The Edge of Light (51 page)

“Not very well, I am afraid,” Erlend answered immediately. The tips of his triangular brows rose higher. “It was I told Guthrum that Alfred was sure to defend Wilton, I who enabled the West Saxons to come in on us unawares and steal our horses.”

“Harper,” said Flavia suddenly from where she stood between her parents.

Erlend looked at Alfred’s daughter. Dark gold hair in two long braids, those startling not-to-be forgotten blue-green eyes. “Yes,” he said with a faint smile. “I used to be your harper, Flavia.”

“You are a Dane,” said Edward. “Danes dress like you.” Edward’s eyes were on Erlend’s arm bracelets; he did not sound friendly.

Elswyth put a hand on her son’s sturdy shoulder. “Lord Erlend is a special Dane, Edward,” she said. “Hewas kind to my brother Athulf when Athulf was made hostage. We owe him kindness in return.”

Edward turned his eyes, the same color as his sister’s, toward Alfred. Flavia looked like her father, Erlend thought, but not this one. Edward was already two full inches over Flavia, and the thick fair hair framing his rosy childish face was more silver than gold. “We do not like the Danes, Papa, do we?” he demanded.

Alfred shifted his younger daughter from one arm to the other in an effort to evade the fingers that were grasping at his hair. “No, Edward,” he answered, “we do not like the Danes. But as your mother said, Erlend is our guest, and we like him.”

Despite his efforts, the baby had managed to get a fistful of Alfred’s hair, and now she began to pull. His brows knit with the pain and he reached up to untangle the little fingers. Erlend smiled at the expression on Alfred’s face and said to Elswyth, “How is Copper Queen?”

The haughty look left Elswyth’s face and she almost smiled back at him. “Wait until you see her,” she said. “She is splendid.”

Alfred had managed to detach his hair from his daughter’s grasp, and now he handed the baby over to Elswyth’s waiting arms. “It takes having children to understand why it is that married women bundle their hair off their faces,” he remarked to Erlend, and then bent to scratch the ears of his oldest hound. “Erlend has given me his oath not to escape,” he said over his shoulder to his wife. “He is to do as he likes. You will have to find him a place to sleep.”

The hound was quivering all over with ecstasy at Alfred’s touch. The other dogs gathered around, anxiously awaiting their turns.

“Will you harp for us, Erlend?” Flavia asked, looking up at him with wide and innocent eyes.

Erlend looked down into the beautiful little face of Alfred’s daughter. “I should be happy to harp for you, my lady,” he said, and did not realize himself how tender his voice suddenly sounded.

Elswyth heard the note, however, and for one brief moment her eyes met with her husband’s. “Your accent is more Mercian than West Saxon these days,” she said. “Athulf’s influence?”

Erlend nodded. “I suppose so, my lady.” He asked with genuine interest, “How is your brother?”

Elswyth kissed the fat little hand that was so enthusiastically patting her lips. “As well as can be expected.” She tried to speak around a fist that had abruptly been inserted into her mouth. “He is visiting Queen Ethelswith at present. She resides on one of Alfred’s manors in Surrey.”

Erlend, prudently, said nothing.

“Where is your harp?” Flavia asked.

Alfred looked up from his dogs and grinned. “She is just like her mother,” he said. “Relentless. You had better go and get your harp, Erlend, or we will have no peace.”

“Oh, good,” said Flavia, came forward to stand beside Erlend, and put her small hand into his. She gave him a sunny smile. “I’ll go with you.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go too, Edward?” Elswyth asked, having transferred the baby to her hip.

“No,” said Edward in a tone that made it perfectly clear he still did not like Danes.

“All these men,” said Elswyth, looking around the hall. “I had better go and check with the reeve about the supper.”

“I will stay with Papa,” was the last thing Erlend heard from Edward as Flavia tugged him toward the door, toward his baggage and his harp.

Elswyth was already in bed when Alfred came into their sleeping room later in the evening. “I am glad you were nice to Erlend,” he said to her as he began to strip off his clothes. “He was nervous of meeting you again.”

