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

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СКАЧАТЬ All the furniture, the hangings – everything was gone. The hard-packed dirt floor had been dug up in several places in search, he guessed, of any hoard that may have been hidden there.

      Setting his men the task of burying the remains in the dooryard, Athelstan made his way into Oxford town itself. He passed the burned-out hulk of St Frideswide’s church but did not stop to inspect it. He had seen enough to confirm the grim rumours. What he wanted to know was if anyone had escaped the king’s wrath. He wanted to discover what had happened to Pallig’s wife and infant son.

      He found the shire reeve in the local tithe barn overseeing the sorting of clothing, furniture, cooking pots and utensils, tools, even armour and weapons. Athelstan could guess where it had all come from – confiscated from the poor wretches who had been slaughtered at the king’s command. The administrative arm of his father’s kingdom worked as efficiently as one could wish. These items would be catalogued and sold among the locals, with most of the proceeds going to the king. Nothing would be destroyed or wasted. Except lives.

      His interview with the reeve was brief. The man assured him that he had fulfilled the king’s command, and that no one had escaped the king’s justice.

      ‘We struck before dawn with over a hundred men,’ he said. ‘They had watchers at the gate, but we got to ’em before they could raise the alarm. Caught ’em sleepin’, mostly, although that whoreson Pallig put up the devil of a fight before we gutted him. His woman was no easy mark, either. She could sling an axe like a woodsman, that one. Used it to try to keep us from that cub of hers. Murdered two of my men, for all the good it did her.’ He grinned and winked, then inclined his head in the direction of St Frideswide’s. ‘The ones in the church were townsmen, living among us as if they belonged here. Filthy Danes.’ He turned and spat. ‘They thought the priest might save ’em, but he was with us. We had a goodly crowd by then, and Father Osbern himself set the thatch alight. The good Lord gave us a fair sky and, oh, it was a mighty burning!’ He gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘I reckon it was a good day’s work, St Brice’s was.’

      Athelstan cursed as he turned away. Good work, indeed. The men of Oxford had followed the king’s orders to the letter. As for the rest of the country, even the king would likely never learn how many hundreds had been murdered and how many had managed to escape the sword, for surely not every Dane had been butchered. And just as surely, Athelstan knew, someone would carry word of the massacre to Swein Forkbeard and tell him that his sister and her son were among the Danish dead.

      There would be a price to pay for the slaughter of St Brice’s Day. Blood would beget blood, and Swein would not let this outrage go unanswered.

      By the time Athelstan made it back to Winchester two days later he had heard many more reports of killings that had been carried out in London, Warwick, and Shrewsbury. With each new account his anger increased. Ignoring courtly protocol he strode directly into his father’s inner chamber and slammed both hands on the table before the king.

      ‘Why did you do it?’ he demanded. ‘What possessed you to put so many innocents to the sword?’

      His father looked up, pursed his lips, and with a flick of his hand dismissed his steward and the clerk who had been scribbling away at a table nearby. Sitting back in his great chair, the king folded his arms in front of him and gazed darkly upon his son.

      Athelstan, watching his father, thought that he looked like the very picture of God that was in the psalter given to him by his grandmother. There he sat, the Lord of Judgement, granting redemption or damnation as he saw fit.

      ‘The Dane who threatened me,’ Æthelred said slowly, ‘claimed that he was part of an army. You heard him. You spoke with him yourself.’

      ‘Yes, I spoke with him! He was mad! He raved! There was no army!’

      ‘There is no army now.’ Æthelred’s voice was calm. ‘My reeves have seen to that. They put only armed men to the sword.’

      ‘You are misinformed,’ Athelstan said stonily. ‘They put women and children to the sword. In Oxford they burned them alive in the church where they sought sanctuary.’

      Æthelred waved a hand. ‘That was done in error.’

      Athelstan gaped at him. An error, he called it. Yet there was no sign of regret on the king’s countenance, only mild irritation.

      ‘It was done in your name!’ Athelstan cried. ‘The deed is upon your soul.’

      ‘Not mine alone. I took counsel from my advisers.’

      ‘Then you were ill counselled! Whose advice did you seek? Let me guess. Eadric of Shrewsbury, who makes no secret of his hatred of the Danes who settled near his lands? Æthelmær of Oxford, who will probably double the size of his holdings as a result of this? Abbot Kenulf—’

      ‘I consulted the men who would be the first to die should our enemy attack us from within!’ Æthelred cut him off. ‘The kingdom is safer now that our enemy has been destroyed. I am safer!’

      Athelstan stared at his father. How could a king be so blind to the consequences of what he had done?

      ‘You have not destroyed an enemy, my lord,’ he insisted. ‘You have created one. This act will come back to haunt you. Hundreds are dead at your behest. Pallig is dead, even though you gave him the gold to build his hall and granted him the land on which it stood. His wife, Gunhild, and their small child are dead. Think you that her brother, Swein Forkbeard, the fiercest of all the Danish warriors since Alfred’s time, will not seek vengeance?’

      ‘If so, then he will do it from outside the kingdom, not from within! I could not allow my enemies to dwell within my very borders, making themselves fat off our lands while they wait for a signal to turn upon us and attack. Wiser men than you have given their blessings to this action. They do not question the judgement of their king.’

      ‘The Danes living among us had no reason to attack, my lord. Now you have given them one. Mark my words, father, you will regret this unholy act. We will all of us regret it!’

      ‘Your regrets interest me not!’ the king spat. ‘We are finished here. Hubert!’

      The king’s steward stepped into the chamber, bowed to his lord, and stood next to Athelstan, staring at him pointedly.

      Frustrated and angered by his father’s resistance to logic, Athelstan slapped his hand on the table, turned, and stalked out of the room.

      His father was a fool. He was wealthy, powerful, and blessed by God, yet still he was a fool. He was making decisions that would lead inexorably to disaster. It was like using Greek fire to douse a flame. And Athelstan greatly feared that now that the blaze had truly begun, they would none of them escape it.

      Æthelred scowled as Athelstan withdrew from the chamber. His foolish son did not understand. How could he? He had not seen Edward’s wraith, had not been burdened with the foreknowledge of his own doom – had not been forced to take measures to prevent it.

      But with this act that his son found so repellant he had triumphed over his enemies and over the vengeance that his dead brother sought to exact from beyond the grave. He had preserved his kingdom and his crown.

      And surely he had banished for ever the hideous spectre that so haunted and tormented him.

      ‘My son chides me, Hubert,’ he said, ‘for defending the kingdom that he will one day inherit. He would pit his youthful СКАЧАТЬ