by Joan Wolf
He laughed, deep and soft.
“Tell me,” she said. “How did you come to take Erlend as a hostage?”
They talked for over an hour, and then Elswyth fell asleep, her head still nestled against his shoulder. Alfred had blown out the lamp earlier, and he lay now in the dark and listened to the soft breathing of his wife lying at his side.
It was true, he thought, that he did not welcome the news that he was to have a new child as joyfully as he should. It was true also that a child was a gift from God, that it was a sin to place one’s own carnal pleasure above the Lord’s command to be fruitful and multiply.
But … It was not that he did not love his children. Nor was it only the continence that advanced pregnancy and childbirth imposed upon him. It was this feeling he had that in giving Elswyth so many children he was burdening her, chaining her, who was always meant to be free as air.
Sometimes he would look at her as she went about the manor, a child in her arms and children at her skirts, and he would feel so guilty.
She had grieved sorely for the little son who died. He too had sorrowed for the child, but it had been far worse for Elswyth. And, too, with every new child came the added fear for her own safety. Women died in childbirth far too often for any man to rest secure that his woman would be safe.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were the only two people in the world?” she had said to him tonight. No children, no thanes … no Danes to threaten their peace. It would be paradise, he had answered.
But this was not paradise, this was the world, And to each of them who lived in this world had God given duties. Alfred’s duty was to be king, to bear the burden of the safety of his people, to protect them and, in better times, to educate them so that they might come to a better light of understanding of the ways of God. His duty was to educate his children so that they too could lead their people in the way God most desired.
These were the burdens God had laid upon him, and he accepted them. It was not for himself he minded the fetters of this world; it was for Elswyth.
Sometimes he looked at her, and his heart would catch, and he would think: What have I done to deserve that God should have given me Elswyth?
He could smell the lavender from the soap with which she washed her hair. Put him blindfold into a room anywhere in the world, and he would know if Elswyth was there. As she would know him.
Well, at least they looked to get a time of peace from the Vikings. The last time he had made a peace with the Danes, they had stayed away for nearly five years. Surely he could expect at least half that much of a respite this time. If Guthrum were to settle his men in Mercia, the Danish leader would be well-occupied.
The fyrds could be sent home, the corn put into the fields, the sheep sheared, and all the work of the land go forward as it should.
Thank God for his ships. He did not think that Guthrum would have made a peace if it were not for the ships.
A picture of the Viking leader came before his mind: the brilliant, violent blue eyes; the short-cut yellow hair; the mocking sensual mouth. He was a predator, this uncle of Erlend’s; and he was a leader. Alfred did not think Guthrum was finished in Wessex. He would try again. But they would be safe for a while.
Elswyth stirred, as if his thoughts were disturbing her, and Alfred turned on his side and settled her so that her body fitted into the curve of his. The scent of lavender drifted to his nostrils, and he fell asleep.
Shortly after Guthrum moved to Repton, he sent to Denmark for new recruits. Then he began to parcel out to those of his followers who wished to settle, the lands of Mercia in the areas around Derby, Nottingham, Lincoln, Stamford, and Leicester. Tamworth he left to Ceolwulf, who was forced to shelter those Mercians who had been dispossessed by the land-hungry Danes.
Ethelred of Mercia was still in London, and Guthrum knew from his scouts that he had been joined by Guthrum’s former hostage, Athulf. For the time being, however, Guthrum was content to leave London to the Mercians. Guthrum’s major intent was to replenish his army, nor was it the recapture of London that was the aim of his present strategy.
Guthrum had no intention of allowing himself to be bested by Alfred of Wessex. The humiliation he had suffered at being forced to retreat from Wessex without a geld still burned in his heart. All through the spring he sat in the royal Mercian hall at Repton and plotted his revenge.
