by Joan Wolf
“Please God,” said Athulf, and crossed himself with fervor.
Erlend pulled his blanket over his shoulder and fell instantly asleep.
It took Alfred nearly two months to collect the geld. One-third he paid himself from the royal treasury, and two-thirds he collected from his ealdorman, who in turn collected their share from the thanes of their shires. During these summer months the West Saxons allowed ten of Guthrum’s ships into Poole harbor, and thus the Danes were provisioned by their own supplies.
The swearing ceremony and the exchange of hostages for geld took place toward the end of August. A truce place had been designated near the banks of the Frome between two spears flying white banners, and there the delegations from the Danish and West Saxon camps met.
Erlend was accompanying Guthrum in order to translate. With Guthrum and his nephew were Athulf, five unhappy Danish hostages, and an escort of men from Guthrum’s personal hird. Guthrum and Erlend stood between the planted spears and watched the West Saxons swim their horses across the river. There was a small boat keeping pace with them. The chest within the boat was clear for all to see.
Erlend had eyes for only one Figure in the West Saxon party. Alfred’s long hair was bound today by the circlet of gold that signified his kingship, and he wore a sleeveless linen tunic of the purest white. His tanned arms were bare of bracelets, but his finger rings flashed in the August sun. The gray stallion he was riding touched ground and Alfred put up his hand to halt his men at the river’s edge.
The Danes watched in silence as the West Saxon king dismounted and gave his reins into the hands of one of his followers. Then, accompanied by Brand on one side and Edgar on the other, Alfred approached Guthrum and his surrounding ring of Danes. Erlend saw his eyes flick quickly toward Athulf.
Erlend’s heart was hammering so hard he was sure Guthrum must hear it. Name of the Raven, he thought in suppressed fury, why was he feeling this way? Why should he care what Alfred of Wessex thought of him?
The remembered golden eyes, fringed by long gold-tipped lashes, were looking at him now. “Erlend Olafson of Nasgaard,” Alfred said. His voice was completely expressionless. “Are you here to interpret?”
“Yes, my lord.” Thank the gods, his voice was steady. He filled his lungs, inclined his head toward Guthrum, and said, “Here is the Danish leader, Jarl Guthrum. He has come to give over his hostages and to collect his geld.”
The two enemy leaders looked at each other and Erlend looked at them both. Guthrum was the taller by half a head, and by far the more massively built. But Alfred had the slimly muscled grace of a cat, and the face framed by the helmet of dark gold hair was wearing its hunter’s look.
Guthrum said in Danish, “So, Alfred of Wessex, I meet you at last.” He spoke as to an equal.
Erlend translated.
Alfred said to Erlend, his eyes still on Erlend’s uncle, “I have come to see Jarl Guthrum swear a sacred oath to leave my kingdom. Is he prepared to do this?”
Erlend answered without consulting Guthrum, “Yes.”
“What oath?” Alfred asked.
Erlend brought forth a heavy golden ring, set all over with huge garnets and graven with runes. “This is the sacred ring of Odin,” he said. “It lies on the god’s altar and is part of all his sacrifices. Lord Guthrum will swear on this ring to leave Wessex when you have paid him his geld.”
Guthrum’s eyes, blue as the August sky, moved from Alfred’s face to Erlend’s, then back again to Alfred’s. Guthrum had enough Saxon to follow the exchange in general.
Alfred said, “I do not know what such an oath would mean to a pagan. To a Christian, an oath is words sworn to God. Sacred. Never to be broken without loss of all honor and faith before both men and God.”
Erlend translated.
Guthrum smiled, and a shiver ran down Erlend’s back. “Tell him that it is the same for us,” said his uncle.
Erlend turned back to Alfred and repeated Guthrum’s words in Saxon. Alfred nodded gravely. Then he said to Brand, “Tell them to bring the geld.”
There were gulls flying low over the Frome, crying to each other in the bright August air. The river sparkled in the sun. It was a perfect day, Erlend thought as the heavy chest was hauled before the Danes and opened for inspection, Then Guthrum put his hand upon Odin’s ring and swore an oath.
