The Edge on the Sword

by Rebecca Tingle

  “Flæd!” Dove came running from behind a stack of cloth. “Look at my new gown.” Flæd inspected the thin figure, who plucked up the sides of her dress and held them out for her older sister’s admiration. The rich cloth of the gown was dark brown, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with a braided cord of even darker wool. It was very much like the clothing of the nuns Dove admired, Flæd could not help noticing.

  “This new gown covers those tiny bird ankles of yours at last,” Flæd said, tweaking Dove’s braid before her sister disappeared again among the stacks of cloth. Ealhswith shook her head.

  “You’d think her a novice in training among the abbey’s sisters already,” the queen said, “were she a few winters older.” Ealhswith bent to the hem of the blue gown one last time, and then quickly stripped the dress over the head of her smaller daughter, who squeaked with surprise and then giggled to find herself standing clad only in new shoes and a white shift. “Put on your other tunic and go play with Dove,” her mother told her. “Flæd and I must look at some cloth.”

  The queen turned to Flæd. “Come see what has just arrived.” She led Flæd to a place near the door of the room, where morning sunlight streamed in under the lintel. The light formed a patch of glowing red on the table where a fine cloth had been unfolded for inspection. “This is wool spun, dyed, and woven by a woman I knew in Wintanceaster,” Ealhswith told her, “when we lived there just after your birth. See, it is very fine. And what color!”

  “A royal color,” Flæd agreed, fingering the dense, even threads. “It will make fine robes for the king.”

  “She sent this to us,” Ealhswith replied, “after the announcement of your betrothal. It is a royal gift, but not for Alfred.”

  Flæd withdrew her hand from the beautiful stuff. “It would look as wrong on me as—as scarlet feathers on a sparrow,” she said darkly.

  “Perhaps you could wear it,” Ealhswith said, drawing her daughter close, “for the woman who made the cloth. She held you when you were born, and sends this in tribute to the babe who has grown up worthy of such a gift.” Ealhswith turned to face Flæd. “You might wear this red in Mercia,” she said, “for the sake of a good West Saxon weaver, and in memory of the royal West Saxon family she seeks to honor.”

  Flæd looked at the bright cloth a moment longer, then nodded. With her mother she also chose a dark green wool, and added a cloth the color of ripe wheat for other gowns. These they gave to the woman who would make the garments in the coming weeks. Ælf and Dove had spread a length of coarse linen between the tables, and Ealhswith and Flæd left them whispering in their tent, attended by a servant who began measuring out Flæd’s new cloth nearby.

  From the royal family’s stores Flæd and her mother picked out carved wooden bowls, leather bottles of wine, a polished horn for drinking, and a bright golden cup not as large as the silver one Alfred passed to his guests, but intricately decorated with interlacing branches which seemed to grow from the vessel’s slender stem. They chose a heavy ring with a smoothly polished green gem for the hand of Ethelred of Mercia. Three chests filled with silver coins bearing Alfred’s image would come from the treasury, as well. Last of all, they stood in the blacksmith’s rooms and examined the linked rings of the armor that hung there, the clean blades of the swords the craftsman had forged. “How tall is the Mercian aldorman?” the smith asked, but they didn’t know. They would have to come back another time, the queen said.

  It was late in the day when they had finished, and Flæd walked with her mother to the door of the queen’s quarters. Ealhswith stopped outside and looked at Flæd, smoothing the hair back from her daughter’s face.

  “Still sad, little bird?” she asked. A lump rose in Flæd’s throat as her mother used the name she had called her when she was a very small girl.

  “Ethelred…I don’t even know—” She could not finish, but the queen seemed to understand.

  “It is hard, the waiting,” her mother said.

  “Did you want to come here, to be a queen?” Flæd asked her mother in a rush.

  “I hoped that I would find a peaceful place, a quiet life in Wessex,” Ealhswith replied evenly. “I hoped that Alfred would help bring peace to Mercia through our marriage. The Danes had made my home dangerous.”

  “Then you were not like me,” Flæd choked. “I already had a quiet life, with my books, our weaving, before the betrothal—before those men tried to take me.”

