The Lost Tales of Mercia (12 page)

His smile had long since vanished, and his
lips were curling down into a scowl.

“If you were as ready to be a king as you
want everyone to believe, you wouldn’t linger here in Gainsborough,
hiding your face and hesitating about what to do next. It’s so
different now that he’s gone, isn’t it? It’s not what you thought
it would be. You thought you were ready. You thought it would feel
wonderful to be free from his constant scrutiny, from the need for
his approval, from the way you only seemed to matter to other
people so long as he was around. But now you got your wish and it’s
not at all what you expected. Is it?”

He moved so quickly that he must not have
been as intoxicated as she thought, after all. One moment his hand
was around his cup, and the next it was around her throat, shoving
her back and pinning her down to the table. She heard dishes
clatter and stools knock over, but then all she could hear was the
sound of her own breath, or lack thereof, as she tried to force it
past the vice-like grip of his hand.

Once she got over the shock of it, she began
fighting back. He only had one hand free to protect himself as she
reached for his own neck, stretching her nails out as far out as
she could, as if they were claws. She could not reach his throat,
but she managed to grab his tunic, her fingers scrambling and
curling until she had her hands full of the stiff fabric. She
yanked at it, unable to pull him closer, but managing instead to
rake the smooth skin of his chest with her nails.

He leapt back, hissing with anger. At that
moment she pounced on him, flying off the table and swinging for
his face. He scrambled back, towards the fire, and when he fell a
cry rose about the room, for it looked as if he might fall into it.
As she watched, she feared she might have done something truly
stupid. And in that moment of pause, he was able to grab her,
pulling himself to safety and carrying them both to the floor.

As soon as she began wrestling with him
against the rushes she lost track of who did what. They grabbed at
each other, pulling, pushing, and twisting. They rolled and
scrambled, and while her body seemed to be running over with pain
and discomfort, at the same time her blood felt hot and throbbing
within her, dulling everything else and replacing it with a numbing
exhilaration. She listened to his panting breath, his grunts of
effort as he tried to overcome her, and felt as if every part of
their bodies touched completely, even tough they flailed and rolled
about, constantly moving. She was rewarded by a profound
satisfaction every time she escaped his grasp or returned one of
his blows.

Then he got on top of her, and seemed to
have gotten the better of her. He stared down at her through the
pale strips of his hair, eyes blazing. In a moment of illumination,
she jabbed her knee into his groin.

He groaned and fell back.

Belatedly his housecarls came to his rescue,
and before she could move she was yanked up and pinned down again,
this time on both sides, her wrists crushed sharply against the
table.

Canute looked down at himself, his tunic
ripped open, his chest beaded with dark blood, his body bent
uncomfortably around his aching loins. He seemed at a loss. When he
looked at her again, she could not tell whether he was furious or
fascinated.

“Who did you say your father was again?” he
said with heaving breath.

She had never said it to him, as she
recalled. He had not given her the chance. “He was Ealdorman
Alfhelm of York.”

He frowned with puzzlement, then shook his
head. “Should I know him?”

She bit back her anger, which was easy to do
when she felt as if a single wrong move would cause the king’s
housecarls to break her arm. “King Ethelred chose Uhtred to take
over, because he seemed the stronger warleader against the Scots.”
She groaned with discomfort, struggling to maintain her composure.
“He had my father killed, and then his men took out my brother’s
eyes while I watched.”

This did not phase him in the least. “This
is of no use to me.”

“Yes it is, you bastard!” This caused the
housecarls to squeeze her tighter, but Canute only looked amused.
“Despite my family’s exile, I have managed to keep a lot of lands,
and a lot of wealth—”

“Be more specific.”

“I own nearly two hundred hides ... I think.
In Northampton.” She hurried past this uncertainty. “More
importantly I have connections. I know thegns in the Danelaw and
beyond because of my upbringing; they are kind to me because they
feel sorry for me. I know some who are loyal to King Ethelred.”

