The Edge on the Sword

by Rebecca Tingle

  Sitting beneath the sheltering cloth, they took turns sipping the hot brew from the single cup Red passed between them. Flæd’s skin felt numb with tiredness. Her legs ached to the bone, and in the morning she knew she would find them stiff and much more painful.

  “There’s a blanket in your satchel,” Red told her, and she opened her pack and found a dark woolen cover to spread over herself. Beneath it she found five large river stones.

  “Why?” she demanded, showing Red the inside of her bag.

  “You carried no weapons, no shield, and no rations,” Red responded. “The stones gave you some of that weight.” Flæd thought about this for a moment. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and felt the steam of her drying clothes rising through the mail shirt she still wore.

  “Today you have tried to show me how a soldier travels on foot,” Flæd ventured, voicing an idea which had been growing in her mind throughout the day. She was rewarded with a nod from her warder. Flæd thought back to her questions on the last night of the king’s council. What had her guardian said to the king? She believed she could guess now—Red had told her father he would teach her to defend herself.

  “We will go back tomorrow?” she asked the Mercian at last.

  “They expect us by midday,” Red assented. Shyly Flæd hesitated again before saying more to her warder. She wanted to tell him that she understood these lessons after so many weeks, and to ask him another question—one she had wondered about from the day they had met.

  “I…I could fight those attackers along with you now,” she said to him at last.

  “Maybe you could,” he answered. Flæd chewed her lip, then went on.

  “Your name, Red—is that the name your parents gave you?”

  “No,” Red answered, a wariness creeping into his voice. “People called me Red when I fought—before I lost my family.” Firelight glinted on the drops that hung from the edge of the cloth above them, and flickered in changing shadows across the Mercian’s face. Flæd clenched her hands together beneath the blanket.

  “They called you Red for the color of your sword in battle,” she said with terrible certainty, “for the blood of enemies you spilt on the battlefield, where wolves and carrion birds came to feed upon the dead.” She shot a solemn look at her warder, and saw that Red was smiling.

  “The name was for my head, that’s all.” He removed the close-fitting leather cap he wore and bent down so that the flames shone on his short hair. In the firelight, as near to her warder as she had ever been, Flæd peered at the familiar grey and white bristles of her warder’s cropped head. “Look hard,” Red instructed, “I’m like an old strawberry roan horse.” And then she saw them: Among the peppering of grey and white, a few rust-colored hairs. Flæd felt her face grow hot, but then before she could stop herself, she began to laugh. From beside her came a low chuckle—Red was laughing, too.

  14

  Message to Mercia

  “WHO IS THAT?”

  Flæd, Edward, and Red stood atop the newly finished rampart encircling the burgh, looking out over the great pasture toward the river. At the edge of the marsh, clusters of cotton sedges raised white tufts like hares’ tails to the sky, and among these tussocks a man and a horse were picking their way toward the river.

  “It’s Edric,” Edward said, naming one of Alfred’s young retainers. “He has just such a dark bay horse.”

  “No, Grimbald, I think,” Flæd replied, squinting into the distance. Bishop Asser had lately sent the young Frankish monk on an errand to a neighboring abbey, and Grimbald would have followed the river’s course to this ford on his return journey.

  “It’s a Mercian,” grunted Red. Flæd looked over at him, a question showing in her face. “The crest of his helmet,” Red told her, “and the decoration of his horse’s bridle.” Flæd looked back at the approaching man and horse, who had reached the river and were splashing onto the near bank after their ford. Faintly she could make out a glint of interlacing metalwork on the horse’s cheekstrap when the bay tossed its head. The central ridge of the rider’s helmet reared up above his forehead into the shape of an animal. Red, Flæd realized, must have recognized the workmanship of his homeland.

  “Why would another Mercian come to our burgh?” Edward wondered.

  “He has ridden hard,” Red replied, still peering out over the pasture. “He may be a messenger,” The three of them continued to watch as the rider reached the entryway of the burgh wall, and hailed the watchmen posted there. The men spoke together for a moment, and then the visitor was let through and pointed in the direction of the royal council chambers.

