by Joan Wolf
“Perhaps it was worth it to pay,” Ethelred said. “Perhaps Northumbria wishes now that it had paid rather than fought. Certainly Mercia is in better condition than Northumbria. It is still an independent kingdom … no monasteries have been burned …” But the resolute firmness of the king’s voice was beginning to waver. Alfred had not spoken, but Ethelred suddenly found it impossible to meet the look in his brother’s eyes. He stared at Alfred’s ale cup and said, “You do not agree, I see.”
“No.” The crisp voice offered no compromise. “I agree that the Danes will gladly take our geld to cry a peace. But what happens, Ethelred, when they come back the next time? What happens when there is no more geld in the kingdom with which to pay them?”
Ethelred said stubbornly, “Perhaps then they will go away.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Perhaps,” Alfred replied at last. The door opened and Ethelred’s wife, Cyneburg, came into the room, her infant son in her arms. She smiled when she saw Alfred, and he went immediately to give her the kiss of peace.
“A handsome boy,” he said, admiring his small nephew cradled in Cyneburg’s embrace.
“He is a good baby,” Cyneburg said placidly. On the instant, as if to prove her false, the infant began to cry. Cyneburg laughed, shifted him to her shoulder, and began to pat his back. “But where is Elswyth?” she asked Alfred. “I am longing to meet your wife, Alfred. It was a great disappointment to me that I was unable to attend your wedding.”
“She is at Lambourn,” Alfred answered readily.
“She will be missing you.” The baby had stopped crying, but Cyneburg continued gently to rub the tiny back with one hand while she supported the insecure head with the other.
“I doubt it.” Alfred’s face was perfectly serene. “I am sure she is quite happy having Lambourn to herself.”
Cyneburg’s high-arched brows rose even higher and she looked to Ethelred. Her husband’s brown eyes met hers and, very faintly, he shrugged.
The baby began to cry again.
“He’s hungry,” Cyneburg said,
Alfred moved toward the door. “I shall get out of here, then, so you can feed him.”
His hand was on the door latch when Cyneburg said, smilingly, “Perhaps one day soon you will have a son of your own, my brother.”
With his hand still on the latch, Alfred turned to look at her. “Not for a while, I fear. Elswyth is still but a child herself.”
Cyneburg assumed an expression of great surprise. “I did not realize … I understood she was fifteen.”
“No, she is but fourteen.”
“Fourteen when you became betrothed,” Cyneburg said gently. “When is her birthday?”
He was standing with perfect courtesy, waiting for her to release him. “I am not certain. Sometime in November, I think.”
“Well, then,” said Cyneburg with a teasing smile, “I am not so far wrong, Alfred. November is but one week away.”
She saw his eyes widen in surprise. “So it is,” he said then, slowly.
“You must bring her to meet me.” And Cyneburg turned to carry the baby to a chair. Released from her attention, Alfred murmured a polite response, pushed open the door, and went out into the hall.
Cyneburg and Ethelred looked at each other. “I hear he has been one month at Southampton,” she said.
Ethelred sighed. “You learn things more quickly than I, Cyneburg.”
She sat in the chair and began to unfasten her gown. “What is the matter with this girl he has married?” she asked. “I was certain he must love her. He took her so quickly, and he had been so adamant in refusing all the girls you and I proposed for him.”
“I don’t know what his feelings are,” Ethelred replied. Then: “Elswyth is certainly … unusual.” He began to rub his right eyebrow with his finger. “She has little in the way of courtly manners, Cyneburg. In truth, she is a wild thing, wearing boy’s clothes and riding out to hunt with the men. I cannot imagine what ever induced Alfred to offer for her. Were it any other man, I should say he was swayed by her family’s name and connections; but not Alfred.”
“No, not Alfred,” Cyneburg agreed.
“I have always thought he would seek to marry a woman like Judith of France,” Ethelred confided. “He admired Judith enormously. They still correspond with each other.”
“This Elswyth is not like Judith?”
