by Joan Wolf
Alfred did not dismount. He sat on his stallion, his face as gray as his horse’s coat, his eyes half-closed, his teeth set in his lower lip, and it was plain to Erlend that only the force of his will was keeping the king in the saddle.
“I want to ride with Erlend!” It was Flavia’s voice, and he looked down to see the child standing before him.
“Flavia ...” Elswyth started to reprimand, but Erlend put in, “I will be glad to take her, my lady. My horse is strong yet, and I am lighter to carry than most of the thanes.”
“He is a Dane.” Erlend did not recognize the voice but it came from the ranks of the thanes.
“Flavia may ride with Erlend.” It was Alfred’s voice, a little hollow-sounding but still clear. “Let us go,” he added. The thanes began to swing up into their saddles.
They rode more slowly now, not to strain the horses. Flavia leaned against Erlend’s chest and dozed. Erlend looked down at the small golden head nestled so trustingly against him, and felt his heart contract. He spread his cloak so that it covered her more closely.
What would have happened to Alfred’s children, Alfred’s wife, had Guthrum caught them at Chippenham?
Erlend had no doubt at all of what would have happened to Alfred.
He looked up from Flavia to the man who was riding now directly before him. Elswyth still had Alfred’s reins, Erlend saw. No one had volunteered to take them from her; Silken was the only horse that Alfred’s gray would tolerate so close to him. They were going single file along a narrow forest path, with Brand and a few other thanes leading the way. Great snow-dusted trees enclosed the track on both sides, and the dogs ran steadily and faithfully at the heels of Alfred’s stallion. They had long since ceased to chase into the woods on a stray scent.
The men of Dorset had been on guard at Cirencester. Dorset, Erlend thought, Dorset was the home shire of Alfred’s nephew Athelwold. Guthrum knew about Athelwold. Erlend himself had told his uncle about the dissatisfied son of Athelstan and his hatred of Alfred.
Name of the Raven, could it be that Guthrum had managed to approach Athelwold? Some sort of treachery was involved in this move of Guthrum’s out of Mercia—of that Erlend was certain. Several hundred mounted men could not have moved onto the Fosse Way without being spied by the scouts Alfred had posted at Cirencester. But if those scouts were Athelwold’s men . . . then perhaps they had been told not to report Guthrum’s move to the king.
It occurred to Erlend, as his horse stepped over the twigs and small branches that the wind and the snow had brought down onto the forest track, that Guthrum had broken his word again, a word that Erlend’s life had been pledged to secure. But at the moment Erlend could feel no care for his own safety. He was too full of horror at the thought of what would have happened had Guthrum managed to catch Alfred at Chippenham.
The blood eagle. He had never seen it done, but he had heard enough about it to know what a torture it could be if the executioner was minded to draw it out. He looked at the man in front of him, at the flexible back moving in rhythm to the motion of his horse’s slow trot.
That perfect-looking body of Alfred’s, he thought, was no stranger to pain. He was blind right now from the pain in his head. He must be, else he would never have allowed Elswyth to take his reins.
It was headaches he suffered from, then. And he had lived with them since he was a child.
Elswyth turned in her saddle to look at her husband. The sting of cold air had brought a rosy glow to her usually creamy skin. Erlend had never seen such an expression on her haughty high-bred face. She said nothing, but in a moment had faced front again.
The expression on Elswyth’s face matched the feeling in Erlend’s stomach. And it was at that moment that the Dane finally understood that he did not dislike Alfred of Wessex at all. If anything, the feeling he had for the West Saxon king was quite the opposite of dislike, was in fact far more nearly akin to love.
“I’m hungry.” The voice came from the horse behind Erlend and was distinctively Edward’s.
“We will stop soon, Prince,” Erlend heard the thane who was riding with him say, “You are being a very brave boy. Just a little longer, and we will stop.”
“You don’t have to stop for me.” The child-voice was clear and proud. “When my papa is ready to stop, then I will eat.”
