The Edge of Light

by Joan Wolf

  Erlend’s first thought when he saw Elswyth was that she looked well. Her cheeks were the creamy peach color which was the darkest her fair skin ever turned. The children had turned as deep a golden brown as Alfred, even Edward, whose pale hair would seem to indicate a skin more likely to burn than tan. Alfred disappeared with his family in the direction of the private king’s hall and Erlend and the rest of the thanes took their gear into the main hall and found their usual benches.

  The following day Alfred and Elswyth went riding together. Erlend could not understand it. In Denmark, when a woman was expecting a child she retired to the house and did not show herself beyond. Peasants were different, of course. Peasant women worked up to the very end, gave birth, then went back to work again. But peasants were strong as horses. Noblewomen were something different.

  Erlend was scandalized by Elswyth’s behavior, true, but his deepest feeling was not disapproval but genuine fear. He simply could not understand Alfred at all. True, the king was fond of his wife, and inclined to give her her way. But it could not be that Alfred was incapable of ruling her. Erlend had seen the efficient way he had dealt with the unruly nobles in Surrey. The king’s justice had been both swift and effective. When Alfred had left Surrey there had been none in doubt as to what would happen to them should they stir up the old feuds again.

  All Erlend could think was that Alfred did not understand the danger in which he was placing his wife by allowing her to continue to ride horses.

  The weather turned rainy and the men took advantage of the cooler temperatures to hunt. Erlend began to fret for news of his own people, but there was little he could do. He knew his best chance of learning something was to remain where he was.

  In September the royal household always removed to Winchester. Erlend was appalled when he learned that Elswyth was planning to ride the entire way. He was so horrified, in fact, that when a chance arose for him to speak to Alfred privately, he took it.

  It was late afternoon, the servants were setting up the trestle tables for supper, and for a brief moment Erlend saw that Alfred was alone. He approached the king’s high seat, and Alfred, who had been staring rather abstractedly at the smoldering fire on the hearth, looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “My lord,” Erlend said hurriedly, before he had a chance to reconsider the wisdom of his words, “I am concerned for the Lady Elswyth. I do not think it is a good idea for her to ride to Winchester. Surely it would be wiser for her to take a litter.”

  He gritted his teeth. He had been impertinent and importunate. He knew it. But still, he was glad he had spoken. He stared at Elswyth’s husband defiantly and waited.

  The golden eyes looked surprised at first; then they turned not angry but thoughtful. “You are worried about her health?” Alfred inquired. His voice was quiet, pitched for Erlend’s ears alone.

  “Yes.” Erlend drew a deep breath. He was only five years younger than Alfred, but the king always made him feel like a child. “My lord, when women miscarry, they can die.” Alfred’s expression did not change. Erlend said, “I know. That is how I lost my foster mother.” He clenched his teeth to try to control the emotion that had so unexpectedly flared in his raw voice.

  There was a stupefying silence while Erlend waited for the king to order him to leave. He did not. Alfred said instead, slowly and soberly, “Erlend, if it were my choice alone, I would wrap her in cloth of gold and tuck her away someplace safe until it was all over and she was safe. But Elswyth would hate that, would be like a caught wild creature in a cage. Surely you know her well enough to see that.”

  “But it would be for her own good!” Erlend said. Then, as Alfred merely smiled a little crookedly: “You are her husband. She must listen to you.”

  “I am her husband,” Alfred said, “not her jailer.” He looked for a considering minute into Erlend’s confused face, and then, patiently, he tried to explain. “If you want someone’s love, Erlend, you must allow that person the freedom to love. The surest way to kill love is to constrain it.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Erlend said. He had quite forgotten he was talking to a king. “She is a woman. Your wife. It is your duty to guard her, to keep her from harm.”

  A muscle twitched in Alfred’s cheek. Erlend stared. He had never reached Alfred like that before. The king said in his most clipped voice, “The best way to keep her from harm was not to get her with child in the first place.”

  Erlend felt perfectly bewildered, did not know what to answer to such an … unusual point of view.

