The Edge of Light (56 page)

Alfred looked around the hall as Erlend sang this song of one of the greatest of his ancestors’ most famous victories. The firelight flickered on the intent faces of his thanes, bright now from within as well as from without. The song continued:

Many a carcass they left to be carrion,
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin—
Left for the white-tailed eagle to tear it, and
Left for the horny-nibbed raven to rend it, and
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald.

Alfred thought: Wessex gone, without even a fight. How could it have happened? What would his ancestor Ceawlin have thought, if he learned of such a shameful capitulation?

The song was soaring high now, Erlend’s voice thrilling out above the ringing notes of the harp:

We the West Saxons,
Long as the daylight
Lasted, in companies
Troubled the track of the host that we hated,
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone,
Fiercely we hacked at the fliers before us.

Alfred had spoken yesterday to Erlend of his Christian faith, but right now what he felt thrilling in his veins was the warrior blood of his pagan ancestors.

He looked around the hall once more, at the blazing faces of his men. His loyal men.
We the West Saxons,
he thought. We are not beaten. Not these men ringing his hall this day, nor the thanes of his shires, nor his ealdormen. We have lost a battle, he thought. Well, we have lost battles before. And risen to fight again.

The song was ended and the men began to stamp their feet and to call for another. Alfred stretched his legs out before him, leaned his shoulders against the wall, picked up Elswyth’s hand, and rested their linked fingers on his thigh. He could feel her arm pressing against his.

How had she known to come? He had seen her only once since he had left her and the children at Glastonbury nearly two months before, and that was when he had ridden to the monastery to see them. She had never before tried to visit him in any of his fugitive camps.

He bent his head until his mouth was near her ear. “How did you know to come?” he asked.

Her mouth curled down at the corner. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice so low only he could hear. “When I woke up this morning I just felt you needed me. So I came.”

The grip of his fingers tightened on hers, but otherwise he did not reply,

Erlend sang, ate, then sang again until he was hoarse. Even the thanes who did not like Elswyth had to admit that they were glad she had come. No one could remember the last time they had seen the king as light-hearted as he was this night.

“He will be all right now,” Brand remarked to Erlend as the men prepared to bed down for the night. “There is no one who can cheer Alfred so well as Elswyth can.”

Erlend was spreading his blanket upon the bench and just grunted in reply.

Brand checked the sword that lay under his bench beside his shield and his byrnie. “It must be a grand thing to have a marriage like that,” he said, sitting down to pull off his shoes now that he had made sure his sword was safe.

“You could marry, Brand,” Erlend said. “Alfred is a generous lord. You have won enough treasure to buy a manor of your own and settle down.”

“Perhaps, but I have no wish to do so, Harper. I like my life the way it is, thank you.”

“You would not have to leave Alfred’s service. There are some married thanes among the king’s hearthband.”

Brand bunched up his cloak to make a pillow for his head, then settled himself on the hard bench, pulling a blanket up over him for warmth. Erlend did the same. The two of them were lucky to have the bench; half of the men were sleeping on the floor or in the lofts over the barns.

“A woman is fine in your bed at night,” Brand said. “In fact, I would not mind one here right now. But marriage … that is another thing altogether.”

“Just one minute ago you weresinging the praises of marriage,” Erlend protested.

“A marriage such as Alfred has,” Brand said.

Erlend put his hands behind his head and stared upward into the darkness of the hall. “There is not another like Elswyth in all the world,” he said, his voice very quiet.

The reply to that was prompt. “Even if there was, she would not be the wife for me.” Brand gave a sleepy chuckle. “If I were married to Elswyth, she would end up doing my breathing for me. A situation neither of us would like overmuch.” There came the distinct sound of a yawn. Then, drowsily: “In truth, I doubt if it is in me to feel strongly for any woman.”

“I know.” Erlend’s voice was perfectly awake, perfectly sober. “Why is that, do you think, Brand?”