“Not at all.” Ethelred was quite positive. “Judith was very beautiful, but it was more than just physical beauty. There was a serenity about Judith. A woman like that would be good for Alfred. I always thought he realized that himself.”
The baby was now nursing vigorously. “Elswyth is not beautiful?” Cyneburg asked.
“She is beautiful, but in a haughty kind of way. Nothing like Judith. It was restful to look upon Judith. There is nothing restful about Elswyth.”
Cyneburg was looking thoughtful. “Certainly she does not sound like the ideal wife for Alfred. But he must have seen something in her to his liking, Ethelred, else he would never have offered for her.”
“I suppose that is true. But I mislike this news of his being at Southampton.” He added with grim reluctance, “It is Roswitha who reminds me of Judith.”
“Do you know for certain that he has taken up with Roswitha again?”
“Not for certain,” Ethelred replied. “No one of his companion thanes will ever speak a word against him, not to me, not to anyone. You know how fanatically loyal they all are to Alfred. But, Cyneburg, why else would he have stayed for one month at Southampton?”
Cyneburg took the baby from her breast and put him on her shoulder again to pat his back. “There is no other reason.” She put her lips to the fuzzy baby head. “Well,” she said practically, “Alfred of all people has the brain to sort matters out for himself. We shall have to leave it to him, Ethelred.”
Ethelred went over to drop a kiss on his wife’s brown-blond head. “Not every man can be as fortunate as I,” he said. She looked up into his kind face and smiled.
* * *
Chapter 12
It was a day of half-mist, half-sunlight, the day Alfred returned to Lambourn after an absence of more than six weeks. The ripe scent of harvest hung heavy and sweet on the late-autumn air as his cavalcade of riders wound along the local road that followed beside the Lambourn River. The cornfields had been well-cleared of the wheat and barley crop, and Alfred saw with approval that the sheep had been turned into the stubble of the grain fields to glean what they could from the leavings.
It had been a fine autumn, and a fine harvest, Alfred thought with satisfaction as he sniffed the warm, mellow air. The storage barns would be full.
“A fine harvest, my lord,” said the thane who was riding beside him.
Alfred turned to give him a friendly smile. “That was my very thought, Edgar. Godric knows his job well.”
“He does.” A shout from one of the fishermen along the river caught their attention and they turned to look. The sun glinted off the shining river water and the scales of the new-caught fish gleamed silver in the hands of the fisherman.
Alfred said, “It will be good to get home.”
Half an hour later he and his party were riding into the small courtyard of Lambourn manor. Serving men came running to hold their horses, and Godric himself held Alfred’s bridle while the prince dismounted. Once Alfred’s feet were on the ground, the reeve turned his horse, Nugget, over to a groomsman and cried loudly, “Welcome, my lord, welcome!” The skin over the man’s sharp cheekbones was creased with his wide smile. “We received your message and I am happy to report that all is in order to receive you.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” Alfred replied. Then, laying a gold-ringed hand upon the reeve’s shoulder, he said, “The harvest looks to have been a good one.”
“Indeed it was, my lord. I think you will be pleased to see how well we have done.”
Next Alfred said, looking around, “Where is the Lady Elswyth?”
> The reeve’s face thinned to knifelike sharpness. “Out somewhere on the Downs, my lord. She is away from the manor for hours at a time, with only the company of Brand, my lord.”
Godric sounded distinctly disapproving. Alfred felt a flicker of impatience with Elswyth. He had enough to worry about without having his reeves scandalized by their new mistress’s careless behavior.
He patted Godric’s shoulder once, then removed his hand. “I shall inspect the storage barns with you tomorrow,” he said, and the man’s smile returned.
“Thank you, my lord. I am sure you will be pleased.” The reeve’s expression turned sour. “I fear the Lady Elswyth knows little of the running of a manor.”
Alfred groaned silently and was turning to enter the hall when there came the further noise of approaching hoofbeats. He looked around, and there, coming in through the gate, was a small gray gelding with a black-haired girl poised and erect in the saddle. Alfred thought, and not for the first time, that he had never seen anyone sit a horse as beautifully as Elswyth. He scarcely noticed the thane riding beside her.
