The Edge of Light (8 page)

Suddenly, “He’s mine!” called a crisp, commanding voice, and Elswyth saw Alfred leap from his horse and advance into the clearing, spear in hand.

Her heart jolted, then began to race. At her shoulder, Athulf voiced her own silent protest. “That boar is too big for the prince.” Her brother looked around, but no one was moving. His black brows snapped together. “Alfred will never be able to hold him,” Athulf muttered, jumped from his saddle, and took up his own spear.

The boar had seen Alfred coming and he pawed the ground again. Foam dripped from his jaws. The cruel, curving tusks glinted in the bright sun. The red eyes fixed themselves upon the prince.

Alfred must have heard Athulf s step, for he turned his head very quickly and snarled at the Mercian,
“Keep away.”
For a moment, with his glittering eyes and bared white teeth, he looked fully as dangerous as the boar.

Athulf stopped dead.

The boar charged straight for Alfred.

For a beat of time Elswyth felt as if her heart and breath had stopped. Athulf was right. The West Saxon prince was too slim, too light, to hold a boar of that size on his spear. Alfred knelt, spear advanced, and then the boar was on him. Elswyth shut her eyes.

A shout went up from the men around her. She opened her eyes in time to see Alfred rising to his feet, She stared, and realized with astonishment that he had got the boar right through the heart. As she watched, he turned in the direction of his brother, the king, and grinned. His entire right arm was covered with the boar’s blood. Elswyth saw the white teeth flashing in the golden tan of his face. Then she looked at the boar, lying now on the bare earth of the clearing.

The prince was so slight, How had he managed to hold up that spear?

Beside her, Athulf was saying much the same thing.

A West Saxon thane passing Athulf said with a grin, “We all learned years ago never to come between Alfred and his boar. He’ll have your head if you do.”

“He is stronger than he looks,” Athulf said.

“He’s strong as a man twice his weight,” the thane boasted. “He may not be big, but you’ll find there’s little our prince cannot do.” Then he was by them, running up to Alfred’s side and saying something they could not hear. Alfred laughed, put a hand on his arm, then turned away to reclaim his horse.

There was a feast after the hunt that day, also in honor of Alfred’s birthday. Ethelswith loved to play hostess to her brothers and had done all she could to make the occasion as grand as possible. Though it was still daylight, torches were burning in the wall sconces of the great hall, illuminating with their glow the giant frescoes that were Tamworth’s glory. The frescoes had been painted in the last century, in the glory days of Offa, and the most famous of all the paintings was the one of Offa’s fellow monarch, Charlemagne, surrounded by his companions, among whom happened to be included Offa himself. There were other scenes from the life of Offa, and scenes as well from the lives of other heroes out of Mercian, Prankish, and Roman history. The frescoes were famous in England, and Ethelswith was very proud of them.

She had filled her hall this night with the high nobility of Mercia, summoned to this banquet in order to do honor to her younger brother. Burgred, of course, had the high seat, and Ethelred sat this night in her usual place beside him. Ethelswith had chosen to sit beside Alfred on the bench directly to Burgred’s right, and on Alfred’s other side she had placed Athulf, whom she thought Alfred would find congenial. Beyond Athulf sat his mother, his brother, and his sister.

The feast was to begin with the presentation of Burgred’s gift to Alfred. Silence fell slowly upon the crowded room as the thanes and ladies along the wall benches saw the king rising to his feet.

Alfred sat beside his sister and listened with all outward attention to Burgred’s extremely flattering speech. He did not dislike his brother-by-marriage, but too often he found Burgred somewhat wanting in quickness of wit. In truth, Alfred never spent above an hour in Burgred’s company without finding himself pitying Ethelswith the dullness of her marriage. Then he would take himself to task for lack of Christian charity. Burgred was good and kind, he would chastise himself. The poor man could not help it if he was also dull.

But he
was
dull. It was nice, of course, that he thought so well of Alfred, but it would be even nicer if he would just stop talking and allow everyone to eat. Alfred affixed his alert, attentive expression even more firmly into place and began to replay in his mind the afternoon’s hunt.

Suddenly his sister’s elbow caught him in the ribs. He blinked, focused, and saw that Burgred was holding out a sword and looking at him.

“Go and take it from him,” Ethelswith hissed into his ear.