He knew, none better, the problem that beset the leader of any Viking army attempting to take Wessex. His weakness was that once established in a secure base, he had to forage for food and for fodder in the surrounding countryside. The West Saxons were adept at intercepting such foraging parties, and the resulting loss of men and of supplies was crippling to the Danes. It was lack of supplies that had forced Halfdan to withdraw from Reading six years ago, and it was lack of supplies that had forced Guthrum out of Wareham and Exeter just recently.
Supplies, then, were the main problem Guthrum must solve if he were successfully to take Wessex.
On the other hand, the main advantage of the Viking army was its mobility. Even though Alfred had mounted large numbers of his men, still the West Saxons were not accustomed to moving as swiftly as could the Danes.
The main advantage of the West Saxons was their unity. In no other Saxon kingdom had the men of all classes so stood together. No other country had been able to mobilize to fight, again and again, and still keep coming back in spite of defeat. And the reason for the West Saxons’ unity had become quite clear to Guthrum during this last campaign. It was their king.
Without Alfred to lead, the West Saxon defense would likely crumble. Guthrum was too much a leader himself to underestimate the importance of the man at the top. And now that he had met this Alfred face-to-face, he knew beyond a doubt that there was the heart and the brain behind Wessex’ success.
Men would follow Alfred. Even Erlend—Guthrum had seen the look in his nephew’s eyes when he gazed at Alfred. And for all his irritating ways, Erlend was no fool. If his enemy thought Alfred of Wessex was a hero, then what must his own people think?
In the face of all these facts, there was only one sensible conclusion that Guthrum could reach. Eliminate Alfred.
Eliminate Alfred, and the defense of Wessex would shatter. Eliminate Alfred, set a puppet king up in his stead, and the land would lie open before the Danes as willingly as any whore would lie for the man with the power to buy her.
Guthrum did not have to defeat the entire West Saxon fyrd. He just had to kill the West Saxon king.
Once he had settled on the goal, the plan to achieve it came easily.
* * *
Chapter 33
In October 877 Alfred was holding a King’s Justice in Winchester when word came that the Danes had moved from Repton to Gloucester.
“Gloucester,” Alfred said that night as he discussed the situation with the ealdormen and thanes who were in attendance at Winchester for the court. “Gloucester is in Mercia, true, but it is overdose to the Wessex border for me to be comfortable.”
“The Danes have finished giving away the lands of eastern Mercia,” said Cenwulf, shire thane of Dorset. “Perhaps Guthrum now looks to do the same with the lands of the west. The soil about Gloucester is rich and fertile, and the Severn flows wide and deep there toward the sea. The Danes are never happy far from the sea.”
There was the faintest of lines between Alfred’s fair brows, “My understanding was that Guthrum was to leave the west of Mercia to Ceolwulf,” he said.
Ethelnoth of Somerset snorted. “Who can put faith in the word of a Dane?”
“No Saxon can, that is certain,” said the Ealdorman of Hampshire.
Alfred had decided. “We had better keep a troop of men at Cirencester,” he said. “From Cirencester, scouts can keep watch on the road out of Gloucester, can give us fair warning if the Danes look to be thinking of invasion.”
“Keeping men at Cirencester would be wise, my lord,” agreed Godfred of Dorset. “We ealdormen can go by turn in
sending men to keep the watch. No need to lay the burden on your own household.”
Ethelnoth of Somerset said, “If you desire, my lord king, I can send a troop of my fastest-riding men to Cirencester in the morning. They can keep a close watch on Gloucester, observe if there seems to be any suspicious gathering of an army.”
Alfred thought for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “All right,” he said. “I do not need a fighting force, you understand, just good men with fast horses. And if there is any news, they are to come to me, not to you, Ethelnoth.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Ethelnoth of Somerset. “I understand.”
The royal household did not go to Dorchester to hold Christmas that year. There was sickness reported among the resident household at Dorchester, and so Alfred decided to break with tradition and celebrate the Christmas holidays at Chippenham.
Thus far the Danes in Gloucester had remained quiet. At the beginning of December the men of Somerset had been replaced in Cirencester by the men of Dorset, and with winter settling in, Alfred thought it highly unlikely that the Danes would attempt to move out of their Gloucester base.
