by Joan Wolf
Elswyth, as ever, refused to be distracted from the main issue. “I will not marry Edred,” she said. Her face was set and stubborn, her expressive mouth set into a thin line of determination.
She is but fourteen years of age, Athulf said to himself. I will not let her rule me. He clenched his teeth and said, “You will marry whomever Mother and I choose for you.”
Her eyes darkened to midnight blue. The top of her head did not reach to his chin, but her will was stronger than his. He knew it. Her will was stronger than anyone’s, save perhaps their mother’s. He felt a flash of anger that Eadburgh had put him into this position and then failed to be here to support him. Elswyth said defiantly, “You cannot force me against my will. The church forbids it.”
“The church enjoins you to obey those who are set in authority over you,” he answered. Then, as her eyes flashed, “For the love of God, Elswyth, it is a splendid match! Edred is the most powerful noble in Mercia. He is rich. You will have all the comforts any girl could desire. He will be good to you. He cares for you. It was he who approached me, you know, not the other way around.”
“I don’t care about comforts,” she said. This, unfortunately, was perfectly true. Athulf knew his sister cared for nothing that ordinary girls cared for, clothes and trinkets and such. She was as unlike other girls as a mountain lion is unlike a tame barn cat. “I never want to marry,” she went on. “I want to go on as I always have, living with you and Ceolwulf.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find her looking pleadingly into his face. “Please, Athulf,” she said. “I do not want to marry!”
Against his will, his heart was wrung with pity. He heard, and understood, the fear that was in her voice. Poor child, he thought. Then he told himself sternly that she was not a child any longer. She was fourteen, an age when many girls married. She must grow up sometime. She must marry. All girls must marry. Marry or take the veil, and Elswyth would go mad confined within the walls of a convent. Which meant it must be marriage, and they were not likely to get a better offer than Edred’s.
It was for her own good, he told himself firmly. Once she grew accustomed to the idea, she would be all right. Elswyth had ever hated any sort of change.
“You cannot continue to live with me,” he said, and now his voice was very patient. “I will be marrying shortly, and my wife is not like to want to share her home indefinitely with an unmarried sister. All girls must marry, Elswyth. Look around you. Even you must recognize that truth. Unless you wish to enter a convent?”
“No!” Her look of horror was instant.
“I cannot see you caged within the walls of a convent,” he agreed. “So it must be marriage.”
“But I do not like him, AthuIf!”
“You do not know him,” he answered, still in the same patient voice. “He is a good man. I would not wed you to someone I did not think well of. Come, Elswyth, your life with Edred will not be so unlike your life with me. He will give you all the horses and dogs you could possibly want.”
Her face was stark, her eyes more black than blue. She said, “But I shall have to sleep in his bed.”
His eyes fell away from hers and he felt color sting his cheeks. “Elswyth” —his voice was gruff—”you embarrass me.”
For a minute she did not answer. Then, in the hard cold voice of an adult: “I tell you, I will not marry him. You cannot force me, Athulf. I am the one who must make the responses to the marriage vows, and I will not do it.”
He said, “Then must it be the convent.”
She stared at him in utter disbelief. “You would not do that to me.”
“What else am I to do?” He forced himself to meet her appalled eyes and steeled his heart. It was for her own good, he told himself once more. “You cannot spend the rest of your life running wild in my household, Elswyth. I see now that I have spoiled you badly. Mother left you too much under the control of young men who knew nothing of how to rear a girl. But it cannot continue. Your childhood is over, Elswyth. It is time for you to take up the burdens of a woman. Now, I must send a messenger to Croxden.” His voice was firm, adamant. “And, as I told you before, I have an errand to perform for the king.”
It was with ill-concealed relief that he turned away from his sister and pushed open the door of his sleeping room to go out into the busy hall. He was sorry for the child, of course, but there was no other way. Girls must marry, and there was an end to it.
Elswyth stood where she had been left, statue-still, for a full three minutes.
What was she to do? In her heart, she had never thought that Athulf would force her to marry against her will. It was true that he had spoiled her, had given her her way ever since she could remember. She had never thought that he would betray her like this.
Perhaps Ceolwulf? But the thought was rejected as soon as it surfaced. Ceolwulf would feel badly for her, but he would never stand up to their mother or to Athulf. Ceolwulf had ever been one to seek the easiest way. Loyalty with him did not run as deeply as did his desire for peace.
At last she went out into the hall, and, without noticing the concerned glances that were cast her way by the thanes who were mending harness by the fire and who had heard somewhat of her discussion with Athulf, she opened the door and went out into the courtyard. She needed solitude and so she went to the one place where she had always gone when the urge to be alone was strong. She went to the barn.
The sun had not yet set, was a dull red ball hanging behind veils of thin gray cloud. It would snow later, she thought. The ground was hard under the leather soles of her shoes, hard and cold. She was cold. The whole world looked bleak and gray.
What was she going to do?