  “Let’s follow!” Edward said excitedly, scrambling past Red on his way to the stairs. At the foot of the wall Wulf uncurled himself and yawned, wagging his tail in greeting as Edward descended. Flæd looked at her guardian.

  “You are Ethelred’s envoy,” she said. “Shouldn’t you greet this Mercian?” When Red nodded his assent, she hurried down the steps after her brother.

  Outside the king’s council room they found the bay horse, reins thrown over onto the ground, neck drooping. Edward stroked the animal’s sweat-crusted side while saying a few low words, at which the horse swiveled back one tired ear. “I will ask if I can take him to the stables,” Edward told them, and quickly disappeared into the room. A moment later he was back, happily gathering up the reins. “They want you inside,” he said as he turned to go with the horse, Wulf pacing along dutifully at heel. They want Red, not me, Flæd thought. But Red motioned for her to lead the way into the king’s council chambers, and so she and her warder both entered.

  A chair had been brought for the Mercian visitor, and placed before the king’s table, where the man had already been served food and drink. The man sat uneasily in front of the king and Bishop Asser, and when he saw Red come into the room, his agitation increased. He stood abruptly, bowing his head to the Mercian envoy.

  “Greetings, Cenwulf,” Red said. “You had a hard ride.”

  “I did, my lord,” Cenwulf replied, “and nothing must delay my message.” He turned back to Alfred. “Two dawns ago, at the western border near Wiogoraceaster our riders encountered two horsemen in Welsh dress. From a distance these men returned our greeting. Then when we approached, they rode away. We did not see their faces, but”—here the man paused, meeting Alfred’s attentive gaze with his own level stare—“those of us who have met the Danes often in battle think these riders bore themselves not like our Welsh neighbors to the west, who are often small men, but like the taller heathen settlers of the Danelaw.” The man’s face had flushed, and at his belt his fingers played upon the short dagger he had worn into the council room. “The next night two Mercian border watchmen were found dead, one strangled, one with a knife between his ribs. I know we have not met before, King Alfred, but when your aldorman Ethelred posted me at Wiogoraceaster, he commanded me to ride first to your court with news of trouble, and then to go on with haste to Lunden. I hope you will trust me with some message for Ethelred. He will want to know your wishes.”

  “I can vouch for this man’s judgment,” came Red’s gruff voice. He stepped forward and laid his hand on Cenwulf’s shoulder. “He was with me when we fought the Danes in Bur-gred’s Mercia. All of us learned the look of our enemy well.”

  “He should rest now,” Alfred replied. “Your horse is in our stables,” he said to the weary rider, “fed and cared for. My people will show you a bed and fresh clothes.” The king stood. “Cenwulf of Mercia, I thank you for your message.” With another bow Cenwulf stiffly left the room.

  “More evil signs! Will you not agree that your daughter should stay well inside the burgh, where all your men can protect her?” Asser pounded a fist on the table. “I do not understand this arrangement of yours.” He glared from the king to Red. Alfred turned to the Mercian envoy.

  “Is she ready?” the king asked.

  “Almost,” Red answered him. “Another week of work.” Alfred sat thinking for a moment,
his face half covered with one of his hands. When he looked up, it was Flæd’s eye he sought.

  “Cenwulf is right: Ethelred needs to know what we have learned,” he said. Flæd tensed—she and her father had not spoken of the Mercian aldorman since the night of her rescue.

  “We have learned very little,” Asser put in dryly. “We have seen tall Welshmen who speak like Danes, and have perhaps found a Danish blade disguised as Welsh.”

  “I would rather meet with Ethelred here than send messages asking for his advice,” Alfred went on, still speaking to Flæed. “However, I do not think that he should come here openly for parley.”

  “But surely,” the bishop interrupted again, his eyes lighting with possibility as he suddenly understood the king’s idea, “he may come to this burgh to greet his future bride, and to feast with her royal family! His absence at the announcement of Lady Æthelflæd’s betrothal might be seen as an insult to your daughter,” Asser continued with mock seriousness, “did he not honor the lady with at least one visit before she comes to him in Mercia.” Alfred tapped his lips with a long finger.

