by Joan Wolf
“They want a peace. That much I understood,” Ivor, the man who was reporting to Guthrum, said. “If we agree, we are to show a white banner from our western wall.”
“A peace?” Guthrum began to pace up and down the floor of his booth. “He must have lost more men than we thought.”
“Or knows he will lose them,” Erlend said.
“What has he offered?” said Guthrum.
“My lord, I do not know. We could not speak together very well. I have only a few words of Saxon.” Ivor grinned. “And they are not the words of peace.”
Guthrum’s thick blond brows were drawn together. “Name of the Raven, how are we to make peace if neither speaks the other’s language? The few men we had who knew Saxon have gone north with Halfdan.”
“There is Lord Erlend, my lord,” one of the men suggested. “He and the Mercian speak together all the time.”
Erlend felt Guthrum’s bright blue eyes resting on his face. He strove to keep his expression unreadable. “Or there is Athulf himself,” Erlend said. “Alter two years among us, he speaks Danish with a fairly ready tongue.”
“I would not trust the Mercian,” Guthrum said. “It will have to be you, Nephew.”
Erlend felt sweat break out on his forehead. “Once my identity is known to the West Saxons, I will be useless as a spy.”
Guthrum shrugged. “It cannot be helped. Nor does it seem that we will need you in that guise anyway, Erlend. You have not returned to the West Saxon camp in almost four years’ time. You will be more useful to me as an interpreter. I need to know what he wants.”
Guthrum hung the white banner from the walls of Wareham and watched for Alfred’s reply. The evening sky was still bright with summer sun when the four West Saxons once more crossed the river and waited for the Danish delegation to meet them.
Erlend’s face was impassive as he rode his black stallion across the open space that separated him from Alfred’s men. He had often wondered what Alfred would say if he discovered the truth about the wandering harper he had welcomed into his household. It had been a clever disguise, and thoroughly successful. Erlend ought to be feeling amused and superior now that he was going to confront the men he had so completely fooled.
He was not feeling amused and superior, however. He was feeling ashamed and humiliated. He did not want to be exposed as a fraud in front of the West Saxon thanes.
Elswyth would be hurt when she found out. And Alfred …
It was Edgar. Hell.
“My lords,” Erlend said formally in the excellent Saxon that had acquired the touch of a Mercian drawl after two years of conversing only with Athulf, “the Lord Guthrum has sent me to treat with you about a peace.”
Edgar smiled with relief to hear the Saxon. He had not yet recognized the young man on the glossy black stallion. Erlend had taken care with his appearance this day, taken care to look as different from the poor little harper as he possibly could. His brown hair was cut short, Viking-style, and hung in long thick bangs to the tips of his triangular eyebrows. He wore a golden collar about his throat, and great golden rings twisted like serpents on his naked arms above the elbows. His stallion was over sixteen hands in height, enabling him to look down on the men before him.
Edgar said, “I am the voice of the West Saxon king. Alfred has empowered me to treat for a peace.”
The breeze from the river blew the hair on Erlend’s forehead. He said, “If you wish a peace, you must pay for it.”
Edgar was staring at him now, his blue eyes widening in dawning recognition. “Who are you?” the West Saxon demanded abruptly in a suddenly hard voice.
Erlend’s stomach clenched, but outwardly he kept his face impassive. “I am Erlend Olafson of Nasgaard,” he said. “Nephew to the Lord Guthrum.”
“Erlend!”
Now the three thanes with Edgar were staring also. Erlend clenched his jaw, hating them all. “How are you, Edgar?” he said. “It has been a long time since last we met.”
“You are nephew to the Danish leader? You are a Dane?”
“Yes.”
“God in heaven.”
“What does Alfred offer for a peace?” Erlend said, and now the drawl was quite gone from his voice.
Edgar’s eyes narrowed. They did not leave Erlend’s face as he answered, “If the Lord Guthrum will swear a sacred oath to leave the country, the West Saxon king will give him free passage out of Wessex. To further secure this oath, Alfred demands that Guthrum give hostages into his hand, five men of rank in your own army. And the West Saxon king demands the return of the Lord Athulf.”
