The Edge of Light (Warrior Kings)

by Joan Wolf

  Beside him Ethelred said fretfully, “It is too hot to be traveling today.”

  Alfred turned to his brother. Poor Ethelred, he thought sympathetically. He did look uncomfortably warm. “We should be at Tamworth any moment now,” Alfred said.

  Ethelred wiped the sweat from his forehead. His fair hair was dark with sweat as well, and his tunic was stained between the shoulder blades. “You don’t look hot at all,” he said to Alfred. “How do you always manage to look so cool?”

  “I don’t feel the heat the way you do,” Alfred replied. Then, “Cheer up, Ethelred. I see a clearing ahead of us. It must be Tamworth.”

  “I hope so,” Ethelred muttered. He turned in his saddle to look at the thanes who rode behind him on the forest path. They all looked as hot and miserable as he did. He faced forward again and narrowed his eyes to see through the haze. “It is Tamworth,” he said. “Thanks be to God.”

  A few minutes later a guard of mounted thanes was riding toward them up the forest path to escort Ethelred of Wessex and his following into the enclave of Tamworth, the royal center of the English kingdom of Mercia.

  Ethelred’s sister, Ethelswith, was married to Burgred, King of Mercia, but it was not family matters that had brought Ethelred north this summer. It was the fall of Northumbria to the Danes in the spring that had made a visit to Mercia seem so imperative. Since the time of Ethelred’s grandfather, King Egbert, Wessex and Mercia had been allied together in defense. It was time to make certain that such an alliance was still in effect. The Danish army had taken Northumbria with little trouble, chiefly because Northumbria was divided against itself. Ethelred was determined that such a thing would not happen to Wessex and Mercia.

  The royal seat of Tamworth was located in a well-protected clearing between the rivers Tane and Trent. In the last century the great Offa had further fortified it by ditches and palisades and a guarded causeway to ford the marsh that protected Tamworth’s south. It was over this causeway that Ethelred’s party rode now, into the great enclosure of Mercia’s royal center.

  Alfred had been to Tamworth before, so the sight of the great hall, set high on its built-up earthen platform, did not surprise him. He watched his horse being led off, then followed Ethelred into the guest hall they had been allotted to wash the dust of their journey off before they were taken to meet Burgred.

  There was only one private room in the hall and, as Ethelred was traveling without his wife, he offered as usual to share it with Alfred. Ethelred had little care for privacy, but he knew Alfred valued it highly. The two brothers talked easily as they washed and changed into clean shirts and tunics provided by Ethelred’s wardrobe thane, Sinulf. The air within the room was sultry and Ethelred immediately began to sweat into his clean clothes.

  There was a young Mercian noble waiting for them in the guest hall’s main room. “My lord,” he said to Ethelred, bowing his raven head in deference, “I am Athulf, Ealdorman of Gaini. I have been sent to escort you to the king.”

  Alfred and Ethelred exchanged a look of surprise. Ethelred Mucill had been both Ealdorman of Gaini and one of Burgred’s chief advisers ever since they both could remember. Where had this youngster come from? Athulf saw the look and explained in a grave voice, “My father died this winter past and the king was good enough to appoint me ealdorman in his stead.”

  Alfred would never have taken this black-haired, hawk-nosed Mercian to be Ethelred Mucill’s son. He looked strong-minded, this Athulf, Alfred thought as he listened to Ethelred’s reply. God knew they needed some strong-minded men to advise Burgred. In Alfred’s experience, his brother-by-marriage was never one to look a fact in the face.

  “Thank you, my lord.” The young ealdorman’s eyes flicked from Ethelred to Alfred, then back again to Ethelred. “This is my brother, Prince Alfred,” Ethelred said promptly. “My secondarius.

  The two young men exchanged an amiable if measuring look. Then Athulf said, “If you will come with me, my lords?”

  “Bertred?” Ethelred looked around for his treasure thane.

  “I am here, my lord.” And Bertred stepped forward, carrying the gold-embroidered saddle cloth and gold brooch that were to be Ethelred’s guest gifts to his brother-by-marriage.

  Ethelred nodded with approval and gestured to the Mercian noble that he was prepared to accompany him. Alfred fell into step beside Ethelred, and Bertred followed with the gifts.

