The Price of Blood (48 page)

A.D. 1011
This year sent the king and his council to the army, and desired peace; promising them both tribute and provisions on condition that they ceased from plunder. They had now overrun East Anglia, Essex, Middlesex, Oxfordshire, Cambridgeshire, Hertfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire, half of Huntingdonshire and much of Northamptonshire; and to the south of the Thames, all Kent, Sussex, Hastings, Surrey, Berkshire, Hampshire and much of Wiltshire. All these disasters befell us through bad counsels; that they would not offer tribute in time, or fight with them; but, when they had done most mischief, then entered they into peace and amity with them.

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

Chapter Thirty-One

August 1011

Redmere, Holderness

“B
y all the gods, what a stench!” Elgiva hovered in the open doorway of the brew house, her hand over her nose and mouth for fear she might gag. “What’s in there?”

The ceorl standing beside the cauldron and vigorously stirring the steaming brew paused in his task to look up at her with a blank, stupid gaze.

“It’s naught but honey and water, my lady,” he protested. “The smell of the honey is strong, to be sure, but not bad, I think.”

He was young, this fellow, his dark beard still thin although he was tall and brawny enough for the task he’d been set. She’d seen him about the yard and the stables, and she liked the look of him. Just now his bared arms glistened with sweat from heat and exertion, and his sinewy shoulders and broad chest strained against the fabric of his thin summer tunic.

She wondered how skilled he was with a sword. She was likely to need men who were good in a fight before long. Right now, though, she envied him that light tunic and those bare arms. She was wrapped in three layers of linen, and she was far enough along in her pregnancy that she felt like a sow.

Reluctantly she pulled her eyes from the lad and looked to Tyra, standing at a nearby table, for confirmation that what she was smelling was only the mead beginning to ferment.

Tyra looked up from the huge basket of flowers and herbs in front of her and slapped her assistant on his bare arm.

“Keep stirring, man,” she ordered, “or you’ll find yourself back in the smithy instead of the kitchens.” She nodded to Elgiva. “Likely it’s the bairn in your belly that’s causing the mischief, my lady, not the scent of the honey.”

It was true that she’d been sickened by odors all through this pregnancy, more so than ever before—a sure sign, she’d been told over and over, that she was carrying a boy.

Boys are right bastards even in the womb
, was a general saying among the women of Holderness. As if to prove the point the baby gave a sharp kick, and Elgiva winced. She stepped out of the brew house and away from the nauseating fumes just as the gate ward shouted that a large company of men was approaching.

“Ten horsemen,” he called, “and the rest on foot. They’ve just unfurled the raven banner.”

She paused to draw in as deep a breath as her cramped lungs allowed. The raven was the badge of both Cnut and Swein, but surely it had to be Cnut who was beneath that banner. She had sent word to him months ago that she was with child, begging him to come before the winter set in. Now here he was, even sooner than she had looked for him. There must be news! Perhaps his father was poised to invade England at last.

Her babe seemed to tumble inside her, and she clapped a hand to her belly. Yes, this was surely a boy—and as unsettled by his father’s arrival as she was.

She hurried across the yard and went into the hall, calling for servants to fetch food and ale.

By the time the newcomers stepped through the open doorway and made their way toward the dais, the torches in the hall were blazing and she was clutching the brimming welcome cup. In the flickering light, though, she could see that the man who led the party was not Cnut.

The silver drinking bowl felt suddenly too heavy in her trembling hands, and the child within gave another vicious kick. Cnut must have stopped on his way to consult with Thurbrand. It would not be the first time that he had done so. Likely he had sent these men ahead to apprise her of his coming.

“You bring me word from my husband, I think,” she said. “When will he be here?”

“Not for some time, my lady.”

She didn’t like vague answers, and she scowled at the man.

“Why?” she snapped. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

“He sailed for Roskilde some weeks ago. Before he left he charged me—”

She muttered an oath and slammed the vessel onto the table beside her, not caring as ale sloshed across the table and onto the floor.

Damn all men, she thought, and damn her wandering husband most of all.