Erlend, who had slipped as unobtrusively as he could manage it into Alfred’s household, accompanied the royal family to Chippenham, and watched the Christmas festivities with a thoughtful eye. In some ways, he thought, this Christian feast of Christmas was like to the Norse winter feast of Yule. There was a Yule log laid upon the fire, in the old Norse way; the hall was decorated with evergreens from the forest; and a pig was roasted for the festival banquet. But the religious aspects of this Christmas were foreign to him.
Erlend had not been free to ask questions about Christianity when last he had been at Alfred’s court, as he had been masquerading as a Christian himself. But in his present situation he could ask as many questions as he liked. And the person he found himself questioning the most was the king.
Alfred truly believed in this religion of his. The more Erlend questioned him, the clearer that fact became. Alfred believed in this Father-God, in this Christ who was God’s son, and he believed that this God actually intervened in the lives of men.
“It is divine providence that rules our lives, Erlend,” Alfred said to him. “Not fate, as you would have it. Always within us, God is working. It is our fault if we do not listen and hear.”
This belief was at the very core of the man that was Alfred; Erlend could see that. He tried to comprehend what Alfred meant by this “divine providence” of his, but it was difficult. Fate was a concept any Dane understood thoroughly. This other was somewhat more complicated.
The royal household gathered at Chippenham that Christmas was considerably smaller than was usual. The king’s companion thanes had been in the field for a large part of two years; many of them had not seen their kin during all that time. Now, at Christmas, with the Danes quiescent in Gloucester for the winter, Alfred had allowed those men who so desired to go home for the feast. About sixty of the hundred thanes who comprised the king’s personal guard had chosen to do so.
There were many West Saxons who rendered up thanks to God that Christmastide for the peace that reigned in Wessex. The thanes and ceorls who comprised the various shire fyrds knew heartfelt gratitude to be at home this Christmas with their families. The men of Wessex had been in the field against the Danes for almost two years, but there had been no battles, and few West Saxons had been killed. The Danes were in Mercia; Wessex was at peace.
God’s blessing on the king. It was a toast heard again and again throughout the land that Christmastide. God bless King Alfred. Because of Alfred, because of his courage and his resolution, they had defeated the Danes. Thanks be to God, Wessex was at peace.
The feast of the Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas, was celebrated at Chippenham with a great hunt and a great feast. A small amount of snow had fallen the day before, just enough to dust the world with purest white and make it sparkle in the winter sun. Elswyth had ridden out with the men and brought down her own hart.
The following day dawned gray and bitter, Elswyth awoke to find Alfred pacing up and down the floor of their sleeping room, fully dressed and wrapped in a warm cloak. One look at his face was enough to tell her that he had a headache.
There was nothing to be done, of course. That was the worst part of it all, that there was nothing to be done. At least, she thought, the feasting was over. He could keep to his room for the day without fear of disappointing anyone.
He did not want cold cloths for his head, he just wanted to be left alone, so she dressed and went out into the hall to have her breakfast.
“The king is ill today,” she said quietly to the thanes. “You will have to go hunting without him.”
No one wanted to go hunting if the king was ill. Consequently, most of the thanes were in the hall when Cedric, shire thane of Wiltshire, came galloping into the courtyard demanding to see the king.
“You cannot,” he was told at first. Then, when he blurted his news out to all the hall, Elswyth ran to get Alfred.
Erlend could tell immediately that Alfred was in pain. It was there in the set of his mouth, in the shadows under his eyes, in the way he held his head.
“My lord king,” said Cedric of Wiltshire, “you must flee from here. The Danes are coming down the Fosse Way. Hundreds of them, my lord! All on horse! They are making straight for Chippenham. And they are but five miles away!”