  Alfred rubbed his temple, then gave Erlend a tired smile. “As you say, she is a woman,” he said, “and so she must face the lot of women. Because she is Elswyth, she faces it bravely. I cannot gainsay her that choice, Erlend.” He rubbed his temple again. “I risk my life,” he said. “How do you think she feels every time I go out to battle? Does she tell me to be careful? Not to stand at the forefront of my men? To consider my life above all, because it is precious to her?” The king’s eyes were burning bright, seemed to bore into Erlend’s very brain as if seeking for an answer.

  “Of course you must lead your men in battle,” Erlend said. “You are the king.”

  “Yes.” And all of a sudden, just like that, the strain left Alfred’s face. He said in his normal voice, “We all live on borrowed time, Erlend. Man or woman, we all must do what tasks God sets for us, and we must do them with the best that is in us. A time will come when we shall be together with none of these worldly cares to shadow our joy, but that time is not now.” Alfred leaned forward and put his hand on Erlend’s shoulder. “She likes you too,” he said. And rose to his feet and went to talk to his reeve, who had just come in the door looking worried,

  Erlend turned and watched the king walk across the crowded hall. And it was then that he realized who it was that Copper reminded him of.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  The Danes did not remain in Northumberland for above a month. Alfred and his men were surprised by this; Erlend was not. Halfdan had wasted the area around York most thoroughly but a short time before; he would deem little to be gained in taking up battle for a land already plundered.

  In early December word came to Winchester that the Danes had in fact moved to Torksey on the Trent and settled into winter quarters.

  “Mercia,” Alfred said. “This time, I fear Burgred will not escape so easily as he did at Nottingham.”

  Burgred, however, resorted to his usual method of dealing with the Danes and once again levied a Danegeld upon the country. Spring came, and still the Danes remained at Torksey. On an early-May dawn Erlend slipped away from Wantage manor in order to return to his own people. He did not want to go, which was why he knew that he must. In this last year he had become dangerously comfortable among these enemies of his, dangerously at home. He had almost forgotten to remember what would happen to him should they ever discover who he truly was.

  “He was too much a wanderer ever to stay in one place for long,” was Edgar’s explanation for Erlend’s departure. Elswyth was hurt by the harper’s disappearance, but her life was too full for Erlend’s loss to affect it overmuch. Alfred said nothing, although his thoughts did not follow the same path as did Edgar’s.

  In August Alfred and Elswyth’s new baby son contracted summer fever and died. Elswyth, who had not slept for nearly a week, came down with the fever herself and almost died as well. It was October before she was feeling truly well again, and the necessity of being a mother to the two children left to her helped the aching wound of loss begin to close. The scar would remain, she knew, but she would go on.

  In November the Danes moved down the Trent to Repton, the heart of ancient Mercia, the center of the bishopric and favorite home of Mercian kings.

  In Wessex the work of shipbuilding and horse training went on. By the spring of 874 Alfred knew he could move his supplies either by river or by horse-drawn wagon. Being able to dispense with the slow-moving oxen would give him considerably
greater mobility in the field when the Danes returned.

  News from Mercia was sporadic. Alfred knew that Ethelred and Athulf were trying to organize a resistance against the Danish occupation of Repton, but from what they heard in Wessex, the Danes were apparently ravaging the country about Repton unchecked.

  Alfred’s household was at Wantage for the summer when Ethelred of Mercia came riding into the royal manor one July afternoon. Accompanying Ethelred was Alfred’s sister, Ethelswith, Queen of Mercia. Alfred and his thanes were out hunting, so it fell to Elswyth to greet her countryman and her sister-by-marriage and bring them into the cool darkness of the hall.

  Ethelred stood spread-legged on the rush-strewn floor and stared at the great tapestry of the white horse that hung over the high seat whilst Elswyth settled Alfred’s sister. Ethelswith was looking gray with heat and exhaustion, and she dropped into a high-backed chair with undisguised relief. Elswyth sent the serving maids running for ale and cool damp cloths. Ethelswith thankfully wiped the sweat and dirt from her face and hands and then the ale arrived. Ethelred drank thirstily and looked over the rim of his cup at Alfred’s beautiful black-haired wife.