  “I am surprised that I have not met you before,” Ethelred said to the ealdorman with good humor as they left the guest hall. “I knew your father well,”

  The Mercian, who could not have been more than two-and-twenty, shrugged. “My father was so busy with affairs of the country, my lord, that it fell to me to deal with the affairs of our manors. I was not often at Tamworth.”

  Ethelred had evidently had the same thought as Alfred about the young ealdorman’s looks, for he said now in his gentle way, “You do not favor your father.”

  “No.” Athulf's voice was a little impatient as he answered the king. Alfred thought that he must have had to answer this comment many times before. “One of my grandmothers was Welsh,” Athulf said. “My sister and I favor her. My brother is the one who has the fairness of the Mercians.”

  “Ah,” said Ethelred. Mercia had always shared a border with Wales. Unlike Wessex, however, which had for centuries successfully accommodated and absorbed the Britons within and without its borders, Mercia had ever been at odds with the Britons in Wales. In the last century, Offa had actually built a great dike in order to define that always-hostile Mercian border. Occasionally, however, there was an attempt to patch over the hostility with a marriage. Such, evidently, had been the case with Athulf’s grandparents.

  “We were much distressed in Mercia to learn of the defeat of Northumbria,” Athulf said now abruptly.

  “As were we in Wessex,” Ethelred replied, his sweaty face grim.

  “We heard that two Northumbrian kings and eight ealdormen fell,” Alfred said. “Is that true?”

  Athulf looked around Ethelred to the smaller, slimmer figure on the king’s right. “I fear that it is, my lord.” He spoke next to the king. “If the Northumbrians had been able to keep the fight out in the open, they might have had a chance. But once the Danes got within the walls of York, the Northumbrians were like lambs to the slaughter.” The Mercian’s thin dark face was bleak. “Almost all the fighting stock of the north gone in one afternoon,” he said. “It is hard to believe.”

  There was a small silence. Then, “No one expected the Danes to march north.” It was Ethelred speaking now. “Their occupation of York took the Northumbrians by surprise.”

  Athulf gave the two West Saxons a crooked grin. “That is a true word, my lord. In fact, many of us were fully expecting them to attack Wessex.”

  “From East Anglia they could have moved anywhere,” Alfred replied somberly. “North to Northumbria, inland to Mercia, or southwest to Wessex. The choice was theirs.”

  “It was the civil strife in Northumbria that attracted them,” Ethelred remarked.

  “So it would seem.” The Mercian rubbed his nose. “Aelle had just deposed Osbert, the king of eighteen years, and Aelle’s hold on the rule was not yet secure. To give the Northumbrians their due, they finally did unite to drive out the invaders.”

  “They could not live together, but they rallied to die together.” Alfred’s tone was noncommittal.

  “The two kings did not actually die together,” Athulf said. “Aelle was captured.”

  Ethelred said, “I did not know that.” The look on the young Mercian’s face made both brothers slow their steps. The heat of the day had become oppressive. Even Alfred’s golden skin was lightly sheened with sweat. “What happened?” Ethelred asked.

  “You do not know?”

  “I would not be asking if I knew.” Ethelred began to pluck at his eyebrow, a sure sign that he was worried.

  “Aelle was taken prisoner. Then they ...” Athulf’s voice faded a little and he cle
ared his throat. He began again. “The Vikings apparently have a traditional way to deal with captured kings. As York burned before his eyes, they took Aelle, and while still he was living, they cut out his ribs and his lungs and spread them like eagle’s wings in an offering to their god, Odin.” He looked at the two West Saxons. “They call this slaughter the ‘blood eagle,’ “ he said, his face and his voice very grim.

  “Dear God in heaven!” Ethelred’s brown eyes were dilated in horror.

  “May God have mercy on his soul,” Athulf said, crossing himself.

  “Amen.” They had almost come to a halt while they spoke, and now they commenced once again slowly to climb the hill that led to Tamworth’s royal hall. “I did not hear aught of this,” Ethelred said. His face was streaming with sweat.

  “We must withstand them.” Alfred’s voice was hard and abrupt, “Such barbarians must not be allowed to gain their way in England.”