Erlend translated the words. They were straightforward and clear. He could find no fault with them. He saw from Alfred’s eyes that the West Saxon king too was satisfied. Alfred nodded his golden head and Guthrum said, “He may take the hostages.”
Athulf stepped forward promptly, followed more reluctantly by the five other men, Alfred smiled at Athulf and held out his arms to embrace the Mercian. “You look well, my brother,” the king said then. “Elswyth has been worried about you.”
Athulf laughed shakily. His eyes looked suspiciously bright as he stepped away from the king. “God, Alfred,” he said. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you!”
Guthrum folded his arms and watched the two Saxons, a mocking smile on his sensual mouth. Alfred looked over and saw it. He patted Athulf’s shoulder, gestured him toward the boat, then spoke directly to Guthrum without glancing toward Erlend at all. “I shall treat your hostages as well as you have treated my brother, Lord Guthrum,” he said evenly. “But if you break your word, I will kill them.”
His eyes on Guthrum’s face were steady. Erlend began to translate, but Guthrum waved him still. “We understand each other,” he said to Alfred in his own heavily accented Saxon.
“Good.” Alfred nodded to Edgar, who started to herd the Danish hostages toward the boat. Alfred himself began to turn away, then stopped and looked at Erlend. “I always wondered about you,” he said. His face was unreadable.
“I know.” Erlend tried hard for a rueful smile. “The harp, And then the horses.”
Alfred’s voice was as quiet and as impossible to read as his face. He said, “Nor do peasant boys have foster mothers for whom they grieve.”
Erlend’s eyes widened in surprise. Then he remembered the occasion upon which he had mentioned his foster mother, and he flushed. “How clumsy you must have thought me,” he said, and the bitterness in his own voice gave his feelings away all too clearly.
“Not clumsy,” Alfred said. “You have a ready tongue and your explanations were always plausible. It was something else that gave you away.”
“And what was that, my lord?”
Alfred looked Erlend up and down. Then: “You do not bear yourself like a man of low birth, Erlend Olafson. The very carriage of your head gives you away. Remember that the next time you go harping in an enemy’s camp.”
Erlend stared at Alfred with barely suppressed hostility. “If you knew I was a fraud, why did you keep me?”
A slow smile came across Alfred’s eyes and brows, though his mouth remained perfectly grave. “You are a good harper.” He then turned to follow his men to the river, and Brand moved instantly behind the king to cover his back.
Erlend stood in silence next to his uncle as the West Saxons mounted their horses and waded once more into the Frome. The boat, empty now of geld but full of Danish hostages, pushed off into the river as well. Guthrum said flatly, “He is not afraid of us.”
“No.” Erlend’s voice came out like a croak.
“That is a mistake.”
Erlend turned to stare up at his uncle. “You have sworn an oath, my lord,” he said.
Guthrum flicked him a very blue look, turned, vaulted onto the horse one of his men was holding for him, and galloped back to the walls of Wareham.
Elswyth was at Wilton, and it was to Wilton that Alfred sent Athulf the day after his recovery from the Danes. Alfred himself remained one more week at Wareham, watching the Danes make preparation to depart. Then, during the second week in September, he moved most of his remaining men, including the Danish hostages, to Wilton, leaving only a guard to watch the Danes at Wareham. It would be far easier to feed his men at Wil
ton than it was at Wareham.
“Do you think he will keep his oath, my lord?” Brand had asked when the order to leave Wareham was given.
“Yes.” Alfred was confident of that. “If he believes in his pagan gods, he will not dare risk their wrath by breaking such an oath. In any case, he will have to take the Roman road that leads by Wilton on his way out of the country, and we can keep watch on him from there. I do not trust him to keep his men from plunder as they evacuate.”
