The Edge of Light (28 page)

Pride and the fire of battle burned in his own veins. He fought to get to his uncle’s side. His arm was bloody up to the shoulder and he hacked and swore and killed with the rest of Guthrum’s followers. Under the banner of the White Horse the men of Wessex raged full as fierce.

Hammer of Thor, Erlend thought as he took a blow on his mailed shoulder and turned to give back as good as he had taken. The day would end with not one of them left alive to claim the victory!

Then, from the bottom of the hill, came a shout of triumph. Erlend saw Guthrum look toward the noise, and he locked his shield with the man’s beside him and looked also.

Fresh troops were entering the field on the side of the West Saxons.

“Forward, sons of Odin!” Guthrum shouted. But the men around him had begun to waver.

“Reinforcements. They have got reinforcements.” The word was running all through the ranks of the Viking army now. They had scarcely managed to hold their own against the troops on the field at present. Fresh men would turn the tide quickly. Slowly the Danes once more began to give ground.

“Is it the Mercians after all?” Alfred shouted to Edgar, miraculously still unwounded and still clutching the White Horse banner.

“I don’t think—”

“It is not the Mercians, my lord,” yelled Brand behind him. “It is the king. The king and all his hearthband, come from Mass to join the battle!”

Alfred’s face was streaked with blood from where he had wiped his hand across it. His hair, too, was matted with the blood of his enemies. But the sunlight showed his eyes clear and golden, and his teeth flashed in a brilliant grin. “Ethelred!” he said. “Perfect!” And turning back to the battle, he hurled himself once more into the fray.

Ethelred’s thanes, all trained warriors frantic to join the action, thrust themselves forward with wild enthusiasm. The fresh assault took the heart from the Danes. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, the Vikings began to turn and flee from the field. Guthrum held out longer than most, but when he saw that he alone of all the jarls was left on the field, he too called his men to a retreat. The area around the thorn tree was knee-deep in the dead when Alfred turned at last to go and confer with his brother, the king.

“A victory!” Ethelred said when he saw Alfred approaching. Then: “Holy God, Alfred! Are you hurt? You are covered with blood.”

“It is none of mine,” Alfred replied, wiping his hand on his trousers. “Ethelred, I think we should go after them. They are in no condition to harm us now, and the more of them we kill, the fewer there will be to meet us tomorrow.”

“I agree, my lord.” It was Ethelnoth of Somerset coming up now. “They are in full flight. Let us follow them until we lose the light.”

“Very well,” said Ethelred. “Give the order for the fyrds to pursue.”

Ethelnoth nodded but did not immediately turn away. Instead his eyes went to the blood-covered figure of the king’s brother. “Never again will I question your leadership, Alfred of Wessex,” the older man said deliberately. “You are a true son of your house, a battle leader I shall ever be proud to serve under.”

“I thank you, my lord of Somerset,” Alfred answered, full as gravely. “But it was the king’s coming up when he did that won us the day.” He looked at his brother and grinned. “You came so hard, Ethelred, I thought you were the Mercians!”

Ethelred, whose battle dress was scarcely stained, put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “You held them for me, Alfred. Ethelnoth and all the army knows that well.” He laughed a little unsteadily. “I can scarce believe it is true. We won!”

The brothers stood close together and surveyed the scene before them. All over the hill and the valley the ground was thick with the fallen. Most of the West Saxons were now in full pursuit of the fleeing Danes, save for the parties of men searching among the bodies to separate the wounded from the slain. The winter sun shone on this scene out of hell, and Alfred said to Ethelred, very grimly, “Yes, Ethelred. We won.”

Erlend and Guthrum did not reach the safety of the walls of Reading until after dark. The following day, when the war council gathered once more to plot the future, the full extent of their defeat became evident. Bagsac was dead, as were five of their jarls, among them the venerable Sidroc, who had been with Halfdan for more years than any could count. And nearly two thousand had fallen.

Guthrum sat silent in Halfdan’s booth and listened to the talk flow around him, his face unreadable. He had brought out a large number of his own men, but the thought did not console him. Guthrum had never yet lost in battle. He did not like the feeling.

“Who was the leader who fought under the White Horse?” he asked at last, when there came a lull in the discussion and all were beginning to look at him in puzzlement at his silence.

