The Edge of Light (41 page)

“I do not care about my reputation, Alfred,” she said with the great and genuine sweetness he had once found so entrancing.

What he felt now was a flicker of annoyance. She was not helping him at all. “Roswitha,” he said in a crisper voice, “I am going to have you escorted home.” And watched her cheeks grow pale again.

“My lord …” She bit her lip. Her features were pure and perfect. Her nose was small and straight. Alfred thought of the haughty thin-bridged nose that waited for him at Wilton and cursed Athelwold under his breath. Roswitha rose to her feet and began to cross the room toward him. He hastily stood up himself. “I do not understand the motive of this thane,” she said in her childishly pretty voice, “but I am very glad to see you again.” She came quite close to him before she stopped and looked up into his face.

The smell of her was instantly familiar. He knew he had but to make one small move and she would be in his arms. His senses were responding to her nearness, but his brain was saying coldly and clearly:
No.

“Roswitha,” he said, “come into the hall and let me order you some food. You must be hungry after your ride, Then I will have Wilfred take you home.”

He did not want to be cruel. In fact, he was feeling rather wretchedly guilty. Why could she not be happily married? He had settled enough money on her, surely. He would see what he could do about finding her a husband, he thought as he put his hand on her arm and marched her to the door of his sleeping room.

The first person he saw as he opened the door was Athelwold. He gave his nephew a look that wiped the smile right off his face, and called to Wilfred to take Roswitha off his hands.

Brand was furious when he realized what his careless revelation to Athelwold had precipitated. Athelwold protested innocence, saying that he had wished only to do Alfred a good turn. But all the thanes knew of the antagonism between Athelwold and Elswyth, and none of them harbored any doubt as to Athelwold’s true motives in introducing Alfred’s former mistress into his bedroom.

Erlend thought that he alone understood that the true target of Athelwold’s prank had not been the king’s wife at all, but Alfred himself. It was Alfred’s honor Athelwold had been after, not Elswyth’s betrayal. Erlend was sure of it.

How impossible it would be to explain such a thing to Guthrum, Erlend thought as he lay awake on his bench later in the evening after all else had gone to sleep. The idea that a king could lose the respect of his men because he had lain with a woman other than his wife! How Guthrum would laugh at such a notion.

Erlend put his arms behind his head, stared up at the raftered ceiling, and thought about this.

His father had had other women. Indeed, Erlend had left several bastard brothers behind in the serving hall at Nasgaard when he had taken ship for England. Asmund, too, was known to sleep with one of the serving girls. That was the way of men, or so Erlend had been reared to think. It was not until he had come to Alfred’s court that he had seen otherwise.

Was it this Christianity? he wondered. But Alfred’s thanes were no celibates, that was for certain. When Brand had spoken of the plenitude of whores in the towns, he had spoken from experience. And Brand considered himself a good Christian. Even those thanes who were married and who had left their wives to manage at home while they took service with the king—even those thanes took advantage of whatever willing women might come their way.

Why should they expect Alfred to be different?

For there could be no doubt about it, they did expect him to be different from themselves. If he had taken Roswitha to his bed, Alfred would have lost some of the almost fanatical respect with which most of his thanes regarded him. Erlend knew this to be true, because, oddly enough, it was how he would feel himself. Which was impossible, of course, since he had none of that kind of regard for Alfred at all.

It must be Elswyth who was causing him to feel this way, Erlend thought as he stared through the dimly lit darkness of the hall. It was because he was so fond of Elswyth that he had felt that nasty shock when Athelwold hinted of Alfred’s infidelity. His discomposure could have nothing at all to do with his feelings for the king.

Yet, Erlend thought further, he had nothing to reproach himself for in his fondness for Elswyth. True, he thought her beautiful. True, he found her company enjoyable. But he had never once thought of her as aught but Alfred’s wife. He was not lusting after Elswyth in his heart. He was quite comfortably certain of that.