Alfred rose from his place and went to bow gracefully before the King of Mercia. Burgred placed the sword into his hands. The king’s fleshy face was beaming. Alfred felt the familiar twinge of guilt. Poor man. It was not his fault he was thick of body and dull of mind. “Thank you, my lord,” he said with his quick charming smile. “I shall treasure this gift with all my heart.”

He stepped back to return to his place, and a sigh of relief ran around the hall as the guests realized that he was not going to speak further. Alfred’s eyes glinted with amusement, though his face was grave as he resumed his place beside his sister.

“Thank you,” Ethelswith murmured in his ear. “Everyone is starving.”

As the serving folk came into the hall from the kitchens, laden with heavy platters of meats and sauces and vegetables and breads, Alfred turned to look curiously at his sister.

Ethelswith was nine years older than he, the closest sibling in age to him, but he had never known her the way he knew Ethelred. Alfred had been but five when she was married to Burgred of Mercia and, except for infrequent visits, they had seen little of each other since.

She was still a pretty woman, he thought, looking at his sister’s smoothly braided light brown hair and clear blue eyes. It had been several years now since Alfred had begun automatically to appraise every woman he met, with an eye to what pleased him and what did not. Yes, Ethelswith was definitely pretty. Much too pretty for Burgred.

She had been married for thirteen years and still she had no children. The pity that suddenly pierced Alfred’s heart was of a different quality from the usual token flicker that his sister’s marriage generally aroused in his breast. No children, he thought, and a husband she must find irksome. And she had been married to him since she was fourteen.

Not for the first time Alfred found himself reflecting on the bitterness of woman’s lot when it came to matrimony.

“What do you hear of Judith?” said Ethelswith, and for one brief startled moment he wondered if she had been reading his thoughts.

Then, because she had surprised him, he blurted out what he would ordinarily have been more tactful in disclosing. “She has a son.”

The flicker of pain on Ethelswith’s face brought him to a swift realization of his callousness. He went on talking smoothly, to give her a chance to recover herself. “You know her father relented finally and agreed to recognize her marriage? Well, it appears now that Charles has done even more. He has made Judith’s husband the Count of Flanders. A wise move on Charles’s part. For one thing, once the pope recognized the marriage, there was nothing Charles could do about it. For the other thing, Baldwin Iron Arm is just the warrior Flanders needs to keep it safe from the Danes.”

Ethelswith’s face was serene once more. She began to pile roast venison on her plate as she said to Alfred, a little caustically, “I must say, Judith has the most exciting life. I envy her.”

“I hope she is happy,” he said, and his own voice was very quiet. “She deserves to be.”

His sister shot him a slantwise look. “That is right. I remember now she had you enslaved as well.”

Alfred forced himself to remember that Ethelswith was married to Burgred. She had cause to be jealous of Judith. “I have always been very fond of Judith,” he answered temperately,

“Are you speaking of Judith of France?” It was Athulf, from Alfred’s other side.

“Yes,” said Alfred. He too began to put some food on his plate. Athulf offered him the sauce and he shook his head. Bread, he thought, was probably safest.

“That girl must be quite a handful,” Athulf said with amusement. “I am glad I’m not her father.” He poured sauce over his own meat. “Imagine it. Your daughter, whom you have locked in your most secure castle because she refuses to marry the man of your choice, proceeds to elope with her jailer! Who also happens to be your most effective war leader!”

“She was aided and abetted by her brother,” Alfred reminded him. “Baldwin is a fine man. I think she made a good choice.” Alfred remembered how, after Ethelbald’s death, Judith would sit in the garden at Wilton, staring at nothing.

“He may be a fine man, but he is certainly not fit to marry the Princess of France. I don’t wonder that Charles was furious. Didn’t he have all the Frankish bishops excommunicate him?” Athulf soaked up some of the excess sauce with his bread and put it in his mouth,

“He did,” Alfred replied. “But then Baldwin appealed to Pope Nicholas. The pope was sympathetic and interceded for Baldwin and Judith with Charles. Once Nicholas took a hand, there was little that Charles could do,”

Athulf frowned. “I am surprised the pope acted as he did. It is not the part of the church to encourage young girls to make their own marriages.”

“Judith was twice a widow,” Alfred said, “Hardly an inexperienced girl.”