  “Your father has worked to keep your home peaceful, but he has been at war every year of his kingship until this last one.” Her mother shook her head. “Alfred loves contemplation and the solace of his books, just as you do. Do you remember what I told you at the end of the winter, just before your betrothal was announced?”

  “‘We do not know what we may become,”’ Flæd murmured.

  “Your father, who would rather have been a scholar, became a warrior, and a good king.” The queen took Flæd’s face between her hands. “What will you become, I wonder, now that you must give up your quiet life?” For a long moment Ealhswith stood gazing into her daughter’s troubled eyes. “You chose well today, Æthelflæd,” she said at last. “If I must part with my eldest daughter, it makes me glad to send her back to the place of my own birth with treasure. May you find happiness there,” the queen finished, kissing Flæd on the cheek and withdrawing into her rooms.

  Happiness, thought Flæd, wanting to take comfort in her mother’s words. A man who is a stranger, and a place I have never seen—if I can’t imagine these, how can I imagine happiness?

  But still she tried. He could even come today, she brooded the next morning. A wagon trip to Lunden might take two or three days, but for a rider on horseback, the journey might be as short as one. Knowing this, Flæd found herself peering out toward the river, looking out over the buttercups scattered amid the long grass like golden coins. A messenger will arrive to tell us Ethelred of Mercia is coming. What will Ethelred look like? What will he say? How will he look at me?

  When the messenger comes, she decided, I will wash the dust out of my hair, and put on a new gown so that I am ready to greet Ethelred when he follows. I will try to remember what Father John has told me about Mercia.

  We gave Cenwulf a good horse. A messenger will soon be on his way….

  Then Ethelred will come.

  16

  Ethelred

  AT TWILIGHT THE MERCIAN MESSENGER ARRIVED. SITTING ON her bed Flæd heard the far-off sentries loudly hail a rider, and with a hammering in her chest she listened until the sound of tired hoofbeats passed not far from her door. A day and a half for the messenger to ride to Lunden—Flæd quickly tallied the time—a day of discussion between Ethelred and his thanes, and then the messenger’s swift journey back to say that Ethelred is coming. Her heart was still racing when Red spoke softly into the room.

  “Lady, we should cross to your father’s council chamber.” Flæd glanced at her sleeping sisters, and then inspected her own plain clothing. She had been patching a hole in her leather shoe by rushlight, at a place where her toe had worn through the slipper in the rough footing of the meadow. Her shabbiness wouldn’t matter for this meeting with the rider from Mercia—she and Red would stand off in a corner to hear what news the man had brought of Ethelred’s plans. Then they would come back here for sleep, that was all. Quietly she pulled on the half-mended shoe and its mate, and put out her lamp.

  Light spilled out onto the street from the entryway to Alfred’s council chamber, and the sentry by the door motioned Flæd and her warder inside. The king was speaking with the messenger, and he broke off to greet Flæd as she and Red came in.

  “Æthelflæd, this rider brings word that your letter was welcome to the people of Lunden. It seems that Ethelred began his journey almost as soon as our message reached him. The chief aldorman of Mercia is at our gates.”

  Flæd felt her stomach knotting. She looked quickly at Red, who had already inclined his ear to the doorway. Sounds of a large party approaching had begu
n to echo in from the street. Bishop Asser and Father John, speaking quietly to each other, entered the council chamber and came to stand beside the king. The noise of hooves and jingling gear of many horses came closer, until Flæd could see movement just beyond the light of the entryway. One man’s voice called out a command to halt, and the noise changed, as horses snorted and booted feet dropped to the ground.

  Swiftly Flæd stepped back beside her warder into the shadowy corner by the door just as the sentry spoke his first words to the party of newcomers. She could not quite make out the sentences they exchanged, but a moment later the sentry’s mailed shoulders filled the doorway.

  “Ethelred, Chief Aldorman of Mercia, greets King Alfred,” the guard announced. He stepped back, and the Mercian aldorman strode into the room, accompanied by four other men who arranged themselves behind him when he stopped in front of Alfred.

