The Edge of Light (9 page)

“Thirteen,” said Eadburgh, and her mouth set into a long straight line. “And I agree with you, my lord, that she is too old to continue her hoydenish ways. It was her brother allowed her to join the hunt. Athulf is too lax with her.”

“Ah, well,” said the ealdorman genially. “Doubtless he is fond of his sister.”

What did this interfering yellow-fanged old nuisance have to say about what Athulf allowed her to do? Elswyth’s eyes were narrowed now, and so dark a blue they were almost black, always a dangerous sign. She opened her mouth to leap to her brother’s defense, and felt her mother’s hand close on her arm. Hard.

“That is so, my lord,” Eadburgh was saying to Edred in a sweet voice. Her voice was so totally at odds with her iron fingers that Elswyth stared at her mother in astonishment. Eadburgh was continuing meaningfully, “But for all that she is young, she has been well-taught. Elswyth will know her proper place when the time comes.”

Eldred nodded and smiled. Elswyth sat silent under her mother’s grip. When finally it relaxed, she remained perfectly still, refusing to rub the hurt, which would leave bruises on her arm for several days.

She wished quite desperately that she was home at Croxden. She hated Tamworth, hated all the people at court, hated the way her mother was acting with Edred. Elswyth had never been one to adapt easily to change, and nearly all the people who surrounded her these days were strangers. She missed her horses and her dogs, missed the manor folk who were more her friends than her servants. She scarcely saw Athulf or Ceolwulf anymore, and was cooped up for whole afternoons with her mother and her mother’s women.

There was nothing for Elswyth to do in Tamworth. The girls her age did needlework and talked about marriage. Elswyth hated needlework and planned to live the rest of her life with her brothers. She was bored. She was even beginning to become frightened. She bent her head and stared at her plate, her appetite quite vanished. She had asked Athulf today if they would be returning home soon, and he had avoided answering her.

Elswyth thought she would prefer even the Danes to another few months of Eadburgh and Tamworth.

Ethelred and Alfred returned to Wessex in mid-July, to the usual round of travel from royal manor to royal manor. On the surface, nothing in Wessex seemed changed, But beneath the surface, Alfred felt an ominous sense of waiting, an impression that the collective breath of the country was being held. The Danes had conquered Northumbria. Where would they move next?

In October, word came that Ivar the Boneless had named a new king for Northumbria. He was an Englishman, not a Dane, and his name was Egbert.

“I never heard of him,” Ethelred said to Alfred when they discussed this news together after the messenger from Burgred had been dismissed. “Egbert? He was not an ealdorman.”

“Doubtless some spineless thane Ivar saw he could manipulate,” Alfred replied. “He is of no account; a king who will move to Ivar’s command the way a child moves a glove-doll.” He frowned. “I do not think this appointing of a puppet king bodes well, Ethelred. If Ivar planned to remain in Northumbria, he would not have done thus.”

Alfred’s foreboding proved all too correct. In mid-November the Danish army, moving with a speed that astonished the shocked Mercians, came down the valley of the Trent to Nottingham, one of Burgred’s towns that lay but thirty miles to the north of Tamworth. The Danish army then proceeded to systematically raid the countryside.

Burgred sent a frantic message south, to his brother-by-marriage the King of Wessex, reminding Ethelred of his alliance to Mercia and asking for assistance.

It was the end of December when Alfred and an escort of fifty thanes rode north to Tamworth in order to confer with the Mercian king and to gather information for Ethelred as to the actual situation in Nottingham.

The day was gray and silent, with a low sky that seemed full of snow, when Alfred reached Tamworth. It had snowed lightly the night before, and white sprinkled the roofs of the halls and covered the woodpiles stacked against the palisade walls. The great hall of Tamworth was decked with evergreens and the Yule log still smoldered on the hearth, but the faces that greeted Alfred as he came forward to salute his host were far from festive.

“It is good to see you, my boy,” said Burgred heavily.

Ethelswith came to give Alfred the kiss of peace. Her lips felt chill as they touched his cheek.

Burgred had called together his witan to hear what Wessex would have to say, and the nobles and bishops of Mercia assembled quickly in the great hall as soon as they learned that Alfred was come. Alfred knew most of the Mercian ealdormen by sight. They were all older, save for Athulf, with whom Alfred exchanged a friendly smile.