Elswyth was still at Wilton when Alfred arrived. At the beginning of the siege of Wareham she had sent Flavia and Edward and the dogs to Chippenham in Wiltshire, but she herself had remained at Wilton with the baby. Elswyth had originally thought to wean Elgiva and send her to Chippenham with the others, but Alfred had objected. He loved his children, she knew, but he did not love the months when she was bearing them. Well, nor did she, and since she was not yet twenty-two, she looked to have many years of childbearing yet ahead. It was best to keep little Elgiva at the breast as long as possible, and so the baby remained with her at Wilton, close enough to Wareham to keep in touch with what was happening, yet far enough away to flee to safety should it become necessary.
Elswyth had been delighted to see Athulf, but the news that Alfred had taken hostages of his own disturbed her. “What are we to do with these Danes?” she asked her husband shortly after his arrival at Wilton. She had watched as the hostages were marched to one of the smaller halls, and the obvious youth of the Danes bothered her.
“We keep them,” Alfred answered. “The way Guthrum kept Athulf. But we need to find an Erlend to interpret for them.”
“Athulf told me about Erlend,” she said, diverted for the moment onto another subject. “I cannot believe it, Alfred. He was a Danish spy. And I liked him!”
Alfred smiled at her. “He found out little of importance, my love. Be sure of that,”
Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “Do you mean to say you suspected him?” she demanded, ready to be furious that he had not confided such doubts to her.
“I did not think he was a Dane,” Alfred answered. “But I did not think he was what he said he was, either.” He shrugged. “I thought perhaps he was the son of a noble house who had got himself into trouble at home and been forced to run away.”
“I never suspected aught.” Clearly she was disgusted with herself. “And he was so good with horses!”
A slow smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “That was one of the things that gave him away. No peasant boy learns to ride like Erlend rides.”
Elswyth surveyed the faint amusement on her husband’s face. “At least I hope you were angry when you saw him,” she remarked.
At that his fair brows drew together in puzzlement. “Why should you hope that?”
“You are terrifying when you are angry. Erlend deserves a fright after the trick he pulled on us.”
The line between his brows smoothed away and the smile came back to his eyes. “I am rarely angry.”
“I know,” she replied candidly. “That is why it is so scary when you are.”
At that he laughed. Next he looked around the crowded hall. Serving men were carrying baggage in from the courtyard, and the door to their sleeping room was open wide for ease of passage. “Come out with me for a ride,” he suggested. “It is too noisy here to talk, and we shall have light for several hours yet.”
Her face brightened. “All right. But I must feed the baby first.”
In half an hour they were riding out through the gates of Wilton, the September sun still warm on their heads. “Why has Guthrum not left Wareham yet?” she asked as they followed a path that wound through the woods toward the river.
“He has four thousand men in Wareham, Elswyth. It takes time to move that large an army.”
“You are certain he will keep to this oath?”
“I am certain.” His face was serene in the late-afternoon light.
“I wouldn’t be,” Elswyth muttered. “What is an oath to a pagan? Why, there are even Christian men who do not honor an oath as they should.”
But Alfred was unperturbed. “Do not forget. I have his hostages. They are jarls’ sons all. Athulf has confirmed that. What would happen to the trust Guthrum’s army has in him if he should break his oath and sacrifice such men?”
A little silence fell. They were among the trees now, and had to proceed single file. Alfred held back to let Elswyth go first.
“I do not like this taking of hostages,” she said, turning in her saddle to look back at him. “What are we to do with these men? They are so young, Alfred! Scarcely more than boys. We cannot keep them chained like wild beasts.”
“I have no intention of chaining them.” Alfred gestured to a small clearing that parted the trees to their right. “Here is a nice place,” he said. “Let’s dismount for a while.”
Elswyth turned off the path, halted, swung herself to the ground without help, and began to loosen her horse’s girth. She was riding Silken today, Copper having been left behind at Lambourn. “Well?” she said over her shoulder to Alfred as he followed her. “What are we going to do with them? They cannot even speak our language!”
“I shall send them to Cheddar, with a guard of men to keep watch on them.” He too had dismounted and was loosening his horse’s girth. “Do not fret so, Elswyth. They shall be fed and housed and given all that they need. Guthrum did not abuse Athulf, and I have no intention of abusing these boys. They are merely here as pledges of Guthrum’s good conduct.”