The barn felt warm as she came in the door. A groom was just finishing giving hay to the horses and Elswyth leaned against Silken’s stall and watched the little gray eat his dinner. But the peaceful sound of animals crunching, which she usually loved, did nothing to loose the knot of fear in her stomach. The groom finished haying and left the barn. Once she was alone, Elswyth slipped inside Silken’s stall and pressed her forehead against her horse’s neck. She closed her eyes and slid her hands under the long silver mane, for warmth and for comfort. Silken continued placidly to eat his hay.
What was she going to do?
After a few minutes the barn door opened again, sending a gust of cold air down the stall aisle. Someone came in. Elswyth stayed perfectly still, hoping whoever it was would do what he had to do quickly and then leave. She was in no mood for talk.
Light footsteps came down the aisle, then stopped in front of the stall next to Silken’s. “How are you, fellow?” came the clipped, distinctive voice of the West Saxon prince. There was the sound of crunching as his stallion took the apple he had been offered. Alfred stood for a moment, murmuring softly to the chestnut; then he too slipped into his horse’s stall. “Let me see that leg,” he said. Silken raised his head to eye the stranger in the next stall, and Elswyth turned to watch also as the prince bent down to feel the chestnut’s off hind below the hock. As Alfred straightened up he saw her. Even in the pale light cast by the single lamp near the door, Elswyth could see how his eyes widened in surprise. He did not jump, however, made no move that would frighten his horse. “Elswyth!” he said. Then, frowning and peering at her in the dimness of the stalls: “Are you all right?”
To her own considerable surprise, she answered, “No. I am not.”
They regarded each other gravely across the stall partition. Both horses lowered their heads to resume eating hay. Then Alfred said, “Might I help?”
She shook her head. “No one can help.” She sounded utterly desolate.
He patted the chestnut’s shoulder, opened the stall door, and went back into the aisle. Then, to Elswyth: “Come out. We can sit on the hay bales in the corner and you can tell me about it.”
Rather sullenly, she did as he commanded. She dragged her feet as she followed him to the bales of hay, but she sat down beside him wh
en he gestured to her, and looked at him almost sulkily. His return look was perfectly serene. “Now,” he said. “Tell me.”
“You cannot help me, Prince,” she repeated. She heard herself, heard how like a spoiled child she sounded, and scowled ferociously.
“Call me Alfred,” he said. “And we’ll never know if I can help unless you tell me what is wrong.”
She shrugged. He would be on Athulf’s side, she thought. He was a man.
“Elswyth …” he said very softly. It was quiet in the barn, and the smell of horses and of hay was comforting. It could not hurt to tell him, she thought. And, pulling her cloak around her shoulders tightly, as if for protection, she recounted her interview with Athulf. “I thought they could not force me, you see,” she ended bitterly. “But Athulf said he would put me in a convent if I refused.” She still could not believe he had said that to her. But he had. And he had meant it, too. “I could not bear a convent,” she said. “I should go mad shut up like that.”
To her utter horror, her voice quivered and tears stung behind her eyes. She clenched her whole face in a frantic effort to regain her usual composure.
He seemed not to notice her humiliating lapse of control, but said only, “You have not the temperament for religious life.”
His matter-of-factness helped where sympathy would only have deepened her shame. “It is not fair!” she said. “Just because I am a girl, I can be forced to a marriage I hate and fear. They would not do this to me if I were a boy.”
She straightened her spine and stuck her nose in the air and waited for him to preach her a sermon on woman’s lot in life. Instead, he said in a strangely quiet voice, “No, it is not fair. I have often thought that.”
Surprise jolted through her. She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You do not think I am being unreasonable?”
“No.” He was not looking at her now, was looking into the distance, as if he were seeing something, or someone, else. The lamp hanging near the door drew a faint glow from his hair. It was nice hair, she found herself thinking, smooth and shiny and the color of honey. Alfred was nice.
Her breath hissed in her throat as the idea struck with all the suddenness and brilliance of a bolt of lightning. “It does not seem unreasonable to me for a girl to wish to have a say in whom she shall marry,” he was saying. “But, as you have discovered, all too often she does not.”
She did not answer, but continued to stare at him, seeing him now in the illumination of this brilliant new idea. She saw that his features were very fine, very clearly cut. She liked his nose, which did not have the arrogant bridge that distinguished Athulf’s, and to a lesser degree her own. His mouth was nice too, firm and cool-looking. Edred’s always looked moist and … hungry. She said at last, very slowly, “It is all very well for Athulf to say Edred will give me horses and dogs, but I shall have to sleep in his bed.”
At that, he turned to look at her. His eyes were a lovely color, she thought, and they met hers straight on, with no embarrassment. He said, “That, of course, is the crux of the problem.”
She searched his face. “When I said that to Athulf, about sleeping in Edred’s bed, Athulf was embarrassed.”
“Athulf ought to be embarrassed,” came the immediate forthright reply.
Elswyth smiled. Alfred, she thought, was very nice indeed!
“How old are you, Elswyth?” he was asking.
“I am just fourteen.”