She shrugged. “I could do nothing else. He was very good to Athulf.” She sat up against her pillow and watched him piling his clothes on the chest. “You are always so neat,” she said with amusement. “Do you fold your garments so neatly every night when you are in the field?”

“I scarcely ever get
out
of my clothes when I am in the field,” he retorted. “That bath I had today was the first good washing I have had in a month.”

She grinned. “If ever you write a book about the hardships of war, chief among them will be listed the lack of proper baths.”

He pulled off His last bit of clothing, his headband, ran his fingers through the hair at his brow, then shook his head like a dog. Elswyth said, only half-humorously, “How I have missed all your little rituals, Alfred.”

He turned and came toward the bed, moving with the springy grace that was so much a part of him. The single lamp shone with a golden light on his bare skin. He got into the bed beside Elswyth, leaned over her, and said, his clipped voice very soft, “I have missed one ritual in particular. Can you guess what it is?”

“I fear you have picked the wrong time of the month for your homecoming, my love,” she said. Her blue eyes were full of sympathy. “I have my courses.”

At that he groaned, flopped down beside her on his back, and stared up at the roof. It was her turn to lean over him. “I am sorry,” she said,

Golden eyes gazed up at her. “It could be worse.” Then: “Safe for another month.”

“Listening to you, one would never think you were so loving a father,” she said. Her loose hair had fallen forward and was hanging down now, enveloping him in a lavender-scented curtain of soft black silk. “You adore the children, you know you do.”

He didn’t move. “Once they are here, they are fine,” he said. “It is the waiting for them to arrive that is so hard.”

“Father Erwald would say it is a sin to put your carnal pleasure before the getting of children.”

His eyes did not waver. “It is not just my carnal pleasure,” he said. His mouth quirked. “Though I admit that is part of it.”

She bent her head closer and kissed him on the mouth. “I know,” she said, then nestled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were the only two people in all the world?” she said dreamily. “No children, no thanes, no Danes to threaten our peace. Just you and I alone together.”

“And the horses and the dogs,” he added, his arm curving to hold her close.

“And the horses and the dogs. Of course.”

He touched his lips to the top of her head. “It would be like paradise,” he said. “I could do without the dogs even, if I had you.”

She snorted. “Nor would I be a fool like Eve, to let a devilish snake betray my joy.”

“I have no doubt that you would send Satan about his business with little delay,” Alfred agreed, amusement warming his voice. “No fallen angel would have a chance against you.”

“Very true,” she replied complacently.

He laughed, deep and soft.

“Tell me,” she said. “How did you come to take Erlend as a hostage?”

They talked for over an hour, and then Elswyth fell asleep, her head still nestled against his shoulder. Alfred had blown out the lamp earlier, and he lay now in the dark and listened to the soft breathing of his wife lying at his side.

It was true, he thought, that he did not welcome the news that he was to have a new child as joyfully as he should. It was true also that a child was a gift from God, that it was a sin to place one’s own carnal pleasure above the Lord’s command to be fruitful and multiply.

But … It was not that he did not love his children. Nor was it only the continence that advanced pregnancy and childbirth imposed upon him. It was this feeling he had that in giving Elswyth so many children he was burdening her, chaining her, who was always meant to be free as air.

Sometimes he would look at her as she went about the manor, a child in her arms and children at her skirts, and he would feel so guilty.

She had grieved sorely for the little son who died. He too had sorrowed for the child, but it had been far worse for Elswyth. And, too, with every new child came the added fear for her own safety. Women died in childbirth far too often for any man to rest secure that his woman would be safe.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were the only two people in the world?” she had said to him tonight. No children, no thanes … no Danes to threaten their peace. It would be paradise, he had answered.

But this was not paradise, this was the world, And to each of them who lived in this world had God given duties. Alfred’s duty was to be king, to bear the burden of the safety of his people, to protect them and, in better times, to educate them so that they might come to a better light of understanding of the ways of God. His duty was to educate his children so that they too could lead their people in the way God most desired.

These were the burdens God had laid upon him, and he accepted them. It was not for himself he minded the fetters of this world; it was for Elswyth.

Sometimes he looked at her, and his heart would catch, and he would think: What have I done to deserve that God should have given me Elswyth?