“But, Alfred,” she said unhappily, “what will happen if Guthrum breaks his word?”
“Elswyth …” Cat-footed, he had come up to stand behind her right shoulder. “I did not bring you out here to talk about the hostages.” He took her hand and began to lead her away from the horses, toward the flat stretch of dried pine needles he had spied from the saddle.
She halted, tugged at his hand to free herself, and spoke the words that were really worrying her. “Alfred, if he breaks his word, you will have to kill them. And that will make you miserable.”
“He won’t break his word.” He let her pull her hand away, but then curved both his own hands about her waist. “Elswyth . . ,” he said. Softly. Coaxingly.
There was a tree behind her and she leaned against it and stared up at him. “I want to talk,” she said.
“Later.” He bent his head to hers. His kiss was deep, searching, erotic. After a moment her mouth opened and she swayed away from the tree toward him, as if suddenly caught in the path of a strong wind. “I missed you,” he whispered, and moved his mouth to the arch of her throat, kissing the beating pulse he found there.
All thought of the hostages fled in the trail of fire left by his mouth. She reached her arms around his waist, spread her hands flat against his back, and felt him pull her closer, so that the whole length of her body was pressed against his. The September sunlight was filtered by the leafy branches of the birch tree they stood under. She felt the strength of his legs as they pressed against hers. Then he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed of pine needles in the clearing.
The sun was stronger here, not filtered by the tree, and she looked up from where he had laid her into a haze of late-summer light. He was stripping off his clothes, his smoothly muscled skin glowing in the sun, his hair a helmet of shining gold, Then he was beside her again and she reached up to cup his face between her hands. “I missed you too,” she said softly, smoothing her thumbs along the clean hard line of his cheekbones.
He began to unbutton the front of her gown, his lips following his fingers as he laid her bare to the warm sun. “I like this kind of gown,” he murmured, his lips against the pale silken skin of her waist.
“It is for the convenience of the baby, not for you.” There was a soft breeze blowing, and it brought the smells of the deep woods to their small and sunny glade. The pine needles beneath her were prickly and fragrant. He slipped the gown from her shoulders and tugged it downward. She raised her
hips to help him, and then, swift and sure, he rid her of all the rest of her clothing.
“How I have longed for you. All those lonely nights …” And he was bending over her again. He kissed her throat, her breasts, his mouth moving ever lower down her body.
“I too.” The words were a mere breathless whisper. She buried her hands in his hair and gave a little sob deep down in her throat. At that, he slid his hands below her hips, lifted, and thrust within. She arched her back to meet him.
His back under her hands was warm with the sun, his flesh smooth and hard under her fingertips. He said her name. “I love you,” she whispered, answering to his words, to his body sheathed within hers, the both of them building and building to a place where the world would crash and splinter and nothing would matter save the two of them.
It was not until much later, when they were dressed and once more on their horses, that Elswyth thought again of the hostages. She opened her mouth to speak, looked at Alfred’s profile, and closed her mouth again. After all, what was to be said? He needed hostages to guarantee Guthrum’s word. She understood that perfectly. What happened in the future would be up to the Danish leader, not to Alfred.
Guthrum would not break the oath, she thought to herself. Alfred was a good judge of men. The Dane had taken their geld and given hostages, and Wessex would be safe for a few more years.
* * *
Chapter 31
It was the dark night of October 17 when the Danish force under Guthrum rode out of Wareham and headed, not north toward Mercia, as expected, but westward and deeper into Wessex. Erlend had not believed even Guthrum capable of such treachery, but when he protested, his uncle had bared his teeth and told him he had been too long among the Christians, that his stomach had gone weak.
“But our hostages!” Erlend had persisted, “Alfred said he would kill them if you broke your word.”
“Men die in war,” came the brutal reply. “Besides, this Christian king may find it more difficult than he thinks, to slay men in cold blood rather than hot. I think the hostages will be safe with Alfred of Wessex, no matter what I do.”