Shadow on the Crown (29 page)

“How many men?” he asked.

“Forkbeard and two others,” the priest said. “All the rest went to Exeter.”

Yes, that felt right. It would take few men to guard the queen if one assumed that no rescue would be attempted. Swein might have a surprise in store for him if he underestimated Emma, though. Jesu, he hoped she would not do anything that would bring her to even greater harm.

He gave orders swiftly, and his men responded as they had been trained to do, with efficiency, silence, and speed.

He turned to Wymarc who stood braced against the wall, huddled in her cloak, her face in her hands, a picture of despair.

“You will stay here until you receive word from me. Tell no one what has happened.”

Within minutes he had sent a force of twenty men riding hard toward the besieged city and ordered a culver sent to the king with word of the attack on Exeter. He kept six men behind to protect the manor and the folk who had sought refuge there when the beacons were spotted. Then he mounted his horse, and with three close companions he rode like the wind for the mouth of the River Otter.

Exeter, Devonshire

Elgiva opened her eyes to find Groa peering down at her. The light was dim, but she could just make out, above Groa’s head, roof beams and smoke-stained thatch. She lay on a filthy wooden floor with her head pillowed in Groa’s lap. The mountain had not collapsed upon them, then. They had managed to escape from the tunnel that she had been certain would be their grave.

“What is this place?” she asked. There was a vague roaring in her ears, and she felt giddy. She could see little, for the room they were in had no window openings and no source of light other than what leaked in through the eaves of the roof.

“It is a storeroom next to the sword maker’s forge outside the city walls,” Groa said. “A hidden door there,” she pointed to one wall, “leads to the tunnel.”

Elgiva sat up. The world seemed to spin for a few moments, and she had to close her eyes and pull in several deep breaths, but then her head cleared somewhat. She twisted around, looking for the hidden door, but the wall of fitted planks was so well made and the lighting so poor that she could not make it out. The room held numerous wooden boxes filled with ingots of iron, bales of wire, and assorted implements that she could not name.

“Where is my brother?” she asked.

“He has gone outside to see if the way is clear. Drink this.”

Groa placed a dripping cup in her hands. She took a few sips of the water, not at all certain that, sick and dizzy as she was, it wouldn’t rise back up again. But she felt better afterward. A moment later the outer door opened and Wulf slipped in. She realized suddenly that the roaring in her ears, like the steady rush of ocean waves, was the distant shout and clamor of men.

“They are ransacking and burning the houses that lie outside the city walls,” her brother said. “It will not be long before they make their way here. We have no time to lose.”

He pulled Elgiva to her feet and picked up the jewel casket and thrust it into her hands. Then he led her toward the door and out into the light of late afternoon. She blinked at the brightness of it, and then Wulf was pulling her after him, running along a track that wound through the little settlement outside Exeter’s northern wall. Groa followed behind.

Elgiva thought it strange to see cottage after cottage deserted and silent, as if this were a place inhabited by ghosts. Everyone must have fled to the shelter of the city walls or deep into the woods at the first alarm. But abandoned curs growled and snarled at them, and more than one felt the flat of Wulf’s sword and scuttled away howling. At one spot they had to step over the body of an old man. Elgiva saw no sign of blood on the body. She wondered if he had died of fright. It was, as she could attest, a formidable enemy.

Finally they came to the end of the cottages, and her brother paused to scan the outer perimeter of the suburb—a wide swathe of meadow that she guessed was the site of a local market. Beyond it lay the forest.

“My men and the horses will be waiting for us among the trees, somewhere near the river,” Wulf whispered to them. “Take a moment to catch your breath, and then we’ll make a run for it.”

Elgiva pulled in a breath, but the reek of smoke was strong. God, she wanted to be away from this place! But first they would have to cross that wide, open space. How long would it take to get across it at a run? If the raiders spotted them, they would be at their heels like hounds on a fox. Wulf would be able to hold out against them for only so long.