  “Cenwulf will continue on to Lunden,” he declared at last, “and privately inform Ethelred of our desire to meet with him. But the people of Lunden will learn only that he bears a message, written by the hand of Lady Æthelflæd, asking her betrothed to visit her. Flæd, you would like to meet the chief aldorman of Mercia?” His tone made the words a question, and Flæd groped awkwardly for an answer.

  “I would like to meet him,” she replied slowly, “and—and hear his advice in the council chamber.” Her response brought a smile from her father.

  “You ask very little of this man who would be your husband,” the king pointed out. “Many brides would crave sweeter words than the advice of an aldorman to his king.” Flæd felt a flush of embarrassment and confusion. Scowling, she tried to stand straighter beside Red.

  “I will write the letter,” she said.

  Late that night Flæd sat in the scriptorium, alone except for Red, laboring over the last words of her brief message to Ethelred. Painstakingly, she had chosen each phrase of the request, writing them out on her wax tablet before she inked her quill and began to shape the letters on a sheet of parchment.

  Now she made the final descending stroke of her last word, and centered a dot between the rulings above and below her last line of letters to show that the writing was complete. She needed only to put her name upon the document, but somehow this was the most difficult moment in her odd assignment. The task her father had given her had made her feel, for just an hour or so, as if she were a part of his own trusted circle of advisors. Now as she looked at what she had written, that feeling faded.

  I wasn’t in their circle when they decided upon my betrothal, Flæd bridled, and when I go to Mercia, I will go alone, without Father, without John or Bishop Asser, without any of them. Asking me to write one letter doesn’t change that. The resentment she had felt from the moment her father had told her of Ethelred’s proposal filled her again, stiffening her hand above the fresh ink of her message. Just write your name, she told herself grimly, and it will be finished. Flæd took a breath. She tried to imagine who she was to Ethelred, and to the people of Mercia. At last she drew the straight lines of her name’s initial capital letter, and signed the message “Æthelftlæd, daughter of Alfred, King.”

  “That is well written,” said a voice at her shoulder, making Flæd jump. Father John stood beside her table looking at the parchment in the yellow light of the two candles she had brought from her father’s council room. “Perhaps I will make a name for myself in Mercia as the teacher of their lord’s scholar bride. Your father,” he continued, ignoring Flæd’s black look, “told me of his plan, and asked if I would come to help you. But you have done well without me. This will be a fine introduction for the Mercian people to their new West Saxon lady.”

  “Her mother is Mercian,” Red’s voice grated from the shadows at the end of the bench. He stood and came into the candlelight. “The people of Lunden remember Ealhswith.”

  “True enough,” said Father John, with a nod to the large man. Thoughtfully, he turned back to Flæd. “Some people of Mercia will see your marriage as a homecoming, Lady. That is strange, is it not? To come home to a place you have never seen?”

  It is not more strange than betrothal to a man I have never seen, Flæd fretted as she and Red walked together through the streets, carrying the letter to the king. Ethelred, her future husband. For the last several weeks Flæd had tried to think of the marriage as her father had explained it: Mercia uniting with Wessex. Learning restored to the English people. But more and more she was reminded that she was promised in marriage to a person. She knew little enough of him, and what would he think of a girl who read about battles in books and was learning to cut down an enemy from horseback? A gawky girl with ink-stained hands and dust in her hair? Trudging beside Red, she breathed in the calming tang of summer hay. At least I did not blot, she comforted herself.

  Cenwulf would not wait for morning to begin his ride to Lunden. Ethelred must have the news from the border along with the lady’s letter as soon as possible, he told the king, who tried to convince him to rest a little longer. With a fresh mount and fair weather, he should reach the Mercian seat in a day.

  Before the first sign of dawn, however, Cenwulf knew he had made a mistake—he could barely stay upright on the vigorous horse they had lent him. An hour of sleep, he told himself as he tied the horse and made a bed of dry leaves, then a hard ride the rest of the way.