She spied him immediately. “Alfred!” she cried, and trotted forward. The little gray came to a perfectly square halt just before him. Alfred did not see Godric’s quiet withdrawal because Elswyth was giving him a radiant smile. “Finally,” she said, “you are back.”
He laughed and walked around to the gelding’s near side to lift her to the ground. Usually Elswyth scorned assistance, but she gladly put her hands on her husband’s shoulders and slid down along the length of his body, as unself-conscious as a child. When her feet were on the ground she stayed as she was, hands still on his shoulders, looking up into his face with those dark blue eyes that always seemed to be darker and bluer than he had remembered. “But what kept you for so long?” she demanded.
“Oh, there were more things to attend to than I had realized,” he answered in an easy voice. “Then Ethelred returned from Mercia.” He put his hands over hers for a brief moment, then took them from his shoulders, retaining one firmly in his own warm clasp, He turned toward the hall. “Have you heard that the Danes finally left Mercia?”
“Thank God,” she answered promptly. “No, we had not heard.” She fell naturally into step beside him and went with him into the hall, still talking of the Danes.
The remainder of the afternoon Alfred devoted to his dogs. He had left them at Lambourn with Elswyth and had missed them exceedingly. Godric asked to see him once, but Alfred put him off. He had a distinct feeling that his reeve was going to complain about Elswyth, and Alfred did not want to listen. He would have to eventually, he supposed, and he would have to speak to Elswyth if she was interfering with Godric’s management of the manor. But not today.
Godric’s wife, the Lady Ada, served a notable banquet that evening in honor of the return of Lambourn’s lord. Elswyth was to share the high seat with Alfred, with Godric and his lady in the place of honor to Alfred’s right. Before Elswyth came to join her husband, however, Alfred saw her deep in conversation with his thane Brand. The two had actually come into the hall together and were standing near the door, talking intently. Godric was staring at them, and the Lady Ada’s face bore the exact same expression Alfred had often seen on Eadburgh’s when she looked at her daughter.
Name of heaven, Alfred thought, He had left Brand behind with half of his companion thanes because he thought the young thane would be good company for Elswyth, but he had not expected quite the closeness that had evidently developed. If Elswyth had not the sense to realize that she was causing scandal, Brand should have.
The two Alfred was watching finished their conversation and parted, Elswyth to join Alfred in the high seat and Brand to take his place further down the board. The room settled down and Alfred’s household priest for Lambourn manor rose to give the blessing.
Alfred tried to listen to the prayer, but his thoughts this night were not quiet. He had been restless the last week he was at Southampton, and all the while he was in Winchester he had been anxious to return here. But now that he was at Lambourn, the pleasure of homecoming seemed to have eluded him.
Alfred listened to Father Odo’s monotonous voice and realized uncomfortably that he would have to confess his sin with Roswitha on the morrow. He had thought of going to confession to one of the priests at Winchester Minster; then he had procrastinated. But he could put it off no longer. He must confess. And make promise of amendment.
It did not make him feel better to realize that he had waited to confess to Odo because he knew the old priest would not have the nerve to upbraid him unduly.
The priest finished the blessing and sat down. The serving folk came around with the food. Alfred saw that Godric was engrossed in his dinner, turned to Elswyth, and said mildly, “You and Brand seem to be on good terms.” He picked up his knife and began to butter a fluffy white roll. The wheat at Lambourn was very fine, and the baker talented.
She nodded vigorously, her mouth being full of fresh fish from the river. Then, when she could talk: “Brand is a good man. And he is good on a horse too. Some of the other of your thanes are horrified whenever I gallop.”
He sank his teeth into the white bread. “They are not used to such a formidable horsewoman.” The roll was delicious.
“Brand is a good man,” she said again. She added somberly, “Which is more than I can say for everyone here at Lambourn, Alfred.”
He hesitated, then decided he might as well hear her side first. “Oh?” He raised an innocent eyebrow. “Have you had trouble, Elswyth?”
