The Edge of Light (25 page)

After nearly an hour he heard the sound of a new voice outside the planked wooden walls of his uncle’s booth, and then the door was pushed open and a man was coming into the small cold room. Erlend stood, his hands hanging empty by his sides, his whole thin, adolescent’s body tensed and quivering, like a hound that has sighted a wolf. The man stopped by the oil lamp that burned beside the straw-filled platform bed that was the room’s only furniture. His shoulders were so wide they blocked half the room from Erlend’s view. Dimly Erlend remembered that his father had had shoulders like that. “So,” Guthrum said in a deep bell-like voice, “you are Olaf’s son.”

“Yes, my lord.” Erlend’s own voice, so clear and true when he sang to his harp, betrayed him now with a quiver. He flushed with embarrassment and pretended to clear his throat.

“And what are you doing in England, Nephew?” Guthrum asked. “The heir to Nasgaard has no need to go a-viking to increase his wealth.”

“My mother has remarried,” Erlend replied, willing his flexible voice to remain expressionless. “There is little love betwixt my stepfather and me, and I deemed it wisest for my health to put some distance betwixt us as well.” Then, chin up, eyes level on the huge blond giant standing before him: “Asmund has an eye to my father’s lands, my lord. He has an eye to my life as well. That is why I am here.”

Silence fell as the two in the booth regarded each other with measuring eyes. Erlend thought that his uncle was one of the most splendid-looking men he had ever beheld. Guthrum’s hair was the pale yellow color so often seen in Denmark, but he wore it cut shorter than Erlend was accustomed to seeing. It was a style that he had noticed among other men in the Thetford camp as he rode in, cut short to hang level with the earlobes, with a long straight fringe of bangs cut off just above the eyebrows.

It was something else, though, that caught the attention when one looked at Guthrum, something besides the obvious good looks. There was an air of suppressed violence about the man, Erlend thought. It was there in the glittering blue of the eyes, in the thin yet sensual line of the mouth under the short mustache.

Guthrum must be wondering where Olaf had got him from, Erlend thought with a distinct twinge of bitterness. For Erlend was small for his age, and thin, and his hair was brown and his eyes green. Looking at his uncle, Erlend thought that Guthrum would have been able to handle Asmund easily should their situations have been reversed. A man like Guthrum would not have had to come crying for help to an unknown kinsman.

Guthrum spoke at last. “How old are you?” he asked Erlend.

“Sixteen, my lord.”

“You look younger.”

“I know.” Bitterly,

There was another short silence. Then: “There was no one else to whom you could turn for help? Nasgaard is yours from your father; it cannot be given through your mother.”

“There is no one in Denmark these days who cares for aught that is not his,” Erlend replied, his voice even more bitter than before.

“By the Raven, but things have come to a pretty pass!” Guthrum moved again, gestured Erlend to a skin on the floor by the wall, and dropped to sit cross-legged himself on another skin. For such a big man he was very supple. “Well, brother’s son,” Guthrum said, “perhaps you have done the right thing in coming to me. England looks to offer more these days to men of enterprise than aught in Denmark can.” He raised a thick blond eyebrow. “You are small, but if you are your father’s son, you can use your weapons.”

“Of course,” Erlend said. He frowned. “But what of Nasgaard?”

“I have no intention of resigning Nasgaard to the tender care of this new husband of Eline’s,” Guthrum replied. He bared his teeth at Erlend. “You are your father’s only son; I am his only brother. If aught should happen to you it is not this Asmund who should inherit Nasgaard, but me. And I promise you, Nephew, I do not let anyone take what is mine.”

The relief Erlend felt was mixed with a trace of wariness. That was a wolf smile his uncle had given him for sure. “I am glad to hear that, Uncle,” he said cautiously.

“But Nasgaard can wait for now,” Guthrum said. “It will still be there when I want to put my hand on it. For now, England looks to be better game.”

Erlend wrapped his arms around his knees. “How is that?” he asked.

“Already we have taken the kingdoms of Northumbria and East Anglia,” Guthrum told him. “Mercia has paid us a great fine in geld to leave it alone. You see the preparations; we march within the week for Wessex. It should not be long until the whole of this island, its lands and its riches, lies securely under our rule.”

Erlend could feel his eyes stretching wide. “Is it so?” He had had no idea that the Danes in England were so successful.