Her pulse throbbed in her head. The smoke was all around them now, billowing from the cottages that had been torched behind them, and next to her Groa leaned against the cottage’s wooden wall, gasping and coughing. A shout from somewhere close by warned that the attackers were getting nearer. She felt a surge of panic. There was nothing of value in this settlement, nothing to distract or delay the shipmen. What if they found her, and took her? How would she save herself?

She could barter the jewels. No, they would simply take the jewels and kill her, or worse. She would offer them information, then. She could show them the hidden entrance to the fortress. Surely that was worth her life. And she would promise them silver. Her father would pay for her safe return, more than they could get if they sold her into slavery.

Wulf grabbed her hand.

“Now!” he whispered, nodding over her head to Groa. He pulled Elgiva with him as he darted into the open space.

Elgiva ran as fast and hard as she could, but her thick skirts hampered her, for Wulf clasped one hand and with the other she clutched the casket of jewels. Desperate, she yanked her hand out of Wulf’s grasp so that she could pull the clinging linen away from her legs, and then she was able to run faster. She had her eyes on the trees at the edge of the field, though, not on the ground in front of her, and she missed her footing, sprawling on the tussocky grass. The little casket bounced and flew open, spewing brightly colored jewels. She got to her knees and began to gather them up, and it was then that she realized that Groa had lagged far behind her. Glancing back she saw that the old woman had halted, hands clasped against her chest as she struggled for breath.

Someone would have to help Groa or she would never make it across the field before the Danes spotted her. Elgiva looked at the jewels in her hands, at Wulf who ran on, unaware that she had fallen, at Groa so far behind, and at the cottage on the edge of the field where flames had begun to lick at the thatch.

She could not go back, it was too risky. Groa would not expect it. Groa would tell her to run, to save herself.

She got to her feet, clutched the jewels and her long skirts to her breast, and sprinted after Wulf.

When she reached the shelter of the forest he was there, panting from the run and shaking his head as he stared past her.

“Poor old bitch,” he muttered. “She’s in for it now.”

She turned round.

Groa had dropped to her knees, and as Elgiva watched, two men appeared from behind the nearest cottage. They pounded toward the old woman, but Groa did not see them because her eyes were fixed on the trees where Elgiva and Wulf stood hidden in the forest shadow. The men were huge, tall and broad-shouldered, shirted in mail, their heads protected by skull-shaped leather caps. Each one bore a long- handled broadax.

When they reached Groa one of them gave her a brutal shove, so that she fell forward onto her hands. He tossed up her skirts and threw himself on her like a dog, thrusting and heaving. When he was done he drew aside and watched while the other took his turn.

It lasted only a few moments. Elgiva told herself that they would leave Groa alone now. Why shouldn’t they? She was harmless, not worth the effort it would take to kill her. But when the second man had rolled off of her, the first one raised his ax high. In that single instant before the downward stroke, Elgiva saw the ax head glisten, bright as a jewel in the sun.

Devonshire

Emma’s captors led her steadily southeast. Swein rode on Emma’s right, the leading rope of her mount wound tightly around the pommel of his saddle. His son—Cnut, his father had called him—kept pace with her on the left, and the third man, Halfdan, brought up the rear. They had been riding for some time when Emma saw, in the distant western sky, an ominous pall of smoke. Slowly the black stain grew and spread until it devoured the sun, and Emma knew that the walls of Exeter must have been breached.

Swein’s men would have found
la posterle
and opened the city gates, and the carnage that she had witnessed this afternoon in the narrow lane between the hills was now being repeated in the streets of Exeter. The bitter certainty of it kindled in her heart a burning rage toward the Danish king, an anger that was fueled to a white heat by her helplessness to do anything about it.

She never ceased looking for an opportunity to escape, but as the miles passed her despair grew. She would need a miracle to get away. Her captors kept close watch on her, and the boy, Cnut, seemed to never take his eyes from her.

