Shadow on the Crown (4 page)

Chapter Four

December 31, 1001

Aldeborne Manor, Northamptonshire

I
t was the seventh night of Christmas feasting, and Athelstan stood with his brothers amid a throng of revelers near the central fire of the great hall at Aldeborne. The bad weather had finally broken, and it appeared that every estate holder in the hundred of Northampton had ventured out of doors to join Lord Wulfheah and his sister Elgiva at table. The timbered hall, its carved rafters garlanded with greens, was redolent with succulent aromas, and the haunches of roasting meat above the coals made his mouth water. The high table at the top of the hall had been laid, as it had been every night since he’d arrived, with a snowy cloth, silver plates, and fat candles. Tonight numerous extra tables had been set up in the hall as well, and the noise from the crush of guests was almost deafening.

As Athelstan turned to say something to his brothers, the hall quieted, and he saw that Elgiva and Wulf had appeared on the dais to begin the business of formally greeting their guests. They made a striking couple. They were both black-haired and handsome, although Elgiva’s petite figure and small features gave her an elfin grace that was missing from her brother’s taller, warrior’s frame. They were both clad in deep scarlet, and Elgiva’s shimmering gown clung to her in a way that was guaranteed to make every man in the room uncomfortable inside his breecs. Her hair was dressed in loose, wanton curls that framed her face and cascaded down her back, and when her voluptuous lips curved into a beguiling smile, a man would have to be made of stone not to smile back.

He ought to know. She had been favoring him with that smile—and somewhat more—from the moment he’d ridden through Aldeborne’s gate a week ago. On Christmas night she had welcomed him with the ale bowl that was traditional and a molten kiss that was anything but. It had surprised the hell out of him, but he had not been fool enough to take it seriously. Not at first. She had placed him by her side at the table, though, and the casual grazing of knee and shoulder and hand all through the long meal had nearly driven him mad with a desire that food would not satisfy. By then he had caught on to her little game, and although he’d been playing it for seven nights now, it had lost none of its allure. She aroused him still, and he would find relief again tonight with the pretty blonde he had plucked from the kitchens—a girl who expected no reward beyond a few silver coins.

And that was the difficulty with Elgiva, he thought, watching her as she made her way through the hall with the brimming ale cup. Bedding her would cost him far more than a little silver. If he got her with child—even without a Christian marriage or a handfasting—it would have political repercussions that would further shift the weight of power in England to the northern lords.

Elgiva’s brother Wulf had to know that. He was five years older than she was, and he had a place on the king’s council. Since he was making no effort to curb his sister’s little game, he must approve. Did her father know of it? Had he even put her up to it? The ealdorman was not here and so could claim innocence if any spark flared between Elgiva and one of the æthelings. The blame—and the king’s wrath—would all fall on
him
.

He had not taken his eyes from Elgiva, and his brother Ecbert leaned toward him and whispered, “The hell with it. Why don’t you just bed her and put yourself out of your misery?”

Athelstan threw him a dark look. “The lady comes with far too much baggage, and you know it,” he muttered. “Do not let me drink more than a single cup of mead tonight, or I might lose my senses and take what she’s offering. Why don’t you bed her, Ecbert, if she is to your taste?”

Ecbert snorted. “She would not have me on a platter,” he said, “more’s the pity.”

“It is the eldest ætheling that she wants,” Edmund said, “and do not flatter yourself that your good looks have anything to do with it.”

Edmund had the right of it. Athelstan was only too aware of the mantle of responsibility that he bore as the eldest son of the king. When he wed, and that would likely not happen while his father lived, it would be for political expediency, not personal inclination. To form any kind of attachment with a girl of noble birth would be to hand the girl and her family a weapon to use against the king. He could bed any girl in the kingdom, as long as she was not crown worthy.

Elgiva, who at that moment stepped in front of him to offer him the ale cup, was forbidden fruit. Her dark eyes held his as he drank, but for once her face was grave, and she was careful not to touch his fingers with her own.

Was this another move in the game, or had she learned about his trysts with the kitchen wench? He hoped the girl would not be punished. He would have to make sure that she was well compensated, just in case.

Whatever was behind this sudden coolness, he must play his part. He returned Elgiva’s gaze with a grave bow and said, “Your beauty, lady, is a gift to us all.”

Elgiva, gazing into Athelstan’s guarded blue eyes, accepted his compliment with a curt nod. She knew he desired her. She could see it in his glance, could feel it in her fingertips whenever she chanced to touch him.

But he would rather bed a kitchen wench than the Lady of Northampton. Wulf had told her that, sneering that Athelstan obviously preferred a woman with experience in bed play.
I can give you some of that, sweetheart,
he had whispered, kissing her forehead and laughing when she stalked away from him.

