The Edge of Light

by Joan Wolf

  For perhaps ten minutes neither of them spoke. They stood in the open doorway, letting the chill hard rain blow on them, watching the storm. Finally, as the lightning dimmed and began to move away, they turned to look at each other once more.

  “Your presence certainly helped calm the horses,” Alfred said.

  She had her brother’s arrogant nose, though hers was slim and elegant as well as haughty. Her eyes were a much darker blue. He had not thought eyes could be so dark and yet so blue. “And why were you not in the guest hall, Prince?” she retorted in her curiously husky unchildlike voice.

  “I came to the barn to find something I had forgotten.”

  Silence fell as they regarded each other speculatively. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Then, at exactly the same moment, they began to laugh.

  “I love storms,” Elswyth confessed. “As soon as my mother began to close up the shutters, I slipped out.”

  “I did exactly the same.” They were regarding each other now with distinct approval.

  “You are the Lady Ethelswith’s youngest brother?” she asked after a minute.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “I have heard of you.”

  He smiled faintly and did not reply. She leaned her shoulders against the open door and looked him up and down. She could not be more than twelve, Alfred thought. Her self-possession amused him. “I met your brother earlier this afternoon,” he said.

  “Athulf. Yes.” She shrugged, “He has been attending on the king since my father died. My other brother and I have just come to Tamworth to join Athulf and my mother. I can’t see why I had to come. I usually bide in the country on our estates.”

  She did not sound pleased with her present situation. “Perhaps your brother wished to give you a treat,” Alfred said.

  “A treat?” She looked at him as if he were mad. “I can assure you, Prince, it is no treat to be cooped up here in Tamworth with my mother.”

  Alfred’s lips quivered. He knew Eadburgh, Elswyth’s mother, and he could see Elswyth’s point perfectly.

  “Speaking of my mother,” she said glumly now. “She will be looking for me. I had better get back to our hall.”

  Without a backward look she walked out into the brightening yard. Alfred watched her small figure until it disappeared from view into one of the halls; then he too left the barn in order to return to Ethelred.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  There was a great hunt on the day of Alfred’s birthday. Burgred knew his young brother-by-marriage well enough to know that nothing would please Alfred so much as a hunt. Hunting seemed to be a passion that ran in the West Saxon royal family. Hunting and dogs.

  Ethelred had his two new wolfhounds running beside his horse when Alfred trotted his own chestnut stallion up to stand beside his brother’s bay in the bright morning sunshine. The weather had been considerably cooler since the storm, and the great courtyard of Tamworth was crowded and noisy, with nobles on horseback, and grooms and houndsmen and gamesmen on foot. The excited dogs milled around under the legs of the horses. Alfred noted with approval that none of the high-spirited Mercian horses had tried to kick a hound. Burgred’s horses were well-trained, he thought, as his eye alighted on a small gray gelding with a particularly elegant carriage. A beautiful animal, he thought, and looked to see who was the rider. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized young Elswyth, dressed in brown hunting tunic and cross-gartered trousers like all the men in the courtyard, and sitting astride the gray with perfect ease.

  Alfred’s finely drawn brows drew together. This was not a hunt for girls. What could her brother be thinking of? For Elswyth was obviously here with Athulf’s permission; Alfred saw that he was sitting his own bay right beside his sister.

  The tide in the courtyard seemed to shift suddenly and Alfred looked to see what was causing the disruption. A woman dressed in a cream-colored gown and blue tunic was threading her purposeful way on foot through the mounted men and the dogs. The shift in the tide had come from the efforts of the riders to draw back from her path. It took Alfred but a moment to recognize the woman as Eadburgh, wife of Ethelred Mucill, and Elswyth’s mother.

  Alfred looked back to Elswyth. She too was watching her mother draw ever closer, and she did not look happy. Before he consciously realized what he was going to do, Alfred was threading his stallion through the maze of horses and dogs, aiming in the direction of the Ealdorman of Gaini and his sister.

