The Edge on the Sword

by Rebecca Tingle

  At the edge of a muddy hollow Flæd hesitated, blood pounding, and then deliberately stepped flat-footed onto the slick incline. With a whump she went down, pulling Siward with her, and rolling away as he lost his grip on her arms. On all fours she swarmed across the mud and into a patch of nettles on the other side, grabbing for her knife as she went. She had to get to the horse before him, she knew as she stood and began to run, never feeling the burn of the poison leaves. She did not know if the crashes she heard were the sounds of her own bolt through the wood or of Siward close behind her.

  There was Apple, dancing and jerking against his knotted reins. She flung herself at the horse’s head to cut him free, but a great blow from behind knocked her off her feet.

  Siward panted, uttering harsh syllables which might have been curses in his own language. Flæd clawed with her free hand to reach her horse’s gear, but it was no use—her sword and shield hung on the other side of the saddle. Siward’s weight bore her down again. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Your horse, your clothes will prove to your father”—he spat the word with hatred—“that I have you. Why should I take you alive?”

  “Dunstan!” Flæd screamed, but the word was forced back into her mouth by the Dane’s muffling hand. He brought his other hand up to cover her nose, pressing her head back into the slime of fallen leaves.

  “No one will find your body,” Siward whispered as Flæd writhed beneath him. A fragment of poetry—the battle-strength of a woman was less than a male—echoed crazily in ÆthelflÆd’s mind as flashes of light and color flooded her vision. She was going to die here, and this man would live. His Danes will ransack the countryside. With a jolt of desperation she struggled harder. They will raid Lunden. She flailed, her new home with Ethelred disappearing in ruin. They will assault Father’s burgh where Mother, Edward, and the little ones will be waiting, left behind. Howling against Siward’s palm, Flæd gave a last great thrash and tore one of her arms free. With a motion Red had made her practice in every imaginable posture of combat, she brought up her knife and buried it between Siward’s ribs.

  They found her sitting with her back against the rocks. Apple had snapped the branch and stood, head hanging, a little way off.

  “Lady Æthelflæd.” Dunstan crouched in front of her and offered his hand, but dropped it when she recoiled. He looked at the body of the Danish leader which lay faceup, knife protruding from its side.

  “Your blade,” he said gently, turning back to her. “How did he find you, Lady?” Flæd said nothing. Dunstan leaned closer, searching for a response. “Are you hurt?” Flæd rolled her head to one side. “I should not have agreed to this plan.” Dunstan’s voice was grim. “I knew you would not go.”

  “I watched him,” Flæd said, barely moving her lips.

  “What, Lady?” Dunstan touched her arm, and when she did not pull away, began to check her limbs for soundness.

  “I watched him die,” she repeated, as if speaking to herself.

  Her thane held out both hands now, and this time she let him help her rise. “She is wounded,” he shouted to the others when he saw the terrible stains on her front, but Flæd shook her head.

  “His blood,” she whispered.

  They had brought the wagon from its hiding place in the fortress, and there were new prisoners, and captured horses. Four of her men were injured—three could not ride—but the concentrated force and surprise of their attack had worked even more effectively than Flæd had hoped it would. All of the West Saxon band had lived.

  Apple refused to carry Flæd in her gory clothes, so she climbed up beside the wagon driver, taking the seat they had given her on the day the journey began. It was three mornings ago, she had to remind herself, numbly counting the deaths that marked the days: Red and the raiders who died with him, Osric and the two thanes, along with the raider at the gate, and today Siward, dead by her hand.

  The sky was light and clear when they reached the river. The riders let the horses wade in to cool their legs and drink a little. Ignoring the cold, Flæd walked into the water with them until the river, brown and clouded with the last day’s rain, swirled around her waist. She felt it rush through her mail shirt and clothes to her skin. She untied her bloodstained cloak, the grey wool her mother had woven, and let it float away on the current. She had left her cap in the wagon, and now she unbound her hair and threw it over her head as she dipped down to let the gritty water scour her.

  She was shivering and steaming in the morning air when she scrambled up beside the driver again. Someone handed her a blanket from the wagon bed. Dunstan reined his horse up beside them.