  Elswyth had grown up, he thought. The girl he used to know would have been hounding him for explanations the minute he set his foot to the ground. This Elswyth was putting the needs of the obviously exhausted Ethelswith before her own impetuous desire for information. As he watched the two women, he saw Ethelswith smile, and for the first time Elswyth herself took a chair. She looked up at Ethelred, who preferred to stand after so many hours in the saddle, and said, “What happened?”

  God, Ethelred thought. How was he to tell her?

  “Ethelred,” she said through her teeth, and now she sounded much more like the Elswyth he remembered, “if you don’t say something soon, I shall scream.”

  He smiled wearily and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Burgred has given up,” he said. “He sailed a week ago for Rome.”

  “What?”

  “He was worn out,” Ethelswith said dully. “The Danes bled the kingdom dry, and then, when there was no more geld to squeeze from us, they attacked the monasteries.”

  Elswyth’s eyes began to blaze. She stared at Ethelred. “But did you not try to fight?”

  His milk-white skin flushed with color. “We tried. At least, Athulf and I tried. But we had only our own men, Elswyth. We were too few.”

  “None of the other Mercian nobles would follow you?”

  The color receded from his cheeks. “No,” he said. It was not so difficult to tell her; Elswyth was Mercian also. His shame was her shame. But how was he to tell Alfred?

  Elswyth swore. Ethelswith stared at her in shock, but Ethelred said, “Yes. I agree.”

  Elswyth drew a deep breath and her narrow nostrils quivered. Then she asked the question that Ethelred had been dreading: “But if Burgred has fled, who is now the king?”

  All the way from Tamworth, Ethelred had rehearsed in his mind how he would say this. “Let me explain how all of this came about,” he said now, his voice very quiet, very calm. “The Danes sent a messenger to Burgred saying that they would leave the country of Mercia alone if Burgred would swear allegiance to them, would hold the kingdom at their disposal for whensoever they might wish to occupy it, and would come when called upon to serve them with his own following of thanes.”

  Elswyth’s face was very white, her eyes glittering slits of midnight blue. She said nothing. Ethelred went on, “As my lady Ethelswith has said, Burgred was worn out. He could not face having to deal further with the Danes, and so he decided to take refuge in Rome. Before he left, however, he appointed another to rule in his stead. It is the new … king who is dealing with the Danes.”

  “But who is this new king?” she asked.

  Ethelred looked at her with pity. “Elswyth, I am so sorry. It is Ceolwulf.”

  She went even paler than she already was. “Oh, no! It cannot be! Not even Ceolwulf …”

  A little silence fell. “I am sorry,” Ethelred said again. Then, when her pale-faced silence began to grow too long: “You know how he is, Elswyth, He thinks he is doing the right thing. He honestly believes that peace is worth any price. He always has believed that.”

  “And what of Athulf?” Her voice sounded distinctly odd.

  This was the worst part of all. Ethelred looked away from her. “The Danes demanded hostages to secure Mercia’s promises,” he said. “One of the hostages they demanded was Ceolwulf’s brother.”

  “No!”

  It was on that cry of anguish that Alfred entered the hall. He actually broke into a run in his haste to get to their part of the room. “What has happened?” he asked, his eyes on his wife. “Are you all right, Elswyth?” When she merely nodded and refused to look at him, he turned to Ethelred and demanded, “What has happened? Is it Athulf? Ceolwulf?” Clearly he thought that the visitors were bringing Elswyth news of a brother’s death.

  Ethelred’s jaw clenched as he looked back into Alfred’s worried face. The King of the West Saxons was but twenty-five years old, yet he had rallied his kingdom to oppose the Danes as no other English king had managed to do. Mercia was defeated; nay, not even defeated, given over. Ethelred’s cheeks burned with humiliation as he recounted his tale to Alfred in a carefully expressionless voice.

