More shouts of protest and anger greeted this announcement, and Abbot Kenulf, seated next to Eadric, rose to his feet.
‘These are not Christian men,’ he said, in a voice that resonated with spiritual authority. ‘Men such as this worship pagan gods and practise pagan ways. They have sprouted among us like cockles among the wheat, and we must rid ourselves of their foul contagion before it grows too strong.’
The shouting began again, and Æthelred raised a hand to quell it.
‘What you say is true, abbot, but the task must be carried out with care and with secrecy. If they suspect that we are preparing to move against them, they will meet us with force.’ And it was all too likely, he thought, that the Danes would win such a fight. ‘It is why I have called you together tonight in such secrecy. I propose to send messengers to my reeves in every town and village where such men dwell. My men will bear writs branding this man and all men like him as traitors to the crown. On a day that I shall name, all across this land they will be arrested and put to the sword. Are we agreed?’
Eadric slammed the table again and shouted, ‘Aye, my lord! You have my support!’
In a moment, the rest had followed suit, and Æthelred nodded, satisfied. His prisoner, mad though he clearly was, had played his part well.
Æthelred turned to the clerk nearest him.
‘How soon can this thing be done?’ he asked.
The clerk pursed his lips, considering.
‘We will need at least fourteen days to prepare the writs, my lord,’ he said, ‘and several days after that to deliver them.’ He ran his finger down the page of one of the books that lay open before him on the table, then looked up at Æthelred. ‘Friday 13th November,’ he said. ‘St Brice’s Day.’
Æthelred nodded his approval. On St Brice’s Day he would be rid of the enemies who troubled his days and tortured his nights.
He dismissed the councillors and went to his bed – and to the embraces of the Lady Elgiva – well pleased with the night’s work.
A.D. 1002 The king gave an order to slay all the Danes that were in England. This was accordingly done on the Mass-day of St Brice, because it was told the king that they would beshrew him of his life, and afterwards all his council, and then have his kingdom without any resistance.
– The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
November 1002
Winchester, Hampshire
November was the blood month, the slaughter time, when stock were culled, butchered, and dressed in preparation for the lean days of the winter to come. In Winchester the short days turned cold and wet, but Emma took little note of the weather. She left the palace only to attend services in one of the two great churches nearby, always escorted by members of the king’s hearth guards, for her Norman people had been sent away, scattered to her various properties across Wessex and Mercia. Hugh was gone to Exeter, and Emma missed him most of all, for he had given her good counsel about the management of her estates. Wymarc, she guessed, missed him even more, although she did her best to hide it.
‘I could send you to Exeter as well, if you wish it,’ Emma had offered several days before Hugh and his men had departed. She had seen the affection that had grown between Wymarc and Hugh, and although her heart was heavy at the thought of losing her friend, she had no wish to deny her the happiness that her queen would never have.
‘Of what use would I be to you in Exeter?’ Wymarc had demanded. ‘My place is at your side, my lady, not in some fortress at the kingdom’s edge. And if you are thinking I’ve a mind to follow Hugh, well, it will do him no harm to discover how dismal the world can be with only English women in it.’
Yet when Hugh took his leave of Emma, Wymarc had followed him from the chamber, and when she returned her eyes were bright with tears, and she had the rumpled look of a woman who had just been well and thoroughly kissed.
On the morning of 13th November, the Feast of St Brice, Emma’s English attendants clustered in her chamber in small groups like flocks of brightly coloured birds. Emma sat to one side with Wymarc, Margot, and Father Martin – all that remained of her Norman retinue. They were eagerly sifting through a packet that had arrived from Rouen with news of the forthcoming marriage of Emma’s sister Mathilde to a Frankish count. A letter from Emma’s mother provided details, but Emma was disappointed to find no message from her sister.
Mathilde, she thought, still harboured resentment that she had not been the one sent to wed a king. She could have wept at the cruel irony of it, but weeping was for later, when she lay alone in her cold bed and recalled the nights she had shared with her sister in their chamber at Fécamp.
Father Martin began to read aloud what amounted to a sermon from her brother the archbishop, regarding a woman’s duty to her husband, and Emma was relieved when he was interrupted by a servant bearing news, until she heard what he had to say. A nameless Dane had been put to death that morning for crimes against the king.
She knew what the prisoner’s crime had been, and that his life had been forfeit for raising his hand against the king. There was wild speculation, though, among the ladies of her chamber about the execution.
Emma tried to ignore the threads of conjecture the women spun. None of them could know for certain what he had done or how close the poor mad wretch had come to murdering the king or his son.
She caught sight of Elgiva then, who was looking at her with an arch, insolent gaze. Elgiva, at least, did know what had happened that day in the minster square. Indeed, she must know a great many things, for Elgiva was sleeping with the king.
It was the greatest open secret within the court – that, and the fact that Æthelred had not visited the queen’s bed for many weeks.
The tiny flicker of fear that always burned within her flared brighter as she considered the problem of the Lady of Northampton.
If the king’s attentions to Elgiva continued to keep him from Emma’s bed, she would never conceive a child. That would matter little to Æthelred. He had sons enough; duty did not compel him to seek his wife’s embrace. Emma was the one who needed a son to guarantee her status within the court and to protect her should the king die.
And kings did die. Rulers sickened and died for no obvious reason. It had happened to her own father. It had happened to Æthelred’s father, as well, when he was younger than Æthelred was now.
Over the past weeks, stripped of her Norman protectors, Emma had come to realize how precarious her position really was. She had not heeded her mother’s advice. Use your youth and your beauty to garner the king’s favour, Gunnora had told her. Yet she had not merely lost the battle for the king’s favour, she had vacated the field before the battle began. The king had pushed her away, and she had gone willingly. Now it may already be too late. If she were branded as barren not even her status as queen would protect her. She would be locked away in some abbey, a bitter and disgraced bride trusting to her brother for her support.
The king no longer sought her bed. When she had first wed him she had at least been an unknown commodity, a mystery for him to unravel. Now he had become accustomed to her, and he had found her wanting where Elgiva was not.
She must find a way to entice Æthelred to her bed, no matter how distasteful the prospect. Yet she had not the least idea how to go about it.
The next day it