  “Ethelred,” Alfred said with a smile, coming forward to clasp the aldorman’s forearm in greeting, “we bid you welcome to our burgh.”

  “Burgh!” Ethelred exclaimed, opening his mouth in a laugh. “From the look of the wall we passed, I’d call this a king’s tun.” Ethelred used the word for heavily fortified settlements which defended whole communities when enemies threatened.

  “Nonsense, my friend,” Alfred responded with a laugh of his own. “This is only a humble burgh, where my family enjoys peace and simple living.” Flæd could see Ethelred’s profile as he drew breath for another retort. The Mercian aldorman looked a few years younger than her father, but was less finely drawn than the king. He had removed his helmet before he entered Alfred’s rooms, and Flæd could see that his hair was light brown, almost a bronze color in the candlelight of Alfred’s council chamber. His face looked broad and square from Flæd’s vantage, and the wrinkles of a smile appeared at the corner of his eye as he spoke again.

  “You may call this king’s tun a burgh if you wish. Certainly we have come here from Mercia with no other thought than to greet your royal daughter in the beautiful West Saxon countryside.”

  “Greet her, then,” said Alfred, with a sly look on his mobile face. “Chief Aldorman of Mercia,” he pronounced, stepping around Ethelred and his men, and taking the startled Flæd by the hand, “here is Lady Æthelflæd of Wessex.” In spite of her own dismay, Flæd could not help noticing that surprise had frozen Ethelred’s features at the moment she stood before him. She was keenly aware of her rumpled gown, of the fuzzy hairs that had escaped her braid and trailed into her face, of the half-mended shoe which showed a pink flash of her toe through the remaining hole. She hid this foot behind the other.

  “Lady Æthelflæd,” the Mercian aldorman spoke, regaining his composure, “your message was most gladly received in Lunden. I am honored to greet you in your father’s burgh.” Ethelred placed special emphasis on this last word, showing a trace of his former smile, and dropped to one knee.

  “You are welcome here,” Flæd said softly, finding her own voice. She bowed her head to the aldorman, and then stepped back beside her warder. Ethelred broke into a grin when he saw Red standing there. He strode forward and laid his hand on Red’s shoulder.

  “It is very good to see you again,” he said warmly. Ethelred looked over at Alfred. “My retainer has insured the safety of Lady Æthelflæd?” he asked.

  “He has indeed met the challenge of that task,” Alfred replied, eyeing Red and Flæd with a half-smile. “Ethelred,” he continued, “you and your men have had a long and weary ride. Take your horses to our stables. We will send food to your quarters, where you may rest yourselves until morning when we will meet here to talk again.”

  “I trust we will also find time to celebrate this happy visit?” Ethelred asked with a quirk to his mouth.

  “Tomorrow we shall feast,” Alfred agreed.

  “In a day or two my horses will be rested,” Ethelred mused innocently. “I had thought, perhaps, a race?”

  “I have not forgotten your boasts,” the king told him. “I would like to see if these Mercian horses are as fast as you claim. Yes, we will announce it. The next day, a race between West Saxon and Mercian riders.”

  When Ethelred and his men had gone, Red and Flæd were sent to their rest. Flæd was still reeling with the evening’s surprises, and was glad to walk through the cool night air with only the familiar company of Red and the masspriest John, who went with them.

  “I believe Ethelred has raced here before,” Father John said as they walked.

  “Ethelred has raced here ?” she asked in surprise. John nodded, and Flæd thought she could detect amusement uponhis face in the starlight.

  “If your father has kept this story from you, it is not because of modesty,” her tutor told her. “Ethelred bested fine riders who had the swiftest mounts of the West Saxon stables.”

  “Here?” Flæd asked again.

  “You have never noticed it, then?” John said with curiosity. “It has not been used since just before your father brought his family to this burgh.” Flæd shook her head, still not understanding. “The raised ground around the edge of the meadow?” John asked. “Edward tells me you walk there to avoid the winter floods.” Suddenly Flæd could picture it—the vast oval of worn, elevated earth ringing the pasture. A racecourse. “Your father passed through this settlement with a group of West Saxon and Mercian retainers, Ethelred among them,” Father John was saying. “The races they ran against each other here gave them a little respite from the wars. Perhaps that happy time encouraged your father to come back here with his wife and children.”