Erlend felt a tightness in the back of his throat. Seven years old was Alfred’s son, he thought. They had been in the saddle for above five hours, and it was freezing. Erlend thought, and it was the first time that such a thought had ever come his way, he thought that someday he would like to have a son like Edward.
He looked ahead, and it seemed to him that Alfred was sitting more erect in his saddle. Then Erlend heard the king ask, “Where are we?”
Elswyth turned, looked at her husband again, and her face lighted with a sudden radiant smile. “Near enough to Cheddar,” she said. “Are you all right? Do you want your reins back?”
“Yes.”
“Another hour or so, and we should be at Cheddar,” Elswyth said as Alfred looped the reins back over his horse’s neck.
“Good. I think it will be safe to stay the night at Cheddar.” Alfred turned in his saddle to look back over the line of horses following behind him. They were coming into the Mendip hills now, and the forest lay all around them. The royal manor of Cheddar lay in the heart of the hills, surrounded by the steep escarpments and the ravines of limestone that Erlend remembered from a previous visit.
The wind had whipped up, and it was beginning to snow. Flavia whimpered a little, and Erlend held her closer, trying to impart some of his own scant warmth to the child. “We are almost there, sweeting,” he said to her softly. “Just a little longer.”
Alfred must have heard him, for he called, “Are you all right, Flavia? Do you want to ride with me?”
“Oh, yes, Papa!” came the immediate answer.
Alfred pulled his horse to the side of the path and waited while Erlend came up beside him. They transferred the child from one pair of arms to the other, and as Flavia looked up at her father, Erlend could see the relief glowing in her blue-green eyes. “Are you better, Papa?”
“All better, love. You try to go to sleep. I’ll hold you safe enough.” Alfred nodded at Erlend, then moved his gray back onto the path behind Elswyth, his daughter hidden from sight beneath the folds of his cloak.
It was growing dark by the time they reached Cheddar. This manor was more a hunting lodge than a full royal estate, and the main hall was a small one. The reeve was dismayed to see them; the king did not usually descend upon a manor without giving his reeve ample time to provision it. At this time of year Cheddar was provisioned only for the staff who lived there, as the reeve explained unhappily to Elswyth.
Elswyth paid him little mind, just commanded him to set food upon the tables within the hour, then went to see to her exhausted children, whose nurses had been left behind in a ceorl’s cottage at Chippenham. The reeve bustled off, muttering beneath his breath, but within an hour the trestle tables had been set up and some sort of repast was ready to be served. None of the thanes was in a mood to be fussy about his food, and they all fell to with dedicated concentration.
Erlend had nearly finished eating when he became aware that he was being watched. He did not have to look to know instantly whose eyes were upon him. He licked his fingers clean, then slowly turned his head toward the high seat.
“If you are finished eating, Erlend,” Alfred said, “you may come with me.”
“Yes, my lord.” Erlend’s voice was commendably steady and he rose from his bench with equally commendable calm and followed Alfred into the single private room in the hall, the king’s sleeping chamber. He could feel the eyes of all the men in the hall following him as he left.
Alfred had brought a candle with him, and now he lit the room’s single lamp. “Sit,” he said to Erlend, gesturing to a stool while he himself prowled up and down the room’s whole length. Erlend sat, folded his hands in h
is lap, and waited.
“It seems your uncle is not so careful for your life as you said he would be,” Alfred said at last, halting for a moment in his prowling and fixing Erlend with hooded eyes. “He broke his word to me. He broke it knowing full well what happened to the last hostages he betrayed in like fashion. Is he relying on my fondness for you, perhaps, to stay my hand?”
Erlend’s green eyes did not waver, nor did his voice falter in reply. “He would not expect you to have any fondness for me, my lord. Nor, if you did, for it to stay your hand.”
Alfred’s eye remained hooded, the long lashes screening them from any chance of being read. “And what of you, Erlend Olafson? You do not look very apprehensive for a man who knows his life is forfeit.”
“If you were going to kill me, my lord,” Erlend answered, “you would have done it at Chippenham, and left my body there for Guthrum to find.”