She turned back to Cnut’s man and glared at him. She was tired and hot; her back ached as if she’d been broken in two and then stitched back together; and now here was news that was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. He glared right back at her, his contempt for her so obvious she wanted to cuff him. Yet he had brought her news, and unpleasant as it might be, she would hear all of it.

“You men,” she said to his companions, “there is food and drink. Sit you down and eat. You,” she said to their leader, “come with me.”

She led him to one of the alcoves at the side of the hall and eased herself onto the bench at the table there, nodding to him to sit opposite her. She waited while servants brought him food, studying him in the charged silence that lay between them.

She knew this man vaguely—one of Cnut’s retainers. She tried to remember his name, Ari or Arni or—Arnor. That was it. Arnor. He had to be well past thirty, with a humorless face that was weathered from a lifetime spent at sea. His beard and hair were still dark, though, as were his eyes. Just now he was filthy from travel, and he smelled far worse than the vat of boiling honey in the brew house.

She watched him wolf down a hunk of cold meat and take a huge swallow of ale before she spoke.

“What message did Cnut ask you to give me?” she asked.

He set down his cup, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He bid me say that he will come as soon as he is able.”

She snorted. How many times had Cnut sent her that message? Twelve? Twenty? A hundred? She was sick to death of hearing it. She looked at Arnor, waiting for the rest of it. There had to be more, but the brute seemed in no hurry to share.

“What else?” she asked, irritated and impatient.

He picked up the brown loaf in front of him and ripped off a chunk before answering.

“That’s all of it,” he said.

He didn’t look at her. He seemed far more interested in his food than he was in her, and she had to struggle to keep her temper. All of Cnut’s Danes treated her like this—as if she were a nithing, as if she were Cnut’s hostage instead of his wife. It did not matter that she had learned to speak their language or that without her meddling, as they called it, the battle at Ringmere would have been a rout instead of a victory. The Danes still treated her as if she were an inconvenient necessity, someone to be guarded, not trusted—an outsider. It was what she disliked about them the most.

The shipmen understood bribery well enough, though, and so did she. If she wanted any information from the locked coffer of this fellow’s thick skull, she was going to have to pay for it.

She pulled some coins from the purse at her belt and pushed them across the table toward him.

“Why did Cnut go to Denmark?” she asked. “Did Swein send for him?”

He eyed the coins for a moment, hesitating, then he lifted his gaze to her. There was something malevolent in his eyes. It was far more than dislike, and something she had never observed before. All her life men had looked at her with hunger. Even Cnut’s men, who made no secret of their distrust of her, still betrayed their lust in quick, covert glances. What made Arnor different from all the rest?

Much as she would like to know, this was hardly the time to address the question. All she wanted from him was information about Cnut, and the silver should buy her that.

She cocked an eyebrow at him and said, “Well?”

He responded by using his knife to sweep the coins into his own purse. He said, “Our Cnut had a bit of treasure he wanted to see delivered safely to King Swein.”

Ah. She should have guessed that silver would send him scurrying to Denmark. Swein’s coffers must be empty again, and he would look to Cnut to refill them.

“Has Æthelred paid the gafol, then?”

Once more Arnor was slow to respond, seeming to weigh his words as if they were as precious as Æthelred’s gleaming silver.

“Only a quarter of it. He has asked for more time to raise the geld, so there’s to be a quarter payment again at the end of September and the last of the forty-eight thousand pounds of tribute will be delivered in the spring. Getting these stiff-necked English to pay what they’ve promised us is like trying to raise sail in a tempest,” he grumbled.

Yes, she thought. It was almost as difficult as prying useful information out of a tight-lipped, stinking Dane. But she was not so much interested in where Cnut was as when he was likely to make his way here.

“When will I see my husband in this hall?” she demanded. “Before he returns to Rochester?” King Swein the greedy would certainly insist that Cnut be in Rochester for the next gafol payment, but that was weeks away.

“He may not return to Rochester at all.”

Now he’d surprised her, and she stared at him, astonished.

“What do you mean? Why not, if there is still tribute to be paid him?”