  “My lady Æthelflæd,” he said formally, “we follow the river?”

  “We follow the river,” she agreed, “to Lunden.”

  25

  Lady of the Mercians

  A HAND GRIPPED FLÆD’S ARM AS SHE SWAYED DANGEROUSLY on the wagon seat. With a little cry she opened her eyes. The daylight was fading, and in front of her loomed massive stone walls.

  “Lunden, Lady Æthelflæd,” the driver said softly beside her. From an arched passageway in the wall three riders emerged. Flæd signalled for her party to halt, and the mounted guard from the settlement stopped a short distance away.

  “Say who you are, and why you have come!” one of the Mercian sentries shouted, his horse sidestepping nervously. Dunstan cleared his throat to call back, but Flæd stopped him with a shake of her head. She drew a deep breath.

  “Æthelflæd, daughter of King Alfred, greets you,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. The sound of her words came echoing back from the rampart. Flæd saw the man move closer to his companions. They conferred, and then the spokesman rode forward again.

  “Show us tokens to prove this,” he called to her. Dunstan shifted angrily on the seat, and opened his mouth to reply, but again Flæd shook her head.

  “If the aldorman and his party were attacked,” she reminded him wearily, “the Mercians know they must be cautious with strangers.” Flæd thought for a moment, and then reached into the pouch which hung at her belt. She drew out her handbook and opened it to the first words: KING ALFRED COMMANDED THAT I SHOULD BE MADE. Then she reached into the small space beneath her seat and took out the box which held her betrothal gifts. “Take these things to Ethelred,” she called out to the sentries, handing the box and the book to one of her own riders, who proceeded slowly toward the group of Mercians. “He will know them.”

  Flæd watched as the three riders received the articles and disappeared through the passage in the wall. She looked around at the tired band she had brought with her from the camp the night before. The four retainers who could still ride had drawn up near her, slumped on mounts they had recovered after the skirmish. Some of the captured raiders sat bound in the bed of her wagon, shoulder to shoulder with her more seriously wounded thanes, and guarded by one of Flæd’s men, whose eye had swollen shut above the gash on his face. He kept his sword unsheathed across his knees, regarding the Danes with grim purpose.

  The West Saxon party had covered the remaining distance to Lunden in a day, encountering no further violence. As they waited now outside the wall, Flæd wondered if it had been wise to give the golden gifts and the book to the sentries. She was sure Ethelred would recognize the rich things he had sent to Wessex for her betrothal celebration, but even an enemy might think to use such objects for deception. She hoped the chief aldorman had learned enough of her to know that the book at least must be her private possession, unlikely to be plundered. The Danes had destroyed entire libraries, she remembered reading in the Chronicle. At most, they would have ignored a little volume containing a few pages of writing they could not read.

  “Lady.” Dunstan touched her arm again, and pointed toward the wall. The three sentries were riding back toward them at a gallop, along with a new rider. Four riders to our four. Flæd felt her muscles tighten. Then she drew a breath of relief. The fourth rider was Ethelred.

  Almost immediately, Flæd’s co
mfort was shouldered aside by a crowd of old worries. All the feelings of uncertainty and resentment which had bred inside her through the months of her betrothal now rushed up again like a horde of enemies. Who am I to Ethelred? Who is he to me?

  “It is Lady Æthelflæd!” she heard Ethelred shout to his guards as they came close enough to see each other’s face clearly. He dismounted and came quickly to her, reaching to help her down from the wagon. Flæd was trembling. She had been calm since the river, where she had washed away Siward’s blood, but now that listless peace had been broken. “My lady,” Ethelred said, grasping both of her hands in his when she stood on the ground, “we did not know you were coming. Our messenger …”

  Flæd felt herself panicking. She had reached Lunden alive, and she had brought as many men with her as she could, but now those men would leave her, and she would stand beside Ethelred and be bound to him by a priest in front of all the people, and this man she did not know would take her to his bed Life and body—she had preserved her life and body, and now they would be his. Desperately, Flæd braced herself in Ethelred’s firm grip. Ethelred had spoken of his messenger. “We found Cenwulf dead, with your message,” she told him. Ethelred’s face filled with dismay.