Alfred resumed his pacing of the room, “I was not thinking with full clarity at Chippenham,” he said, “or that is what I might have done.”
“I do not think so,” said Erlend. And watched as Alfred swung around to stare at him once more. “Guthrum was not planning to send me to my death, you know,” Erlend continued conversationally. “He was looking to capture you. You personally, Alfred of Wessex. If he had been able to catch you in Chippenham, you would not have had a chance to put me to my death. Then would Guthrum have been my rescuer, I do not think he will be happy to find that you have me still. He will be even less happy if you put me to death.”
“Is that why I should stay my hand?” Alfred asked. “Because it will make Guthrum unhappy?”
“No.” Erlend looked into the king’s face. Alfred looked weary, he thought. Bitterly weary. This night he looked every minute of his twenty-eight years. “Alfred,” said Erlend, for the second time unconsciously calling the king by his given name, “I do not think Cheddar will be safe for you, or any other of the royal manors either. Guthrum has managed to catch you unprepared, and he is too much of a general not to follow up his advantage. He will be after you. He will not give you time to settle in at one of your manors and call up your fyrds.”
“I know.” At last Alfred came to rest, sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet braced against the floor. “Erlend,” he said, “how do you think Guthrum got through the Dorset guard in Cirencester?”
“I think he suborned them,” Erlend replied. His pale face was bleak. “Your nephew Athelwold is of Dorset, my lord, and Athelwold hates you. He hates you for refusing to name him secondarius.” Erlend dropped his eyes, then bravely raised them again. “Guthrum knows about Athelwold,” he said. “I told him when I left your household during the time of the first peace.”
Two pairs of eyes met and held. For a long moment neither spoke. Then Erlend asked, “Who was the thane in command in Cirencester?”
“Cenwulf,” Alfred replied. And Erlend’s breath exploded in his lungs.
“I knew it. Then that is how Guthrum got around the Dorset guard. Cenwulf has ever been Athelwold’s staunchest supporter.”
“Yes. That is what I thought might have happened.”
Erlend leaned a little forward on his stool, urgent to make the king understand. “Guthrum wants you, my lord. He knows what would happen to the West Saxon defense once you were gone. There is no one else who can lead your people as you can, no one else who can command the loyal following of all of Wessex. If he can kill you, then this war will be over.”
“Did you tell him that also, Erlend Olafson?” Alfred’s voice was very soft.
Erlend went, if possible, even paler. “No, my lord, I did not. But my uncle is clever enough to figure that out for himself.”
Alfred did not reply, but pushed away from the bed and began to pace the floor once more. He spoke over his shoulder. “What will Guthrum have offered Athelwold in exchange for his cooperation in Cirencester? A kingship such as Ceolwulf has in Mercia?”
“Probably,” Erlend said in a muffled voice. “One of Wessex’ strongest defenses is its unity. My people have ever found it effective to split the loyalties of a country by setting up a nominal king.”
“What of the sea? Is Guthrum like to have recruited a new sea army?”
Erlend shrugged. “I have not been in a position to find out, my lord.” There fell a small silence as Alfred came to a halt before the Dane and looked down.
“Would you tell me if you knew?” Alfred asked.
Erlend slowly rose to his feet. They were very close, their eyes almost on a level. “If our positions were reversed, would you?” he asked the king in return.
There was a long silence. Finally Alfred broke it. “No,” he said, “I probably would not.”
Erlend could see the faint lines of weariness at the corners of Alfred’s eyes, could sense the effort it was costing the king to stay on his feet. “Nor would I,” he said. Then, urgently, as if it were all that mattered now in the world: “Get you to bed, my lord. You must be fit to ride tomorrow, and you will not be unless you get a good night’s sleep.”
There was a white line about Alfred’s mouth. “Do I still have your oath not to try to escape?”
“Yes.”
There was another silence. “Very well, Erlend,” the king said. “You may go.”