The drone of snoring in the hall was making Erlend feel sleepy himself. It was so nice and warm under his wool blanket. He yawned, Such deep thinking at so late an hour was too much of a strain. He reached down automatically to touch the harp that was tucked under his bench, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

Erlend was not the only one who lay thinking that night, nor was he the only one to apprehend Athelwold’s true motives in introducing Roswitha into Southampton manor. Alfred had never fully trusted this nephew who was so close to him in age, who had challenged his right to be king, and now Alfred lay awake in his solitary bed and contemplated what he ought to do about Athelwold.

He could most probably placate his nephew by naming him as secondarius. Athelwold was not unjustified in asking for that, Alfred knew, and might well be satisfied to know that should Alfred fall in battle, he would be the recognized next-in-line.

But Alfred also knew that he would not name Athelwold as his heir. It would be better to let things fall as they would, he thought, lying with his arm flung across his forehead, listening to the snoring of the hound that slept with its head on his feet. Should something happen to him before Edward was grown, let the witan decide who was most fit to rule.

In his heart, Alfred knew he wanted to pass the kingship down to his son. It was a primitive feeling, not based on reason at all, but when he looked into Edward’s brilliant blue-green eyes, he felt that he had made a king.

So he would not name Athelwold as his heir, would do nothing to placate the injured vanity of this importunate nephew, and consequently he had to face the fact that Athelwold most probably hated him. And would do everything he could to undermine Alfred’s authority.

Elswyth did not help matters either, her husband thought now, by showing her dislike of Athelwold so openly. No hope to change that, though. Elswyth was incapable of dissimulation, was clear as water always.

Alfred put his hand out to touch the cold and empty bed beside him. God, but he missed her!

What would she say when she learned about Roswitha? For learn she would, Alfred was certain. Either Athelwold or Erlend would be sure to tell her. He would wager the entire royal treasury on that.

The hound shifted his position at Alfred’s feet and snorted in his sleep. Alfred grinned at the sound. Chasing deer in his sleep, he thought. Then: No need to linger here in Southampton any longer. The ships were coming along splendidly. It was time for him to return to his wife.

He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

In his reflections, Alfred had done Erlend an injustice. But the king and his following had not been back at Wilton for above an hour before Athelwold told Elswyth his own version of the tale.

Alfred was roughhousing with his children and his dogs before the hearth in the great hall when Elswyth stalked into the room. Athelwold had caught her as she was going to the kitchens to see the cook about supper, and she had turned back to the hall immediately. She stalked—there was no other word for it, Alfred thought ruefully, watching her come—to the hearth, looked down her nose at him, and said through her teeth, “I should like to speak to you, my lord. Alone.”

Every ear in the vicinity was turned their way. Of course every thane in the room would know what this was about. Those who had not been at Southampton would have been informed by their friends within the first ten minutes of their arrival.

“Certainly, my love,” Alfred said mildly. “Shall we go into our chamber?”

“Me too!” said Flavia, jumping to her feet and grasping her father’s hand.

“No,” said Elswyth in the rare voice that meant she expected absolute obedience. Both children stared openmouthed at their mother and subsided back into the pack of dogs. Elswyth stalked across the silent hall to the bedchamber door. Alfred followed, torn between amusement and annoyance. Why did Elswyth have to be so dramatic? And so publicly dramatic, at that.

He closed the bedroom door behind him and said, “What did Athelwold tell you?”

She spun around to face him, her blue eyes glittering, her thin nostrils pinched tight. “He told me Roswitha came to Southampton. He said you spoke to her in your sleeping chamber.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And did he also tell you that he was the one who had sent for her? That he did it to try to make trouble between you and me?”

“I told you once Alfred”—she was still speaking through her teeth—”I told you that if you ever went near her again, I would kill her.”

He stretched his shoulders and advanced further into the room. He looked from his wife to his bed, then back again to his wife. They had been parted for nearly a month. “It was not her fault,” he said. “Athelwold told her that I had sent for her.”

“You were alone with her.” Now she was directly accusing him.

“Elswyth, what are you so angry about?” He made a great effort to sound calm and reasonable. He did not want to quarrel with her. “Do you think I went to bed with her?”