There was a moment of appalled silence. Everyone was looking to Alfred. Erlend felt sick to his stomach. He said, “Guthrum is seeking to capture you, my lord. He must know you are here at Chippenham. It is not an invasion, not with only a few hundred men. He is seeking you.” Now everyone was staring at Erlend. “You must get away from here, Alfred!” Erlend said urgently, meeting the shadowed eyes of the king. “You must save yourself!”
The door to the hall opened and Flavia and Edward came in from the outside. Erlend saw Alfred look to the door, then to Elswyth, who was standing beside him. “Saddle the horses,” he said, and his clipped voice sounded perfectly normal. “We must all get away from Chippenham. We cannot risk being caught here with the children.”
“Where shall we go, my lord?” It was Brand speaking as the men began to run for the doors. “To Selwood?”
There was a moment’s silence. “No,” said Alfred. “We will ride for Somerset. It was the men of Dorset let the Danes go by; I will not trust my family to Dorset,” He looked past Brand. “Where is my reeve? He had better send the serving girls out to nearby farmhouses. I do not want any women left here at Chippenham when the Danes ride in.”
“I am here, my lord,” said the reeve of Chippenham, stepping forward to receive his orders.
Elswyth said, “Flavia, Edward, go and put on your warmest clothing.” It was the voice her children never disobeyed. “Tell Tordis to dress Elgiva warmly also. Quickly, now!” As the children ran for their sleeping room, Elswyth turned toward her own room to dress herself in warm clothes for riding.
It took only ten minutes before the horses were saddled and the whole of the party that would ride out of Chippenham was mounted and in the courtyard. Edward and Flavia were perched before two of the thanes, while Elgiva had been given into the charge of Edgar. The dogs ran underfoot; Alfred had refused to leave his dogs for the Danes. The day was damp and bitter cold; the wind smelled of snow. Finally the royal party cantered out of Chippenham and turned south and west, toward Somerset and Ealdorman Ethelnoth, whose loyalty to Alfred was not to be questioned.
The steady three-beat stride of his cantering horse was an agony for Alfred. There was grayness all about him; his senses had almost completely gone. All that was left was a furnace of pain in his head. He heard Elswyth say, “Give me your reins, Alfred,” and he let her take them. He couldn’t see well enough to steer. It was a monumental effort just to stay in the saddle.
It had always been one of his greatest fears, that a headache would strike at a time when he was desperately needed. Before every battle he had prayed
, “Not now, dear God. Please, not now.”
He set his teeth against the blinding agony in his head. Just breathe, he thought. Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. One and two and one and two. The pain would stop. Another few hours and it would stop.
He would stay in the saddle. If it killed him, he would stay in the saddle.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“A few miles west of the Fosse Way,” he heard Elswyth’s voice reply.
“No main roads,” he said. “Keep to the smaller roads. Keep going southwest, toward Cheddar.”
“All right,” she said. “We will.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. One and two. His body was staying in the saddle from instinct alone. He wrapped his fingers in his horse’s gray mane. God, if only he could see!
After two hours of riding, they halted to rest the horses and to give the children a respite. A number of the men went into the forest to relieve themselves, and Elswyth gave her children some bread and cheese.
Alfred did not dismount. He sat on his stallion, his face as gray as his horse’s coat, his eyes half-closed, his teeth set in his lower lip, and it was plain to Erlend that only the force of his will was keeping the king in the saddle.
“I want to ride with Erlend!” It was Flavia’s voice, and he looked down to see the child standing before him.
“Flavia …” Elswyth started to reprimand, but Erlend put in, “I will be glad to take her, my lady. My horse is strong yet, and I am lighter to carry than most of the thanes.”
“He is a Dane.” Erlend did not recognize the voice but it came from the ranks of the thanes.
“Flavia may ride with Erlend.” It was Alfred’s voice, a little hollow-sounding but still clear. “Let us go,” he added. The thanes began to swing up into their saddles.
They rode more slowly now, not to strain the horses. Flavia leaned against Erlend’s chest and dozed. Erlend looked down at the small golden head nestled so trustingly against him, and felt his heart contract. He spread his cloak so that it covered her more closely.