The Edge of Light (60 page)

Always before this, Guthrum had thought of Christianity as the religion of the weak. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps this crucified god called the Christ was indeed stronger than the gods of the northmen. Stronger even than Odin, who had been hanged once himself.

There was no other way Guthrum could account for the fact that he was trapped here within Chippenham and Alfred was without. Alfred had been as thoroughly defeated as ever man could be. Yet today …

It was magic, Guthrum thought as he watched the bodies of his men being slung into the gaping hole the West Saxons had dug. Nothing else could explain such a catastrophic reversal of fortune.

It took two weeks for the Danes within Chippenham to run through the available food supplies. Then Guthrum did what he had known he would do all along; he sued for a peace.

The Dane was not surprised when Alfred sent Erlend to do the negotiating. Erlend came to Chippenham alone, which did surprise Guthrum, a fact he mentioned as he met with his nephew within the king’s bedchamber in the royal hall.

“He will take your word for what transpired between us two?” Guthrum asked, his thick blond eyebrows raised in surprise. “I would not have thought Alfred to be so trusting.”

“He knows I will speak truth to him,” Erlend said. “But I cannot say that he has the same confidence in you. After all, you have broken your word to him twice already, Uncle.”

Guthrum did not look at all discomfited. In fact, he even smiled. “I am glad he did not kill you, Nephew, as he did the other hostages.”

Erlend stared in astonishment into his uncle’s bold blue eyes. The man had no conscience at all, he thought, and did not realize what an odd thought that was for a Viking to have.

“If you had any care for my well-being, you would have kept your word,” he said tartly to that shameless face.

Guthrum shrugged. “I thought I could capture Alfred. If I had, then you would have been perfectly safe,”

“The possibility that you might fail never crossed your mind?” Erlend’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Guthrum gave him a familiar wolf grin. “It was worth taking the chance,” he said. “I almost succeeded.”

Erlend slowly shook his head, amused in spite of himself. Then Guthrum asked, “Why did he not kill you, Nephew? He was quick enough to hang my first hostages, Yet here you are, healthy as ever.”

“He hanged those first hostages to teach you a lesson. Doubtless he came to realize that you are unteachable. Hanging me would have had no effect on you, and would have deprived him of a harper.”

Guthrum grunted. “What terms does Alfred offer me?”

“To begin with, the usual ones,” Erlend replied. “You must swear to leave Wessex, and give Alfred hostages to secure your word.”

Guthrum’s eyes narrowed and he regarded Erlend with patient skepticism. “And that is all?”

Erlend looked at the rush-strewn floor. It was filthy, a part of his mind noticed. The rushes did not look to have been changed for months. Elswyth would be furious to see what Guthrum had done to her lovely room.

“No,” he said. “That is not all.”

Guthrum grunted. He had not expected that to be all, “Well?” he prompted as Erlend remained silent. “What else?”

“You are to be baptized a Christian,” Erlend said, and waited for the storm to erupt.

Instead, there was silence. After what seemed like an age, Erlend tore his eyes away from the floor and raised them to his uncle’s face. To his astonishment, he found there an expression that he had never expected to see in a response to Alfred’s condition. Guthrum looked interested.

“He wishes me to become a Christian?”

“Yes,” Erlend replied, his voice faint with surprise. “Will you do it?”

Guthrum grinned. “Why not?”

Erlend’s jaw dropped.
“Why not?”

Guthrum stroked his close-clipped blond beard. For the first time, Erlend noticed streaks of gray among the blond. “You object?” Guthrum asked. “You have observed the worship of this Christian god more closely than I. Is there aught in it that would shame me?”

“No, nothing would shame you.” Erlend thought for a moment before he went on carefully. “You realize that the god of the Christians is very different from our gods, Uncle?”

“I think he is more powerful,” Guthrum said. “Statues of this hanging god are in all of Alfred’s manors, Erlend. I have seen them myself. Alfred worships this god with great faithfulness, and the god repays him with victory.”

An arrested look had come over Erlend’s face. “I see,” he said on a drawn-out note. Then, cautiously: “So you will become a Christian to share in the favor of the Christian god?”

Guthrum answered simply, “Yes.”

“Very well.” Erlend swallowed. “I will tell Alfred.”

