The Edge of Light (40 page)

“Men will ever follow a leader who is strong,” Guthrum said.

Erlend thought of Asmund. “Yes,” he agreed a little bitterly. “That is so.”

“We will go together to see Halfdan,” Guthrum said, draining his cup and getting to his feet. “He will be pleased with you, Erlend.”

That, of course, was Erlend’s hope, and he rose with alacrity to follow his uncle.

That night Guthrum sent him the Mercian girl. Erlend found her waiting in his room when he returned there after a great banquet in Halfdan’s new-acquired London hall. She was sitting on his bed when he came into the room, her hands folded in her lap, her head bent.

He halted at the door in surprise, then slowly closed it behind him. She did not look toward him, but he could see by the lamp how tightly her hands were clasped together.

“What is your name?” he asked her in Danish.

At that she looked toward him. She shook her head and answered in Saxon, “I do not understand you, my lord.” Her voice did not have the exaggerated drawl of Elswyth’s, but still it held a cadence that was somehow disconcertingly familiar.

“What is your name?” Erlend asked again in his excellent Saxon.

Blue eyes widened. Then she answered reluctantly, “Edith.”

“Edith.” He began to walk slowly toward the bed. She watched him come, her eyes wide and frightened, her hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white. “Are you a serving girl, Edith?” he asked.

Her chin rose a little. “This is my father’s house,” she said.

“Where is your father?”

“You killed him,” came the flat reply.

He too sat on the bed, careful to keep some distance between them. “I never saw your father,” he said. “How can you say I killed him?”

“You … your people … Guthrum,” she answered. She said his uncle’s name as if it were a curse. “My father tried to protect me from him, and he killed him. Killed him and then ravished me.” She was staring at her hands. “He sent me to your room. He said you wanted me.”

She was a very pretty girl. Her hair was pale brown and fine as silk. Her eyes were a mix of blue and gray. Erlend remembered suddenly an incident that had occurred at Lambourn some weeks ago. One of the minor shire thanes who had a manor near the royal estate had raped the daughter of a ceorl. The ceorl had appealed to the king for justice, and Alfred had made the thane marry the girl.

Erlend had been shocked by the judgment. The girl was of no consequence, far below the social level even of a shire thane. He could not believe that the thane had accepted the king’s decision.

“It was better than being gelded,” Brand had said bluntly when Erlend questioned him. “Nothing makes Alfred more furious than seeing the powerful take advantage of the powerless. The man can count himself lucky all he had to do was marry the girl.” Alfred’s trusted thane had shrugged. “Perhaps it will teach a few others to be more careful. There are whores enough in all the towns. No need to hurt a simple maid.”

Erlend looked now at the slim figure beside him and remembered Brand’s words. No need to hurt a simple maid. He said, “I will not hurt you, Edith.”

She did not move, did not look at him, only sat there, still as a wild creature at bay. “I will not touch you,” he added, clarifying matters as best he could.

At that her head turned. He smiled a little, trying to reassure her. Then, awkwardly he said, “I am sorry about your father.”

Tears brimmed suddenly in her eyes. She nodded, unable to reply.

“Stay the night,” Erlend said. “That way, he will not …” His voice trailed away. She was looking at him warily. “You can have the bed and I will take the floor,” he said, and her eyes widened in amazement.

And so Erlend Olafson, whose grandfather had deposed a king, who was rightful heir to one of the greatest estates in Jutland, spent the night on the floor so a merchant’s daughter could sleep unmolested in his bed.

The royal household remained at Wilton for all of March. The weather was fine and the fields of Wessex went early under the plow. Alfred had brought a hundred of the Danish horses with him to Wilton, and after Easter the ceorls who were members of the Wiltshire fyrd came to Wilton to learn how to ride.

“They need to be able to steer their horses and not fall off,” Alfred warned his wife, who, to the astonishment of no one who knew her, was undertaking to lead this training. For form’s sake, Alfred had assigned a number of his thanes to the task, but everyone knew who was really in charge. “They do not have to ride like centaurs, Elswyth,” he said now warningly. “Do not be too fussy.”

“What are centaurs?” Elswyth asked.

