The Price of Blood. Patricia Bracewell

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СКАЧАТЬ struggling to quell his rising anger, for he knew very well that there was nothing he could do. The king scowled back at him, but before either of them could speak again, Edmund stepped between them.

      ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘we are certain that Elgiva is the key to securing allegiance in the north.’ Athelstan almost laughed. His brother was beating a dead horse, and in any case, Elgiva was not really the issue here. ‘If you would but agree to—’

      ‘I will not reward treachery!’ his father thundered. ‘And I will not be tutored by my sons!’

      ‘No!’ Athelstan shouted back, frustration overcoming caution. ‘Nor by anyone else! You refuse all advice! Why is that? Are you so confident in your decisions, my lord? Was it not you who chose to make Ælfhelm the ealdorman of Northumbria? Yet now you are not so pleased with that decision. How are you to undo it? You cannot legally strip him of his lands and his powers unless you can prove—’

      ‘I am the king!’ His father thrust himself to his feet as he bellowed the words. ‘And I am the law!’

      He glared at them, and Athelstan, staring into his father’s livid face, despaired. His father would never listen to him, not while he felt so threatened.

      ‘What will you do?’ he asked, although he feared to hear the answer.

      The king waved a dismissive hand as if weary of the conversation, then took his seat again. Closing his eyes, he massaged his forehead, and for some time said nothing. He looked tired, and it seemed to Athelstan that every year of his long reign was etched upon his face.

      After some moments his father muttered, ‘A hunter does not wait for the boar to charge before throwing the spear.’ Then he looked at Athelstan and growled, ‘I have done what is necessary. Now, leave me. I would be alone.’

      Athelstan felt Edmund grasp his arm to urge him away, but he was not yet ready to leave. He wanted to know what his father would do to Ufegeat and Wulf. Ælfhelm would not sit idly by while the king held his sons captive, nor would the other lords take their arrest lightly. They, too, had sons.

      ‘My lord—’

      ‘Get out, Athelstan, before I set the guards on you!’

      He did not doubt that his father would be as good as his word, so he shut his mouth, bowed stiffly, and followed Edmund out of the chamber and back to the hall. There was no music ringing through the high roof beams, no scop reciting a tale, no rumble of voices. This was Easter Eve, when Christ was in the grave and all men were to reflect on the suffering and death He had endured for their sins. The Winchester bishop stood upon the dais reading a sermon to the assembly. Athelstan paused only long enough to cast a swift, reassuring glance towards Emma, whose eyes – full of questions – met his. Then he followed Edmund, threading his way through the hall and out the door.

      When they were alone, standing next to one of the clay ovens still warm from the day’s baking, Edmund muttered several colourful curses, then said, ‘You should have just made off with the girl and wed her.’

      Athelstan barked a mirthless laugh. ‘If I had, I would be with Wulf and Ufegeat right now, probably in chains. And God knows where Elgiva would be.’ He frowned. ‘Come to that, I wonder where she is. With Ælfhelm, I assume.’

      ‘Or with her new Danish lord, whoever that may be,’ Edmund suggested.

      ‘If Elgiva betrayed her father’s plans for her, she clearly has no desire to marry whoever it is.’ Athelstan recalled the haggard look on his father’s face near the end of their interview. I have done what is necessary, he had said. What was it, exactly, that his father had done? ‘I’ll wager that the king has already taken some action against Ælfhelm,’ he said. ‘I wonder what mischief he’s set in motion, and what trouble is likely to come of it.’

      At midnight Æthelred stood in the darkened church among his family and his court. A line of priests bearing glowing tapers – symbols of hope and resurrection – made its way through the nave. But as he watched the candlelight begin to blossom around the altar, something flickered at the edge of his vision, some movement in the shadows that lingered outside the light. His eyes were drawn towards that darkness, and there his dead brother – a dark wraith amid the shadows – stared back at him with black intent.

      Pain crawled up his arm and into his chest, and he clutched his shoulder to ease it. Beside him, Emma reached out a hand, but he shrugged it off. This enemy was his alone – a burden he could share with no one, least of all his queen. It had already taken two of his sons, and it sought to sunder him now from those who were left.

      He cursed it under his breath, and as if in response the shadow faded, taking the pain with it, and he drew a long, grateful breath.

      Released from his brother’s malignant spell he sought and found Athelstan and Edmund, their youthful faces lit by the tapers in their hands. His thoughts swept back to the events of an hour before and to his sons’ protestations of loyalty. He put little faith in them. Athelstan, he did not doubt, was laying the foundation for his own rule in England. It was what he would do, were he in Athelstan’s place.

      Ambitious sons, he reflected, were like wild horses that had to be kept in check – with force, if necessary. It had not come to that yet, but it would. His dead brother’s vengeful shade would likely hasten the day.

      And when it came, he told himself, he must never flinch. He must do whatever was needed to hold on to his kingdom, even if it cost him his sons.

       Chapter Eight

       Easter Monday, April 1006

       Western Mercia

      Elgiva shivered as she peered into the gloom of the little manor chapel, saw that it was empty, and stepped inside. She did not like churches, but she needed a place to think, and this was as good a place as any to take refuge from unwanted company and from the sudden chill breeze that was scrabbling across the manor yard.

      Pulling her cloak tight about her, she gazed up at a portrait of Saint Peter that had been elaborately painted on the chancel wall. The saint’s right hand was raised in benediction and in his left he held a magnificent silver key. A golden halo encircled his head, and in his white-streaked hair and beard she could make out a marked resemblance to King Æthelred.

      Had the man who drew this, she wondered, ever seen the king? More to the point, she thought, as she began to pace the chapel’s floor, was she ever likely to see the king again?

      The gloom seemed to deepen around her as she forced herself, once more, to face the truth. Even if the king had sent someone to rescue her from the living death of a Danish marriage, no one would think to look for her in a stronghold on the western edge of Mercia. Yet here she was, despite her protests that she was unwell and that she should not be made to travel so far to attend some wretched noble’s Paschal feast.

      ‘You are well enough,’ her father had barked. ‘And I have business with Eadric.’

      Yes, she thought bitterly, business that involved hunting and drinking and the swearing of oaths, none of which had anything to do with her. This Eadric – newly come into his father’s estate – was a man of some substance now it appeared. Her father likely wished to bend the СКАЧАТЬ