Shadow on the Crown. Patricia Bracewell

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СКАЧАТЬ such concern towards the ætheling. Was it the king? Dear God, if he were dead, then the witan would surely offer Athelstan the throne. The implications of that for her own future could be enormous. The new king would need a wife, and her father would make sure that Athelstan looked to Northampton for his bride. She might be a queen before Eastertide.

      But Athelstan had set the tablet down in front of him, and now he rose and faced the throng in the hall. His expression was solemn, and his movement drew all eyes towards him. A hush fell over the revellers as they waited to hear what he would say.

      ‘I am bid by my father the king,’ he said, his voice echoing through the silent hall, ‘to announce that on Christmas morning my mother, the Lady Ælfgifu, died after giving birth to a son. The babe, alas, followed his mother in death. I ask that all present here tonight pray for both their souls.’ He turned to Elgiva and Wulf. ‘I would speak with my brothers alone. Please excuse us.’

      Elgiva watched the three brothers make their way from the table. Their mother’s death was a sorrow to them, she supposed, but her passing was of little significance to anyone else. The king’s wife had borne him numerous children, but as his consort and not his queen, she had done little else. Her death would have no effect on the kingdom or on Elgiva’s world.

      She turned to her brother, who was looking thoughtfully at the tablet in his hand.

      ‘What does my father say?’ she asked again. ‘I suppose that the king’s sons will leave for Rochester tomorrow.’ This news must put an end to the feasting, in any case.

      ‘They do not go south,’ Wulf replied. ‘There is no reason to do so, for their mother is already in her grave. My father writes that the æthelings are to take charge of our house troops and go to the king’s manor at Saltford. He will meet them there, but he does not say when. Not immediately, I think.’ He tapped a finger against the tablet, then he looked speculatively at Elgiva. ‘The king, it seems, will take another wife, and very soon. I am ordered to stay here with you, in case you are summoned to court. It appears, my dear sister, that my father entertains the hope that you will be Æthelred’s bride.’

      Elgiva gaped at her brother, while her mind played with new possibilities. To be wed to the father and not the son was not the destiny that she had been anticipating. Would it suit her? Well, it would certainly put her in a position of power much sooner than she had looked for it. Yet it was not an honour that she was certain she would like, and it was not exactly the power that she had hoped for.

      ‘To what end would the king marry?’ she asked Wulf. ‘Æthelred is an old man with seven sons. What need has he of a bride who would give him yet more sons?’

      ‘He is not so old,’ her brother said. ‘And, as you have good reason to know, he enjoys his earthly pleasures. Better to marry than to burn, the Scriptures say.’

      She frowned. She wanted to wed a king, and yet …

      ‘His first wife was never crowned queen,’ she protested. ‘What good to wed a king and not get a crown?’

      Wulf’s hand snaked behind her as if he would caress her, but instead she felt his fingers grasp her neck in a painful, vice-like grip that she could neither escape nor shake off without making a scene.

      ‘Do you never think beyond your own petty concerns, my dear sister?’ he hissed into her ear. ‘Do not delude yourself into thinking that this alliance would be for your benefit. Its sole purpose would be to strengthen my father’s influence with the king, not cater to your monumental vanity. You will do whatever you are bid to do, wed whomever you are bid to wed, and let your father and brothers handle whatever details are to be negotiated.’

      He let her go, and she rubbed her neck surreptitiously, smiling up at him for the benefit of anyone in the hall who may have noticed their little interaction.

      ‘May I ask, then, if my father is negotiating my betrothal? Am I to be allowed to make preparations for my nuptials?’ She would need new gowns, jewels, more attendants, and her own furnishings for the lady’s chambers at the Winchester palace. How much time did she have?

      ‘It is somewhat more complicated than that,’ Wulf replied.

      She did not like the sound of that.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You are not the only maid that the king is considering.’

      Now he leered at her, and she realized that he was toying with her, forcing her to tease the news out of him bit by bit, revelling in the power he held over her.

      ‘You are lying,’ she said, refusing to be baited any more. ‘There can be no one else, for I am the obvious choice.’ And now that she had grown somewhat used to the idea, the prospect of wedding Æthelred, the king with the liquid hands, was suddenly extremely appealing.

      ‘Are you so confident, my dear?’ Wulf asked, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. ‘I would not be so, if I were you. My father does not provide any names, but he states quite clearly that other possible brides exist. Their advantages are even now under consideration by the king.’ He leaned towards her to whisper in her ear. ‘If you had gone to Rochester you might have been able to use your many charms to sway Æthelred in your favour. But, alas, you stayed here. Poor Elgiva. It looks as though you should have accompanied our father to the Christmas court after all.’ He nipped her ear and then got to his feet. Moments later he had joined a group of guests below the dais.

      Elgiva, following him with her eyes, still wondered if he had told her the truth. If he had, and if the king chose to look elsewhere for a bride, then her decision to remain here for the Yule feast was, quite possibly, the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.

      

       January 1002

       Fécamp, Normandy

      The cold, hard frosts of early January clung tightly to the lands that bordered the Narrow Sea, and for many days after the turn of the year, the tall masts of the Danish longships bristled in Fécamp’s harbour. When the ships set sail at last, following the whale road back to their homeland, folk in the town breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in the ducal palace life settled into its winter routine.

      The women of the duke’s household spent their daylight hours together in the chamber of Richard’s young wife, Judith, attending to their needlework. The lighter-weight summer tunics, mantles, fine linen shifts, even chausses and braies that belonged to members of the ducal family, had been drawn from their coffers, inspected carefully for rents and tears, and sorted into piles for repair.

      Emma, who had some skill with the harp, played softly for the women who were seated in a companionable circle around the brazier. As she plucked the strings her glance drifted to where Mathilde had taken advantage of a shaft of daylight filtering through the high, horn-covered window. She had recovered from the ague that had troubled her over the last weeks, and now her face, although still thin, had regained some colour and vibrancy. She was bent over an embroidery frame, where she worked a grail in pure gold thread upon a cope of white silk. It was to be a gift for their brother, Archbishop Robert, and Mathilde’s lips curved with satisfaction as the beautiful thing came to life beneath her fingers.

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