“He will accept your terms,” Erlend said to the king some twenty minutes later as they met within Alfred’s tent in the West Saxon camp outside Chippenham.

Alfred’s eyebrow quirked. “He has little choice.”

“True. But I expected him to object to the baptism.”

“And he did not?”

“He seemed almost to welcome it! At first I did not understand, but then it came clear. I hope you realize, my lord, that Guthrum’s idea of Christianity is not your own.”

“What is his idea?” Alfred asked curiously.

“He thinks your god is more powerful than his. And, being Guthrum, he is anxious to get upon the winning side.”

Alfred’s white teeth flashed. “Perfectly understandable.”

“But what is the point of baptizing him?” Erlend cried in bewilderment. “He has no understanding of what he is doing, of what your religion really means.”

“I know that,” Alfred replied, and now his face was grave. “But if his own religion is not sufficient to bind him to his word, perhaps a new and more powerful religion will be.”

Erlend’s triangular brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

The reply was blunt. “I mean to scare Guthrum so badly with what will happen to him if he breaks his oath to Christ that he will keep out of Wessex forever.”

Erlend could feel his eyes stretching wide. “Scare him?”

“That is right.” Alfred’s mouth was grim, his voice harsh. “Honor means nothing to Guthrum. It is self-interest alone that drives him. I mean to make it seem very much in his self-interest that he keep his word to me.”

There was a moment of silence as Erlend digested these words. “Why don’t you just kill him?” he asked curiously.

“If I had caught him in battle, I would have killed him,” came the sober reply. “But he has sued for peace. If I kill him now, I shall probably find myself involved in a blood feud with the Danes who have settled to the north. They will feel obligated to avenge him. I do not want to involve Wessex in a blood feud, Erlend, so it is best if I can arrange matters in such a way that Guthrum and I cease to be enemies and become neighbors instead.”

“You will let him have Mercia, then?”

“He can have whatever part of England he chooses, but he cannot have Wessex.”

“What hostages will you take?”

Alfred smiled. “Not you, my friend. You have served your time in that capacity, I think.”

Erlend did not reply.

“What will you do, Erlend?” It was Alfred’s turn to ask a question. “Will you sail home to claim Nasgaard, as you said you would?”

“Home,” Erlend said. His smile was crooked. “I don’t know where home is anymore, my lord. I have been from Denmark for so long … have dwelled for so many years among your people … I am like a creature caught between two worlds.”

“You will always have a place in my household,” Alfred said, and Erlend felt his heart begin to accelerate.

“As your harper?” he asked.

Alfred shook his head. “As my friend.”

Erlend bent his head so his hair would swing forward to hide his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I am going to do.” His voice sounded oddly muffled.

“Become a Christian with Guthrum,” Alfred said.

Erlend’s head came up slowly. His nostrils were dilated and he was breathing as if he had been running. He found Alfred’s grave eyes waiting for him. “You understand what Guthrum does not,” Alfred said softly. When Erlend still did not answer, he said, “Think about it, Erlend.” The king’s hand rested for a brief moment on his shoulder; then Alfred went out into the sun, leaving Erlend alone in the tent.

The baptism ceremony for the Danes was held at Aller, the church where Alfred and his men had worshiped during their time at Athelney. Receiving baptism along with Guthrum would be twenty-nine of his chief men, and Erlend Olafson, his nephew.

Like Athelney, Aller was deep in the marshes of Somerset. Guthrum looked around with interest as his horse followed Alfred’s through the perilous reeds; there was no way of telling to the untutored eye where lay dry land and where lay water. All Guthrum could see for miles around was this vast sea of reeds.

Guthrum looked from his surroundings to the back of the man riding before him. These marshes had been the saving of Alfred of Wessex, he thought. Had it not been for them, and the protection they had afforded …

Alfred’s head suddenly swung around, as if he had heard Guthrum’s thought, and the two men looked at each other. Guthrum said in his thick Saxon, “You … lucky …” and he gestured to indicate he meant the swamps.

Alfred grinned. “Yes,” he replied. “I know.”

Guthrum understood him. He found Alfred’s crisp diction surprisingly easy to follow. “How long …” he said. “To church.”

“Not long now,” came the reply. “We are almost there.”