Wulf stood beside her now, his hand at her waist, distracting her with a light caress. She slipped away from him, ignored Athelstan, and smiled at Ecbert, who she had determined would sit beside her at the feast tonight. Let the king’s eldest son gnaw on the knowledge that he was not the only ætheling in her hall.

At the table, the younger brother seemed gratified by her sudden favor, and he responded by regaling her with a series of ribald tales that he, at least, seemed to find enormously entertaining. He reminded her of nothing so much as a boisterous puppy, gaunt and clumsy, with none of the grace of his brothers. Even Edmund, the youngest of the three and built like a tree stump, had more to recommend him than the lanky Ecbert, who was all arms and legs and, she thought, very little brain. His horselike face and braying laugh added nothing to his charm. It was a pity that he was too young to grow a beard, for she judged that it would improve his looks considerably. There would be less of him to see.

Still, he seemed open enough and completely guileless. Perhaps she could get him to reveal something about Athelstan that would be the key to bewitching him.

She signaled to a serving girl to fill Ecbert’s cup, which he had already emptied three times, and she noticed that a servant had slipped behind the table to deliver a wax tablet each to Wulf and to Athelstan. She recognized her father’s seal on the tablet that Wulf opened, and the question she had been about to pose to Ecbert died unspoken on her lips. She turned to her brother instead.

“What does my father say?” she asked him. To have arrived tonight the messages must have been sent from Rochester at the very first moment that the weather allowed. Surely they contained news of some import.

Wulf did not answer her but glanced at Athelstan, who was reading his own missive.

“It is heavy news,” her brother said, his face grave. “I am sorry, my lord.”

Elgiva held her breath. It must be a death. Nothing else would make her brother look with such concern toward the ætheling. Was it the king? Dear God, if he were dead, then the
witan
would surely offer Athelstan the throne. The implications of that for her own future could be enormous. The new king would need a wife, and her father would make sure that Athelstan looked to Northampton for his bride. She might be a queen before Eastertide.

But Athelstan had set the tablet down in front of him, and now he rose and faced the throng in the hall. His expression was solemn, and his movement drew all eyes toward him. A hush fell over the revelers as they waited to hear what he would say.

“I am bid by my father the king,” he said, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “to announce that on Christmas morning my mother, the Lady Ælfgifu, died after giving birth to a son. The babe, alas, followed his mother in death. I ask that all present here tonight pray for both their souls.” He turned to Elgiva and Wulf. “I would speak with my brothers alone. Please excuse us.”

Elgiva watched the three brothers make their way from the table. Their mother’s death was a sorrow to them, she supposed, but her passing was of little significance to anyone else. The king’s wife had borne him numerous children, but as his consort and not his queen, she had done little else. Her death would have no effect on the kingdom or on Elgiva’s world.

She turned to her brother, who was looking thoughtfully at the tablet in his hand.

“What does my father say?” she asked again. “I suppose that the king’s sons will leave for Rochester tomorrow.” This news must put an end to the feasting, in any case.

“They do not go south,” Wulf replied. “There is no reason to do so, for their mother is already in her grave. My father writes that the æthelings are to take charge of our house troops and go to the king’s manor at Saltford. He will meet them there, but he does not say when. Not immediately, I think.” He tapped a finger against the tablet, then he looked speculatively at Elgiva. “The king, it seems, will take another wife, and very soon. I am ordered to stay here with you, in case you are summoned to court. It appears, my dear sister, that my father entertains the hope that you will be Æthelred’s bride.”

Elgiva gaped at her brother, while her mind played with new possibilities. To be wed to the father and not the son was not the destiny that she had been anticipating. Would it suit her? Well, it would certainly put her in a position of power much sooner than she had looked for it. Yet it was not an honor that she was certain she would like, and it was not exactly the power that she had hoped for.

“To what end would the king marry?” she asked Wulf. “Æthelred is an old man with seven sons. What need has he of a bride who would give him yet more sons?”

“He is not so old,” her brother said. “And, as you have good reason to know, he enjoys his earthly pleasures. Better to marry than to burn, the Scriptures say.”

She frowned. She wanted to wed a king, and yet . . .

“His first wife was never crowned queen,” she protested. “What good to wed a king and not get a crown?”

Wulf’s hand snaked behind her as if he would caress her, but instead she felt his fingers grasp her neck in a painful, viselike grip that she could neither escape nor shake off without making a scene.

“Do you never think beyond your own petty concerns, my dear sister?” he hissed into her ear. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that this alliance would be for your benefit. Its sole purpose would be to strengthen my father’s influence with the king, not cater to your monumental vanity. You will do whatever you are bid to do, wed whomever you are bid to wed, and let your father and brothers handle whatever details are to be negotiated.”

He let her go, and she rubbed her neck surreptitiously, smiling up at him for the benefit of anyone in the hall who may have noticed their little interaction.