The men sat along the benches in the great hall before the remnants of the Yule log. Edred, Ealdorman of the Tomsaetan and chief of the Mercian nobles, spoke first. “What does King Ethelred plan to do about these Danes?”

Alfred raised one perfect eyebrow and forbore to point out that the Danes in Nottingham were chiefly Mercia’s problem.

Burgred said, almost querulously, “When Mercia swore allegiance to your grandfather, King Egbert, he promised to protect us. Wessex does owe us assistance, Alfred. Surely Ethelred recognizes that.”

Now Alfred was really surprised. It almost sounded as if Burgred had nothing planned, was waiting for Ethelred to do it all. He looked around the circle of Mercian nobles and did not like what he saw. Athulf was the only man to meet his eyes, and Athulf was looking very grim.

Alfred looked back to his brother-by-marriage and said very evenly, “Ethelred is above all else a Christian king, my lord. In the face of such a threat as that posed by the Danes, it is essential for all Christian kings and Christian lands to stand together. Wessex will help Mercia in this time of need.”

The heavy tension Alfred had felt in the hall shattered. For the first time since Alfred had arrived, Burgred smiled. “Thanks be to God,” he said devoutly. Then, “What shall we do?”

Alfred looked at Athulf. The young Mercian refused to look back. The rest of the nobles were staring at the West Saxon prince, waiting for him to answer.

Alfred was astonished. Almost embarrassed. He laced his jeweled hands together on his knee and asked mildly, “What is the situation at present in Nottingham?”

At least the Mercian witan seemed to be well-informed as to what was happening in the Danish camp. The Danes apparently had made no attempt to move beyond Nottingham. They were behaving much as they had while they were in York—staying within their defenses save for quick raids into the surrounding countryside. “Most of the people within a ten-mile radius of Nottingham have fled,” Athulf said. “The very name of Ivar the Boneless is enough to strike terror into the stoutest of hearts.”

“No resistance has been offered to them?” Alfred asked.

“No,” answered Athulf, and his blue eyes met Alfred’s stoically. Athulf’s eyes were paler by far than his sister’s, Alfred found himself thinking inconsequently. Then Athulf added, “The king has not yet called up the fyrd.”

So Alfred had begun to suspect. He looked around the circle of Mercian nobles, however, and said in surprise, “You have not called up the fyrd, my lords? But why not?”

“Not all the thanes of Mercia would be enough to defeat Ivar the Boneless and his godless, blood-soaked army,” Edred answered him angrily. “In the name of God, Prince, these are the men who have spent the last ten years despoiling the great cities of France! They are professionals! Compared to them, we know nothing of making war.”

It was Athulf who replied to his fellow countryman: “We are going to have to learn, my lord.” He looked around the faces of the nobles who comprised the Mercian witan, and added, “The Danes are not going to go away.”

There was a brief unhappy silence. Then Alfred said crisply, “No, I fear they are not.”

Burgred looked at him. “Alfred …” The Mercian king’s voice was almost pitiable in its misery. “What should we do? What will Ethelred do to help us?”

“He will raise the fyrds of all the shires to come to your assistance,” Alfred answered in the same crisp voice. “Ethelred suggests that we wait until the spring, when the roads are passable. Then will he march the combined fyrds of Wessex to join with the combined fyrds of Mercia before Nottingham. We think it is safe to wait until the spring. The Danes are unlikely to attempt a move in midwinter.”

Athulf’s thin dark face began to blaze. “Thanks be to God!” he said.

Even Edred was nodding judiciously. “Good. Perhaps one strike with our combined armies will be enough to rout this Danish threat forever.”

Burgred said, “And perhaps the Danes will be satisfied with their plunder, will return to Northumbria before the spring.”

There was a startled silence. Athulf looked disgusted. Even the Bishop of Renton looked at his king in wonder. Alfred said, “Perhaps they will, my lord. But I would not wager any money on it.”

“Nor would I,” Athulf said, and there was a general murmur of agreement among the rest of the Mercian witan.

“We will raise our fyrds, Prince,” Edred said to Alfred. “And come the spring, let us see what we can do to drive the Danes from this land forever.”

