The Price of Blood. Patricia Bracewell

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СКАЧАТЬ stumbled against her, and she realized that the drink had done its work and more. He would be less careful now about what he said.

      ‘Who is it then?’ she demanded. ‘Who am I to wed? I will go to him gladly, as long as you have not sold me to some brute of a Dane.’

      The words were barely out of her mouth before he’d clamped a hand at her throat.

      ‘I told you to keep your mouth shut!’ he snarled. ‘Get you back to your chamber, now; I’ve no more to say to you.’

      He thrust her away from him and, her mouth set in a grim line, she left the hall.

      Her father had not revealed everything, but he had said enough.

      He had done the unthinkable – betrothed her to some filthy Danish warlord, some savage with a great deal of gold who wanted to buy a noble wife and rich properties in England. What had been the bride price, she wondered, that her father had demanded for her? Whatever the settlement, it would prove worthless, for she would marry no Dane. She had watched them rape and murder her old nurse, and her father well knew how much she hated and feared them. If he tried to force her into a marriage with one of those brutes, she would murder him with her own hands.

      But it would not come to that. The king’s messenger must still be here, for he would eat and rest while a fresh mount was readied. If she could just get to him, she could put a stop to this marriage herself.

      She sent the maidservant – her father’s eyes and ears, she was certain – to the larder house with what remained of the mead. Inside her own chamber she went to the coffer that held her most precious belongings, unlocked it, and withdrew a handful of coins. It should be enough, she guessed, to enlist the services of the royal messenger and to purchase the silence of any of her father’s grooms who might be about.

      Fearing that she may already be too late, she made her way swiftly to the stables.

      The king’s man, she saw with relief, was still there, checking the girth of his mount while a young groom clutched the bridle and spoke soothingly to the gelding. There was no one else about.

      She went up to the boy holding the horse, whispered, ‘You did not see me here,’ and pressed a coin into his palm. ‘Understand?’ He grinned and nodded, and she added, ‘There’s more of that for you if you make sure that no one enters the stable while I am here.’

      He scurried to the door, and she left him to watch the entryway while she turned to the courier. The man did not even glance at her, clearly in a hurry to be off. She stepped to his side and whispered with some urgency, ‘I am Lord Ælfhelm’s daughter. I would have you carry a message to the king.’

      ‘Aye, lady,’ he said, his eyes still trained on his task. He continued to busy himself with the saddle straps, and she was tempted to snatch his hand and force him to attend to her. There was no need, though. A moment later, apparently satisfied at last with his mount, he finally turned to face her. ‘What is it then?’

      Now she hesitated. What if she could not trust him? What if he simply strode into her father’s hall and repeated to him everything she said?

      She studied his face. He was young, barely more than a gawky lad, fair-haired and smooth-faced. Now that he was looking at her, his eyes glimmered with interest and, she thought, admiration. Surely he would be sympathetic to the plight of a woman under the thumb of a cruel father. And even if he betrayed her, no punishment that her father could inflict on her would be worse than a Danish marriage.

      ‘You must tell him,’ she said, gazing at him earnestly and willing her eyes to fill with tears, ‘that my father has betrothed me against my will to a Danish lord, and that I beg the king to help me, for only he can stop the alliance. Tell him too that my brothers are in my father’s confidence, and the king must not trust them.’ She took the man’s hand and placed four bright silver pennies there. ‘Can you do that for me?’

      His eyes widened when he looked at the coins in his hand. She had probably given him too much, but she did not care. If he did as she asked, it was silver well spent.

      ‘I will give him the message, my lady,’ he said, quickly slipping the coins into the purse at his belt, as if he feared she might ask for some of them back.

      ‘Can you remember all of it?’ she asked.

      ‘I have it here,’ he said, tapping a finger to his forehead. ‘The king will have it in three days’ time; I give you my word.’

      He nodded to her, and she stepped back as he mounted his horse. Keeping to the shadows of the stable, she held her breath as she watched him ride towards the manor gate. If the gate wards should stop and question him, he might give her away, however unwittingly. But they waved him through, and she expelled a little sigh of relief. She pressed another coin into the filthy hand of the stable lad and, satisfied that she had disrupted her father’s wretched scheme, she returned swiftly to her chamber.

      The matter was in the king’s hands now. He would be furious when he learned what her father was planning, of course – would likely impose a fine or confiscate some of his properties just for considering such a move.

      Her brothers would likely suffer the same fate. In truth, she wasn’t certain that her brothers were aware of her father’s plans. But if she had accused them falsely, what did it matter? They had treated her badly for years upon years, and now she would have her revenge.

      She wanted all of them punished, but especially her father. For far too long he had kept her from his counsels, had plotted her future with never a thought for her interests and desires. He had treated her like a fool instead of recognizing that she could be of far more use to him if he would but confide in her. She would make him see that she was not without resources, make him regret that he had so badly misjudged both her wit and her willingness to bend to his will.

       Chapter Four

       March 1006

       London

      A procession of heavily laden carts was making its way from the Thames bridge towards the East Ceap. Athelstan nudged his mount past it, grimacing at the noisy clatter of wooden wheels on gravelled street. It was just past midday, the sun had burned away the mist that frequently hovered over the river, and London was, as usual, crowded as well as noisy.

      And stinking, he thought, as he was forced to wait for another cart, laden with baskets of fish, to turn into the side gate of one of the city’s larger hagas before he could make his way into Æthelingstrete.

      A sennight ago, when Ecbert’s coffin had been borne along this route to St Paul’s Abbey, the streets had been quiet. The ground had been more river than road that day and the air thick with fog and mist, but the men and women who had lined Æthelingstrete to watch the sombre procession had stood in silence – a mark of respect for his brother that still moved him.

      It had been ten days since Ecbert had died, yet a dozen times on each of those days he had found himself turning to speak to the brother who had been his near constant companion for as long as he could remember – only to discover yet again that Ecbert was not there. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to that emptiness. Certainly he had tried. He had thrown himself into his work, overseeing СКАЧАТЬ