Guthrum nodded and regarded him out of speculative eyes.

“Ivar the Boneless has led you well,” Erlend said.

Guthrum shrugged. “Ivar the Boneless is no longer with us. He went this winter to take over the rule in Dublin. Halfdan is our sole leader now.” Guthrum’s eyes flickered. “Halfdan and I have ever seen eye to eye,” he said.

Erlend considered this news. Ivar the Boneless was a legend in his own time even among his own people. It surprised Erlend that such a man would leave so seemingly successful an army, and he said so now to Guthrum.

“Dublin holds sway over the whole of Danish Ireland as well as over all the shipping on the Irish Sea, Nephew,” came the somewhat scornful answer. “The ruler of Dublin holds a position of great power.”

“Ivar the Boneless,” Erlend said, pronouncing the name with genuine awe. “I have never seen him, Uncle. Is it true he was born with only gristle in his body?”

“I do not know what is inside him,” Guthrum answered, “but truly I have never seen a man so flexible.” His sensual upper lip lifted a little in disgust. “It is not pleasing to look upon.” The blue eyes studied Erlend’s face. “You came alone?” he asked.

“I came with Thorkel, the son of Bjorn, my foster father, and with his two cousins, my lord.” Erlend’s green eyes burned. “I had no power at Nasgaard,” he said. “All the rest of my father’s men cleaved to Asmund.”

The fair eyebrows disappeared for a minute under the thick yellow bangs. Then: “I cannot let go this enterprise in England to jump to your command, Nephew. But once I have finished here, and have won my own land, then I will see what we can do with this usurper in Jutland. I recommend that you bide with me until then. Who knows? You too may increase your holdings by the worth of your sword.”

There was the faintest suggestion of amusement in the deep bell-like voice. Erlend’s hand suddenly itched to smash across his uncle’s handsome, violent face. Instead he said softly, “I thank you, my lord, for the invitation. I will stay.” Then, as Guthrum rose to his feet: “Will there be a battle soon, Uncle?”

Guthrum shrugged. “Who is to say? These Saxons are marvelous quick to spend their geld before ever they spend their lives. And the West Saxon king was at Nottingham when the Mercians chose to decline a fight. But if they do not fight, they will pay. Either way, brother’s son, we are the winners.” He looked Erlend up and down once more. “Fetch your belongings, Nephew, and set them down in here. On the morrow you can show me just how well you handle sword and ax.”

“Yes, my lord,” Erlend said, and went to do as he was bid.

The royal household was holding Christmas at Dorchester when word arrived that the Viking army had come down the Ridgeway from East Anglia into Wessex and encamped at Reading. First, Ethelred sent a rider to order the Ealdorman of Berkshire to call up the Berkshire fyrd immediately; second, he sent a messenger to Burgred of Mercia. Next Ethelred set about gathering the remainder of the West Saxon fyrds into one great army. The machinery for such a swift summoning had been put into place by Alfred during the previous year, so all concerned knew what must be done. It took but four days for the combined fyrds of all Wessex to arm and gather at Winchester.

Elswyth accompanied Alfred to Winchester even though she was but six weeks away from giving birth. She rode in a litter and he did not try to dissuade her from coming, knowing she was perfectly capable of following him on horseback the minute his back was turned.

One of the greatest tests her courage had ever faced was to send him off to Reading alone.

“I wish I could go too!” she said to him fiercely when finally they were alone together the night before the army was to march. “It is wretched being a woman and having to stay at home!”

“I wouldn’t like it at all if you were a man,” he replied teasingly. He flicked a finger against her thin cheek. “For I would love you still, no matter what your sex, and think how strange that would make me.”

They were in their sleeping room in the secondary hall at Winchester. Their daughter, Ethelflaed, whom they called Flavia, was asleep with her nurse in the room next door. The hall outside was packed with thanes sleeping two to a bench. All the halls and houses of Winchester were filled to overflowing tonight, and men were camped all along the city wall and on the outlying fields as well. On the morrow, five thousand West Saxons would march forth from Winchester to confront the Danes at Reading.

She did not want Alfred to go. Everything in her was crying out to him to stay behind, to stay with her. There would be a battle. He could be hurt or maimed … he could be killed … She could not bear it, she thought. She could not bear it.

