The Edge of Light (45 page)

He bent his head closer and then his mouth was on hers. His hair swung forward and tickled her cheeks. She put up her arms and pulled him down on top of her. He rolled to take his weight off her, and they lay together, locked in each other’s arms, kissing hungrily. Elswyth’s blood caught fire. It had been so long since she felt this way … his hand was moving up and down her body… . All these clothes, she thought, pressing against him and arching her throat so he could kiss her bare neck. She could not feel him through all these clothes.

From without the door there came the sound of dogs barking and then a man’s voice,

“Alfred,” said Elswyth very huskily, “you had better bolt the door.” He raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes were burning gold. “I already have,” he said, and began to untie the strings on his shirt.

Athelwold stared at the king’s closed door, and the line of his lips thinned. They had been in there for close on an hour now, and there was no one in the hall in any doubt as to what they were doing.

I’d like to have her under me, Athelwold thought savagely. I’d treat her as she deserves, the she-cat. Alfred was too soft with her. Athelwold would show her what it was like to be at the mercy of a man.

She had put her brats up to pushing him into that stream. He knew it.

God, how he hated her, And Alfred too. The king pretended to honor him, but that’s all it was. Pretense. Quite suddenly Athelwold was absolutely certain that Alfred would never name him as secondarius. He wanted his own brat to succeed him as king, not Athelwold.

Which meant that if Athelwold was ever to be king, he would have to act on his own. And the best place to do that was Dorset. He had been more than two years in Alfred’s household and he knew by now that there was no hope of winning allies. Everyone here thought the king was only a little less perfect than God. But in Dorset there were men who still remembered Athelwold’s father. Cenwulf would remain loyal to him, and his mother’s family also.

He must give over this futile hope of winning Alfred’s approval and return to his manor in Dorset. The peace between Alfred and the Danes could not last for much longer now. All the rest of England had been laid low. The Danes would turn to Wessex next.

Ceolwulf was doing well for himself in Mercia, Athelwold thought. According to Brand, he had even minted some coins engraved with his name and portrait. Alfred’s men had seen such coins in London. King Ceolwulf.

What the Danes could do for a mere king’s thane in Mercia, they could do also for a prince of the blood in Wessex. Athelwold would willingly take a kingship under the overrule of the Danes. It would not be any worse than when Wessex was ruled under a Mercian or Northumbrian Bretwalda. So he told himself.

Alfred would have to die first, of course, but Athelwold would shed no tears over that. Another thought suddenly struck, causing his lips to draw away from his teeth with pleasure. How he would love to see Elswyth in the hands of the Danes.
That
would knock the scornful look from her face fast enough. Athelwold thought of what the Danes were likely to do to Alfred’s proud wife, and his breath began to come fast and the flesh to rise between his legs.

“Athelwold!” It was Edgar calling his name. Athelwold blinked and looked at Alfred’s thane.

“Yes?”

“One of the grooms has come to tell you your horse is lame.”

Athelwold looked at the groom standing before him. He had not even seen the boy approach. “Lame?”

“Yes, my lord. A bruised hoof, we think. Do you want to come and look at it?”

Athelwold swore and rose to his feet. It was the fault of those cursed brats, he thought, swore again, and strode to the hall door, followed by the groom.

Edgar watched him go, a thoughtful look on his face.

Two days before the royal household was scheduled to remove from Wantage to Wilton for Easter, Alfred and Elswyth went for a ride on the Downs with their two elder children. The spring weather was beautiful and Alfred felt he had good cause to be pleased with his world.

It seemed that Wessex would be safe from the Danes for yet another season. Guthrum was still entrenched at Cambridge, deep in the fens of East Anglia and watched by a selected guard of Alfred’s thanes. Alfred’s ships were sailing proudly up and down the coasts of Sussex and Kent, keeping watch for any Viking long ships that might venture into West Saxon waters. They had actually had an encounter with a small fleet of Viking ships the previous year, and the West Saxon ships, manned by a mixture of West Saxon thanes and Frisian sailors, had successfully driven off the invaders.