  “A true word, my lord,” Athulf replied heartily. Then they were before the great door of the royal hall of Tamworth.

  * * * *

  Ethelswith of Mercia sat beside her husband the king in the stifling hall and watched her brothers advancing toward her from across the room. Ethelred had put on weight since last she’d seen him, she thought. And he was looking very pale. Ah well, he was approaching thirty; no longer a young man. But not old either, she added quickly, remembering she was but two years behind him. It must be the young men on either side of Ethelred who made him suddenly seem so ... middle-aged.

  Ethelswith’s eyes went from Ethelred to Alfred. She had a fondness for her youngest brother and remembered that he would turn eighteen in two days’ time. An important birthday. I must give a banquet for him, she thought. Then, with a pang of nostalgia: How much he resembles Mother.

  They had reached the high seat and now Burgred rose to welcome his visitors from Wessex. Burgred made Ethelred look young, Ethelswith thought as she watched her brother and her husband going through the ceremonial greeting. Burgred, massive of shoulder and thick of limb, was accepting Ethelred’s gift with courtesy. Then he gestured, and one of his own thanes was coming forward with the matched wolfhounds that were his return gift to his brother-by-marriage.

  It was Alfred’s face that lighted when the dogs were brought forth. He snapped his fingers and the dogs came to him instantly, as dogs always did. He fondled their ears and looked up at Ethelred, his golden eyes alight. “They are beauties, my lord.”

  Ethelred was too pale, Ethelswith suddenly thought. It must be the heat. She rose from the high seat and said, “You do not look well, brother. Come and sit and I will send for some mead.”

  Ethelred smiled a little shakily, “It is so hot.” Then, as they all began to move toward the chairs that had been set near to the door to catch whatever air was moving, “Young Athulf has just been telling us of Aelle’s fate. We had heard nothing of this blood eagle in Wessex.”

  Ethelswith frowned and set her lips. She did not like to think of what had happened to Aelle. It made her skin crawl. She heard Burgred mumble, “Shocking,” and then they had reached the chairs and a serving man was coming with the mead.

  Ethelred accepted a cup and drank deeply. A little color seemed to come back to his face. Then he said to Burgred, who had followed his example with the mead, “What does Mercia think the Danes will do next?”

  Burgred stretched his neck, as if he found his collar too confining. It was very hot in the hall even with the door open. “My information is that they are still in York,” he answered. “Perhaps they will stay there.” Burgred took another drink of mead and the sweat stood out on his forehead,

  “Alfred does not think so.” Ethelred looked from Burgred to his brother, who was sitting in the chair beside him empty-handed, having refused the mead.

  “Why not?” Burgred too looked at his young brother-by-marriage.

  “They have had too easy a time of it thus far, my lord,” Alfred replied to Burgred. His manner was polite, correctly deferential, but he spoke with all the easy confidence of one who is accustomed to having his words heeded. Ethelswith noted that he alone of all the group did not look hot. “Edmund of East Anglia did not resist them,” Alfred continued. “Edmund allowed them to winter in his land, to raid his people’s horses. Now Northumbria has fallen. I would be greatly surprised if Ivar the Boneless did not try to see what the temper of Mercia and Wessex might be.”

  In the chair on the other side of her husband, Ethelswith could see Athulf nodding. She knew that the young ealdorman had been telling Burgred much the same thing since news of the Northumbrian defeat had come to them,

  “Mercia and Wessex are far stronger than East Anglia and Northumbria,” Burgred said. “All of Europe does know that. These Northmen must know it too.”

  Alfred said, still in that polite, deferential tone, “There has not been a battle of any size in Wessex since my father and my brother Ethelbald beat the Danes at Aclea, and that was sixteen years since, my lord. And Ethelbald is dead. As far as the Danes are concerned, the leaders of Wessex and Mercia are untried in battle.” Alfred looked briefly at Ethelswith, then back to Burgred. His clipped voice, though still polite, was yet unmistakably authoritative. “I think they will come against us.”

  There was a heavy silence. Ethelswith stared consideringly at Alfred’s fine-boned face. He was so young, she thought, hardly more than a boy. Ethelred was eleven years his senior, Burgred old enough to be his father. Why should these two older kings listen so seriously to what a boy had to say? Out of the corner of her eye she could see Athulf staring at the slender young prince in slight puzzlement, as though he too were trying to understand this mystery.