“I would not call it trouble, precisely.” Her black brows drew together over her thinly bridged nose. “But I think you should replace your reeve, Alfred.”
He stared at her in astonishment. “Replace Godric? Why? I was just thinking, as I rode into Lambourn, how well-tended is the manor.” He had turned so that his shoulder would effectively block Godric’s view of their faces.
“Oh, the property is well-enough tended.” The scorn in her voice was excoriating and she cast a narrow-eyed look past Alfred toward the reeve on his other side.
Alfred said crisply, “Elswyth, you had better explain to me what you mean.”
She answered just as crisply, “Alfred, the folk of your manor of Lambourn have been going hungry.”
“What?”
She nodded, her face very serious. “Yes. I went into the kitchen house one afternoon a few days after you left. For a little bite of something, you know. I was too hungry to wait all the way to dinner.”
He kept his voice low. “Yes?”
“The men had just butchered a sheep and the cook was roasting it. It smelled wonderful. I sat down in the kitchen, just to smell the food and eat my bread and cheese. I often did that at home, you see. Then, suddenly, I saw how two of the serving girls were watching me. Not watching me, really, but watching my food. Then I looked at them. Closely. They were thin, Alfred. More than thin, they looked half-starved.”
Now there was a deep line between his fair brows. “What did you do?”
“I asked them when they had last eaten. And what they had last eaten. Then I asked them to tell me what they had eaten for the last week.” Her long black lashes rose and eyes of midnight blue looked into his face. “Alfred, those girls were not getting enough to eat. When I asked whose orders the cook was following, he said Godric’s.”
There was a brief hard silence. Then: “What did you do?” Alfred asked again.
“I told the cook to feed the sheep to the serving folk, and then I spoke to Godric. He did not like what I had to say, but the food has been sufficient since. But I do not trust him, Alfred. As soon as my back is turned, I fear he will cut the food again.”
There was a white line of temper encircling Alfred’s mouth. The noise in the hall was rising as the thanes paused to talk between courses. No one could hear Alfred and Elswyth’s conversation. “His account books show a sufficient amount of food for the manor folk,” Alfred said,
“I am sure they d
o.” Elswyth was scornful. “But I think he is selling your foodstuff at market, Alfred. For his own profit.”
The quality of the silence this time was dangerous. Alfred said, grimly, “If that is indeed so, more than his job is forfeit.”
Elswyth said, “You have eaten nothing.”
Still he paid no attention to the plate of food before him. “Why did you not say something to me this afternoon? I shall have to send someone I can trust to inquire of the local thanes and ceorls.”
“I have already made some inquiries,” she answered. “That is why I said nothing this afternoon. I was waiting for Brand. He has discovered some evidence that Lambourn food is indeed being sold in the neighborhood.” She picked up her cup of ale and took a sip.
He watched the movement of her slim throat as she swallowed. “You have already made inquiries?” He heard himself how incredulous he sounded.
“Surely it was the reasonable thing to do.” Her eyes were very blue against the black of her lashes and the white of her skin. “If the food was not going to the manor folk, and was not in the storage barns, obviously it was going somewhere else.”
He said, his eyes watching her closely, “In the courtyard earlier, Godric told me you understood nothing of the running of a manor.”
Her lips curled in derision. “I would not trust him with my dogs, Alfred. You should have heard the tale he spun to me about the necessity of conserving food for the spring. He must have thought me a fool.”
He said, “Once you told me that you did not concern yourself with the running of a manor.”
“I told you I did not concern myself with the linen and the crockery,” she corrected him. “The people are somewhat different. It is not fair to take advantage of those who are unfree.” She reached over and moved his plate closer to his hand. “The Lady Ada is every bit as bad as her husband,” she added, her voice very low and close to his ear.
The white line about his mouth was back. “It is more than unfair,” he said. “It is a very great sin. And Godric has been reeve at Lambourn since my father’s time. I am much at fault for not finding his dishonesty sooner.”