a weapon against anyone who dared oppose him. It’s too big a risk.”
“We must be patient,” Athelstan insisted. “The balance of power at court is shifting beneath our feet. Ælfheah is dead and we cannot know who will replace him. Thorkell will negotiate some kind of alliance with the king, but we can’t even begin to guess how much influence he will have. Eadric still holds the king’s favor, and with both Edwig and Edward under his thumb—”
“Edwig is no use to him,” Edmund objected, “drunk or sober.”
“We cannot be certain of that,” Athelstan cautioned. “Every ætheling is throne-worthy. There is no telling what use Eadric may have in mind for our brother.” He frowned. “I think he will use his hold on young Edward to exert pressure on the queen. And she is more likely to have the king’s ear now, with two sons to her account.”
“So the court is a vipers’ nest,” Edmund spat. “Can you think of no better strategy than to merely avoid being bitten? I put it to you again: What if this Thorkell cannot be trusted? What if he turns on England, betrays us to our Danish enemies from within?”
Athelstan ran an unsteady hand through his hair, troubled by Edmund’s words. His brother, God forbid, could very well be right.
“Let us pray that does not happen,” he said. “But if it does, Edmund, and we are not united behind the throne, when the Danish hammer stroke falls, England will shatter like glass.” He drew a long breath. “It is but another reason why we cannot break with our father.”
He looked at Edrid, who nodded his agreement. He looked to Edmund, who gazed back at him, his face still dark with whatever black conjectures were running through his mind.
Finally, Edmund ground out reluctantly, “As you wish. We will not break with the king.” Then he glowered at Athelstan and added, “Not yet.”
Athelstan heard the warning there, but for now he was satisfied. He turned away from his brothers and stared into the fla
mes of the hearth, calling to mind the very last words that the seeress had said to him.
I see fire and smoke. There is nothing else.
If that prophecy was true and England was to be tried by fire yet again, he hoped to God that he would not have to be the one to set it alight.
A.D. 1012 Then submitted to the king five and forty of the ships of the enemy; and promised him, that they would defend this land, and he should feed and clothe them.
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Chapter Thirty-Seven
April 1012
Windsor
Emma stepped from the gloom of the king’s great hall into the fading light of late afternoon. The palace yard swarmed with priests, royal messengers, hearth guards, and kitchen slaves—all of them members of the king’s household who populated this Windsor manor. She paid little heed to them as she turned her steps toward her own apartments, for she was still sifting through the events that had taken place in the hall over the past few hours.
Inside her chamber, Wymarc and Father Martin rose quickly to greet her, and Wymarc hastened to slip the cloak from her shoulders.
“It is done,” Emma told them. “The king has accepted Thorkell into his service. There is to be a formal oath-taking at the midsummer assembly.”
So much had happened in such a very little time! Eight days ago she had stood in All Hallows Church raging at the Danish warlord over Ælfheah’s shattered body. Three days later she had mourned with all of London as the archbishop was laid in his tomb. Today she had arrived here to serve as interpreter between the Dane and the hastily assembled king’s council until an agreement had been hammered out between them.
Today’s meeting, though, had left her restless and uneasy, and her discomfort was compounded by the throbbing in her wounded hand.
Wymarc seemed to read her thoughts, for she appeared at her side with a cup of wine.
“It will ease the pain in your hand,” she said, “and help to restore you. The meeting could not have been an easy one. I imagine the king was not well pleased that Thorkell insisted that you be there to speak for him.”
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