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

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      On Easter Monday the Winchester market bustled with activity. Villagers from nearby hamlets had been drawn to the spring fair to celebrate winter’s end, and the Ceap was filled with buyers, sellers, and a large number of gawkers. Merchant stalls lining both sides of the street displayed goods that came from as near as London and as far away as Constantinople.

      By midday Elgiva, escorted by several of her brother’s hearth guards, had been browsing the market for some time. Although the sun was bright, a chill wind blew from the south and was finding its way beneath her cloak. Elgiva felt cold to her very bones, but it had nothing to do with the breeze.

      She had sent Groa to the palace close for news of the queen, and by her reckoning, Groa should have been back long before now. Any rumours about Emma would flash through the palace like wildfire. Groa had only to wander near the bread ovens or the brewing cauldrons to glean anything of interest, so where was she?

      Nervously Elgiva fingered a length of gold-threaded silk, ignoring the mercer’s eager prattle. What if something had gone amiss? She picked up a length of russet silk and saw that the merchant – a tall, thin man with a beaky nose and the eyes of a hawk – watched her with inordinate interest. Her hands were trembling so badly that the silk rippled, and she set it aside for fear that the merchant would notice her distress. A moment later she saw Groa hurrying towards her from the direction of the palace.

      ‘Put this aside for me,’ she said to the mercer, pointing to the bolt of silk with as pleasant a smile as she could muster. She had been here too long; it might arouse suspicion if she left without a purchase. ‘I’ll send someone for it later.’

      Gesturing at her brother’s men to walk several steps behind her, she grasped Groa’s arm and walked in the direction of Shieldmaker Street, where her brother’s town house lay.

      ‘What is the news?’ she demanded.

      ‘The child is no more, my lady,’ Groa murmured.

      So it had actually worked. She breathed a long sigh of relief. The child was dead, and she would not be the only one in the kingdom to rejoice at the news.

      ‘What of the queen?’ she asked.

      Groa shook her head. ‘I could learn nothing of the queen except that she had lost the babe. The king and his sons rode to the hunt today, so we can presume that she is well enough. It may be days before we learn if she has taken any hurt from the potion.’

      ‘And if she does?’ Elgiva whispered. ‘Will there likely be any suspicion about the wine?’

      ‘Nay,’ Groa murmured. ‘The queen’s new cupbearer was too dazzled by the courtly glitter to take any notice of what I did near the flagon. And even if suspicions were aroused, how could anyone determine who was responsible? There are many at court who have no desire to see this queen bear a child, and that includes the king’s own sons. Be assured that no one will question this loss, or even mourn it overmuch.’

      ‘Then it has turned out as well as we could have hoped,’ Elgiva said. ‘You have done very well.’

      ‘I have other news.’ Groa’s voice was smug. ‘You are to be summoned back into the queen’s service, perhaps as soon as today.’

      Elgiva slowed her step a little.

      ‘This must be the king’s doing.’ She had seen him watching her yesterday when she had been so attentive to Wulfgeat and Leofwine. She had set out to make him jealous, and apparently she had succeeded.

      ‘He still desires you,’ Groa insisted.

      Of course he desired her. She never doubted it. He would have her back at court, and Emma could do nothing about it.

      How swiftly the queen’s ascendant star had fallen with the loss of the child, and how quickly her own, now, would rise again.