At this, Canute came closer, leaning over
her splayed, constrained body. She thought she felt his gaze,
exploring her more intimately than it had before. For some reason,
she did not feel ashamed of her body this time.

“Don’t you see, Canute? I am invaluable to
you. And you know you can trust me, because I would never help King
Ethelred. I swear it on the blood of my dead family.”

He sneered a little, but her heart raced,
for he was so close to her now that she could feel his breath
against her neck. Then, without any warning at all, he kissed
her.

She had never been kissed before. She was
not sure what she should have expected. But this, to be sure, was
not it. She was held captive, unable to move, and her arms ached;
but there were his lips, stiff against her quivering mouth, cool in
temperature. It was anything but romantic or tender. Even so, she
would not have pulled away, even if she could have. She felt as if
he was testing her, somehow; and considering how long he lingered
there, breathing against her, his slitted gaze looking in to hers,
she felt as if she passed.

Finally he pulled away, a strange look on
his face.

“I suppose you’ll do,” he said.

*

That night, he gave her a bed on which to
sleep, and then he shared it with her.

That day and the next few weeks were a
flurry of confusion and excitement for Alfgifu. Somehow, she had
succeeded in connecting with Canute in a much deeper way than she
had ever expected. She was by his side by day and then—a few
times—by night. She did not know if he thought of her as a wife,
but it seemed as if suddenly, she was one. She overheard his
housecarls saying that he had never “chosen” a woman before. He did
not act, as far as she could tell, as if he had fallen in love with
her. It seemed, indeed, as if he had simply chosen her. He let her
follow him around as he executed his affairs; when he was at a loss
he turned to her for council. And at night, sometimes when she
would last expect it, he would enter the chamber he had given her
and invite himself to her bed. Often he would blow out the candles,
and carry out his mission very matter-of-factly; but sometimes she
would insist on keeping them lit, and then she would purposefully
resist him. A struggle would ensue, making her blood roar and her
toes tingle, and when he overcame her she suspected he enjoyed it
as much as she did.

Alfgifu wanted to feel victorious, but she
did not let herself. She knew that Canute was using her, as surely
as she was using him. The nature of their relationship puzzled her,
as he continued to say nothing of marriage.

Whatever the case, it seemed as if she had
at least been able to spur him to action. He called together the
people of Lindsey and invited them to raid and plunder alongside
his Vikings. His warriors stretched their limbs and sharpened their
blades and she felt the vibrancy of war in the air. The people
cheered to Canute and looked to him as their ruler.

Canute was a natural leader, she thought. He
had a way of commanding people’s attention almost effortlessly,
even when he spoke with a quiet voice. He certainly did not lack in
confidence; in fact, his surplus of it easily overwhelmed the lack
of anyone else’s. Despite all this, she worried that he had not yet
established himself as king the way he needed to. The people
followed him now because they were restless; but what would happen
when they faced King Ethelred’s forces? Would they stay united
under Canute’s commands?

More importantly, how would Canute stand
against the influence and trickery of Eadric Streona?

Even with the Vikings’ eagerness to go
raiding and pillaging, she sensed small threads of doubt amongst
them. Perhaps, she thought, it was because they still did not know
where they would go, even as they made to prepare themselves. When
the jarls finally asked aloud where they would go first, Alfgifu
leaned close to Canute and whispered in his ear, “Mercia.” His eyes
flicked towards her, the only sign of acknowledgment; but otherwise
he did not respond.

Mercia was the logical choice, after all.
The lands of Mercia were lush and fertile, less ravaged than the
southern lands, and very, very nearby. Some would even consider
their current location to belong to the official earldom of Mercia,
as they had once been grouped together, until the Seven Boroughs
came together to form the Danelaw. No one would assume that her
real reason for suggesting it, of course, was because it was the
earldom of Eadric Streona.