And indeed in less than half an hour they had come to the church at Aller. Aller was like Athelney and Glastonbury, an island when the waters were high in spring, but in the summer its moat dried up and it was left accessible on all sides. At this time of year they still had to cross by the narrow planked bridge that gave access to the church to the people of the surrounding area.

The church at Aller was a small narrow stone structure with high narrow windows cut into the stone on both long sides. There were many churches in Wessex that were more impressive. Indeed, the church at Wedmore, not too far distant, would have seemed a more likely place to hold these auspicious baptisms. Wedmore not only had a large church but also was a royal residence and could provide comfortable accommodations for all of the party.

But it was at Aller that Alfred had prayed during the most bitter hours of his exile in Somerset, and it was to the baptismal font at Aller that he was bringing his Viking king and all his followers. It was Alfred’s thanksgiving for the way his prayers had been answered.

Guthrum had been in Christian churches before, but only to sack them. Today he was here to profess allegiance to the Christian god he had so often defamed, and he found himself impressed. Aller was not nearly as large as many of the monasteries Guthrum had previously passed time in, but there was power breathing in the air here. Guthrum could feel it; it prickled the hair on the back of his neck. This was the well from which Alfred drew his strength, Guthrum thought as his eyes went searchingly to the grave face of the man who was his sponsor.

Alfred was not weak, nor was he the man to worship a god who was weak. Alfred was a leader, strong, ruthless, and, thanks to his god, blessed with luck.

Guthrum’s eyes moved from the golden-skinned face of his godfather to the crucifix that hung over the altar. This hanging god expected faithfulness from his worshipers. Guthrum had been made to understand that. When he swore an oath on the statue of the hanging god, he must keep it. If he did not, ill luck would plague him all his life, and in the afterlife he would burn in a place called hell.

He had been a fool all these years to think Christianity a religion of weakness, Guthrum thought now as the white linen headband was bound over the chrism on his forehead. This Christ was a god of battles, a god of vengeance. Guthrum could understand power like that. Gladly would he pledge his allegiance to such a god.

A god was in the air. Erlend felt this as well as Guthrum as he knelt before Alfred’s priest and felt the coolness of the chrism being placed on his forehead. Light was slanting in through the high narrow windows cut into the stone and falling on the tapestried hangings, on the golden altar vessels, and on the two fair heads of Alfred and Guthrum. The diffused scent of balsam hung in the air, the scent of the god. Father Erwald was chanting words in Latin as he bound the white linen headband around Guthrum’s forehead to keep the precious chrism in place. Then the priest was advancing to do the same for Erlend.

Erlend had not yet decided what he would do when this christening tide was over. He could take the men that Guthrum had promised him and sail for Denmark to reclaim his inheritance. Or he could go with his uncle and settle the lands of East Anglia, which was what Guthrum planned to do. Guthrum was no more for Denmark. He liked it in England, he said. He liked the climate and he had come to like the women. He would stay here and rule as king over the lands of East Anglia and Mercia. Erlend was welcome to join him.

Or he could stay in Wessex. At Alfred’s court, as Alfred’s friend. Heart-whole at last, no longer playing a role, pretending to be that which he was not.

The priest was now going down the line of Danes, binding the linen around all their foreheads. The linen must remain for a week, Alfred had told Erlend; then it would be removed in a chrism-loosing ceremony. That ceremony would be held at the royal manor of Wedmore, whence the party was headed on the morrow.

A beam of light slanted in the window and fell on Alfred’s face. The king was looking at Guthrum, and he wore an expression that Erlend had not expected to see in this particular place, at this particular moment. There was no trace of triumph, of exultation, of joy, on Alfred’s face. Instead the king looked almost grim.

A shiver ran down Erlend’s back. Guthrum, he thought, had better honor his word this time.

Then Guthrum’s head turned, and for a brief moment the eyes of the two kings met. Erlend was certain that his uncle read in Alfred’s face the same message he had. For a moment his breath held as he watched Guthrum’s vivid violent eyes locking with Alfred’s ruthless golden gaze. Then a corner of Guthrum’s mouth flew upward in a crooked smile, and the Viking sketched a gesture of almost courtly submission with one of his hands. Alfred’s hawk eyes veiled themselves and he gave the Dane the faintest of nods. Then both kings were once again turning to the priest, who had finished with the linen and was returning once more to the altar.