Alfred himself had been on board the largest of Wessex’ ships during the fight, and it had been one of the most thrilling experiences of his life. Over the four-year course of this peace, the king had come ever more firmly to believe that the only way to successfully defend against the Danes would be to challenge them on the element they had so dominated for this last century of warfare with western Europe. If he could neutralize the Danes on the sea, then he thought he could beat them on land.

Next to him Elswyth said, “You are thinking about your ships again.”

He turned to her, too accustomed to her reading his thoughts to find the remark surprising. “How did you know?” was all he asked.

“You get a certain look on your face.”

“What kind of look?” He was genuinely curious.

“I don’t know. Salty …”

“Salty?”
He squinted a little in the sun. “Elswyth, how can a look be salty?”

She chuckled, the dark, rich sound that meant she was perfectly happy.

He smiled at her. She had ceased to hover so frantically over the new baby and was more relaxed than he had seen her in a long time.

Thank God I bought this peace, Alfred thought. No matter what may happen in the future, at least we had this time of respite. All of us.

The sound of his children’s laughter floated through the air. Flavia and Edward were riding before them, talking together busily. Those two always had something to say to each other, Alfred thought, looking at his children’s blue-clad backs. Edward was now slightly the taller and his sturdy back was distinctly broader than Flavia’s.

“It is nice that they are such good friends,” Elswyth said.

Alfred thought of Ethelred. “Yes,” he said. “I think they will always be each other’s best friends.”

They rode into the courtyard of Wantage, happy and content, and found the household in an uproar.

“My lord,” said Brand, running to hold Alfred’s bridle, “the guards you had posted in East Anglia have just come in. The Danish army rode out of Cambridge three days since!”

Alfred swung down from his saddle. “Where have they gone?”

“My lord, they went first to London, but did not stay. They took the Roman road to Silchester and then continued to the west.” Brand swallowed. “Toward Wilton, my lord,”

“The entire army?” Alfred asked.

“Yes, my lord. All mounted and riding hard.”

“Bring these guards to me,” Alfred said, and strode off” without a backward glance at his family, who sat as if paralyzed on their horses and watched him go.

The Danes had invaded Wessex. The peace was over.

IV

THE CRISIS

A.D. 876-878

The Danes did not stop at Wilton, but continued down the Roman road almost to Dorchester before veering to the east and finally lighting at Wareham. Wareham was Erlend’s idea, He had been there before while in disguise as Alfred’s harper, and he had thought at the time that the site might have its uses for the Danes. Wareham had been a castellum, or fortified town, during the days of the Romans, and the old stone walls still stood. The Danes were always eager to make use of an already-well-fortified position, and Roman Wareham, situated as it was on a narrow spit of land betwixt the rivers Frome and Tarrant, was extremely well-sheltered from any attack that might be mounted from the land.

The aspect of Wareham that made it particularly attractive to Guthrum, however, was its nearness to the sea. The Danes’ main tactical problem in Wessex during the campaign of four years since had lain in supplying their army. For this upcoming campaign Guthrum planned to rely upon the Vikings’ age-old ally. He would use the sea this time, supply his own army from ships, and thus not be dependent solely upon pillaging the countryside. Wareham was situated on the Frome just before the river emptied into Poole harbor, and its admirable anchorage would give the Danes a perfect opportunity to bring in supplies by sea.

When Guthrum actually saw Wareham, he pronounced it perfect. The Danes took over the town, threw up some earthen walls to reinforce the Roman stone walls already there, and prepared to gather as much food and plunder from the surrounding country as possible before Alfred arrived. They began operations with the sack of a local nunnery.

It was five days before the West Saxon fyrd made its appearance at Wareham. Erlend stood on the heights of the old Roman wall and watched as the men of Wessex made camp on the far side of the Frome.

“There are fewer foot soldiers this time,” he commented to the man standing beside him. “At least half of them appear to be horsed.”

“Yes,” Athulf replied. “And they are in far better case than you to find fodder for their horses. Not to mention food for their men.”