He said something under his breath that both startled and delighted her. Then, “When Judith of France married my father, she was but fourteen and the consummation of the marriage was delayed because of her age, Perhaps Edred …”
She thought of the way Edred looked at her. “I do not think so,” she said. She tried to repress a shudder and was not entirely successful. She tried to explain. “He looks at me …”
Alfred’s face wore an unmistakable expression of disgust. Elswyth’s spirits soared. “Alfred …” she said. It was the first time she had used his name; she drawled it long and smooth off her tongue. She straightened the cloak on her knees and continued carefully, “Perhaps you can help me after all—”
He cut in before she could go on. “Little one, I am so sorry, but I do not see how I can. I cannot speak to your brother for you. I have no rights in this matter. Athulf would be furious if I attempted to interfere, and he would be entirely justified in his wrath.” Alfred’s fair brows were drawn together and he was watching her hands as they played restlessly with the brown wool of her cloak. “Perhaps I could speak to Ethelswith,” he added, “She, of all women, must know what it is to be forced to a distasteful marriage …” He caught himself and looked up, directly into Elswyth’s eyes. “I did not say that.”
She smiled at him a little tremulously. “It will not help to speak to the Lady Ethelswith.” She added with certainty, “No, Alfred, there is only one person who can help me, and that is you.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I?” He shook his head. “I wish I could, Elswyth, but—”
“You can marry me,” she said.
He recoiled as if she had struck him. “What?”
She did not make the mistake of leaning toward him, of attempting to crowd him. Instinctively she held her own space and left him his. “Don’t you see?” she said, the very model of sweet reasonableness. “You are even higher in rank than Edred. Athulf would be happy to take a West Saxon prince over a Mercian ealdorman. And your family is rich! That would weigh with my mother and Athulf too.”
He smiled a little at her artlessness. “But don’t you see, Elswyth, you would only be exchanging one husband for another. You said you did not wish to marry at all.”
“I don’t, but if I must marry, I would far rather marry you than Edred.” Her dark blue eyes were clinging to his face. “It would be a good match for you also, Alfred.” Her deep drawling voice was persuasive. “My father was one of the greatest of Mercia’s nobles. And I have a rich dowry, or so my mother and Athulf say.”
“You flatter me, Elswyth,” he began, clearly intending to refuse her.
“I like you,” she cried, and now her voice was anguished. “I hate Edred.”
He was beginning to look harried. “Elswyth, you don’t understand—”
But she would not listen. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Well,” she said stoutly, “it is time you were married.”
He began to laugh.
“You said you wanted to help me.” She was being unfair. She knew it and didn’t care. He was her only hope. “Well, help me, then. Marry me.”
His laughter was quenched as abruptly as it had begun. His face grew grave. “I am sorry, Elswyth,” he said. His voice was very gentle but very final. “I would like to help you, but I cannot marry you.”
“Why not?” she shot back. Elswyth on the trail of something she wanted was relentless. “Are you betrothed to someone else?”
“No.” A look of strain came over his face. It was not a look she had ever seen there before. It made him look older. “It is just … I have determined I shall never marry. That is all.”
She saw that there was something more here than just a reluctance to wed her. Something deeper. She regarded him thoughtfully. He was looking off into the distance once more.
“Why not?” she asked again.
He laughed lightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, like you, I am one who will do better alone.”
“Perhaps you would,” she answered slowly, “but that is not the reason, is it?”
He came back from wherever he had been and, reluctantly, he turned to her. Even in the dimness she could see that there was a white line around his mouth. She waited for him to rise and walk away from her, but he did not. At last he said, “No.” He spoke unwillingly, but he went on. “That is not the reason. You see, I am … flawed … Elswyth. I am not fit to marry any woman, Though”—and even in his obvious distress he managed a quick, charming smile—”if I were to marry at
all, I would be happy to marry you.”
She looked him over, her eyes speculative. What could he mean, flawed? He was perfect to look upon. Beautiful, in fact. She had seen him kill his boar; he was strong enough, and brave enough. There was only one thing she could think of and, being Elswyth, she asked, “Are you gelded?”
She could see the shock that ran through him at her words. “Of course not!” The lamplight caught the burning gold of his eyes.
She said reasonably, “Well, what was I to think?”
After a minute he laughed unwillingly. “Exactly that, I suppose. No … there is something wrong with my head, Elswyth.”
“Wrong with your head?”
“Yes.” The white line had come back to his mouth. “I get terrible headaches. There is something wrong inside my brain, I think. I have prayed and prayed, but still the headaches come. I think now they will never go away.” He spoke almost carelessly, as if it were of no great moment, but the line around his mouth was even more pronounced and she understood that this was a subject he almost never spoke about.
“How often do you get them?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It varies. Sometimes every few weeks, sometimes not for months.”
She realized that these could not be normal headaches. He was not the sort who would exaggerate pain. Quite the opposite, she thought. Elswyth understood instantly, in her bones, how Alfred must feel about these headaches. And so she knew how to answer him.
“You are not perfect,” she said, her face severe. “You cannot expect to be perfect. That was Satan’s sin, was it not?”
He did not answer, but his eyes flared a sudden brilliant gold.
“Alfred,” she said, and now she leaned a little toward him, the hunter closing in on her prey, “you are wrong if you think you can avoid marriage. You are a boy, and so they may not be able to force you, as they are forcing me, but neither will they let you alone.”