  Eadburgh reached them before he did. “Are you mad, Athulf, to allow your sister to make such a display of herself?” Eadburgh was saying in an imperious voice as Alfred’s chestnut came within hearing range of the small family grouping. Then, turning to her daughter, she said, “You are to take that horse back to the stable immediately, Elswyth.”

  Elswyth’s face was stormy. In the bright sun of the courtyard Alfred could see that she still had the beautiful skin of childhood: pearly, close-textured, flawless. Her eyes glittered midnight blue as she looked down at her mother. “Athulf said I might ride with the hunt,” she answered in a furious, husky voice. “I am a better rider than any man here! You know that, Mother. I am in no danger.”

  Alfred halted his horse and eavesdropped shamelessly.

  Eadburgh spoke next, her well-bred voice cold as ice. “You will be in danger from me if you do not get off that horse immediately, Elswyth,” she said.

  “Now, Mother,” Athulf put in placatingly, “I told Elswyth she might come with us. Why deprive the child of her pleasure? She will come to no hurt. I promise I will stay beside her the whole while.”

  Eadburgh s face was as cold as her voice. She started to reply to Athulf, but stopped as she saw another horse approaching. Then, “Ceolwulf!” she said to the new arrival. “Speak to your brother. He is allowing your sister to go on this hunt.”

  So this was the other brother, Alfred thought as he walked his horse forward once more. Ceolwulf’s handsome face bore a distinctly troubled expression. He looked unhappily from his mother to his brother.

  Elswyth said, “Do not seek to draw Ceolwulf into this, Mother. You know how he hates dissension.”

  Alfred’s stallion came to a perfect halt beside her, and he smiled down into her startled face and said charmingly, “Lady Elswyth! I am so pleased to see you are joining my birthday hunt.” He looked from her dark blue eyes to the lighter eyes of Athulf, and thence down to Eadburgh. He raised his brows in surprise, then frowned in concern. “My lady, what are you doing on foot in the midst of all these horses? Allow me to summon one of my men to see you to the safety of your hall.”

  There was nothing Eadburgh could do, as well he knew. He watched with a faint smile as she made him some sort of answer; then he gestured for a groomsman to come escort her from the courtyard. As soon as she was out of earshot he turned to her three children.

  Elswyth was laughing. “Thank you, Prince. I owe you a favor.”

  “You can repay me by not hurting yourself,” Alfred replied.

  Her nose elevated in a gesture that was already becoming familiar to him. Athulf said with amusement, “Small chance of that. It is probably I who will get hurt, trying to keep up with her.”

  Ceolwulf said unhappily, “Mother will be furious. Why must you always defy her, Elswyth?”

  “Mother wants me to be a replica of herself,” Elswyth replied, “but I am not made that way.” Then, with impatient exasperation, “You cannot always please everyone, Ceolwulf. There are times when you must make a choice.”

  The horns blew. Alfred saw Ethelred looking around for him, and with a nod in Elswyth’s direction he squeezed his legs gently and moved forward to rejoin his brother.

  Elswyth was gloriously happy, For one dreadful moment in the courtyard she had been afraid she was going to lose her chance to hunt; Athulf would go only so far for her against their mother. But the West Saxon prince had saved her. He had done it quite deliberately, too. She had seen that clear enough. He had had an unfair advantage of her mother,
and he had taken it. Ruthlessly. Elswyth thoroughly approved of such tactics. Her only regret was that she herself held such an advantage all too seldom.

  The summer day was warm; too warm in the sun, but under the canopy of trees in the forest it was cool and green and perfect for the hunt. Elswyth was never so happy as when she was out on horseback, wildly galloping after the hounds. Sometimes she thought that it was only with animals that she was ever really happy. People of late seemed to make so many demands, never seemed to be satisfied with her the way she was. Even her brothers, with whom she had lived all her life—even they had changed since her father died.

  But she and Silken—and here Elswyth leaned forward to pat the shining dappled gray neck of her little gelding—she and Silken understood each other completely, were always in perfect accord.

