The Edge of Light (21 page)

Alfred had rightly understood that Elswyth’s thoughts were far from sex. But it was not immaturity that kept her ignorant; it was innocence. She knew she loved Alfred. She knew she would die of loneliness if ever she lost him. She, who had ever sought only solitude, now found that another person was as necessary to her as the air she breathed or the water she drank.

She knew nothing of the necessities of sex, knew nothing of its pleasures. Elswyth had never in her life sat with other women and gossiped about such matters. It never once occurred to her that Alfred’s problem could be so simple. She had always assumed that when he wanted to consummate their marriage, he would. It never crossed her mind that she was the one who must make the first move.

“Consummate this marriage!” Ethelred said to Alfred two days after the second headache. “You are making yourself ill. The girl is old enough, Alfred. And she worships you. All can see that. What are you waiting for?”

“I do not want to discuss this, Ethelred.” Alfred’s voice was cold and final. “Do I ask you about your relationship with Cyneburg?”

“There is nothing wrong with my relationship with Cyneburg,” Ethelred was beginning to answer, when Alfred turned his back and precipitately left the room.

“Send him to Southampton, my lord,” recommended Ethelred’s seneschal, Odo, an old thane who had served Ethelwulf years before. “Anything is better than another headache.”

“I really do not think the girl has any idea of what it is that is distressing Alfred,” Cyneburg said to her husband when he reported Odo’s recommendation to her.

“If that is true, then perhaps Alfred is right,” Ethelred said heavily. “Perhaps she is still too much a child.”

“No.” Cyneburg shook her head. “She loves him. That is clear enough. She is just … unawakened. Elswyth had a very strange upbringing, Ethelred. From what Alfred says, she was put under her brother’s care and simply allowed to run wild. Her mother utterly neglected her. Poor child, no wonder she is so backward. She had no woman to guide or teach her.”

“I don’t think Elswyth and her mother liked each other very much,” Ethelred said.

Cyneburg made a soft sound of distress.

Ethelred smiled. “Not all mothers are as tender as you, my dear. Nor all children as malleable as ours.”

“Nevertheless,” said Cyneburg, “Alfred could teach her to love him well enough, if only he had the sense to try.”

“I fear Alfred is not thinking very sensibly just now,” Ethelred said dryly. “And it is impossible to discuss the subject with him.”

“Then it had better be discussed with Elswyth,” said Cyneburg.

Ethelred looked troubled. “I do not know …”

“What is the alternative?” His wife stared at him with gentle exasperation. “Will you send him to Southampton?”

“No.” Ethelred’s mouth set. “I cannot play so carelessly with the health of his soul.”

“Just so.” Cyneburg’s pretty face looked amazingly resolute. “It is time someone talked to Elswyth. And it seems the someone,” she concluded, “must be me.”

Before Cyneburg could put her resolution into practice, however, Alfred had another headache. It was exactly the twelfth day of Christmas, and after Cyneburg saw that Alfred had a good supply of cold cloths, she went into the adjoining room to speak to Alfred’s wife.

She found Elswyth pacing up and down like a caged panther, her skin nearly transparent with strain, her blue eyes glittering. “What is it?” she demanded of Cyneburg the moment she came in the door of Elswyth’s room. “Why is he having so many headaches? You are all hiding something from me. I know it. Is he terribly ill? Is he going to die?”

Elswyth came to a halt in front of Cyneburg, and now she grasped Cyneburg’s arm and shook it. Elswyth’s voice shook also as she cried furiously.
“Tell me!”

Cyneburg replied in a quiet voice, “It is not so bad as that, Elswyth. It is simply that Alfred is a man, and this unconsummated marriage is taking its toll.”

Elswyth chin rose, and her narrowed, glittering eyes seemed to widen. She took a step back from Cyneburg. “What do you mean?” she asked in genuine bewilderment.

“He had a lady before he married you,” Cyneburg said. “He is nineteen years old, Elswyth, and not a monk. I think, if you are unwilling to be a true wife to him, you ought to send him back to Roswitha.”

There was a stunned silence. Then: “Roswitha?” Elswyth was no longer looking at Cyneburg, was looking into the empty air beside Cyneburg’s ear. Abruptly the dark blue eyes swung back to meet the paler ones of her sister-by-marriage. “This Roswitha, does she live at Southampton?” Elswyth asked.