  He did not stir when a hand brushed past his neck and drew the letter from between his sleeping fingers. He never heard the knife slip under the royal seal.

  The eyes that read the girl’s writing narrowed. Watching this road for travellers from the West Saxon court had proved worthwhile, just as expected. Here was another opportunity to toy with Alfred, more promising than their attempt to take the girl in the spring. It was always helpful, the reader reflected, when victims left the safety of their homes, carrying money and riding fine horses. Plunder tended to encourage even a cowardly force of men.

  With great delicacy the letter was returned—the Mercians would simply think the journey had loosened the seal. Ethelred would come as requested. For now, thought the figure, fingering the knife with regret, this messenger must be allowed to live.

  15

  Waiting

  “DEFEND YOUR OPEN SIDE,” RED BARKED. HE REWARDED Flæd’s distraction with a slap from the flat of the dull practice blade. Flæd set her jaw and came at her warder again. With surprise, she felt him return her attack with a vicious sweep which knocked her off her feet. She grasped the hand he offered and hauled herself up, breathing hard.

  “You will never be as strong as a larger man you meet in battle,” Red said to her as she rubbed the stinging fingers which had held her sword. “That poem you read in the marsh, what does it say about the woman-monster?”

  Flæd tried to recall the lines. “The poem says, ‘Her strength—the battle-strength of a woman—was less than a male, whose sword can shear through a helmet.’ “

  “But she was still terrible,” Red said.

  Flæd nodded. “She was cunning. She attacked when they did not expect her, and later she fought in her own lair, a place she knew well.”

  Red leaned on his sword. “I’m stronger. You’re smaller, quicker, and lighter. Now, find a way to beat me with a sword.”

  They readied their weapons. Three times more Flæd found herself thrown on her back by Red’s hard, direct strokes. The fourth time, Flæd dropped to the ground just before their blades met, rolling under Red’s slash and scrambling to her feet behind him as he stumbled to find his balance. Before he could turn she had touched the blunted edge of her blade against his neck. “Good,” was all her warder said. And then, “Again.”

  Flæd’s bones still ached from the lesson when she was prodded awake by a serving woman the next morning. She listened groggily to the i
nstructions her mother had sent. She was not expected at the scriptorium today, or in the practice field. It was time to choose the gifts she would take to Ethelred. More preparations for going away, Flæd thought, burying her face in her pillow. But after breakfast she dutifully found her mother in the buildings where the burgh’s dry stores were kept.

  Ealhswith had come before her, and was kneeling in the center of a room filled with draped and folded cloth. Before her stood little Ælf, her hair a bright tangle around her shoulders, wearing a nearly finished gown of dark blue.

  “Flæd!” her little sister cried, and started to come toward her.

  “No, no, stay here, little one.” Her mother stopped the girl with a hand on her wrist. “We must shorten this, or you will catch your new shoe on the hem and fall.” Ealhswith bent to her measurements again, but Ælf twisted her head around to speak to Flæd over her shoulder.

  “I do have new shoes, Flæd.” She thrust one out from under the skirt and held her foot out for her older sister to admire its oiled leather slipper.

  “Ælf,” the queen chastened, “two feet on the ground. We’re almost finished.”

  Flæd knelt down in front of her youngest sister and listened to a flurry of excited words as the little girl told her about the new clothing they had chosen that morning. A fresh shift and tunic for play, this blue dress for feasting days, stiff new shoes which did not crimp the toes like the old ones…. Flæd let Ælf’s high, quick voice patter on, realizing how little time she had spent with her sisters since the spring. At meals she was always in a hurry, rushing to her lessons, or to practice with Red. When she returned to their quarters her sisters were often already sleeping. Even if Dove and Ælf were awake, Flæd usually fell into her own bed too tired for anything more than cuddling the little ones beside her until the serving women took them back to their pallets. She had begun to lose her sisters even before she left the burgh, Flæd thought mournfully.