  “I could be wrong, of course,” Alfred said. “But that is what I think.”

  Ethelred sighed and said gloomily, “I am trying to remember the last time you were wrong.”

  Burgred grunted. “In any case, it will be well for us to be prepared.” He gave Ethelred a sour look. “I do not know about you, brother, but I have no desire to be sacrificed to a Viking god.”

  Ethelred’s returning look was wry. “I can think of ways I would rather pass my time,” he said. And Alfred laughed.

  * * * *

  The storm that had been building all day broke late in the afternoon, while servants were setting up the trestle tables in the great hall for the evening meal. Alfred and Ethelred were in their room in the guest hall when they heard the first booms of thunder rolling up the valley of the Tane.

  Ethelred was lying on the bed in the sweltering room, resting. He put his hands behind his head and said, “Thank God. Now perhaps the heat will break.” Lightning flashed. “Close the shutters, will you, Alfred?” he added.

  “The room will be hot as fire,” Alfred answered, but left off what he was doing to go close and fasten the shutters of the room’s single window. Then he turned to look at Ethelred stretched out on the bed. “I cannot find my stomach medicine,” he said. “I think I left it in my saddlebag. I am going to the barn to fetch it.”

  Ethelred sat up. “You cannot go out in this storm! Send one of the thanes in the hall.” He looked closely at Alfred and frowned, “Are you feeling ill?”

  Alfred smiled crookedly. “No. But you know my stomach, Ethelred.

  Strange halls and strange foods do not agree with it. I would have the medicine by me just in case of need.” He began to walk to the door.

  “Send one of the thanes,” Ethelred said again as his brother picked up his cloak and went out into the hall.

  But Alfred ignored the thanes sitting on the hall benches and crossed the room swiftly, looking neither to the left nor to the right. He pulled the door open, flung his cloak around his shoulders, and went out into the rain.

  Lightning lit the courtyard. Alfred raised his face to the sky. The rain pounded on his skin, soaked into his hair. It felt cool and wonderful. He began to walk slowly toward the barn where the horses were stabled. Then the thunder crashed. The storm was still some distan
ce up the valley, he thought.

  The courtyard was deserted and the barn door was closed tight. Alfred opened it and stepped inside. A horse whinnied and kicked the wood of its stall. Another horse answered. “It’s all right, my beauties,” Alfred said soothingly. “Only a storm.” He left the door open to allow some light into the dark barn and walked over to rub his chestnut’s forehead. Lightning lit the world again, illuminating the barn. The stallion snorted and threw up its head. Alfred went back to the door to look out.

  He loved storms. He had not forgotten his medicine at all, had only wanted an excuse to find someplace where he could watch the storm. Ethelred, he knew, would insist on hiding behind shuttered windows, no matter how hot. Ethelred did not like storms at all.

  As he stood there at the door, a small figure came into view, wrapped in a hooded cloak and running across the courtyard. A serving girl, Alfred thought, then raised his brows in surprise as he realized that the figure was making for his barn. The girl did not see him standing in the doorway until she was almost on top of him; then she looked up and said, “Oh!” in a startled and oddly deep voice.

  Lightning flashed again. The face under the brown hood was brilliantly illuminated: a child’s face, black-browed, with black-lashed eyes of the darkest blue Alfred had ever seen. Thunder crashed. “You had better come in,” Alfred said. “The lightning is getting closer.”

  The child came in the door after him and pushed back her hood. Two long glossy braids tumbled loose, falling straight to her waist. Alfred saw that the braids were as black as her eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in an accent that could belong only to a Mercian noblewoman.

  They looked at each other. Then, “Sheltering from the storm,” Alfred replied, his clipped voice in sharp contrast to her deep drawl. “What are you doing here?”

  She glanced inside the barn. “I came to be with the horses. They get restless during storms.”

  “I see.” His face was perfectly grave. “Are you a groom?”

  “Of course not!” The look she gave him was scornful. Then, as if the name should explain all, “I am Elswyth.” He raised his eyebrows in elaborate mystification, and she deigned to add, “My brother is the Ealdorman of Gaini.”