  Ethelred had raced horses in their own pasture against Flæd’s father. This did not surprise her after what she had just seen in Alfred’s chambers. The aldorman had laughed and blustered. He and the king had warmed each other with their banter. He was her father’s true friend, she felt more certain after tonight. But he cooled when he saw me, she remembered. We are still strangers to each other. And perhaps, a little voice nagged, he did not like what he saw.

  Well, Flæd thought with a toss of her head, perhaps I am not sure I liked what I saw. In the morning, wearing her good clothes and her full dignity, she intended to have a second look at Ethelred of Mercia.

  17

  The Race

  “WE WILL NOT STAND BY WHILEDANES CROSS OUR BORDER!” Ethelred insisted.

  “Chief Aldorman,” Asser said patiently, “we do not suggest leaving Mercia defenseless. But we must choose the proper time and place to move against the enemy.”

  Flæd rubbed her eyes wearily. She and Red had listened all morning while Ethelred and his advisors deliberated with Alfred and Asser. The men reviewed all they had learned from the border guards. They questioned Red closely again, probing his memory of Danish battle tactics. Now they had settled in to argue over what to do next.

  Ethelred had seemed surprised to see Flæd waiting in the council room when he arrived that morning. After a moment’s hesitation the large man had smiled politely to her and bowed. Then he seemed to forget about her, turning instead to her warder and questioning him about his stay in Wessex. In fact there had been very little for Flæd to do at the council table that morning, and she had settled back further on her bench as the voices of the men rose in debate. Beside her Red was nearly as silent, speaking out only when he was addressed. Flæd tugged at a thread which dangled from her sleeve.

  “And would you have us risk the lives of innocents, who understand nothing of this threat? Risk the lives of our children? The life of one so delicate as Lady Æthelflæd here, who will travel to Mercia only a week or so behind my own party if you send me back now?” Ethelred said heatedly. There was a small silence while he glared around the room. Ethelred’s frown deepened when he saw Alfred smiling, and noticed that even Red’s expression had lightened.

  “Forgive us, Ethelred,” Alfred said to him, “for your argument is serious. Like you, we have thought my daughter delicate. She has begun to convince us otherwise.” Alfred paused, considering his next words carefully. “E
thelred, I need your presence in Lunden again as quickly as possible—our talks have convinced me that our Mercian holdings must not be left vulnerable in any way. I could send my daughter with you now, it is true”—(Flæd caught her breath in alarm)—“but I have promised her these last few days with her family. Of course we will send her with a suitable company of armed retainers. I have confidence that Æthelflæed’s own hardheadedness will bring her safely to Lunden, in the watchful company of my men, and of your own valued thane”—the king nodded at Red—“just as we had planned before I called you here.” Flæd looked away from the table, abashed, but not before she had seen Ethelred color with embarrassment. Then Father John’s gentle voice sounded across the room.

  “We should not wonder at Lady Æthelflæd’s boldness,” her tutor said. “Her mother, after all, is Mercian.” Flæd could feel some of the tension ease in the room as Ethelred and his retainers acknowledged the compliment. She wished herself ten days’ march away as Ethelred cautiously began speaking again.

  When they left the council room, Flæd slipped ahead quickly to walk with Father John, avoiding Ethelred, who had stayed to exchange a few more words with the king.

  “Thank you for speaking,” she said to her tutor. “The aldorman seems—he was close to anger today.”

  “He is passionate about the land he governs, I would say,” John replied mildly, “and he has not judged you properly, but that would be a poor reason to spoil these talks. I only reminded the Mercians of a fact they already knew.” He looked at Flæd curiously. “You find the aldorman…unpleasant?” Flæd looked down.

  “I don’t know what to think of him,” she muttered. “He doesn’t seem to care much about me.”