  The nets had been set by the huntsmen, and the hounds were doing their work of driving the game into them. Elswyth sat her horse at a little distance from the kill. It was the chase she loved, not its conclusion. It was not so much the blood that dismayed her as it was a sense of the unfairness of it all. The deer tangled in the nets did not have a chance against the men and the spears. Elswyth favored a fight that was more even.

  Half an hour later, she saw one.

  The huntsmen had found a boar in the thickness of the forest along the river. A huge boar, the largest Elswyth had ever seen. They had maneuvered him into a clearing around a forest pond, and he was standing there when they came up, his back to the pond, the sun shining on his hard gray bristles and wicked white tusks. The mounted nobles halted within the cover of the trees as he snorted and pawed the ground. He was a ferocious-looking beast, Elswyth thought in awe. She had not known boars could be so big. He snorted again savagely, planted his short legs wide, and lowered his snout to the ground. His small eyes glowed red as they surveyed the men and horses before him.

  Suddenly, “He’s mine!” called a crisp, commanding voice, and Elswyth saw Alfred leap from his horse and advance into the clearing, spear in hand.

  Her heart jolted, then began to race. At her shoulder, Athulf voiced her own silent protest. “That boar is too big for the prince.” Her brother looked around, but no one was moving. His black brows snapped together. “Alfred will never be able to hold him,” Athulf muttered, jumped from his saddle, and took up his own spear.

  The boar had seen Alfred coming and he pawed the ground again. Foam dripped from his jaws. The cruel, curving tusks glinted in the bright sun. The red eyes fixed themselves upon the prince.

  Alfred must have heard Athulf s step, for he turned his head very quickly and snarled at the Mercian, “Keep away.” For a moment, with his glittering eyes and bared white teeth, he looked fully as dangerous as the boar.

  Athulf stopped dead.

  The boar charged straight for Alfred.

  For a beat of time Elswyth felt as if her heart and breath had stopped. Athulf was right. The West Saxon prince was too slim, too light, to hold a boar of that size on his spear. Alfred knelt, spear advanced, and then the boar was on him. Elswyth shut her eyes.

  A shout went up from the men around her. She opened her eyes in time to see Alfred rising to his feet, She stared, and realized with astonishment that he had got the boar right through the heart. As she watched, he turned in the direction of his brother, the king, and grinned. His entire right arm was covered with the boar’s blood. Elswyth saw the white teeth flashing in the golden tan of his face. Then she looked at the boar, lying now on the bare earth of the clearing.

  The prince was so slight, How had he managed to hold up that spear?

  Beside her, Athulf was saying much the same thing.

  A West Saxon thane passing Athulf said with a grin, “We all learned years ago never to come between Alfred and his boar. He’ll have your head if you do.”

  “He is stronger than he looks,” Athulf said.

  “He’s strong as a man twice his weight,” the thane boasted. “He may not be big, but you’ll find there’s little our prince cannot do.” Then he was by them, running up to Alfred’s side and saying something they could not hear. Alfred laughed, put a hand on his arm, then turned away to reclaim his horse.

  There was a feast after the hunt that day, also in honor of Alfred’s birthday. Ethelswith loved to play hostess to her brothers and had done all she could to make the occasion as grand as possible. Though it was still daylight, torches were burning in the wall sconces of the great hall, illuminating with their glow the giant frescoes that were Tamworth’s glory. The frescoes had been painted in the last century, in the glory days of Offa, and the most famous of all the paintings was the one of Offa’s fellow monarch, Charlemagne, surrounded by his companions, among whom happened to be included Offa himself. There were other scenes from the life of Offa, and scenes as well from the lives of other heroes out of Mercian, Prankish, and Roman history. The frescoes were famous in England, and Ethelswith was very proud of them.

  She had filled her hall this night with the high nobility of Mercia, summoned to this banquet in order to do honor to her younger brother. Burgred, of course, had the high seat, and Ethelred sat this night in her usual place beside him. Ethelswith had chosen to sit beside Alfred on the bench directly to Burgred’s right, and on Alfred’s other side she had placed Athulf, whom she thought Alfred would find congenial. Beyond Athulf sat his mother, his brother, and his sister.