“Creatures out of Greek myth,” Alfred replied. “I saw some paintings of them once when I was in Rome. They are supposedly half-man, half-horse.”

“Do not worry, Alfred,” Elswyth assured him with a sunny smile. “I will not be too harsh on your poor ceorls. I promise.”

Alfred’s heart was not with the horses these days, but with his ships. They were being built at Southampton, and every chance he could get, Alfred rode south to see how the work was coming along.

Erlend had been shocked when first he saw the size of Alfred’s ships. He had not paid much attention to talk of the ships before going to Southampton. The Anglo-Saxons had been too long away from the sea, he had thought, for them to pose any threat to the Danes on that element. Fishing ships were most likely what Alfred was building in the fond hope of challenging the Vikings on the sea.

Then he saw the long ships already in the water at Southampton. Two of them had sixty oars. The sides were higher than the long ships used by the Danes, and they rode extremely steady in the water.

Name of the Raven, Erlend swore under his breath. Where had the West Saxons learned to build such ships?

Then he met the Frisians.

Apparently Alfred had realized his countrymen’s lack of expertise in this area also, and he had induced a whole company of Frisian shipbuilders to come to Wessex to build ships and teach the West Saxons to sail them. Alfred was one of their most enthusiastic pupils.

Erlend had learned to sail a longboat before he was ten, but he deemed it wisest to conceal his knowledge. Alfred already thought him more accomplished than was easily explainable by his fictive background. Add a mastery of sailing to mastery of harp and horse, and his disguise would be in shreds.

The sailing weather was particularly good that spring, and Alfred remained at Southampton for longer than he had originally planned. Erlend and Athelwold were with him. Alfred seemed always to include the two of them, no matter how small the rest of his entourage might be. Athelwold was flattered by the honor. Erlend was beginning to wonder if the reason was that Alfred did not trust them out from under his eye.

One afternoon, some three weeks into their stay at Southampton, Athelwold came seeking Erlend, who was cleaning and oiling his bridle on a bench in the manor hall.

“I have just unearthed a very interesting piece of information,” Athelwold said, sitting beside Erlend and regarding the harper with an air of suppressed excitement.

“Oh?” Erlend looked up from polishing his bit. “And what is that?”

“Alfred has a mistress in the neighborhood.”

Erlend was conscious of a nasty shock of surprise. “A mistress? Alfred? Someone is fooling you.”

Athelwold’s pale blue eyes, lashed by reddish lashes lighter than his hair, were blazing with triumph. “Not so. I learned it from Brand. She is the lady of a small manor near to here, and Alfred lived with her for a full two years before his marriage.”

Erlend felt a surge of relief. “Oh.
Before
his marriage.” He gave Athelwold a scornful look. “What news is that?”

Athelwold scowled at this lack of enthusiasm. “She is very beautiful, this Roswitha.
Very
beautiful. Brand told me so.” The pale eyes narrowed. “I wonder if Elswyth knows about her.” He spoke Elswyth’s name as if it were some noxious poison.

Erlend straightened the brow band on his bridle and looked thoughtfully at his companion. Elswyth did not like Athelwold, and when the king’s wife did not like someone, that someone knew it. Unlike Alfred, one was never in doubt as to Elswyth’s feelings. Those she liked, she treated as brothers; those she did not like, she disdained. Whatever else she was, Elswyth was not lukewarm.

Erlend looked now at Athelwold’s excited face and knew that Athelwold would very much enjoy causing trouble between Alfred and his wife. Erlend ran his finger up and down the smooth leather of his bridle and thought that although he too would enjoy seeing the confident king made uncomfortable, he did not want Elswyth to be hurt. So he said to Athelwold sharply, “Be careful you do not make a fool of yourself, Athelwold. Elswyth will never believe ill of Alfred.”

The pale eyes regarded him unblinkingly. Then he said, “I forgot for the moment that you are one of her champions.” The king’s nephew pushed his long lanky form up from the bench and strolled away to the fire. Erlend watched him go, a frown between his triangular dark brows.

