Shadow on the Crown (28 page)

Then he was leading Emma past the wain with its grisly cargo. The boy and one other followed in their wake.

Her mind a blinding thicket of terror, anger, and dread, Emma strove to grope past the burning pain of it, to calm herself into stillness and rational thought. She knew where she was being taken—to Otter Mouth, he had said, where a ship would pick them up. The River Otter lay to the east, between here and the River Sid. She remembered crossing it on her journey to Exeter. It would likely take them many hours to reach the river’s mouth.

Somehow she had to escape before they reached the waiting ship. She could rely on no one but herself, for help was unlikely. Even if by some miracle Hugh could slip away from his captors, he had little chance of organizing a rescue. Unless, she told herself, the garrison at Exeter defeated the Danes and somehow managed to burn all the ships. But such a feat was unlikely, and if even one ship escaped, it would make for Otter Mouth and Swein.

No, there would be no rescue.

Swein set them an even, steady pace. As they rode, Emma cast an appraising eye on her captors’ mounts. Sturdy and well able to carry heavy loads, they would be neither as fast nor as well trained as Ange. She would have an advantage there if it came to a horse race. At the moment, as she rode between Swein and his son, her fingers clutching her reins while Swein kept a firm grip on the lead rope he’d tied to her bridle, she had little opportunity to make a dash for freedom. Nevertheless, they had a long way to go before they reached the coast. All she needed was a moment of inattention, a loosening of his grip.

And if she could not escape, then she would find a use for the knife, Athelstan’s gift, that was wedged firmly into her boot.

She whispered three prayers to the Virgin—one for herself, one for the folk of Exeter, and one for all of England. But she kept her eyes open and her head up, looking for an opportunity to bolt.

A.D. 1003
This year was Exeter demolished, through the French churl Hugh, whom the Lady had appointed her steward there. And the army destroyed the town withal, and took there much spoil.

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

Chapter Twenty-five

August 1003

Exeter, Devonshire

E
lgiva felt her panic rising as she watched the terrified citizens of Exeter crowd into the fortress. They had been through this before, so they knew only too well what lay ahead if Exeter’s defenses failed: pillage, rape, murder.

She flung herself away from the window. “I have to get away!” she cried to Groa. “I will not stay here to be raped and slaughtered by some brute of a Dane.”

“Nay, my lady,” Groa said, “I would kill you myself before I would let that happen.”

Elgiva stared at her in horror. Groa’s eyes burned like coals in her withered face, and Elgiva believed that the old woman would actually murder her if it came to that. She took no comfort in the knowledge.

Behind her the chamber door banged open, and she screamed. But it was Wulf who strode quickly into the room.

“There is no time to lose,” he said, grabbing Elgiva by the arm and urging her toward the door. “Come. There are men and horses waiting for us outside the city.”

“How are we to get through that mob in the yard?” Elgiva demanded, as Groa wrapped a cloak about her.

“We cannot. There is another way out of the fortress. Be quick!”

“Wait!” Elgiva snatched up the small casket that held her jewelry before Wulf herded her out the door with Groa close on their heels. Wulf led them into the great hall, clearing a way through the dense tide of women and children seeking shelter. The poor wretches, Elgiva thought, were looking for some corner where they could hide. This would be their last refuge from the Danes, this bastion perched atop the massive red mound that overlooked the city.

Even as she followed Wulf’s lurching progress around knots of frightened townsfolk, and past mail-clad men who were trying to organize order out of the chaos, Elgiva shuddered. She could not have stayed here, her back against a wall while Vikings launched themselves against the city below. There would be no way to even gauge the course of the battle except by the sounds of fighting, and if the tide should turn against the defenders, there would be no escape. Death would come rolling into the hall with the sickening inevitability of a massive wave from the sea.

At the bottom of the stairs, Wulf turned sharply through one of the three broad archways of the undercroft, and then he stopped. Although it was dim within the cavernous space, there was enough light to see that the storeroom was filled to overflowing.

Over the past weeks the landholders all around Exeter had paid their farm rents to the queen. Elgiva could make out a pen where a dozen sheep had retreated, cowering, to a far corner. They shuddered and bleated in pitiful alarm—not unlike the terrified women upstairs, she thought. Directly in front of her, stacked end on end almost to the ceiling beams, stood casks of all sizes that likely held wine, salt, honey, or hard cheese. Nearby lay piles of sacks filled, she guessed, with wheat and barley. Next to them she could see ropes made of oiled leather, carefully coiled and neatly piled, and next to them bales of wool rising nearly to the rafters. In front of the wool a score of boxes held beeswax candles as long as her arm, and twice as thick.

“Where are we to go now?” she asked.

