The Edge of Light (47 page)

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.

“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 fascinating 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.”

“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.