Cyneburg did not allow her satisfaction to show. “Why, yes,” she said. Very gently. “She does.”

“Does Alfred love her?” Now midnight-blue eyes were glittering through dangerously narrowed, long-lashed slits. There was a white line running down the entire length of Elswyth’s narrow aristocratic nose. Cyneburg stared at her in considerable awe and answered hastily, “I am sure he does not. He would not have married you if he loved Roswitha.”

“But if what you say is so, why has he said nothing to me?” Elswyth turned her beautiful, fierce, disquieting face away from Cyneburg and began once more to pace the room. Cyneburg waited. Finally Elswyth turned to her again and said, “Surely he could not be foolish enough to make himself ill over such a little thing!”

“Men,” said Cyneburg wisely, “can be remarkably foolish.”

“Not Alfred,” came the immediate reply.

Cyneburg smiled. “Not usually,” she agreed.

Elswyth came a step closer. “You are saying he is having these headaches because he wishes to bed with me?”

“That is what I am saying.”

Elswyth stretched upward on her toes, as if a great weight had just been lifted from her back. She stretched her shoulders. “Well, that is soon enough mended,” she said.

Cyneburg nodded and folded her arms. “So I thought.”

Elswyth regarded Cyneburg suspiciously. “What does this Roswitha look like?”

“I understand that she is pretty,” Cyneburg answered.

Elswyth drew her lips away from her teeth. “I will never give him up to her.”

Cyneburg stared at that fiercely beautiful face. “So I thought.” She walked to the door and put her hand on the latch. “Well, my dear,” she remarked, “I believe the rest is up to you.”

Elswyth went next door to Alfred’s room. He was lying on the bed, a cloth laid over his forehead. She stalked to the bedside and stared down at him. His eyes, clouded with pain, looked back.

“Elswyth.” He sat up and she did not try to stop him. “What are you doing here?” His voice had the note it always held at such times, as if he were speaking with great difficulty.

“I have come here to tell you that if ever you go near Roswitha again, I will murder her,” Elswyth said.

The heavy eyes, darker than usual with pain, stared at her in astonishment.

“From now on, it is my bed you will be sleeping in.” She glared at him. She sounded as if she were talking between her teeth. “Do I make myself clear?”

“I … Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “You married me. You are stuck with me. I’ll come back when you are feeling better.” And she turned and stalked once more out of the room.

In the end, it was he who came to her. The pain lifted sooner than he had expected, and Elswyth was still in her own room, brushing one of the dogs to pass the time, when Alfred came in the door. Her head shot around as soon as she heard the latch lift. “Alfred! Are you all right?” She put the dog away from her and jumped to her feet.

“I am perfectly fine,” he answered.

She crossed the room to stand before him, her eyes lifted to his face. The room was lit by a single lamp and by the brazier that burned in the corner for warmth. In the soft glow she could see that he looked pale still, and heavy-eyed. Then he smiled.

It was all right, she thought. It was going to be all right. And she slipped her hands into his and smiled back.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked.

“Yes.” The heaviness in his eyes was different, she thought, had nothing to do with the headache. He raised one of her hands, curled so confidingly within his, and looked at it. His smile faded, leaving his face very grave. He spread out her fingers carefully and linked them between his own. Then he raised her hand to his mouth.

She felt his kiss on each separate finger, and her lips parted. “Do you realize … ?” he said, and his voice too was heavy and different. Husky-sounding, not his usual tone at all. “Can you possibly realize how much I have longed for you?” And he looked down into her face once more.

She shook her head, her eyes held by his. Deep within the gold of them, a flame had begun to burn. “You should have told me,” she whispered. “I did not understand.”

“I promised you.” He raised her other hand and began to kiss those fingers as well. “I promised you I would wait.”

“You have waited,” she said. “Now your waiting is over.”

At that, he drew her close against him. She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek into his shoulder. It was so safe here in his arms, she thought, So wonderfully, wonderfully safe. She felt his lips brush over her hair, her ear, across her cheek. The soft linen of his shirt was warm against her cheek and she could feel the muscles of his back under her hands. She sighed.