“All our love is spent on Alfred,” came the devastatingly simple reply. A minute crept past and Brand began to snore.

Erlend lay awake for a long time, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof.

The single bedchamber at Athelney had never been planned to accommodate a king and his appurtenances. There was little floor space, and what was there was now taken up by the chests that contained the West Saxon treasury. The treasury always traveled with the king, a custom that had proved its wisdom when Guthrum had almost caught Alfred at Chippenham. The king might be a fugitive, but at least he was not a penniless fugitive.

Elswyth sat on the quilt in the middle of the bed, combing her hair. Alfred stood in the narrow space at the bed’s foot watching her. One of her hands held the comb; the other hand held a strand of her hair near to the scalp so that the comb would not hurt when it pulled. The long ebony tresses flowed around her like a mantle, shining like silk in the flickering light of the bedside candle. She finished with the lock she was working on and lifted her eyes to Alfred’s face.

“You look so strange in a beard,” she said. “I shall have to get used to it.”

A faint look of disgust crossed his face. “I hate it,” he said. “I have always hated the feel of a beard. That is why I never grew one.” He shrugged. “I have little choice these days, however. The niceties of good grooming are not precisely a matter of prime concern.”

She put the comb down beside her on the quilt. “What happened?” she asked.

For a long moment he did not answer, just looked back into the unveiled blue of her eyes.
I just felt you needed me,
she had said. He ought not to be surprised. He had always known that when it came to him, Elswyth understood with her blood and her bones and her flesh. She did not need words to know how he was feeling.

At last he said quietly, “It was Erlend. He wanted me to flee the country.”

“You won’t.” It was not a question.

A faint smile glimmered in his eyes.

She said, “You must do something, though, Alfred. From what we hear at Glastonbury, the country is simply lying down in front of this Dane.” Her lips curled in scorn. “Like Mercia,” she added.

He came to sit beside her on the bed. “Erlend said I have been deserted.”

She looked at him in thoughtful silence. Slowly she shook her head. The shining black hair rippled with the movement. “I do not think that.”

“What do you think, Elswyth?” he asked curiously.

“I think the West Saxons are like most men. They are simply waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”

His look was somber. “I have begun to think that also.”

“Men are like horses, Alfred,” she told him seriously. “They are herd animals, miserable when they are alone, happiest when they have an acknowledged leader to order them about. Put six strange horses out into a pasture together, and by the end of the day they all know who the leader is. When the leader comes, they come. When he goes, they go. Men are the same. Deprive them of their leader, and they mill around aimlessly, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”

His mouth was looking a little grim. “I thought that was what I had ealdormen for.”

“The ealdormen are not Alfred,” she said. “There is only one man whom the West Saxons will rise to follow now. And that is you.”

He picked up her comb and held it balanced between his two hands. It was a simple bone comb, not set with jewels or inlaid with enamel. He said, “So it seems.” He sounded resigned.

“It is up to you to herd them together, my love,” she said. “No one else can do it.”

He put the comb down and picked up a lock of her hair. “Do you have any suggestions as to how I might go about such a task?” he inquired, watching the shining black strands run through his fingers.

“No.”

“That is what I was afraid of.” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“You will think of something. You always do.”

He looked down at the strand of hair he still held between his fingers. “Every other woman in the world would be begging me to save myself,” he said. “And you are thrusting my sword into my hand.”

“You could not run away,” she said. “I would never ask you to so betray yourself as to do that.”

A silence fell. The candle flickered on the small bedside stand. He rubbed the strand of clean silky ebony between his thumb and his forefinger, feeling its texture, raised his eyes, and said, “I look at you, Elswyth, and I ask myself how ever I came to be so lucky.”

“You didn’t have yellow teeth.”

He threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Then, when he had got his breath: “You must be exhausted.” He leaned around her to pull back the quilt. “Get under the covers. It is cold in this room.”

“I am not that exhausted,” she said.

“Elswyth.” Imperceptibly he increased the space between them. “This is not the time to get another child. If aught goes amiss, you might have to take the children and go to Flanders. I do not want to burden you with more than is necessary.”