  “This is terrible news—Cenwulf dead? He has been my surest emissary—we were certain that he and you were safe in Wessex. Lady Æthelflæd,” Ethelred addressed her gravely, “your life has been in great danger. I am sure you did not understand the risks of your journey, but I must tell you now that we have sent a force of men to drive back the raiders who attacked us. They had found nothing yet, as of their last report. How did you avoid …” He trailed off, finally noticing the bound and sullen men behind her who could not be West Saxons.

  “We have news of the enemies who struck your camp, I think.” Flæd let the words stumble out, ignoring Ethelred’s astonished look. “Here are prisoners”—she nodded toward the group of fettered men—“raiders from the border for you to question. A few of my own men are injured, and another man …” Flæd struggled with the words. “Another man is dead who was dear to you, and…and who was a friend to me. Three days ago we buried your envoy, who was my guardian.” Flæd tried to keep her face sedate, but her lips still trembled. With fresh alarm the aldorman surveyed the members of her company, then brought his gaze back to her.

  “My finest man,” he said quietly, “a noble fighter. Mercia will receive this news with grief, and there is a certain person who will greet the news of my best retainer’s death with even greater sorrow. Come into Lunden. Tell us how these things happened.” Ethelred spoke to one of the sentries, who dismounted and took Flæd’s place on the wagon seat. Ethelred boosted her onto the man’s horse, and swung up on his own mount again. With a sign from the chief aldorman, the company headed in.

  Inside, Flæd noticed through her haze of apprehension and fatigue that many people lingered in the streets, even at this late hour. Little knots of folk clustered together, speaking among themselves and pointing at the visitors as the West Saxon party and their escort passed. Flæd caught snatches of their conversation: “…the West Saxon king’s daughter …””…prisoners, see? They might be raiders—filthy Danes …” “…which one is she?” They had come out to see her, she realized. For the first time since the attack Flæd thought about how she must look. Her hair was bound into a ragged braid beneath her protective cap. Over her stained clothes she wore the mail shirt Red had given her, the dagger slung at her waist. Her hands were dirty, and her face must be covered with dust from the road. What must these people think of the Mercian governor’s bride-to-be? What must Ethelred himself think?

  Lunden was a larger place than the burgh where Flæd had spent her childhood, and she soon lost count of the turns they made among its streets. They must be nearing the center of the tun, she thought as Ethelred called for the party to halt once again.

  “My sentries will hold your prisoners,” he said to her, “and will show your men where to find food and care for their wounds. Will you come with me now?” Flæd nodded, and then hesitated a moment, looking anxiously over her shoulder. “Your people will not be far,” Ethelred told her gently.

  Still ill at ease, Flæd turned aside with Ethelred and one of his guards. The three of them approached a large stone building—the house where Ethelred lived, Flæd understood, and where I have come to live with him. The sentry took away their horses, and she and the Mercian aldorman went inside.

  “You are very tired, Lady,” Ethelred said. In the torchlit passageway where they stood Flæd looked at his face, still unfamiliar to her, though not that of an utter stranger. For a wretched moment she tried to remember what she had seen before in this face which had seemed pleasing. His smiling banter with my father in the council room, and later in the hall. His quick delight when he discovered my trick after the race. With less anxiety, she let her eyes trace the little lines around his mouth, the fine wrinkles that fanned across his temples after years of riding and fighting in all weathers. She could see that worry and kindness now shaped his broad features. “The bishop of Wiogoraceaster had already begun his journey to Lunden before our party was attacked,” Ethelred was explaining. “He is here now in Lunden to wed us, but we will wait until you are ready.”

  “We must not wait,” Flæd blurted out. If we wait, how will my haste have been of any use? How would it show honor to Red, who lost his life bringing me safely to this marriage? “The raiders tried to stop us on our way, and their leader plotted to defeat the alliance which protects Wessex and Mercia. But we didn’t allow it—we didn’t let him succeed, and I will not let Siward”—her voice cracked with urgency—“delay us any further.” She fell silent, feeling far less certain than her words had sounded.