She could not tell how far they had traveled, but as the sky grew steadily darker, they drew ever nearer to the coast. At the crest of a low hill Swein checked his horse and brought the company to a halt while he studied the horizon. She followed his gaze and saw that the road ahead of them continued almost due south, where a cloud bank marked the shore, she guessed, of the Narrow Sea. A second, narrower track led downhill to the left, through a small village and then across a sheep-strewn meadow, until it disappeared into a dense forest of pines.

She looked eagerly for anyone who might come to her aid, but it was as if the land had been swept clean of everything human. She guessed that with the lighting of the warning beacons folk had grabbed whatever valuables they could carry and had gone to ground like rabbits in a thunderstorm. They would be hiding now, waiting for the storm to pass. Whatever belongings they had left behind would be free for the taking.

Swein gestured toward the hamlet below the hill.

“There is likely food to be had in the village there,” he said to his companions. “We may have a long night ahead of us, so go see what you can find. Be quick. I will go on ahead with the lady.”

As the boy and the guard wheeled their horses toward the village, Swein urged his own mount down the southerly track, drawing Ange behind him. This, Emma realized, might be her best opportunity to get away. She eyed Swein’s strong, sturdy figure. He was a formidable man, to be sure, but she deemed that skill and the speed of her horse would be in her favor, if she could but break away.

Still, she hesitated. If her attempt should fail, she would never get another. Covertly she studied the man while the sheath of the hunting knife tucked into her boot seemed to burn like a brand against her skin. She dared not attack him directly, for Swein—bigger, stronger, and better armed—would overpower her in a moment.

No, she thought as she worked out each move, she would have to rely upon the sharpness of her blade, on her own strength and quickness, and on the element of surprise. Swein would not expect her to attempt to flee, for in truth, she had nowhere to go. She could only trust to her horse to outrun her foe so that she could lose him in the forest. Still, that was better than whatever awaited her at the end of this road.

Her mouth went dry as she slowly eased her trembling hand down the side of her leg until she had the hilt of the knife in her grasp. Then, deliberately slowing her mount, she pulled the knife free with a quick, fluid move and slashed it through the taut leading rope. Swein, shouting, lunged for her, but she wheeled her horse to the left and widened the gap between them. Kicking the mare into a gallop, she bent her head to its neck, urging Ange toward the eastern road. Her Norman horse, pursued by Swein’s more stolid mount, ran as if the devil himself was giving chase.

Chapter Twenty-six

August 1003

Bishop’s Waltham, Hampshire

“A
lthough you have not asked for it, my lord king, I wish to give you counsel regarding your eldest son.”

Æthelred did not much like the disapproving tone he could hear in Bishop Ælfheah’s voice, and he shifted uneasily in his chair. He and Ælfheah were facing each other in the bishop’s lodge, several hours’ ride from Winchester. The hall was not large, but Winchester’s canny bishop had made sure that the two of them could converse in private, away from the retainers and huntsmen who were gathered nearer the fire pit.

The day’s sport had gone well, the feast that followed had been more than satisfactory, and although he could not expect to find a woman waiting for him in his bed tonight, he had been lulled into a pleasant languor by the bishop’s hospitality. He should have guessed, though, that Ælfheah had more on his mind than merely reflecting upon today’s wild chase and the hart that had been brought to bay at last.

“I thought you invited me here to hunt, not to give me unwanted advice,” he muttered.

“When I see the need for counsel, I offer it,” Ælfheah replied, “wanted or not.”

Æthelred studied the man who had been giving him counsel, usually unasked, for more than half his life. The years had been kind to Ælfheah—or, more like, God had favored him—for he looked far more youthful than a man of fifty years who had been a bishop for near twenty. His tonsured head was crowned with thick, brown hair and a smooth, seamless brow. He had an aquiline nose, a usually genial mouth framed by a short, dark beard, and his perceptive brown eyes bespoke a keen and agile mind. Those eyes were fixed on Æthelred now as if they would search his soul, and he glanced away.