“I admire your nobility, Alfred,” she said. His eyes narrowed at her tone, “But you are a trifle late with it.”

His breath hissed in his throat. His eyes raked her figure. “When?” he asked. There was a white line about his mouth.

“It was a Christmas present,” she said. Then, impatiently: “Don’t look like that. I do not try to live your life for you.”

He put his thumb and forefinger under her chin and turned her face to the light of the candle. Her skin was translucently pure as always, with a faint flush of rose along the cheekbones, but there was an indefinable, fine-drawn, great-eyed look that he had missed earlier and recognized now. He felt his heart contract. He dropped his hand and looked away from her. The white line about his mouth grew even more pronounced.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said. “I knew you would not be pleased.”

At that he turned back and met her dark blue gaze. He muttered something under his breath, then took her into his arms. “I am sorry, love,” he said. As she pressed against him, his arms tightened. “I am an ungrateful wretch.”

“Sometimes.”

His mouth was buried in her hair. “I am filthy. I shouldn’t come near you.”

“I am so glad I rode through the rain to see you,” she said. Her voice was a little muffled as her mouth was being pressed into his shoulder. “You have given me a lovely welcome.”

“What do you want from me?” He sounded fierce.

She pulled her head away from his shoulder and raised her face to his. “I want you to kiss me.”

His head bent instantly and his mouth covered hers. After a minute they slowly toppled sideways until they were lying together on the bed. “Like that?” he asked at last, and now his voice was husky with desire.

“Hmmm. Now,
that
was worth the riding twelve miles in the rain.”

“I have a few other things I could do.”

Her mouth curled. “I have never made love to a man with a beard.”

He had one hand wound into her unbound hair. “You are about to.”

“Always promises,” she said. And he growled, pressed her back, and kissed her again.

Alfred slept deeply and dreamlessly, and in the morning when he woke he knew what he had to do.

“I must talk to Ethelnoth,” he said, referring to the Ealdorman of Somerset. “There is no reason why he cannot rally the Somerset fyrd to me immediately.”

“Ethelnoth is a good man,” Elswyth approved. They were still in bed, huddled together like children, with the quilt pulled up around them for warmth. “Did I tell you he came to see me at Glastonbury?”

“No.” Alfred looked both surprised and pleased. “Did he?”

“Yes. He assured me that he would be at my service if ever I needed help.”

“You will be safe at Glastonbury until the waters begin to go down,” Alfred said. “Guthrum cannot know you are there. But once the swamps begin to dry, Elswyth, you will be safe no longer. Then, if the Danes still hold sway in Wessex, you must get the children away to Judith in Flanders.”

“I will,” she said.

“You must go also.”

“That I do not promise.”

He gave her his hawk stare. Her own eyes did not waver. “I will not leave if you are in danger.”

His nostrils dilated. “The Danes are not known for their kindly treatment of women.”

“They are not known either for their kindly treatment of kings.”

“I do not intend to become the object of Guthrum’s butchery.”

“Good. Nor do I intend to become the object of Guthrum’s lust.”

She was adamant. He had known she would be. He brought up his alternative plan. “If it becomes necessary, Erlend will shelter you,” he said.

She drew her knees up under the quilt and propped her chin on them. “Clearly, Alfred, the wisest course is to throw the Danes out of Wessex.”

He scratched his head. “Thank you for the advice,”

“What will you do with Ethelnoth and the Somersetshire fyrd?”

“We must start to take the offensive,” he said. “It is the only way to begin to put heart back into my people. The combination of woodland and fenland here in Somerset makes it ideal country for strike-and-run raiding. We have done that somewhat this winter, when we robbed the Danes for food and for fodder. I mean to increase those attacks, make it clear to both Danes and West Saxons that I am still a power to be reckoned with,”

“Splendid,” she said. He twitched his shoulders and she leaned over to scratch between his shoulder blades.