“There is a passage through the northern wall,” Wulf said. “It is here, somewhere in this storeroom.”

He darted forward, but Elgiva did not move. The reek of sheep dung and wool assailed her nose and her eyes. She watched as Wulf wedged himself between the casks and the stacks of grain, stamping his feet on the wooden planking of the floor as he went.

“It has to be underneath us,” he said.

“But it could be anywhere,” Elgiva protested. Groa was making her way among the boxes of candles, grunting as she heaved them aside to peer at the floor. “What if it is beneath the casks or buried under the bales of wool? There is no time to move all of that.” Shouts and screams continued to shatter the air, and she set the jewel casket on a box so that she could put her hands over her ears to block out the sounds of panic.

“Emma’s reeve is no fool,” Wulf said, coming to stand next to her and turning with a frown to survey the vast chamber. “The door will be hidden but not inaccessible.”

Elgiva followed his gaze to where the sheep cowered and bleated.

“The sheep?” she asked, incredulous.

“The sheep,” he replied, with a curt nod. He glanced around and snatched up an empty sack that lay in a corner by the archway. Then he vaulted over the low wattle fence that hemmed in the flock, terrifying the already panicked sheep and scattering them. Their temporary paddock had been thickly strewn with straw, and as Wulf walked along the back wall of their enclosure, he swept the filthy stuff away with his boot. But there was no sign of an entrance to a passage.

Undeterred, he started along the west wall. After a few steps he crouched and used the sacking to clear a space in front of him, revealing a large iron ring. Half standing, he pulled at the ring, and a segment of the wooden floor rose.

It was made of thick oak, far too heavy for one man to lift alone. Elgiva, following Groa’s lead, scrambled over the fencing and into the paddock as Wulf uncovered a second iron ring. Together, straining, they managed to lift the flooring away.

In front of them, a flight of stairs led downward into darkness.

Elgiva stared into the hole and froze. The old terror of small, dark spaces clawed at her like some feral beast. She could not go down there. If she went into that black maw, the earth would swallow her, and she would never come out again. She would be trapped inside the belly of the mountain, unable to breathe, unable to see. She would die there, clawing at rock walls, gasping for air. It would be better to die at the hands of a Dane.

Wulf had darted out of the storeroom, and now he returned holding a torch. Groa had retrieved the jewel casket, and she held it out toward Elgiva.

“No,” Elgiva said, shaking her head and pushing the casket away. “I am not going down there. There is no need. The raiders will be stopped. They will not come inside the city gates. Wulf, you will protect me, and we will all be safe.”

But her brother grabbed her arm, holding it like a vise until she squirmed with the pain of it.

“I will not be here to protect you, Elgiva,” he hissed, his face close to hers. “I am leaving, as our father ordered. Like it or not, you are coming with me.”

Elgiva tried to back away from the yawning darkness at her feet, but Wulf held her firmly.

“Groa!” he barked. “Help me. We have to move!”

Elgiva felt Groa pushing her from behind, while in front of her, still grasping her wrist, Wulf took the first two steps down into the darkness.

“I am afraid,” she wailed, trying to free her hand from her brother’s grip.

“Breathe, my lady,” Groa whispered in her ear. “You must take slow, deep breaths. Sit down on the top stair and let your brother guide you down into the passage. I will be right behind you. Nothing will harm you, I promise.”

Still she resisted, staring at the narrow black hole and the walls that appeared to lean inward, while her brother tugged at her wrist.

“Elgiva,” her brother said, his voice fierce. “Move now or I will take Groa and leave you behind!”

Groa placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “You must watch the torch, my love. Look at the light and nothing else.”

Trembling and nauseated, she crouched and managed to sit down on the top step. She had to cover her mouth with her hand and work hard to swallow back the bile. Then she turned and grasped Groa’s skirt.

“You won’t pull the boards over the entrance behind you?” she asked Groa. “We can come back?”

“I cannot shut it, my lady,” Groa assured her, “it is far too heavy. But there will be no need to come back, my love. There is daylight below, I promise. Look at the light, and follow your brother. There’s a good girl.”

Wulf yanked her arm again, pulling her down into the darkness. She tried to take a deep breath, as if she were going underwater, but her lungs refused to fill. Then she was into the passage, and she nearly gagged on the stench of mold and rot. With her free hand she groped the rough, slimy wall, trying to slow her plunge into the dark. Shying and halting, she pulled against her brother’s grip, barely holding her panic at bay as he drew her inexorably down slippery, uneven stairs.

Wulf cursed her, urging her to go faster, while Groa’s voice floated down from behind her like a constant waterfall, encouraging and coaxing her. But as she descended, resisting every step, the sound of their voices faded while the roar of her terror grew and echoed in her ears.