  “My God,” Alfred said when he had finished. Then, to his sister: “I am glad you have come to me, Ethelswith.”

  “I would not flee with him,” said Ethelswith of Mercia, and the scorn in her voice caused the color to burn ever brighter in Ethelred’s cheeks.

  Alfred looked again at his wife. Then he said to his guests: “You must both be dusty and tired. I shall have you shown to one of the guest halls, where you can rest.”

  Ethelswith smiled gratefully and allowed Ethelred to help her rise. Elswyth sat upright in her chair and did not even seem to notice that the queen was standing. Ethelswith glanced at her with compassion, looked to her brother, and found him watching his wife also. A spasm of some emotion she did not recognize twisted painfully in Ethelswith’s stomach. In all her life, she thought bitterly, she doubted that anyone had ever looked at her the way Alfred was looking at Elswyth now. Then Ethelred was taking her arm and they were leaving the hall she had not seen since she was a small child, since before she had been banished to Mercia to marry a cowardly king.

  “Elswyth,” Alfred said as the door closed behind his sister and Ethelred. He put his hand upon his wife’s arm. “Come with me.”

  She followed the guidance of his hand like a sleepwalker, rose from her chair, and went with him to their sleeping-room door. Once through the door, however, she pulled away from him and went to stand beside the bed, staring down at the red wool cover spread upon it. “Athulf will be safe,” he said from behind her. “Ceolwulf would never do anything to endanger him, You know that.”

  “I know that.” Her voice was deeply bitter. “Ceolwulf will be a good little puppet king, of that we can all be certain.”

  Alfred let out his breath. “We should not be so very surprised,” he said. “We all know Ceolwulf. It is not that he is a coward, Elswyth. He is just … a peacemaker,”

  “He is a fool,” Elswyth said, still in the same bitter voice. At last she swung around to face him. “I would like to kill him!” she said through gritted teeth.

  He did not reply, just looked at her out of grave and worried eyes. “The rest of them did nothing either,” she said. “You led the men of Wessex against the Danes for almost a full season, yet my countrymen did nothing!”

  “Athulf tried. Ethelred tried.”

  “No one followed, save their own sworn men.”

  “That is what happens to a country,” he said, “when the king is weak.”

  There was the glitter of tears in her eyes. “I don’t know why I am angry with you,” she said. “This is certainly none of your doing.”

  He held out his arms and with a rush of soft linen she was in them, her arms tight about his
waist, her face pressed against his shoulder. “Oh, God, Alfred,” she said. “How could he?”

  “I do not know,” he answered. “My father gave over his throne, Elswyth. Did you know that? My brother Ethelbald raised a rebellion when my father married Judith, and my father resigned the throne to him rather than fight. Wessex has its history of weary kings too, my love.”

  “It is not the same thing at all,” she said. “But thank you.”

  He laid his cheek against her hair. “God,” he said, “if Mercia is gone …”

  He felt the stiffening of her spine and opened his hands to let her step away from him. “I know.” She looked up into his face. “Wessex is all that is left.”

  “There is Northumbria,” he said. “The north has rallied behind this Ricsige.”

  “Yes.” Her nostrils were pinched-looking. “Northumbria has at least fought. East Anglia fought. Wessex is still fighting. It is only Mercia …”

  “We must set up a government in opposition to Ceolwulf,” Alfred said, evaluating the situation facing him. “He will make a Danish Mercia, but we must keep the possibility of an English Mercia open to the country.”

  Elswyth stared at him. He was never defeated, she thought. He never would be. She said, “Do you mean to set up another king?”

  He gave her an odd look. “Not another king. Kings have not been overly successful in Mercia of late. Let us say rather a protector. Someone to serve as a rallying point for all of those who are in opposition to this capitulation to the Danes.”

  Her eyes scanned his face. “Yes,” she said. “That is a good idea. With Athulf taken hostage, it will have to be Ethelred.”

  “If only,” Alfred said, “he were not so young.”

  She smiled, the first smile she had managed since she had heard about Ceolwulf. “He is the same age you were when you were made king,” she said.