“Elswyth?” Alfred said. He had put his shirt on the clothes chest and was coming toward her. She drew a long breath and forced herself to look at him. His eyes had darkened; they looked almost brown in the light from the oil lamp. He came to sit beside her on the bed and drew her into the circle of his arm. She sat perfectly still, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath the smooth bare skin pressed against her cheek. “You will be all right?” she heard him ask softly.

She heard the fear he was trying to conceal. Oh, God, she thought, I cannot let him go forth like this! Somehow, somewhere, she must find the courage to free him from the fetters of his love for her. Of his fear for her.

Blessed Mary, she prayed. You stood by and watched while they crucified your son. Help me now. Give me the courage that I need.

Alfred was not afraid to die. His faith in God was too strong for him to fear death for himself. It was for her that he feared, for her, who would be left behind without him.

“I shall be all right,” she answered. Miraculously her voice was strong, steady. “I have our children to see to. Do not fear for me, Alfred. You do what you must do, and I shall do the same.”

He loosened his arm so he could look down into her face. She made herself look back at him steadily, fearlessly. He cupped her chin in his hand. “I love you more than anything in the world,” he said. His eyes were growing golden again.

It took all the willpower she possessed to keep her face calm, to keep from clinging to him, from pleading with him to come safely back to her. “I will wager you anything you like that Cyneburg is weeping all over Ethelred,” she said. She even managed to curl her lip. “I am made of stronger stuff.”

The agony was worth it, for he smiled. A genuine smile, delighted and tender and relieved all at once. “So you are,” he said. Then: “Elswyth …”

No one ever said her name as he said it, short and clipped, with more an emphasis on the closing consonants than on the opening vowel. She had never liked her name until she heard Alfred say it.

She cursed the heavy, clumsy body that stood between them. He bent his head and kissed her, then held her against him so that his body was a shelter for hers. She pressed her face against his bare shoulder. His skin was so warm under her cheek. So warm. So smooth. So alive. His hands were hard and callused on the tips, but so gentle as they held her, so strong with life. She ran her own hand, flat-palmed, up and down his back, feeling the muscles under the smooth warm flesh. He was so perfect. She could not bear to think of him injured or hurt. It was anguish to have him here like this and know that in a few days he could be dead.

I cannot bear it, she thought. She felt his lips on her hair, turned her face into his shoulder once more, and knew that she would have to.

The Danes made their camp east of the royal manor of Reading, in a place where the junction of the rivers Kennet and Thames gave them good protection on three sides. It was a matter of hours to throw up an embankment on the fourth, exposed side of their position. Once the bank was up, it was time to look around the country for food and for plunder.

“Sidroc is leading a raiding party down the river tomorrow,” Guthrum said to his nephew on the evening of December 29. “Would you like to be of its number?”

Erlend regarded his uncle from beneath half-lowered lashes. Guthrum’s face was perfectly bland. “Yes, of course,” Erlend answered. There was no other answer he could make, and both knew it. “And you, Uncle?”

Guthrum shook his head. “This is Sidroc’s party. But you are anxious to blood your sword, I know, so I asked him if he would include you among his men.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Erlend answered, and if there was irony in his reply it did not color his voice. He was well aware that Guthrum would shed no tears if aught should befall him on the field of battle. Then would Guthrum have the unquestioned claim to Nasgaard. But he did not suspect his uncle of actively plotting his death. In that, Guthrum would be more honorable than Asmund. Or so Erlend hoped. And in truth, Erlend was not an ill hand with weaponry. Despite his size, he could hold his own against much larger men. He would go with Sidroc without complaint.

The night before they were to set out from Reading, a sleeting rain fell, and the early-morning frost froze it on the ground. Consequently the footing was slippery when the Danes set out to follow the Kennet west in search of food, fodder, and whatever else they might carry off from the rich Berkshire countryside. Erlend’s horse was full of energy and Erlend fought to keep him to a steady walk; too fast a pace, and both horse and rider would be down on the ice.

The raiding party’s breaths were white in the chill air. Like the others, Erlend wore his leather tunic but not his mail byrnie. They did not expect to meet with armed resistance. It would take weeks for the West Saxons to organize, if indeed they meant to offer resistance at all. Guthrum seemed to think they would be more likely to offer geld.