She didn’t, of course. They both knew that. She glared at him, and he went on, still in the same reasonable voice, “If you show yourself upset, you will only give Athelwold the reaction he hoped for.”

His reasonableness was not having the effect he had hoped. Her chin came up. “Do not talk to me as if I were Flavia!” Her voice was beginning to rise.

“Then stop acting like Flavia.” He was starting to get annoyed. This was certainly not the homecoming he had hoped for. “Athelwold played a stupid trick, that is all. Do not try to make more of it than it is.”

She was quivering all over with temper. And all for no reason, Alfred thought, his own temper beginning to rise.

“I want to know why that woman is still living at Southampton,” Elswyth said furiously.

Alfred looked at his wife’s clenched fists. Small chance of getting her to bed in this mood, he thought. Best to leave her before things went from bad to worse.

“I will speak to you later, when you have had a chance to recover yourself,” he said curtly, and turned to walk to the door.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she shouted at him in fury.

He swung around. “You are behaving worse than Flavia,” he retorted, his own voice considerably louder than usual, and she grabbed a silver goblet from the small table by the brazier and threw it at his head. He ducked and it crashed into the door behind him, in the exact place where his head had been. They stared at each other, the only sound in the room their quickened breathing. Alfred didn’t know which of them was more astonished by her gesture, himself or Elswyth.

He said, “Your aim is excellent.”

She said, “Thank you.”

Then, at the very same moment, they both began to laugh.

“You are a shrew,” he said, leaving the door and crossing the room toward her. “I don’t know why I love you so much.”

Still laughing, she moved also, her arms extended, her face upraised. They met in the middle of the room and kissed passionately. A few minutes later found them where Alfred had hoped to be all along. In bed.

Like the rest of the men in the hall, Erlend sat in utter silence as Alfred closed his sleeping-room door behind him. Silence still reigned as all ears remained pricked in one direction only. Even the children were quiet, quenched for the moment by their mother’s unusually severe reprimand.

For the first few minutes, nothing could be heard. Then, distinctly, came the sound of Elswyth’s raised voice. Next, astonishingly, they heard Alfred. He appeared to be shouting back. Then came sound of something crashing into the door. Finally came silence.

The minutes ticked by. The dogs went to sleep. Flavia stood up and began to walk toward her parents’ bedroom door. Edward followed, saying, “Mama. I want Mama.”

“Holy Mother,” said Edgar, and he swooped forward to stand before the determined duo. “Not now, sweeting,” he said to Flavia. “Your mother and father are … um … talking. They need to be alone. Come and watch me carve you a new animal.”

Flavia’s small, extremely beautiful face set in an expression they were all too familiar with, “No,” she said. Her favorite word. Edward, faithful follower that he was, echoed her sentiments.

“Where in hell are these children’s nursemaids?” Edgar growled, looking around the hallful of grinning thanes.

“I’ll go look,” one offered, and left the room.

Flavia had resumed her march toward the forbidden door. Erlend heard himself saying, “If you like, Flavia, you can play my harp.”

The little girl stopped. “Your harp? I can touch it?”

“Yes,” said Erlend.

The small face lit with a radiant smile. Flavia had been itching to get her busy little hands on his harp for weeks. “Oh, Erlend!” she said. “Thank you!” And came running.

Edward hesitated, clearly torn between the two great loves of his life, his mother and his sister. “You can touch it too, Edward,” Erlend said coaxingly, and that decided it.

“Those children are spoiled rotten,” Erlend heard Athelwold complaining further down the hall.

They were, of course, Erlend thought as he held his harp for Flavia to pluck its strings. She was very careful, and when the clear sound rang out, her blue-green eyes glowed with delight. Spoiled with love. Perhaps, he thought, as Edward’s too-familiar “Me too me too” rang in his ear, it was none so bad a thing.

The king’s household did not remain long at Wilton, but moved north to the royal manor of Chippenham, which lay on the River Avon to the east of the Fosse Way. Chippenham looked very like Wantage manor, only bigger, Erlend thought as the king’s thanes rode into the courtyard through the stockade gate late on a chill spring afternoon.