He could smell the lavender from the soap with which she washed her hair. Put him blindfold into a room anywhere in the world, and he would know if Elswyth was there. As she would know him.

Well, at least they looked to get a time of peace from the Vikings. The last time he had made a peace with the Danes, they had stayed away for nearly five years. Surely he could expect at least half that much of a respite this time. If Guthrum were to settle his men in Mercia, the Danish leader would be well-occupied.

The fyrds could be sent home, the corn put into the fields, the sheep sheared, and all the work of the land go forward as it should.

Thank God for his ships. He did not think that Guthrum would have made a peace if it were not for the ships.

A picture of the Viking leader came before his mind: the brilliant, violent blue eyes; the short-cut yellow hair; the mocking sensual mouth. He was a predator, this uncle of Erlend’s; and he was a leader. Alfred did not think Guthrum was finished in Wessex. He would try again. But they would be safe for a while.

Elswyth stirred, as if his thoughts were disturbing her, and Alfred turned on his side and settled her so that her body fitted into the curve of his. The scent of lavender drifted to his nostrils, and he fell asleep.

Shortly after Guthrum moved to Repton, he sent to Denmark for new recruits. Then he began to parcel out to those of his followers who wished to settle, the lands of Mercia in the areas around Derby, Nottingham, Lincoln, Stamford, and Leicester. Tamworth he left to Ceolwulf, who was forced to shelter those Mercians who had been dispossessed by the land-hungry Danes.

Ethelred of Mercia was still in London, and Guthrum knew from his scouts that he had been joined by Guthrum’s former hostage, Athulf. For the time being, however, Guthrum was content to leave London to the Mercians. Guthrum’s major intent was to replenish his army, nor was it the recapture of London that was the aim of his present strategy.

Guthrum had no intention of allowing himself to be bested by Alfred of Wessex. The humiliation he had suffered at being forced to retreat from Wessex without a geld still burned in his heart. All through the spring he sat in the royal Mercian hall at Repton and plotted his revenge.

He knew, none better, the problem that beset the leader of any Viking army attempting to take Wessex. His weakness was that once established in a secure base, he had to forage for food and for fodder in the surrounding countryside. The West Saxons were adept at intercepting such foraging parties, and the resulting loss of men and of supplies was crippling to the Danes. It was lack of supplies that had forced Halfdan to withdraw from Reading six years ago, and it was lack of supplies that had forced Guthrum out of Wareham and Exeter just recently.

Supplies, then, were the main problem Guthrum must solve if he were successfully to take Wessex.

On the other hand, the main advantage of the Viking army was its mobility. Even though Alfred had mounted large numbers of his men, still the West Saxons were not accustomed to moving as swiftly as could the Danes.

The main advantage of the West Saxons was their unity. In no other Saxon kingdom had the men of all classes so stood together. No other country had been able to mobilize to fight, again and again, and still keep coming back in spite of defeat. And the reason for the West Saxons’ unity had become quite clear to Guthrum during this last campaign. It was their king.

Without Alfred to lead, the West Saxon defense would likely crumble. Guthrum was too much a leader himself to underestimate the importance of the man at the top. And now that he had met this Alfred face-to-face, he knew beyond a doubt that
there
was the heart and the brain behind Wessex’ success.

Men would follow Alfred. Even Erlend—Guthrum had seen the look in his nephew’s eyes when he gazed at Alfred. And for all his irritating ways, Erlend was no fool. If his enemy thought Alfred of Wessex was a hero, then what must his own people think?

In the face of all these facts, there was only one sensible conclusion that Guthrum could reach. Eliminate Alfred.

Eliminate Alfred, and the defense of Wessex would shatter. Eliminate Alfred, set a puppet king up in his stead, and the land would lie open before the Danes as willingly as any whore would lie for the man with the power to buy her.

Guthrum did not have to defeat the entire West Saxon fyrd. He just had to kill the West Saxon king.

Once he had settled on the goal, the plan to achieve it came easily.

In October 877 Alfred was holding a King’s Justice in Winchester when word came that the Danes had moved from Repton to Gloucester.