“Elswyth.” The word was a whisper, a caress. “Elswyth.” It came again and, a little reluctantly, she raised her head from his shoulder and looked up.

He was so beautiful. She loved him so much. She heard him murmur something under his breath, and then his mouth was bending to hers. Its touch was gentle at first, and she leaned against him, her head bent back over his arm, her hair beginning to loosen and fall from its coils. His mouth grew harder, more demanding. Never had she dreamed a man’s mouth could feel thus against her own.

“My little love.” He was steering her across the room, to the chair that was set beside the brazier. He sat down and drew her to him once again, holding her between his knees as he kissed her. She pressed against him, her warm young flesh seeking his, her arms going out to encircle his neck. The charcoal glowed warm against the cold January air. The dog she had been brushing lay stretched out on the rushes, basking in the warmth of the brazier. Alfred’s fingers moved over her back, her shoulder, while his mouth taught her how to kiss him back. His hand moved lower to caress her narrow waist, then moved upward again to cup one little breast. It answered to his touch instantly, rising to meet him.

She sank against him, heedless of all but the sensations his touch was arousing. His fingers slipped within her gown; then she felt their warmth on her bare skin. She whimpered with pleasure.

“Elswyth.” Now his voice was urgent with desire. “Elswyth, come to bed.”

Her lips moved along the edge of his jaw, where a beard had yet to grow. “Yes,” she said. “Alfred, this is wonderful.”

His laugh was not steady. “Elswyth … the first time, it may hurt.”

“I don’t care,” she said. And spoke the truth.

It was so wonderful to be able to touch him. She had always loved to touch him, and now to be able to run her hands all along that smooth golden body, to feel the sleek muscles of it, the strength. It mattered not at all that it hurt when he came into her. It was a matter of awe just to see how much pleasure she was able to give to him.

“I love you,” he said into her ear. She pressed her lips against the tawny gold head that was resting on her breast. “I have been going mad for love of you.”

“I love you too,” she answered, her lips still buried in his hair. “Surely you knew that. Why did you wait so long?”

“I had promised you …” She felt the sweep of his lashes against the bare skin of her breast.

“You frightened me so,” she said. “I was afraid there was something terribly wrong with you … all those headaches … you should have told me.

“Mmm.” He was sounding sleepy. “It seems I certainly should have.”

She cradled him in her arms. “You are weary,” she said softly. “Go to sleep.”

He raised his head and looked down at her. His headband was lying on the floor and his hair hung forward, framing his face with gold. The curve of his mouth was very tender. “Don’t go away,” he said.

Looking at him, she felt such a pain around her heart. Why should such happiness give her such pain? “I won’t,” she answered softly. And drew him down to rest in her arms once again.

Athulf was to be married immediately after Easter, and the end of March found Elswyth and Alfred traveling to Mercia for both the holy day and the wedding. It was the time of year to prepare the fields for the corn crop, and all along the road Alfred’s party could see oxen toiling slowly up and down the fields of manor and village, the farmers behind steering the plows, furrowing the earth for the seeds of barley, wheat, and rye, that would be sown as soon as the plowing was done.

“March is not the best of times for a wedding feast,” Alfred remarked to Elswyth. They were fording a small forest stream on the second day of their journey to Croxden manor in Mercia and he raised his feet a little to keep them from getting wet. It was true that weddings were rarely held in the spring. Spring was a time when both food and fodder were scarce after the winter. And there was the added factor that the church forbade marriages during Lent. In Anglo-Saxon England, weddings were far more likely to be held in autumn than in spring.

“Athulf and Hild were to have married last October,” Elswyth replied as Silken splashed tentatively through the cold running water. The little gray did not like to get his feet wet. “But then her father became ill. It did not seem right to hold a wedding while the bride’s father lay dying, so they waited. He died but last month.”

The horses were through the water now and scrambling up the small bank on the far side. Once they were back on the path: “Hild’s father was Ealdorman of Hwicce, was he not?” Alfred asked, looking thoughtful.

“Yes.” Elswyth leaned forward to straighten Silken’s mane. He arched his dappled neck as if in acknowledgment.

“Who do you think will be named the next ealdorman, Elswyth?”