Erlend showed his teeth in imitation of Guthrum’s smile. “Alfred demands?” he said.
“Yes.” Edgar’s face was grim. “You are in a bad case, my lord Erlend.” There was the faintest trace of scorn in the title Edgar bestowed on him. “We have you trapped into Wareham as neatly as ever a fox was trapped in a hole. Four thousand men must eat. Your horses must eat as well. If you do not accept the terms of this peace, we will starve you to your deaths.”
“You will not have the men to keep us penned into Wareham,” Erlend said. “It is sheep-shearing month, Edgar. I know well what happens to the West Saxon fyrds at such a time.” He patted the gleaming satin neck of his stallion. “All the men Alfred will have left to him will be the thanes of his hearthband, and perhaps the hearthbands of some of the ealdormen. And we will still have our four thousand.”
Edgar was looking furious. Erlend glanced up at the Raven banner flying over the heads of the Danish negotiators, then back to Edgar. “Guthrum has sent to be relieved by way of the sea,” he added softly. “You look to lose your fleet as well as your army, Edgar, if you do not make a peace.”
Edgar’s smile was as wolflike as ever Guthrum’s got. “Ethelred of Mercia barricaded the Thames,” he said. “The whole river, for a stretch of five miles, was mined with traps. Your fleet has not been able to get through.”
Erlend’s eyes widened. Then he looked across the Frome to the West Saxon camp. “So that is what has happened to the ships,” He smiled, this time in reluctant admiration. “Alfred is rarely at a loss.”
“Nor is he at a loss now,” Edgar replied. “There will be no peace without the hostages. Or Athulf.”
Erlend thought. In the west the sun was beginning to grow pink. The horses sidled a little and snorted at each other. Erlend’s stallion did not like grays and was objecting to the presence of Edgar’s powerful-looking gelding. Finally Erlend said, “Alfred will have to pay a geld, Edgar. My uncle will never accept his terms without some sort of payment.”
The two men looked at each other. Finally Edgar nodded. “I will tell that to my king.”
Erlend nodded also.
“How much?” Edgar asked.
Erlend thought again, then named a sum that he thought would be acceptable to Guthrum yet reasonable for Alfred. Edgar nodded again. “But we must have the hostages,” he said.
“You shall have your hostages. And Athulf as well. But we must have the geld.”
“I shall tell Alfred,” Edgar said again.
“And I shall tell Guthrum,” Erlend replied. “If we fly the white banner from the walls tomorrow morning, you will know that we have accepted your offer.”
Edgar nodded and lifted his reins to turn his horse.
“Athulf is well,” Erlend heard himself saying. “You may assure Alfred of that.”
Edgar stared at him, nodded again, then galloped his horse back toward the river, followed by the three other thanes of Alfred’s escort. Head high, Erlend himself turned back toward the gates of Wareham.
* * *
Chapter 30
“He has barricaded the Thames,” Erlend told Guthrum. “That is what has happened to our ships.”
Guthrum swore a vicious oath.
“He will pay you geld to leave Wessex, Uncle. We have always accepted a geld payment. You will be the victor in this engagement if you force Alfred to pay a geld.” Erlend knew how prickly was
Guthrum’s pride and how essential it was for his uncle to feel the victor if any kind of peace were to be fixed.
“How much?” Guthrum asked.
Erlend told him.
“The Mercians paid six times that!” Guthrum roared.
“It is only a little less than Alfred paid you the last time,” Erlend said.
“It is considerably less!”
“My lord, our position does not allow us to ask for more,” Erlend said flatly.
Guthrum’s blue eyes flashed. “He cannot keep our ships penned up forever. They could be here at any time now.”
“True. But first they must get through the West Saxon ships, Uncle. We are certain to lose large numbers of men and supplies in such a fight.”
Guthrum swore again. Then: “He wants hostages?”
“Yes. Five of our highborn men. And Athulf.”
