The Price of Blood. Patricia Bracewell

northern shires, time to bring in the harvest, time to prepare and stock the burhs for defence. He had begged the churchmen he had spoken with to pray for time so that they could gather strength to meet their enemies.

      But as Edmund said, there was already fighting along the border with the Scots, and he feared there was an ill wind blowing across the Danish sea. The one thing that the people of England did not have was time.

      They were over the bridge now, the island behind them, and the gates of the palace rose ahead, reinforced, he noted, by a triple guard. Within the walls all was clamour and mayhem, far surpassing the everyday comings and goings of servants, retainers, and men-at-arms. He had difficulty guiding his mount past men sorting through piles of arms and equipment, women and children scurrying from building to building weighed down with bundles, and grooms loading horses and pack mules.

      The king’s household was preparing to move, but there was nothing orderly or methodical about these preparations. Something was wrong, something more pressing than the Scots’ invasion of far-off Northumbria.

      He and Edmund dismounted, tossed their reins to a groom, and went into the hall. Here, too, all was chaos, except for a table full of scribes who sat writing furiously on wax tablets. Instructions from the king to his royal thegns, Athelstan guessed. He paused to address a steward who was hurling curses at a trio of slaves that was frantically packing silver candlesticks and goblets into chests.

      ‘What is amiss?’ he asked.

      ‘Danish ships have been sighted at Sandwich, my lord. We’ve not been told yet where we are to go, but word has come down that we are leaving on the morrow.’

      Athelstan glanced at his brother and knew that they were thinking the same thing. Time had just run out.

      Inside the royal apartment, the king sat at a central table with a small circle of advisers about him. Athelstan, flicking his gaze around the chamber, found Emma in an alcove lit by a bank of candles. Her Norman priest, Father Martin, stood at a writing table beside her, his stylus moving swiftly across the parchment laid out before him.

      Emma must have heard them enter, for she looked up just then and their eyes met, and held, and the silent communion that was both torment and consolation flashed between them. Then she looked away, and he turned his attention to the men around the king. His younger brothers were there, as was Ælfric, Ealdorman of Hampshire. Bishop Ælfheah was there too, and then he corrected himself, for the man who had been bishop of Winchester was now archbishop of Canterbury – one of the wisest appointments his father had ever made. There were several lesser lords among the assembly as well, and he noted with misgiving that Eadric of Shrewsbury stood at the king’s right hand.

      With Edmund right behind him, he made his way through the men gathered about the table. The king drew his gaze from a roughly drawn map that covered most of the table to frown at them and, to Athelstan’s surprise, gestured them to come closer.

      ‘I had not thought to see you here,’ his father said, ‘but your arrival is timely. You’ve heard?’

      ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied. Apparently it took the threat of a Viking army to win him his father’s regard. He peered at the map. ‘How large is their force?’

      ‘Sixty ships, curse them. Near two thousand men. They have already begun to move west from Sandwich.’ He expelled a breath and sat back heavily in his chair. ‘I had not expected them to come so soon,’ he murmured. ‘I thought we had another month at least.’

      ‘Is it Swein who leads them?’ Athelstan asked.

      ‘No, but that is the only good news,’ his father said. ‘With the harvests not yet in we will be short on men and on food stores. Christ!’ He ran his hand wearily over his eyes. ‘We shall have to fortify the burhs across Wessex and strike at them piecemeal, harry their flanks like midges in a swamp.’

      Athelstan glanced at the faces around the table and found there little relish for this plan. It was what they had done for years, and for years it had been a tactic that had led to failure. What they needed to do was to bring a massive army against the shipmen and beat them back into the sea, but England was ill prepared for such an endeavour. Any army they could raise would be composed for the most part of men whose hands were more used to grasping the handles of a plough than the hilt of a sword, while their enemies would be fierce Danish shipmen who were weapon-trained and battle-ready.

      Athelstan turned to the archbishop. ‘If they strike at Canterbury, will the city be able to hold against them?’ he asked.

      ‘Our walls are in good repair,’ Ælfheah replied, ‘so we can withstand them for some days.’

      Athelstan nodded. ‘Likely they have not come to lay siege but to strike quickly and grab whatever is not nailed down. It is the smaller towns and abbeys of Kent and Surrey that will be vulnerable if the raiders sail westward’ – he moved his finger along the line that marked England’s southern coast – ‘and if they decide to strike to the north it will be the towns along our eastern shores at risk.’

      The king was frowning at the map. ‘I will call out the forces of Mercia and Wessex, all the men who can be spared from the fields and even many who cannot. Their commanders will meet me at Windsor to organize the defence, but it will take time for them to gather. Meantime we must get fighting men into the burhs in the southeast as soon as may be. The Danes will not stray far from their ships, so we should strive to keep them confined to the coast.’ He turned to Ælfric. ‘How many of your house guards are here with you?’

      ‘Thirty men, my lord, all well armed and mounted,’ the ealdorman replied.

      ‘Good. You will lead them to Rochester and summon the fyrd of Kent to you there. You will have to scour the countryside for whatever provisions you need.’

      Ælfric nodded, and the king turned to Eadric. ‘You will go north into Mercia, muster whatever force you can there, and come to me at Windsor as soon as you may. Athelstan, you will ride with the queen’s Norman retainers to Lewes and summon the men of Sussex. Provision them however you can. Take Edrid and Edwig with you. Edmund, you and Edgar and your men will escort your sisters and the queen to Winchester and take charge of the fyrd there. Do not attempt to meet the shipmen in a pitched battle.’

      That last order was directed to all of them, but Athelstan found the king’s faded blue eyes looking intently into his own and he knew that it was meant for him more than anyone else. His father judged him too eager for battle. In this instance, his father was probably right.

      ‘If the Danes approach,’ the king continued, ‘you should have plenty of warning. Gather the villagers and their livestock into the burhs and defend them there. For now we can do little more than try to minimize the damage.’

      Minimize the damage. Athelstan had to swallow a curse, for this was not the time to question a policy that his father had followed for twenty years. Jesu! It near maddened him that once again the best outcome that they could hope for was to confine their enemy to the coast. Three years ago that tactic had failed utterly, and the Danish army had thrust its way into Wiltshire. Two years ago the shipmen had pillaged and burned fifty miles into East Anglia. How far would their enemy strike this time? How many towns would be ravaged?

      Dear God. If they could do no more than minimize the damage, then they were defeated before they’d even begun to fight.

      Emma had listened to the king’s commands with growing dismay. His decision to entrust her son into Edmund’s care without the benefit of her Norman house guards to protect him filled her with foreboding, and now she rose swiftly and approached the king.

      ‘My lord, I would speak,’ she said, and the men around him gave way so that she could kneel beside his chair.

      She was risking his displeasure by daring to appeal to him in front of his council, but she had no choice. To trust her son to Edmund’s care would be to take a far greater risk.

      ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

      ‘I would go with you to Windsor, my lord,’ she said.