Alfgifu had never been raiding before. She
felt certain that she would enjoy it. When she told Canute that she
wished to pillage and slaughter alongside the men, he laughed at
her, though in an affectionate tone. She brought it up again that
night as he led her through the grass to her lodge. He stopped,
turned to her, and put his hand on her belly.

“You have more important things to do.”

A roar filled her ears when she heard this,
for belatedly, she understood her purpose. Canute wanted an heir,
and he wanted it soon. This was probably the reason he had chosen
her so quickly, more than from any flare of passion or feeling of
“connection.” In one sense the notion of giving Canute an heir
filled her with excitement. But at the same time, her ears burned
with frustration.

“You are among Christians here,” she
reminded him. He was Christian, himself, or at least wanted to be;
she knew because he wore a cross around his neck. But she’d noticed
that some of his men still wore the pagan symbol of Thor’s hammer.
Without a doubt, it was easy for him to forget how he should act.
“They will want a legitimate child, one produced from a marriage in
the eyes of God.”

“God sees everything I do, I assure you.” He
wore a strange smile on his face. His pale skin and hair seemed to
glow white in the moonlight. “If you give me a healthy son, then
we’ll see about marriage.”

“That’s not how it works—” she began, but he
had already stopped listening, and she bit her own tongue. She
would give him what he wanted, so long as she got what she wanted
from him, eventually.

“Why did you come here, Alfgifu?” Chills
trickled down her body, for it seemed that his eyes, now possessing
a tiny twinkle, had seen into her mind. The smile was gone from his
face.

“I told you. I hate Ethelred. I want you to
be king.”

“Ah.” He gave a small nod, and she thought
she had satisfied him. Then he cocked his head at her again. “Is
that all?”

Her heart pounded in her chest as if it
wanted to escape. Fear filled her. Could he truly read her
thoughts? Was it some sort of pagan power? For a moment it seemed
to be so.

“I investigated your father’s death.
Ethelred did not order him to be killed. Alfhelm died of an
accident.”

“An
accident!
” Her voice came out
like a squeal, and her cheeks flushed with both fury and
embarrassment. She could only hope that Canute could not see the
extent of her distress in the darkness; but then, Canute seemed to
see everything. “And then King Ethelred killed my brother for
laughs?”

He only continued staring at her intently.
“Then what do you think happened?”

“I know what happened,” she snarled. “It was
Eadric Streona. He killed my father, and then he covered it up, and
Ethelred rewarded him for it.”

Canute chuckled softly. “Eadric Streona. He
must be a smart man, if he got away with it. In any case, he is
very powerful now.”

Her breath pumped in and out in angry huffs,
filling the quiet night like little thunderclaps. “Let’s raid
Mercia,” she said, her voice barely rising above her breath, “and
find out just how powerful he
really
is.”

“I like you, Alfgifu,” he said, surprising
her. Some of her anger drained away and she felt at a loss. “But
your intelligence disappoints me.”

“What—!”

He put a finger against her lips, pressing
harshly. “You are blinded by your foolish feelings, and that is a
grave weakness.” She felt a tremor go through him even as he said
this, and as if to hide it, he quickly pulled away. “Eadric is
powerful. He is also a potential ally. So I see no reason to fight
him.”

She could not believe what she was hearing.
It made her sick to her stomach.

“Consider his relationship with Thorkell the
Tall, my own mentor. Consider his relationship with the churches.
Consider the gifts he gave my father. Consider the way he
discourages Ethelred from marching into battle—”

“SILENCE!” She almost wanted to scream
again, the way she had done on the day she first arrived. But
Canute had a dangerous look in his eyes now, and she did not think
that ploy would impress him a second time. She did not think he
appreciated being interrupted, either, she realized. She gulped,
searching herself for more anger. “I did not come here to become
Eadric’s
ally
,” she spat. “And if that is your plan, then I
am leaving.”

“No,” he said. “You are not.”

“Oh—watch me!”

She turned and stormed away.

“Alfgifu!” The strain and fear in his voice
as he called after her only encouraged her. She walked faster,
disappearing into the night. “Stop her!”