Edmund had the right of it. Athelstan was only too aware of the mantle of responsibility that he bore as the eldest son of the king. When he wed, and that would likely not happen while his father lived, it would be for political expediency, not personal inclination. To form any kind of attachment with a girl of noble birth would be to hand the girl and her family a weapon to use against the king. He could bed any girl in the kingdom, as long as she was not crown-worthy.
Elgiva, who at that moment stepped in front of him to offer him the ale cup, was forbidden fruit. Her dark eyes held his as he drank, but for once her face was grave, and she was careful not to touch his fingers with her own.
Was this another move in the game, or had she learned about his trysts with the kitchen wench? He hoped the girl would not be punished. He would have to make sure that she was well compensated, just in case.
Whatever was behind this sudden coolness, he must play his part. He returned Elgiva’s gaze with a grave bow and said, ‘Your beauty, lady, is a gift to us all.’
Elgiva, gazing into Athelstan’s guarded blue eyes, accepted his compliment with a curt nod. She knew he desired her. She could see it in his glance, could feel it in her fingertips whenever she chanced to touch him.
But he would rather bed a kitchen wench than the Lady of Northampton. Wulf had told her that, sneering that Athelstan obviously preferred a woman with experience in bed play. I can give you some of that, sweetheart, he had whispered, kissing her forehead and laughing when she stalked away from him.
Wulf stood beside her now, his hand at her waist, distracting her with a light caress. She slipped away from him, ignored Athelstan, and smiled at Ecbert, who she had determined would sit beside her at the feast tonight. Let the king’s eldest son gnaw on the knowledge that he was not the only ætheling in her hall.
At the table, the younger brother seemed gratified by her sudden favour, and he responded by regaling her with a series of ribald tales that he, at least, seemed to find enormously entertaining. He reminded her of nothing so much as a boisterous puppy, gaunt and clumsy, with none of the grace of his brothers. Even Edmund, the youngest of the three and built like a tree stump, had more to recommend him than the lanky Ecbert, who was all arms and legs and, she thought, very little brain. His horselike face and braying laugh added nothing to his charm. It was a pity that he was too young to grow a beard, for she judged that it would improve his looks considerably. There would be less of him to see.
Still, he seemed open enough and completely guileless. Perhaps she could get him to reveal something about Athelstan that would be the key to bewitching him.
She signalled to a serving girl to fill Ecbert’s cup, which he had already emptied three times, and she noticed that a servant had slipped behind the table to deliver a wax tablet each to Wulf and to Athelstan. She recognized her father’s seal on the tablet that Wulf opened, and the question she had been about to pose to Ecbert died unspoken on her lips. She turned to her brother instead.
‘What does my father say?’ she asked him. To have arrived tonight the messages must have been sent from Rochester at the very first moment that the weather allowed. Surely they contained news of some import.
Wulf did not answer her but glanced at Athelstan, who was reading his own missive.
‘It is heavy news,’ her brother said, his face grave. ‘I am sorry, my lord.’
Elgiva held her breath. It must be a death. Nothing else would make her brother look with 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