“There’s a nasty storm brewing at Rochester,” he growled. “I’ve sent to Cnut, warning him to keep his distance.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table to point his knife at her. “Look you, Cnut hadn’t been gone a single day before that Canterbury archbishop came nosing around like a dog in heat.”

Archbishop Ælfheah. She had never liked him. He was far too fond of Emma, and far too in love with his God.

“What did he want to do?” she sneered. “Baptize them?”

He used his knife to spear a hunk of meat and raise it to his mouth. “Whatever it was, it led to a quarrel between Thorkell and his brother Hemming, and next day Thorkell sailed with more than half his ships, all of them loaded with treasure. My guess is he went to his family lands at Ribe.”

Now she was the one who leaned forward, for this was worrisome news.

“Do you mean Cnut and Thorkell have both left Rochester? And it’s Hemming who is in charge of all the shipmen still in the camp?” Cnut had feared that Hemming was half mad and liable to do something ill-considered—something that might ruin Swein’s carefully laid plan to wrench England from Æthelred’s grasp.

“Aye. What’s more, he’s been meeting almost daily with that archbishop. Hemming’s men don’t like it. They’re not overly fond of priests, and seeing Hemming befriend one makes them about as happy as cats in a sack.” He reached for his cup and took a long swallow of ale, but she was aware that he was watching her even as he drank, looking to see what she made of all this, she supposed.

She took a few moments to mull it over, trying to put the pieces together. What would Archbishop Ælfheah want with Hemming? Not to convert him, surely. Hemming would never suffer that, although he might enjoy gulling Ælfheah, toying with him the way a falconer uses a lure to bring a merlin from the sky. But even that entertainment would pall quickly.

She reviewed everything she’d heard about Hemming and all that she remembered of Ælfheah, and then she had it, and it made her feel sick again. Ælfheah must be urging Hemming to turn against Thorkell and Cnut, to throw in his lot with the English. And if Hemming pledged himself to Æthelred, he would bring all his own shipmen with him and perhaps whatever men Thorkell had left behind as well.

The thought of it made the bile rise in her throat and she swallowed hard to keep the nausea at bay.

Hemming had to be stopped—should have been stopped already. She had given Alric the poison to dispatch him months ago. What was he waiting for?

“Where is Alric?” she asked. “Did he sail with Cnut to Denmark?”

“Been wondering when you would ask me about that prick.” Arnor set down his cup and turned to spit on the floor. “Alric is Hemming’s dog now; sits at his feet and translates what passes between him and the churchman. Whatever is going on there, your precious Alric is right in the middle of it. Makes a body wonder,” he said thoughtfully, wiping his blade on what was left of the bread, “if Alric might even be the one who is at the bottom of it”—he lifted his eyes to hers—“mayhap at your bidding.”

She watched the candlelight glint dangerously along the blade of his knife and she felt a ripple of unease.

“Do you imagine that I would conspire with Hemming and Ælfheah? Pah! If Alric is licking their boots, it’s none of my doing.”

“Yet Alric is your man,” he said with a sardonic smile, “so how else do you explain it?”

How, indeed? Had Alric transferred his allegiance from her to Hemming? If he’d been enticed by some recompense more valuable than rubies, it might explain why Hemming was still alive.

She considered telling Arnor what she had charged Alric to do. Somehow, though, she didn’t think that confessing to a scheme to poison the Danish warlord was likely to reassure him. Besides, her commitment to Cnut was obvious to anyone with eyes.

“I cannot explain it, nor do I need to,” she said. “I am Cnut’s wife and big with his child. I do not have to defend myself against your baseless suspicions.”

He shrugged. “You say the child is Cnut’s, but I’ve heard tell that there are men hereabouts who have spent far more time in your chamber than Cnut ever has.”

Once again she wanted to hit him, but the knife was ready in his hand. She had no wish to give him a reason to use it.

“You must have straw for brains to make such a foul accusation in my own hall,” she snarled. “Get out, and take your shipmen with you.”

She waited for him to get up, but Arnor didn’t move, except to reach for the pitcher and pour more ale into his cup.