“He can have Athulf.” Guthrum waved his hand in dismissal. “The Mercians are safe enough whether or not I have Athulf.”
Erlend nodded.
They were standing together near the door of Guthrum’s booth. The room was dim save for the dying daylight that came in through the open door. Guthrum’s expression had become thoughtful. He said, “He will accept my oath? Will agree to give our army free passage out of Wessex?”
“Yes.”
“And he will pay a geld.”
“Yes,” Erlend said again.
Guthrum smiled. “Very well. I shall accept his terms. I shall send him Athulf and five of my nobles, and I shall swear an oath on the sacred ring of Odin that I will honor my word.”
Erlend was conscious of deep surprise. He had not thought this would be so easy. “What men will you give Alfred?” he asked warily.
Guthrum reeled off the names of five jarls’ sons, and Erlend had to agree their rank would meet with Alfred’s requirements.
“I think the terms are fair,” Erlend said, still speaking with caution. “Both armies have come to impasse. This peace will be a way out for both.”
“I will want the geld before I leave Wareham,” Guthrum said. “Tell them that, Erlend.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And my ships are to be allowed into the harbor.”
“Uncle. Alfred is not a fool. He is not like to agree to that.”
“I must be able to communicate with my ships. How else are they to know where to rejoin us?”
Erlend thought. “I think we can convince Alfred to allow some of your ships into the harbor to victual the army, but not the entire fleet.”
Guthrum shrugged, a characteristic gesture that served to draw attention to the muscles in his upper arms. The June day had been warm and Guthrum’s arms, like Erlend’s, were bare save for the twisted golden rings both wore above their elbows. “Very well, Nephew. Just make certain that at least some of the ships are given access to Wareham.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Erlend replied. “In the morning, when Edgar returns, I will tell him.”
“What is happening?” Athulf leapt to his feet as soon as Erlend walked into the room. The two were sharing one of the wooden booths the Danes had built at Wareham for shelter during the first days of their arrival.
It was growing dark outside now and Athulf had lit a candle. Erlend walked slowly to the pile of straw that was serving as his bed, sat down cross-legged, and looked at Elswyth’s brother.
He had known who Athulf was the instant he had seen him. The same black hair, the same high-bred facial bones, the same thin and haughty nose. He would miss the Mercian, Erlend realized. Miss hearing that drawling Saxon voice. He said now, simply, “Alfred wants to cry a peace, and one of his stipulations is your return.”
He saw the hope flare in Athulf s blue eyes. Not Elswyth’s eyes. No one else had eyes quite like Elswyth’s. “Will Guthrum agree?” Athulf said tensely.
“Yes.”
“Thanks be to God.” Athulf sat down on his own straw and bowed his head. Erlend was silent, letting the Mercian collect himself. Then, when Athulf raised his face once more, Erlend told him the terms of the peace.
“It is an honorable way out for both sides,” Athulf said when Erlend had once more fallen silent.
“Yes.”
“Who are to be the hostages?”
Erlend named them.
“That is fair,” Athulf said. “Jarls” sons all.”
“Yes.” Erlend looked at his knees. “Athulf, I have something I must tell you. You will find out when you go to Alfred’s camp, and I would rather tell you first myself.”
“What is it, Erlend?” The Mercian’s voice was both puzzled and curious.
“You know me as Erlend Olafson, nephew of Guthrum, heir to Nasgaard. And that is who I am. But Alfred … Alfred knew me as someone else.”
Silence from Athulf. Erlend glanced up fleetingly, then looked back at his knee.
“Five years since,” he continued doggedly, “I went in disguise to the West Saxon royal household, I lived there one year. Alfred and your sister thought I was a Frankish harper. I was there to spy, you see.” He looked up again, and this time he met Athulf’s eyes. “Halfdan sent me. To spy out, if I could, the weaknesses of the West Saxons.”
Athulf’s eyes were steady. He said nothing,
“When our army quitted Wessex, I left Alfred’s household. I have never returned. They never knew who I was. Until today, when I had to speak to Edgar about the peace.”