Athulf, whose mouth was full, shrugged.

Alfred contemplated the thin dark face of his neighbor. Then he raised a single delicately drawn eyebrow. “Judith wrote to me that Baldwin also told the pope that if his marriage was not recognized, he would join with the Vikings. As Baldwin has been one of Charles’s main props against the Danes for the last few years, you can imagine Charles’s reaction to that threat.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then Athulf began to laugh.

“My brother Ethelbald would have done the same,” said Alfred. “I rather think that is why Judith married Baldwin. He sounds very like Ethelbald.”

“One Ethelbald in the world was quite enough, I think,” said Ethelswith, who had never forgiven her eldest brother for raising a rebellion against her father.

Alfred unconsciously touched his headband, which style he had adopted shortly after Ethelbald’s death. Then, “There was much that was fine in Ethelbald,” he said to his sister. His voice was contained but there was that in it that caused Athulf to feel he would be wise to change the subject.

“Well, I am glad that my own marriage is like to go more smoothly,” Athulf said. “I am not one anxious to count the world well lost for love.”

Ethelswith, who had also heard the warning note in Alfred’s voice, followed Athulf’s lead. “Athulf is to marry the daughter of the Ealdorman of Hwicce in the autumn,” she said to her brother a little too vivaciously,

“I wish you every joy, my lord,” Alfred said, and both his face and his voice were perfectly pleasant.

“Thank you. She is a good girl and we suit very well.” Athulf nodded in the direction of a pretty girl seated further down the board. “That is Hild there, the blond girl in the yellow gown.”

“She is very pretty,” said Alfred.

Athulf nodded and picked up a leg of spiced chicken from the platter before him.

“Alfred, you have eaten nothing,” his sister said. “You’re too thin as it is. Eat.”

“The food looks wonderful, Ethelswith,” he said sincerely, then picked up a piece of bread and began to chew.

By the time Elswyth got to Alfred’s birthday feast, she was starving. Like the rest of Burgred’s guests, she thought that he would never stop talking; and her already good opinion of the West Saxon prince rose when he spared them a lengthy acceptance speech. As soon as the food was set on the trestle table before her, she filled her plate and then began to empty it.

“Elswyth,” said Eadburgh beside her, “do not eat like a starving dog. You are a lady.”

“I am hungry,” Elswyth answered, but she slowed her chewing obediently. Eadburgh was already furious enough with her for going on the hunt. There was little to be gained by annoying her mother further.

“I like to see a healthy appetite,” said the Ealdorman of the Tomsaetan, who was seated on Elswyth’s other side. He reached over to pat her hand. “The Lady Elswyth is young,” he said to her mother. “The young are always hungry.”

Elswyth’s narrow hand went rigid under his large puffy fingers. Then she pulled her hand away and cast a look of smoldering resentment at the man seated beside her.

Ealdorman Edred of the Tomsaetan was a tall, strongly made man of middle years; his hair was dark blond and his eyes were gray. The Tomsaetan were the chief of the Mercian tribes and their territory comprised the heartland of the country: the royal church at Repton, the bishopric at Lichfield, and the main residence at Tamworth. They had ever been administered by their own ealdorman, who, after the king, was the most powerful of all Mercian nobles. Edred had held his position for some ten years, and had been a friend of Elswyth’s father’s. Elswyth did not like him, but then, there were not many people Elswyth did like.

He smiled at her, not at all offended by her retreat. He had strong protruding yellow teeth. Horse’s teeth, Elswyth thought unkindly. They looked well on a horse, not so well on a man. The West Saxon prince, on the other hand, had teeth as white and as straight as her own. Her thin, high-bridged nose, the feature that gave her face its look of haughtiness, seemed to grow even thinner as she regarded the smiling face of the Eaidorman of the Tomsaetan. “I have not eaten since the hunt,” she said, her husky drawl more pronounced than usual.

“Ah, yes, I saw you in the hunt field today.” Edred’s gray eyes moved from her face to her throat. Elswyth felt angry color stain her cheeks. His eyes seemed almost to stroke her. Then he was looking at her mother. “Surely,” he said gently, “Lady Elswyth is getting too old to be allowed to play the boy.” He added, “How old is she now, my lady? Twelve?”