“Athulf!” Elswyth pounced on her brother as soon as he came out of the great hall after meeting with the witan and the West Saxon prince. “I must speak to you!”

Athulf tried to shake her hand off his arm. “I can’t stop now, Elswyth. I have business to attend to.” Then, when she showed no signs of letting go her hold on him. “When did you arrive in Tamworth? I thought you and Mother were at Croxden.”

“Mother is still at Croxden,” Elswyth replied. “I got to Tamworth but an hour since. I must speak to you, Athulf!”

He had been trying to walk forward, dragging her beside him, but now he stopped dead. “Mother is still at Croxden? Then how did you get to Tamworth?” He swung around to look at her, and for the first time noticed that she was wearing boy’s clothes.

“I rode,” she replied, the unmistakable ring of defiance in her deep voice. She dropped her hand from his arm.

“Who brought you?” His brow was beginning to cloud ominously.

She put up her chin. “I made two of the grooms come with me.”

At that, his anger kindled. “God in heaven!
Elswyth!
The Danes are at Nottingham and you are careering around the countryside by yourself! Are you mad?”

She did not back away from his wrath. His anger had never intimidated her. “Not mad, Athulf,” she replied. “Frightened. And not of the Danes,” He noticed for the first time that there were shadows under her eyes. “Did you know that Mother is planning to marry me to the Ealdorman of the Tomsaetan?” she demanded.

Quite suddenly he could not meet her eyes. “She spoke to me of it, yes.” Even to himself he sounded evasive.

“You cannot have agreed!” Her voice was passionate, her beautiful skin flushed with color. “Athulf, he is old! And , . . disgusting!”

Athulf cast a quick look around. “Hush. This is not the place to speak of such private matters.”

“Then come with me to our hall.”

He set his jaw. “I cannot. I have an errand for the king.”

Her hand shot out to grab him once again. “Then you will have to speak to me here in the courtyard, for I am not letting go your sleeve until we discuss this.” He recognized the stubborn expression on her face. When Elswyth looked like that, there was no moving her. “Oh, all right,” he said, goaded, “I suppose I can spare you a few minutes. Come to the hall.”

They entered their family hall and Athulf took her to his sleeping chamber for privacy. “Now,” he said, turning to her as soon as the door had closed behind them. “I cannot approve your behavior, Elswyth. It was folly to ride through the countryside alone—” He ignored her defensive, “I had two grooms!” and continued inexorably, “Mother must be worried unto death about you. I shall have to send a messenger directly to assure her you are safe.”

Elswyth, as ever, refused to be distracted from the main issue. “I will not marry Edred,” she said. Her face was set and stubborn, her expressive mouth set into a thin line of determination.

She is but fourteen years of age,
Athulf said to himself.
I
will not let her rule me.
He clenched his teeth and said, “You will marry whomever Mother and I choose for you.”

Her eyes darkened to midnight blue. The top of her head did not reach to his chin, but her will was stronger than his. He knew it. Her will was stronger than anyone’s, save perhaps their mother’s. He felt a flash of anger that Eadburgh had put him into this position and then failed to be here to support him. Elswyth said defiantly, “You cannot force me against my will. The church forbids it.”

“The church enjoins you to obey those who are set in authority over you,” he answered. Then, as her eyes flashed, “For the love of God, Elswyth, it is a splendid match! Edred is the most powerful noble in Mercia. He is rich. You will have all the comforts any girl could desire. He will be good to you. He cares for you. It was he who approached me, you know, not the other way around.”

“I don’t care about comforts,” she said. This, unfortunately, was perfectly true. Athulf knew his sister cared for nothing that ordinary girls cared for, clothes and trinkets and such. She was as unlike other girls as a mountain lion is unlike a tame barn cat. “I never want to marry,” she went on. “I want to go on as I always have, living with you and Ceolwulf.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find her looking pleadingly into his face. “Please, Athulf,” she said. “I do not want to marry!”

Against his will, his heart was wrung with pity. He heard, and understood, the fear that was in her voice. Poor child, he thought. Then he told himself sternly that she was not a child any longer. She was fourteen, an age when many girls married. She must grow up sometime. She must marry. All girls must marry. Marry or take the veil, and Elswyth would go mad confined within the walls of a convent. Which meant it must be marriage, and they were not likely to get a better offer than Edred’s.