Silence fell again. Then, to Erlend’s utter stupefaction, Athulf began to grin. “I wish I could have seen Edgar’s face when he saw you today.”
Erlend stared at the Mercian in astonishment. “I was a spy, Athulf. I took Alfred’s hospitality and repaid him by spying.”
“I’ll wager you found out little of use to you.” Athulf’s voice was suddenly dry.
Erlend slowly raised his knees and rested his chin on them, “You say true,” he answered, and his own voice was rueful.
“There are few men more widely liked than my brother-by-marriage,” Athulf said. “And no man more capable of keeping himself to himself. I do not know how he does it, but you can be perfectly comfortable in Alfred’s company without having any feeling of knowing him at all.”
Erlend’s eyes were on Athulf, but they held an odd, blind look that told the Mercian that Erlend was not seeing him at all. After a minute: “That is very true.” Erlend’s voice was slow, thoughtful. His green eyes focused. “He and your sister are very close,” he said.
“Did you ever hear the story of how that marriage came to pass?” Athulf asked. When Erlend shook his head, the Mercian settled himself more comfortably and launched into the tale of Elswyth’s proposal.
Erlend laughed as he had not laughed in months,
“I thought it would be a mistake,” Athulf said. “Elswyth was a wildcat when she was a child. But they have grown into each other with the years. Indeed, their roots have so entangled that it is sometimes hard to know where one begins and the other leaves off. I think that is why Alfred has no need to find companionship among his men. He gets what he needs from Elswyth.”
Erlend thought of how he had once confronted Alfred about his allowing Elswyth to ride while she was pregnant. He remembered the king’s words. Indeed, he had never forgotten them, had often mulled them over in his mind. If you love someone, Alfred had said, then you must leave that person free to love you back.
He said now to Athulf, “He does not think of women the way most men do.”
“Nor is Elswyth like most women,” Athulf replied humorously. “I can speak from experience. I was the one who had the rearing of her.”
Erlend felt a strange, almost illicit pleasure in discussing the West Saxon king and his wife like this. “I was never certain what Alfred thought of me,” he said next. “Elswyth is clear as water, but Alfred … one is never certain what Alfred is thinking.”
“No. And that, I suspect, is part of his fascination.” Erlend lifted skeptical triangular brows, but Athulf only smiled. “Admit it, Erlend. He is a fa
scinating devil.” When Erlend still did not agree, he added, “Watch other men when he is around. They are always alert to the least little thing he might say, to the faintest change of expression that might cross his face. It was so even when he was but a boy, before he became king,” Athulf suddenly grinned. “Half the time, when you are wondering what he is thinking of you, he is probably translating Latin in his head.”
At that they both laughed. Athulf sobered quickly, however, and said with forceful gravity, “I shall tell both Alfred and my sister how kind you have been to me, Erlend Olafson. If it were not for you, I do not know how I would have borne these years of exile.”
Erlend felt his cheeks grow hot. “It has been a pleasure for me to have your companionship, Athulf.”
There was a little silence. Then Athulf said, “You are nothing like your uncle, you know.”
This was a sore point, and Erlend responded instantly. “I am a Dane!”
“You are a Dane with a conscience, my friend,” said Athulf of Mercia, spreading his blanket in preparation for lying down to sleep. “Take care, for in this Guthrum has the advantage of you. I would not trust him out of my sight.”
“I know that, I am not a fool. One of the reasons I agreed to act the spy was to gain the favor of Halfdan. If I am to claim Nasgaard for my own again, I do not want to be forced to rely solely upon Guthrum.”
“No, by God,” said Athulf feelingly. “Nor would I trust my back to him if I were you, Erlend.”
But Erlend shook his head. “He would not harm me, Athulf. He is too much a Dane ever to incur that sort of blood guilt. I would not trust Guthrum with Nasgaard, but I would trust him with my life.” Erlend leaned over the candle to blow it out. He said, “I have trusted him these last five years and, see, I am still here.” He blew out the candle and lay down himself. “Good night,” he said, “Within a short time you will be sleeping in the camp of the West Saxons.”