“The king’s brother,” Halfdan said. His seamed and weathered face looked the same as ever. Halfdan had been fighting for too many years to be dismayed by one lost battle. “Alfred, he is called. He is full young, I hear. Not yet in his mid-twenties.”

Guthrum grunted. Alfred, he thought, and saw again in his mind’s eye the slender figure under the waving scarlet banner of the White Horse. That was the one who had led the attack, had kept the West Saxons pressing forward. Guthrum was an inspired battle leader himself; he recognized his like.

“Their king was not on the field, my lord,” said one of the other jarls. The Viking war council exchanged looks of contempt. It was inconceivable to them that a leader would let his men go out to fight while he himself stayed safe behind.

“He fears the blood eagle,” said Halfdan. He showed his stained and broken teeth in a pleased smile. Then he looked once more around the diminished circle of his war council and issued his decision. “We cannot let them rest on this victory,” he said. “They will expect us to lie quiet, to lick our wounds for the winter. That we will not do. We will strike. We will carry the Raven banner into the very heartland of their country. We will aim for their chief city of Winchester. And sack it.”

The West Saxons posted guards to watch the Viking camp at Reading and quartered their own forces at Silchester, at the junction of the two Roman roads the Danes would be most likely to take should they try to break out of Reading. Alfred volunteered to take the news of their victory to Winchester.

“I want a bath,” he said to Ethelred the morning after Ashdown. “Let me bring the news to Elswyth and Cyneburg, and I will be back to you in two days’ time.”

Ethelred looked at his brother with wry amusement. “Elswyth will scarce recognize her spotless husband,” he said. “You are filthy,”

Alfred had done his best to wash in the icy conditions of the camp, but he was far from being his usual immaculate self. His hair was so stiff and matted that he had simply used his headband to tie it out of his way at the nape of his neck. He answered Ethelred now a little irritably, “I have dried blood in my nails and in my hair and I cannot get it out without hot water and soap.”

Ethelred peered more closely. He had teased Alfred for years about his fastidiousness. “In your ears too,” he said. “However did you get blood in your ears?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, I want it out!” There was a note of muted panic in Alfred’s voice, and Ethelred’s amusement died on the instant.

“Go to Winchester,” he said. “Nothing is like to happen here, though we shall keep our watch on Reading.”

“I shall be back in two days,” Alfred said.

“No need to rush,” Ethelred said comfortably. “The Danes will wait for you.”

Alfred took Brand and Edgar and set out for Winchester down the Roman road. The weather had turned even colder, and the sky looked to be building up for snow. The three men kept mainly to a steady canter, for warmth as well as for pace. The dark was coming on when finally they saw the walls and gates of Winchester before them. They rode in with the first snowflakes.

All Alfred wanted was a bath. But Cyneburg had come running out onto the steps of the great hall and he had to go to her. There was no sign of Elswyth, so he turned to Brand and asked, “Will you tell my wife I am here?”

“Yes, my lord,” the thane answered immediately, and giving the reins of the horses into other hands, he set out for the princes’ hall. Alfred went to meet his brother’s wife.

“Ethelred is well,” he said as soon as he came within hearing range. “There was a battle and we won.”

Cyneburg’s strained face lightened. She smiled up at Alfred as he reached the top step. “Our prayers have been answered,” she said fervently. “Come inside and get warm.”

Alfred followed her into the hall but refused to sit. “I am not fit to sit before any woman’s fire, Cyneburg,” he said firmly. “I need a bath. But the news I bear is heartening. We drove the Danes back to Reading and slew upwards of two thousand of their men.” He gave her a small smile. “Ethelred led the charge that broke them.”

“But he is all right?”

“He is in perfect health.”

Cyneburg smiled radiantly. “Thanks be to God.”

The door to the hall opened again and the voice he had been waiting for said, “Alfred! You won?”

He looked at his wife. “We won.” Then he said stupidly, as if it was all that mattered, “Elswyth, I need a bath.”

“Well, come with me and I’ll get you one,” she answered. She was at his side now and he looked down into the dark blue eyes he loved. He made no move to kiss her or touch her in any way, and after the briefest of moments she turned to Cyneburg. “Alfred brought two of his thanes with him. Will you feed them, my lady?”