  The feast was to begin with the presentation of Burgred’s gift to Alfred. Silence fell slowly upon the crowded room as the thanes and ladies along the wall benches saw the king rising to his feet.

  Alfred sat beside his sister and listened with all outward attention to Burgred’s extremely flattering speech. He did not dislike his brother-by-marriage, but too often he found Burgred somewhat wanting in quickness of wit. In truth, Alfred never spent above an hour in Burgred’s company without finding himself pitying Ethelswith the dullness of her marriage. Then he would take himself to task for lack of Christian charity. Burgred was good and kind, he would chastise himself. The poor man could not help it if he was also dull.

  But he was dull. It was nice, of course, that he thought so well of Alfred, but it would be even nicer if he would just stop talking and allow everyone to eat. Alfred affixed his alert, attentive expression even more firmly into place and began to replay in his mind the afternoon’s hunt.

  Suddenly his sister’s elbow caught him in the ribs. He blinked, focused, and saw that Burgred was holding out a sword and looking at him.

  “Go and take it from him,” Ethelswith hissed into his ear.

  Alfred rose from his place and went to bow gracefully before the King of Mercia. Burgred placed the sword into his hands. The king’s fleshy face was beaming. Alfred felt the familiar twinge of guilt. Poor man. It was not his fault he was thick of body and dull of mind. “Thank you, my lord,” he said with his quick charming smile. “I shall treasure this gift with all my heart.”

  He stepped back to return to his place, and a sigh of relief ran around the hall as the guests realized that he was not going to speak further. Alfred’s eyes glinted with amusement, though his face was grave as he resumed his place beside his sister.

  “Thank you,” Ethelswith murmured in his ear. “Everyone is starving.”

  As the serving folk came into the hall from the kitchens, laden with heavy platters of meats and sauces and vegetables and breads, Alfred turned to look curiously at his sister.

  Ethelswith was nine years older than he, the closest sibling in age to him, but he had never known her the way he knew Ethelred. Alfred had been but five when she was married to Burgred of Mercia and, except for infrequent visits, they had seen little of each other since.

  She was still a pretty woman, he thought, looking at his sister’s smoothly braided light brown hair and clear blue eyes. It had been several years now since Alfred had begun automatically to appraise every woman he met, with an eye to what pleased him and what did not. Yes, Ethelswith was definitely pretty. Much too pretty for
Burgred.

  She had been married for thirteen years and still she had no children. The pity that suddenly pierced Alfred’s heart was of a different quality from the usual token flicker that his sister’s marriage generally aroused in his breast. No children, he thought, and a husband she must find irksome. And she had been married to him since she was fourteen.

  Not for the first time Alfred found himself reflecting on the bitterness of woman’s lot when it came to matrimony.

  “What do you hear of Judith?” said Ethelswith, and for one brief startled moment he wondered if she had been reading his thoughts.

  Then, because she had surprised him, he blurted out what he would ordinarily have been more tactful in disclosing. “She has a son.”

  The flicker of pain on Ethelswith’s face brought him to a swift realization of his callousness. He went on talking smoothly, to give her a chance to recover herself. “You know her father relented finally and agreed to recognize her marriage? Well, it appears now that Charles has done even more. He has made Judith’s husband the Count of Flanders. A wise move on Charles’s part. For one thing, once the pope recognized the marriage, there was nothing Charles could do about it. For the other thing, Baldwin Iron Arm is just the warrior Flanders needs to keep it safe from the Danes.”

  Ethelswith’s face was serene once more. She began to pile roast venison on her plate as she said to Alfred, a little caustically, “I must say, Judith has the most exciting life. I envy her.”

  “I hope she is happy,” he said, and his own voice was very quiet. “She deserves to be.”

  His sister shot him a slantwise look. “That is right. I remember now she had you enslaved as well.”