This bishop lived in the light of God’s grace. What right had he to judge a man who lived in the shadow of hell?

“So you wish to tell me how to deal with my son,” he murmured. “Based on what, Bishop? How many sons do you have?”

“Many, my lord, for a bishop is father to all men in his care. Even kings.”

Æthelred reached for the mead-filled cup set beside him and took a long swallow. That was the trouble with most bishops, and this one in particular. Ælfheah believed that his office gave him the right to put his nose into royal concerns where it certainly did not belong. Nevertheless, the bishop would have his say in his own hall, and even a king, for courtesy, had to listen.

“Go on,” he said.

“I have heard rumors that Athelstan is to be punished for leaving court without your permission. I understand that you must discipline him, but I urge you, my lord, to be lenient. His departure, I believe, was not without provocation.”

“Provocation?” Æthelred nearly laughed. “Because I refused to countenance his mad idea to cross the Narrow Sea and fire an imaginary Danish fleet?”

“Because you treated him with contempt before all your court. He is your heir, my lord, and if you do not treat him with respect, neither will the nobles of this kingdom. You are undermining his future.”

Æthelred snorted. “You need have no worries about his future. Even now he is laying that foundation. Have your priest spies not told you what he has been doing in the west?”

“They report that he has been repairing Exeter’s walls, readying the city’s defenses against—”

“Against what? The Danes attacked Exeter two years ago but could not breach those walls. Think you they would try again and expect a different result? If they strike at all it will be farther east, and my forces there will be ready for them.” He took another pull from his cup and waved it at the bishop. “Oh, I grant you, Athelstan may be repairing the damage from that last assault, but that is not his main purpose. He is building alliances, wooing the men of the western shires and assuring them that he will one day make them a better king than I.” He scowled at Ælfheah. “His sins, Bishop, are pride and ambition. He thinks he can defy his father and his king with impunity. Mark me: If I do not continually slap him down, one day the cub is like to challenge me for my crown.”

Ælfheah’s face went blank with astonishment.

That, Æthelred reflected, was Ælfheah’s weakness. His own goodness blinded him to the black intentions of other men.

“I think you misjudge him, my lord,” Ælfheah protested. “I have often spoken with Athelstan—”

But Æthelred had ceased to listen, his attention claimed by a royal messenger who had entered the hall and came to kneel before him.

“What is it?”

“I am come from Winchester, my lord. We have had a bird from the royal manor at Norton with news that a Viking fleet has landed at Exeter.”

He gaped at the man. It wasn’t possible. He had been certain that of all the coastal towns in England, Exeter would be safe from Viking attack. Emma herself had written to her brother that she would journey to her dower lands. Surely the Norman duke would have cautioned his pillaging Danish allies to spare his sister’s haven.

“At Exeter?” he asked, incredulous. “Has there been any word from the queen’s reeve in the city?”

“No, my lord, not when I left Winchester.”

Æthelred dismissed him, keenly aware of the bishop’s eyes hard upon him.

“Is it King Swein, think you?” the bishop asked.

Swein—the Danish king who had a sister’s death to avenge. The very name hovered in the air like a curse. But he would not believe it.

“Any Danish lord who can outfit a dragon ship might join with a handful of others to go a-viking. This is likely half a dozen vessels filled with desperate men out for whatever plunder they can grab. Let us hope that my ambitious son has completed the task he claims to have set for himself, and that the shipmen break themselves upon the city’s defenses. In any case,” he said, getting to his feet and gesturing to a light bearer, “I shall say good night, for I must return to Winchester at daybreak.”

Ælfheah rose as well and now his smooth brow was furrowed with concern.

“But if it is Swein . . .” he began.

“If it is Swein, he will show us no mercy. He will make us bleed—first blood and then gold.” And if he should break through Exeter’s walls, Æthelred thought darkly, Swein will find an English queen within. “Batter heaven with prayers, Bishop,” he growled, “that it is not.”