The Emma of Normandy 2-book Collection: Shadow on the Crown and The Price of Blood. Patricia Bracewell

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СКАЧАТЬ curses in that cry, words that raised the fine hairs along her arms and turned her blood to ice. She searched for the source of that hideous sound, and as she did so she saw a knife flash above the heads of the nearest onlookers. Before she could even scream a warning, the king was flung headlong to the ground and Athelstan had lunged at a figure hurtling towards them from out of the crowd.

      She cried out as the knife glinted again, its blade driving downwards. At the same moment a handful of men-at-arms, their swords drawn, surged in front of her, jostling her backwards as they formed a wall that separated her from the king and his son. Rough hands grasped her shoulders, and a cluster of king’s guards surrounded her, propelling her through the gates and into the palace yard. There was no chance to protest, no opportunity to determine what damage had been done, for her guards did not slacken their pace until they had brought her to her own chamber.

      ‘I must go to the king,’ she insisted, shaken by what she had seen and heard, terrified by what she feared. The knife had plunged towards Athelstan. Dear God, what had happened?

      She made to leave the chamber, but one of the guards blocked her path.

      ‘You will stay here, my lady,’ he said firmly. ‘Guards will be posted in the corridor to keep you safe.’ He reached for the door and shut it, cutting off her protest.

      For a moment she simply stared at the place where he had been, trembling and afraid. Doubt inched like a worm under her skin and into her brain. Were the guards meant to keep her safe or to keep her from escaping?

      Either way, she was a prisoner.

      She began to pace, her eyes shut, trying to make sense of what she had seen, recalling with awful clarity the words that had risen above the incessant clanging of the bells. Time passed slowly, and she heard nothing except the sound of her own footsteps. It seemed like hours had slipped by before voices rang in the corridor.

      She turned to the door as it opened and the king’s steward, Hubert, entered.

      ‘What has happened?’ she demanded, before he had even finished his bow. Her heart drummed in her chest as she waited for him to speak.

      ‘The creature that raised his hand against the king has been taken,’ he said.

      ‘And Lord Athelstan?’ she asked. ‘He is unharmed?’

      He raised an eyebrow, and she realized her mistake. She should have asked after the king first. She said stiffly, ‘I thought I saw the ætheling take an injury.’

      His thin, almost colourless mouth curled slightly in a dismissive smile.

      ‘An insignificant wound, my lady, that has been tended. The king, I can assure you, was unhurt. He commands you to speak of the incident to no one, and he orders you to attend him at the feast in the great hall as soon as you may.’

      She stared at him, not certain that she had heard him aright.

      ‘The king would keep this secret? How?’ It was not possible. There had been hundreds of people in the square.

      He shrugged. ‘Few actually saw what happened, and measures have been taken to silence idle tongues. Those who need to know, of course, will be informed at the king’s pleasure. He trusts in your discretion.’

      After a curt bow, he left her. Still shaken, she continued to pace, trying to puzzle out the king’s purpose in suppressing the incident. Was it merely that he did not want his subjects to perceive him as a victim, and therefore weak? Or was there something else in his mind? She was no closer to fathoming what that might be when Wymarc glided swiftly into the chamber.

      ‘Why are there guards at the door?’ Wymarc asked.

      She did not look frightened, merely confused. So perhaps Hubert was right and what had happened in the minster square was not common knowledge.

      ‘It is of no moment,’ Emma replied, eager to deflect Wymarc’s curiosity. ‘All is well.’

      The brown eyes studied her, then Wymarc shook her head.

      ‘All may be well,’ she said, ‘but you are as pale as a wraith, my lady, and you are shaking like an aspen in a fierce wind. If you will not tell me what is wrong, at least let me get you a cup of wine.’

      Emma, recognizing suddenly that her legs felt as thin and weak as reeds, sank into her chair. She gratefully accepted the wine, although she had difficulty holding the cup steady, for she could not control the trembling of her hands. How she longed to escape from here, to ride Ange along the river until she reached the sea. But the king had commanded her to attend the feast, and she had to obey. Would Athelstan be there? She prayed so. Hubert had made light of the ætheling’s injury, but Hubert would say whatever the king commanded, and so she feared for Athelstan in spite of the steward’s assurances.

      Her mother’s voice, emerging from some hidden corner of her mind, echoed in her head. You must never allow anyone to see your fear.

      She looked down at her shaking hands and took a deep breath, trying to reach a calm that eluded her. It was not only for Athelstan that she was afraid. The words of the attacker still rang in her ears. Few in the crowd would have heard them, and fewer still would have understood them, for the tongue that spoke them had been Danish.

      ‘Death to the king! Death to the council!’ He had shouted the words over and over. She could hear them even as she was being hustled through the palace gates.

      Yet it was not the words themselves that frightened her. It was what Æthelred, who knew no Danish, was likely to do when he learned their meaning.

      Æthelred presided over the feast with what he believed was creditable dignity. His sons and his house guards had dealt quickly with the villain who had tried to kill him, and those in the crowd near enough to see the attack had been bribed with silver and threats to hold their tongues. He did not want his enemies to know how close they had come to dispatching him.

      Nonetheless, they had come far too close.

      He ate little, for the spectre of his own death gaped before him like a yawning pit. When he could bear the tension no longer, he rose to his feet and, bidding his guests to continue their revelry, pleaded weariness and left the hall. Calling for torches and candles – for he wanted no shadowy corners in his rooms tonight – he sought the solitude of his chamber.

      Once there, pacing to and fro in the silence, no amount of light could wipe from his mind the image of a gleaming knife poised to strike. It was retribution, he had no doubt – recompense for the murder of a king.

      Twenty-four years ago he had seen just such a blade glinting in a raised hand, a flash in the dark. No one had intervened that night; no champion had stepped forward to save a king’s life. He had watched in horror from the shadows at the top of the stairs, a scream caught in his throat as Edward fended off that first blow. But there had been so many blows after that one. Too many. Edward had been butchered at the hands of men he had trusted.

      He stopped his pacing to stand before the crucifix where Christ hung in agony.

      Today’s attack was a judgement upon him sent by God as punishment for that murder done at Corfe. His own hand had not wielded the weapons that killed his brother, but neither had he done all he could to prevent it. He had seen the riders coming, had seen the moonlight gleaming on their swords, and he had not had the wit to cry a warning to Edward. He had stood there, СКАЧАТЬ