“Certainly,” Cyneburg answered. “And they can tell me all about the battle. No need for you to return to the great hall this night, Alfred.”

He scarcely had time to thank her, Elswyth was moving so briskly toward the door. He caught up to her and they went out together into the early-winter dark, There was snow on the steps of the hall now. Alfred made a move to take his wife’s arm, stopped himself, and instead said sharply, “Be careful. It’s slippery.”

She nodded and went down the steps beside him, sure of foot even though she was great with child. They walked side by side to the princes’ hall, scarcely speaking. As soon as they were in the door, Elswyth called for the wooden tub they used for baths.

“Papa!” His daughter had seen him and was coming across the rush-strewn floor on steady feet. Flavia was an extremely agile and precocious child, had both walked and spoken at ten months of age. Her four little teeth were flashing in a wondrous smile and she held out her arms to be picked up.

Alfred recoiled. It happened before he knew it was going to happen, so he could not disguise it. Flavia stopped and looked from him to Elswyth. “Mama?” she said, uncertain where she had never been uncertain before.

Elswyth stepped forward and picked the child up. “Papa is all dirty, Flavia,” she said calmly. “He doesn’t want to touch you until he’s had a bath.”

“Dirty?” said Flavia and looked at Alfred from the safety of Elswyth’s arms. Her blue-green eyes were wide with wonder. “Papa?”

“Very dirty,” Alfred said.

Flavia peered closer. “Dirty!” She sounded extremely pleased.

Elswyth was looking around for Flavia’s nurse, and as the woman came forward she handed her daughter into another pair of arms. Flavia screamed in protest. Elswyth ignored her and said to Alfred. “Come into the sleeping room. They’ll have a bath for you very shortly.”

It seemed to take forever for the tub to be filled, Serving girls kept coming in and out with buckets of water. Alfred stood, his hands clasped out of sight behind his back, and listened to Elswyth telling him about a new litter of pups in the kennel. Finally the tub was filled and he could shed his clothes and submerge his filthy, bloodstained body in the hot water. Elswyth handed him a cake of soap and went out to the main hall. He ducked his head under the water and washed his hair. Three times. His nails washed clean as he was doing his hair. He scrubbed at his ears, at his face, at his chest, at his knuckles. The tub had been set before the brazier, but even so it was cold in the sleeping room. The water was turning chill when finally he felt that he was clean enough. The serving girl had left a towel on a stool near to the tub, and he wrapped himself in it as soon as he stepped out. He dried his body hastily and reached for the clean clothes Elswyth had left out for him on the bed. He was fully dressed and sitting on the room’s one chair crossing the garters that bound his trouser legs when Elswyth came back into the room.

He looked at her, a full long look, the first he had permitted himself since he came home. She smiled. “All right now?”

His returning smile was wry. “All right.”

She came to stand beside him, and picking up the towel, rubbed his hair to dry it. He sat perfectly docile under her touch. He did not move even when she fetched a comb and dragged it ruthlessly through the still-damp tangles. It wasn’t until she had finished that he spoke.

“I couldn’t bear to touch you,” he said. “I felt so … unclean. I killed so many men, Elswyth.” He was still in his chair and she was standing now before him. He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “I couldn’t touch you or Flavia with all that blood still on me.”

“I know,” she said. Her beautiful face was very grave. “I saw.”

He shuddered. “Ethelred said it was even in my ears!”

At that she stepped nearer and drew his face against the bulk of her stomach. “You are clean now,” she said quietly, “The blood is all gone.”

He pressed against her and she held him tighter. Finally, in a muffled voice that yet held a distinct edge of bitterness: “At least I did not get sick in front of all my men.”

She smoothed the hair that would not show gold again until it was dried. “Hawks kill without thought or without mercy,” she said. “So do wild boars. It is well that men are different from beasts. Is that not why God gave us souls?”

There was a long silence. Then he said, “You do not think I am craven to take killing so ill?”

“No.” The baby within her kicked so that they both felt it. She said softly, “I have carried life and know how precious it is, with how much care and toil it is brought into the world. It is well to mourn its passing, even by necessity.”