“May I ask, then, if my father is negotiating my betrothal? Am I to be allowed to make preparations for my nuptials?” She would need new gowns, jewels, more attendants, and her own furnishings for the lady’s chambers at the Winchester palace. How much time did she have?

“It is somewhat more complicated than that,” Wulf replied.

She did not like the sound of that.

“What do you mean?”

“You are not the only maid that the king is considering.”

Now he leered at her, and she realized that he was toying with her, forcing her to tease the news out of him bit by bit, reveling in the power he held over her.

“You are lying,” she said, refusing to be baited anymore. “There can be no one else, for I am the obvious choice.” And now that she had grown somewhat used to the idea, the prospect of wedding Æthelred, the king with the liquid hands, was suddenly extremely appealing.

“Are you so confident, my dear?” Wulf asked, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. “I would not be so, if I were you. My father does not provide any names, but he states quite clearly that other possible brides exist. Their advantages are even now under consideration by the king.” He leaned toward her to whisper in her ear. “If you had gone to Rochester you might have been able to use your many charms to sway Æthelred in your favor. But, alas, you stayed here. Poor Elgiva. It looks as though you should have accompanied our father to the Christmas court after all.” He nipped her ear and then got to his feet. Moments later he had joined a group of guests below the dais.

Elgiva, following him with her eyes, still wondered if he had told her the truth. If he had, and if the king chose to look elsewhere for a bride, then her decision to remain here for the Yule feast was, quite possibly, the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.

Chapter Five

January 1002

Fécamp, Normandy

T
he cold, hard frosts of early January clung tightly to the lands that bordered the Narrow Sea, and for many days after the turn of the year, the tall masts of the Danish longships bristled in Fécamp’s harbor. When the ships set sail at last, following the whale road back to their homeland, folk in the town breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in the ducal palace life settled into its winter routine.

The women of the duke’s household spent their daylight hours together in the chamber of Richard’s young wife, Judith, attending to their needlework. The lighter-weight summer tunics, mantles, fine linen shifts, even
chausses
and
braies
that belonged to members of the ducal family, had been drawn from their coffers, inspected carefully for rents and tears, and sorted into piles for repair.

Emma, who had some skill with the harp, played softly for the women who were seated in a companionable circle around the brazier. As she plucked the strings her glance drifted to where Mathilde had taken advantage of a shaft of daylight filtering through the high, horn-covered window. She had recovered from the ague that had troubled her over the last weeks, and now her face, although still thin, had regained some color and vibrancy. She was bent over an embroidery frame, where she worked a grail in pure gold thread upon a cope of white silk. It was to be a gift for their brother, Archbishop Robert, and Mathilde’s lips curved with satisfaction as the beautiful thing came to life beneath her fingers.

Judith, pacing the chamber with her six-week-old son on her shoulder, paused to inspect Mathilde’s handiwork.

“It is a magnificent and generous gift, Mathilde,” she pronounced in a tone of grudging approval. “I hope that when it is completed you will turn your skill toward something more practical. You will require some fine new gowns, I think, when we return to Rouen.”

Emma, watching her sister, saw her mouth purse. They both found it irksome to be ordered about by their brother’s wife, however well-intentioned her directives might be. Twenty years old, with nut-brown hair and a pleasingly rounded figure, Judith of Brittany’s benign appearance belied her strident personality. She had shouldered the role of duchess of Normandy with a vigor that irritated even the Dowager Duchess Gunnora. Months of internecine skirmishes between the duke’s wife and his mother had threatened to turn into all-out war, until finally the two women had managed to forge a workable truce. Gunnora continued to advise her son on matters of state, and Judith ruled his household. Emma and her sister had found the terms of the unspoken treaty not especially to their liking, but they had not been consulted.

“Are the gowns that I already own not fine enough for my attendance at your court in Rouen, my lady?” Mathilde’s voice rang high and sharp, with an unmistakably brittle edge that made Emma wince.

“It was not meant to be a criticism, Mathilde,” Judith snapped, shifting her child from one shoulder to the other, “but it is time to think about preparing for your betrothal and marriage. Now that Richard has a son I am certain that he will wish to provide for you and for Emma in the same way that he did for your elder sisters. You, Mathilde, will surely be the next to wed, and it may be sooner than you think.”

Startled by Judith’s remark, Emma struck a false note, then set the harp aside. Her mind fastened on Judith’s words, and now she recalled the conversation she’d overheard between her brother and Swein Forkbeard. Had Richard, after all, promised his sister to the son of the Danish king? Or had that conversation with Forkbeard merely spurred Richard to bend his thoughts toward his youngest sisters’ marriage prospects?

“Is my brother contemplating an alliance for my sister?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “Pray, Judith, if you know something, do not keep us in suspense.”