She tried to do as Groa bid her, to watch the torchlight. But its brightness in the dark hurt her eyes, and so she closed them against the pitiless glare. Then she saw a different space, smaller even than this endless tunnel, and darker, and she was a child again, on her back, unable to move or even to breathe. She could not bear it, and she opened her eyes to escape, and she was back in the tunnel, where Wulf was a shadow against the torch’s flame.

The walls twisted to the left, and she could sense them moving, sliding closer together. She could hear the rock breathing, alive and malignant. It would not let them escape now that it had them in its throat. Why could the others not see it?

She could not catch even the smallest breath, and panic bloomed in her breast. She had to go back, to crawl if she must, but she had to get out into the open. Gasping, she wrenched herself free from Wulf’s grip and scraped both hands against the wall, trying to turn around. Her foot slipped, and she fell sideways against him. There was a clatter, the walls trembled, and then with a hiss the world went black. The scream that had been building in her throat tore loose, and she screamed and screamed until a hand slapped her into silence.

“You little fool!” Wulf’s voice was as hard as the stone of the walls. “I swear I will leave you here if you do not shut up and keep moving.”

He clasped her wrist again and once more dragged her relentlessly downward. She was blind now, and whimpering, helpless against both her brother and her fear. The darkness, like the rock, was a living thing, its wings beating at her like a host of devils.

She was going to die here, and she did not want to die. She began to wail, and Wulf jerked her arm.

“Shut up!” His voice was a snarl, and again she was struck in the face, and then pushed so that her knees crumpled beneath her, and she slid down the wall. She crouched on the step, sobbing, cowering with terror. She heard her brother cursing and a sound like mice scrabbling, and she began to scream again. The rock was bearing down on her from above, trying to crush her, to grind her beneath it. She lifted her face, and the darkness drew the breath from her body like a succubus, its black mouth shaping itself implacably against hers. She tried to fight it, but it was too strong. Like a silent wave it engulfed her, and beyond that there was nothing.

Norton Manor, Devonshire

When Athelstan led his men into the manor courtyard he called for fresh mounts and news.

“My lord,” said the groom who took his horse, “one of the queen’s ladies rode in only moments ago, asking for you. She was in a terrible state, and they’ve taken her up to the hall.”

Athelstan ran, fearing he knew not what. He had not yet reached the hall when he saw Wymarc hurrying to meet him. Her muddied gown and tangled hair spoke of hard riding, while the terror in her face hinted at something much worse. In a moment he had reached her, and he clutched her shoulders to steady her. She was trembling violently, and tears streaked through the dirt on her face.

“What has happened?” he demanded. “Are you hurt?”

“Not hurt,” she said hoarsely. “Please, my lord, I must speak to you alone.”

Her agitation infected him. He drew her away from the furtive glances of his retainers in the forecourt, busy with preparations for departure.

“The queen?” he asked, steeling himself for the reply. Emma must be dead. Wymarc would never have left her side otherwise. It came to him not as a thought but as a shadow, black as the mouth of hell, that darkened the whole world.

“They took her. I don’t know how many. It was a trap, and we could not help her. He wants half the kingdom.” Her voice rose as each phrase tumbled incoherently on top of the last in her urgency, and she began to cry. “You must get her back, my lord, quickly. He threatened to rape her. You must go now. No one else can help her. There is no time.”

Athelstan shook her. “Who has taken the queen?”

She looked at him, mouth agape in confusion and terror.

“Forkbeard.”

He stared at her in stunned disbelief. Not dead then, but at the mercy of a vengeful Forkbeard. The shadow that had fallen over him deepened.

He questioned her closely, aware of the passing of every precious minute. He called to a servant to fetch the monk who had accompanied her, and between them they told him what they had heard as they lay hidden in a tangle of shrubbery that lined the narrow defile where the Danes had attacked Emma’s guards.

“You are sure that you heard him say the River Otter?” he asked Brother Redwald.

“I cannot be sure that he meant the river,” the little monk said in dismay, “for he was speaking in the Northman’s tongue. But I heard the word
otter
, or what sounded to me like
otter
.”

Athelstan considered it. There was no question that Forkbeard would make for the sea, for it was his only escape route. He would likely have a ship waiting for him somewhere along the shore. The Otter Mouth was a likely choice. The bank of red cliffs that faced the sea there would be a familiar landmark to any shipman with a passing knowledge of the southern coast. And the shallow caves that dimpled the landward face of the high, narrow spit that bordered the Otter’s eastern bank offered shelter and protection to anyone who might wish to escape the notice of folk living nearby.

And if Brother Redwald had misheard?

Then he would search for them in the wrong place, and Emma would be lost. She would be lost in any case if he did not get to her in time. He may already be too late, but he had to make the attempt.