Erlend’s eyes were on the banner of the Golden Dragon, flying so bravely in the breeze from the river. Athulf knew nothing of the hundred and fifty Viking ships that were by now sailing to Wareham, bearing supplies and additional men for the relief of Guthrum’s land force. Nor did Erlend say aught of the ships to Athulf now. Instead he let his eyes move across the impressive array of men in the West Saxon camp and said, “Alfred has the fyrds out in force. They must number five thousand at the least.”

“More than you have,” Athulf said. And smiled with grim satisfaction.

A strange sort of friendship had developed over the past two years between the hostage Mercian and Guthrum’s nephew. When first Athulf had come to the Danish camp, Erlend had found himself feeling inexplicably responsible for the well-being of Elswyth’s brother. He had volunteered to act as Athulf’s interpreter, and Athulf had soon found himself dependent on the young Dane for the only companionship he was likely to get in his exile in a heathen world.

“My uncle will not risk an open battle,” Erlend answered Elswyth’s brother now. “Guthrum can show patience when patience is necessary. He knows it will take time to wear the West Saxons down.”

“There!” Athulf’s voice was suddenly sharp with excitement, his head lifting like a hound’s that has scented its master. “There is Alfred now!”

But Erlend had already seen the man on the big gray stallion. The king was riding among his men, threading his way through the litter of the camp, giving a word of encouragement to some, a command to be followed to others. As Erlend watched, Alfred halted his horse, raised his head, and looked toward the walls of Wareham.

The brilliant spring sun gilded Alfred’s face and the sea wind blew his hair, and Erlend felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Hard. Alfred was too far away for his features to be distinct, yet the mere sight of his distant figure on horseback had been enough to produce this breathless cramping in Erlend’s stomach. The Dane was furious with himself for such a reaction, and he scowled as Athulf said, “He is a fighter, this husband of my sister. You will not get Wessex the way you got Mercia.”

“We know that.” Erlend sounded as angry as he felt. “I can assure you we have not underestimated Alfred,” he snapped.

“I wish to God I was out there with them!” The words sounded as if they had been ripped from Athulf’s throat.

So do I.
The words formed in Erlend’s mind before he could do aught to stop them. His right hand flew up to his mouth, pressing hard against his teeth, forcing the treacherous syllables back before he could say them out loud to Athulf.

Name of the Raven, what was wrong with him? How could he think such a thing? He was a Dane!

On the other side of the river, the man on the great gray stallion removed his gaze from the walls of Wareham and turned away. Athulf’s hands clenched together into tight fists.
“There
goes my true brother,” he said bitterly, turned, and walked away. A white-faced Erlend stood alone on the wall, his hooded eyes on the retreating figure of a man on a large gray horse.

“The West Saxons must number five thousand at the least,” Erlend said to his uncle later in the day when he met Guthrum at the horse lines.

“I can count, Nephew,” Guthrum replied. He patted his great bay stallion on its shoulder and turned to stare at Erlend. “Nor is it my intention just now to engage their full force in open battle. When once my ships arrive with our extra men, then we shall see.”

Erlend looked up into his uncle’s face, seeing the familiar features as if after a long absence. Guthrum’s brilliant blue eyes were slightly narrowed against the sun, and faint squint wrinkles fanned out on either side of them. Those wrinkles were perhaps a little deeper than they had been five years before, when Erlend had first arrived at Thetford, but otherwise Guthrum had not changed at all. The fair hair was as yellow, the hard cheekbones and sensual mouth as reckless-looking as ever.

Guthrum added, “This is just the start of the campaign. He can collect a large army, true, but can he keep it? He could not the last time, and I do not think he will this time either. All we need do is wait him out.”

He.
Guthrum rarely used Alfred’s name. It was always “he.” Erlend said nothing, just looked away from Guthrum toward the West Saxon camp. Guthrum spoke again. “I can hold this site against any force he might gather to throw against me. You chose well, Nephew. Wareham is as near impregnable a location as we could hope to find.”

“Alfred”—Erlend made it a point to use the name—”Alfred may not be able to get in, Uncle, but neither can we get out.”

“We have food and fodder enough for a month,” Guthrum said. “The ships will be here before then, bringing not only supplies but also several thousand more men. And in a month’s time his men will have slipped away home to put in the corn. Then we will have him.”