“Your brother,” Judith said, “has Mathilde’s welfare, and yours, Emma, always at heart. Whatever provisions he makes for you will be explained to you at the appropriate time. I only bring this up now because, as you are both of an age to marry, you must comport yourselves differently than you have in the past. In particular, you, Emma, will not, under any circumstances, accompany Richard on his progress this summer. Best you put it out of your mind completely.”

Emma stared at Judith in shock. “But I have always made that journey!” she protested. From the time she was a little girl and, even she had to admit it, her father’s spoiled pet, she had been allowed to accompany the duke and her brothers on the summer progress to the ducal forts, abbeys, and manors that lay scattered across Normandy. Emma had been the only one of the sisters to make the annual trek, and she had reveled in the relative freedom of those excursions. It was true that she was accompanied by a small phalanx of personal attendants, who never left her side, but the rhythm of that itinerant existence provided a welcome contrast to the sequestered life inside the castle walls.

“You are a child no longer,” Judith said. “I have advised Richard that your place must be here, with the women of the court, and he has agreed. We will speak of it no more.”

Emma bit her lip. Beside her, Margot, the healer and midwife who had assisted Emma into the world and had accompanied her on those summerlong journeys, patted her hand in commiseration. Heavyhearted with disappointment, Emma began to sort through a pile of her gowns, searching for signs of wear. She would appeal to her mother about this, although she suspected it would do her little good.

Judith, meanwhile, had handed her babe to a wet nurse and seated herself among the women again. They worked in less than amiable silence for some time, until it was broken by the sound of commotion from the castle yard below. Clearly some visitor of importance had approached the gate and was requesting audience with the duke. The calls of the gatekeeper and the door warden were too muffled, though, for anyone in the chamber to make out what was said.

Judith gave a quick nod to Dari, an Irish slave who had accompanied her from Brittany. Tiny, soft-footed, and clever, Dari made an excellent little spy. She brought the ladies word of activities occurring in the duke’s hall long before any messages were conveyed along more formal lines. Judith rewarded Dari with ribbons, trinkets, and even silver pennies, depending on the import of the information that she carried, saying that it was well worth it in order to receive news almost as soon as it was heard in the kitchens.

Emma, still brooding over the loss of her summer’s adventure, took up a cyrtel of her own and, inspecting it, found a rip at the hem. It was one of the gowns she wore when riding, very full and loose. She placed it on the pile to be mended, then looked up to see that Dari had returned, wild with excitement.

“The messenger is English, my lady,” Dari said breathlessly. “A company of men from across the Narrow Sea has landed at the harbor and will be with us soon. There is an archbishop among them, and an ealdorman. What is an ealdorman?” She spoke the unfamiliar word with a wrinkled nose.

“It is an English title of some kind,” Judith said. “Something like a duke, I believe, only not so powerful as Richard. An archbishop, though . . .”

There was no need for her to complete the sentence. All the women understood the importance of an archbishop, who represented both temporal and spiritual power. Appointed to their sees by the reigning monarch of the land, they controlled enormous wealth, administered large estates, and maintained a retinue of fighting men. Emma’s brother Robert, archbishop of Rouen, was second only to his brother, the duke, in terms of prestige and power. The arrival of an English archbishop in Normandy meant that some matter of great import was at hand.

“Go down to the kitchens, girl,” Judith said to Dari, “and learn whatever you can. Hurry now!”

Dari slipped away, and the women returned to their work, although Emma guessed that each of them was as distracted by the arrival of the English as she was.

“Will he be offering a treaty, do you think?” she asked. The presence of an archbishop seemed to imply that. In her father’s time the pope himself had brokered a treaty between England and Normandy regarding the trading of stolen English goods in Norman ports. She had been too young to pay close attention to the talk that swirled around the hall, about the wisdom of bowing to the pressure exerted by the pope, and by England’s king. She could remember, though, heated discussions between her mother and her two brothers when the issue of the treaty had been raised again a few years ago.

Archbishop Robert had insisted that Richard, as the new duke, need no longer abide by their father’s treaty with England. It infuriated Robert that King Æthelred, reportedly the wealthiest monarch in all of Christendom, would demand that the duke of Normandy forego his quite lucrative trade with the Danes or the Norse or anyone else. He had convinced Richard of the wisdom of this point of view, and since then Richard’s coffers had grown heavy with silver from a brisk trade in slaves and booty looted from England.

“I expect,” said Judith dismissively, “that it will be some matter of trade or policy that your brother and the dowager duchess will settle. We will learn about it in good time, but I will wager that it has nothing to do with us.”

Judith’s lips stretched into a thin line, suggesting to Emma that Richard’s wife was not yet at peace with the fact that she sat here sewing while Richard’s mother sat at his right hand in the great hall. The politics of marriage, Emma thought, appeared to be every bit as complicated as the politics of kings.