Alfred was thoroughly enjoying his stay at Southampton. The shipbuilding was progressing satisfactorily, and it seemed every day he learned something new about sailing and the sea. Alfred was always happy when he was learning, and the beautiful weather, and the smell of fresh salty air added zest to his enjoyment. If only Elswyth were at Southampton, he thought as he rode from the harbor through the town late one particularly fine afternoon, then would life be perfect. It would be extremely pleasant not to be retiring every night to a lonely bed.

He walked into his hall as he had every other afternoon for the past three weeks, sunburned and hungry, looking forward to his dinner. He was surprised when Athelwold came up to him and said, “My lord, a visitor arrived for you this afternoon.”

Alfred thought that a ship from France had docked. The books! he thought with pleasure. One could always trust Judith to find what one wanted. “What visitor?” he asked Athelstan’s son, looking around the hall for a strange face.

“My lord, the visitor is awaiting you in your sleeping chamber,” Athelwold said respectfully. “Shall I go—?”

“No.” Alfred gave his nephew an absentminded smile. “I shall go myself.” And he strode across the hall to push open the door to his private room.

When he saw who was awaiting him, he stopped as if he had walked into a wall.
“Roswitha!”
The thanes in the hall could clearly hear the surprise in that shocked exclamation. Then Alfred turned and closed the door behind him.

Roswitha had heard the surprise too, and she looked at him out of huge frightened gray eyes. “My lord …” She paused in confusion. “Did … did you not send for me?”

Alfred leaned against the closed door. “No,” he said. “I did not send for you.”

She went very pale.

“Sit down,” he said, and watched as she sank a little shakily into the chair near the brazier.

“Indeed, my lord …” She faltered, looking up at him and biting her full underlip. “I would not have come had I not been told you had sent for me. I do not understand …”

“No, of course you would not have come otherwise,” he answered. He stepped away from the door and forced a smile. She was looking absolutely terrified. “Come, there is no need to look so frightened. You are making me feel like an ogre.”

A little color came back into her cheeks. “You could never be an ogre, my lord,” she said.

He crossed the room to the bed and sat on its edge, facing her. “Who told you I had sent for you?” he asked.

“I … The thane.”

“Which thane?” he asked patiently.

“He said his name was Athelwold. He said you wanted to see me, that I was to come with him to Southampton manor.”

“Athelwold,” he said. “I see.”

Silence fell. It had been four years since last they met, and much had happened during that time. They looked at each other, curious and assessing, each taking the other’s measure.

She had not changed at all, Alfred thought. She had ever been one of the most beautiful women he knew, and the years had not changed that. Her beauty still spoke to him of calm and serenity and peace. He thought, suddenly, that it was good to see her, good to know that she was well.

Roswitha thought: How he has changed. Not so much in appearance, she thought as she took in the familiar catlike walk, the darkly gold hair confined by its ubiquitous headband. Though he did look stronger than she remembered, tougher. He was not eighteen anymore.

He had changed in a way that was more subtle, yet even more noticeable. There had always been a sense of authority about Alfred, she thought, even when she had first met him when he was but a boy of sixteen. But now … now that air of authority was much stronger. She had felt it as soon as he opened the door. This was a king who was in the room with her now, a king who was looking at her out of Alfred’s familiar golden eyes. She remembered suddenly, vividly, achingly, the day he had bidden her farewell. And bent her head to hide the tears that stung behind her eyes.

“Have you not married?” he was asking, and now his voice was the gentle voice she so loved.

She shook her head.

He looked at that bent golden head and frowned in concern. “Is it that you could not marry, Roswitha? Or that you would not?”

At that she looked up and smiled at him with glittering eyes. “Would not,” she said. Then, softly: “You spoiled me for the rest, Alfred.”

It was the first time she had said his name. She saw it make an impact on him. He said, “Nonsense,” in a clipped, abrupt voice.

She shook her head again.

He looked at her as she sat there, passive and acquiescent in her great beauty, asking him no questions, making no demands. He thought of Elswyth in the same position and immediately banished the thought. Elswyth would never be in the same position. She would have knifed him years ago.

“My dear,” he said gently, “I greatly fear that someone has been playing an unkind trick on us both.”

She nodded and kept looking at him out of those shimmering gray eyes.

“I do not want your reputation to suffer,” he said, and felt like a fool in saying it.