Erlend was putting his hand on the door latch when Alfred spoke once more from behind him. “You could have stayed behind at Chippenham. We had no time to spare to look for you.”
Erlend turned his head. Even from a distance of ten feet, the strains of weariness were evident on the king’s face. “I keep my promises, Alfred of Wessex,” Erlend answered. “I will not escape from you until you give me leave.”
“Why?” Alfred asked in his most clipped voice.
“I like your children,” Erlend answered, grinned, lifted the latch, and went out into the hall.
* * *
Chapter 34
All the West Saxons at Cheddar bedded down immediately after the trestle tables had been cleared away. Outside, the snow was still falling, light but steady. Flavia balked at being put to bed in the small hall that the children ordinarily used at Chippenham, and so this night the big bed in the king’s sleeping room held not only Alfred and Elswyth but also their three children.
“Let them come in here,” Alfred had said when he heard Flavia’s tearful voice. “Not even a crowded bed will keep me awake this night.”
Elswyth was exhausted as well, and all five in the king’s bed fell asleep as soon as Alfred pulled up the blankets. Elswyth awoke at dawn with Flavia’s rump stuck into her side. Elswyth and Alfred were on either end of the bed, with the three children wedged between them. Elswyth raised herself on her elbow and regarded her brood. All were sleeping soundly.
She shut her eyes. Dear God in heaven, she prayed fervently, keep my children safe.
“I am thinking of sending them into Kent.” Alfred’s soft voice came from the other side of the bed, and Elswyth opened her eyes once again and looked at him.
“Is that where you are going?” she asked, keeping her voice equally quiet.
He was lying on his back, his face turned toward her, his hair spilled on the pillow like a saint’s halo. “No. I cannot leave the west entirely open to Guthrum, Elswyth. I will stay here for as long as I can.”
“At Cheddar?”
One eyebrow rose. “Elswyth, I have forty men in my guard. I cannot stay here at Cheddar, or at any of the royal manors. Not until I have raised more men.”
“Send out a call for the fyrds. They will rise to your aid.”
“I am not sure if they will.”
“What?”
“Shh. You will wake the children.” Alfred sat up a little, keeping the blankets pulled up around his shoulders against the chill January morning.
“Erlend thinks that Guthrum will offer the kingship of Wessex to Athelwold.” His breath hung white in the cold air of the sleeping chamber.
Elswyth sat up also. Her stomach heaved a little at the motion;
she beat the nauseous feeling down by sheer force of will. “The men of Dorset were the ones keeping guard at Circencester,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Treachery.” Her expressive mouth looked set and stern.
“I fear so,” Alfred replied.
“We will keep the children with us,” she said.
“Listen, love.” He reached a hand up from under the blankets to brush the hair away from his brow. “I am going to have to go into hiding for a while until I can gather more men. Guthrum caught me unawares, and at the moment I do not have the men to mount any kind of defense. The rest of my companion thanes will find their way to me. Of them I can be certain. But if Wessex goes the way of Mercia ...”
“It will not.” Her voice was utterly certain. “Wessex will rally to you, Alfred. But you are right. You must be careful, wait to see who is friend and who is foe.”
“I cannot drag you and the children along with me through the swamps of Somerset.”
“Why not?”
“Elswyth ...” Now he sounded impatient. “For once in your life, will you please be reasonable? It is the depths of the winter, for God’s sake!”
“I am being reasonable.” Her dark blue eyes were perfectly sober. “I will not trust my children to someone whose loyalty may prove questionable, Alfred. Nor will I send them on a dangerous journey across the width of Wessex while the Danes are free in the land.”
He looked back at her, and his own eyes were dark and troubled. The children were a weight on him; she could see that. “Let us take them to the monastery at Glastonbury, Alfred,” she said. “Glastonbury is safely in the midst of the Somerset fen country. In the winter it is an island. They will be perfectly safe there, and they will be close enough for us to put our hand on them if we must.”
There was silence as he considered her words. “If you will stay at Glastonbury with them, Elswyth.”