  “Siward? The dissenter from Readingas?” Ethelred exclaimed. Sagging in front of him, Flæd nodded. He looked at her even more closely, then he sighed.

  “As you wish, Lady,” he said. “You must rest tonight. These people will show you to your rooms,” he told her, indicating the serving women who had gathered near them, “and as you say, your thanes can give me your report, and spare you further disturbance this evening. But before you go, I must ask something more of you,” he went on, shifting uneasily where he stood. “We must send word of these attacks to Alfred—the retainers who have come with you will carry the news with them when they return tomorrow, those who are well enough to travel. Your family will want assurance that you are safely here in Mercia. Will you write a letter to them, as you wrote to me, and say that you are well?”

  The thought of her family and the familiar burgh made Flæd draw a quick breath of misery, but she looked up at Ethelred. “I will write to them tonight,” she said, “if someone will bring ink and parchment to my quarters.”

  “Thank you,” Ethelred said, but concern still showed on his face. “There is one other thing,” he told her, taking her hand, “of which I spoke earlier. May the one who grieves for your warder come to see you tonight?”

  For a moment it seemed too much. To speak of him, to bring that pain freshly to her mind yet again at the end of this day—I can’t, she thought to herself. But he is not commanding me, he is asking, she realized. She must be open-hearted and generous, Flæd remembered the maxim in her handbook. She must know what is wise for both of them as rulers in the hall. “Yes,” she said at last. “Send them after I have changed clothes and washed.”

  “Æthelflæd,” Ethelred said, and there was tenderness in the word, “welcome to Lunden.” He kissed her carefully, as if he were afraid of disturbing some fine arrangement of her hair or dress. “Welcome to Mercia.” Flæd felt his hand on her cheek, his mouth more gentle than the kiss he had offered after the race at her father’s burgh. She was so tired that she felt herself leaning into his palm. Ethelred, she began to realize for the first time, was not merely a person to whom she must prove her value. “He is a good man,” Red had said, and Flæd could begin to see a kindness in him which might comfort her when she had need. Wh
o else was there but Ethelred anymore, she thought to herself, and pulled back from him so that he would not see the tears that welled suddenly into her eyes.

  In Flæd’s room a little fire was burning on the hearth. The serving women who accompanied her took away the stained clothing she wore, and helped her wash the grime from her face and limbs. When she was dressed in a pale grey gown, with her hair neatly plaited and soft leather slippers on her feet, Flæd sent the women away. She found a place near her bed for the mail shirt, helmet, and dagger, which she had kept back. Several rushlamps burned in the room, and one cast its light over a small table and chair. In the bright circle shed by the flame, Flæd saw parchment and quills laid out for her use. On the corner of the table lay the little handbook and the box of betrothal gifts Flæd had sent to Ethelred from outside the wall.

  What should she write to her family? Flæd went to the little table and touched the vellum. The thanes would give Alfred the details of the ambush, and would assure the king that his daughter had afterward come safely into the Mercian stronghold at Lunden. It was Flæd’s duty to reassure them with her own words. But the sentences that came to her hardly seemed to express what had happened, or all that she had felt. I have come to Ethelred’s house…Red sent me to hide during the attack…their leader was Siward, who cursed the English at Readingas. She needed to tell them that her new life had begun here, and that she had found comfort and protection. But in her mind she saw blood—the blood of an enemy who had meant to kill her, and that of a friend lying cold in the firelight.

  There was a movement at her doorway, and Flæd looked up nervously to see the guard admitting a young woman. She was perhaps ten winters older than Flæd, and was dressed as plainly as the brown-clad serving women who had left her room a few minutes earlier. Aside from this, she bore little resemblance to the servants—a fact all the more striking because on her neck and wrist the scars of slave rings showed. She was not tall, but she walked and stood proudly. She waited now just inside the entrance with her head up and her back straight. Flæd peered more carefully at her visitor’s face, and then went very still. She knew who this person must be.