Thus, it was in a state of silent contemplation that Hakon welcomed Egbert later to administer the noon meal. Thinking the novice more knowledgeable than himself in such matters, Hakon interrogated Egbert, hoping for some insight that might assist him in answering Father Otker the following day. Egbert welcomed the distraction, and dove eagerly into the discussion. The two dissected the question, reviewing it from as many angles as they could, until Hakon would finally surrender, his brow furrowed from the strain and the ache that it had triggered in his head.
Louis came on the fourth day of Hakon's convalescence, bearing a jug and two cups. He closed the door behind him and smiled devilishly, holding up the jug for Hakon to see. “Mead,” he whispered. “Brought it from Athelstan's hall.”
Hakon grinned, glad that his friend had come to visit him. Louis sat on the three-legged stool beside the bed and poured a cup of the golden liquid. He passed it to Hakon, who could now sit up on his own.
“Why are we drinking this?”
When he had poured his own cup, Louis clinked the rim of his cup against Hakon's. “It is Christmas Eve. We are drinking to Christ's birth, and to your recovery.”
“Is it really Christmas Eve? I have lost track of time.” He sipped of the sweet, strong liquid, and immediately felt its warmth in his throat. As it worked its way down to his belly, he felt a tingle in his limbs. “So, has anything interesting happened since my accident?”
Louis shrugged. “Nothing, really. It has been cold, so no one is venturing out. Although some men, traders I think, arrived just before supper last night and dined with us. They brought some news with them that was interesting.”
Hakon sat up straighter. “About what?”
Louis' lips pursed as he tried to recall the previous night's discussions. “They told us mostly of Constantine, king of Scotland.”
Hakon knew the name Constantine only from the tales of Athelstan's warriors. He was an aging, yet still fierce, warrior-king who dwelt near the borders of Northumbria, far to the north. He had submitted to Athelstan three years prior, shortly after Athelstan had conquered the town of York, though their peace had always been tenuous. On more than one occasion since the signing of the peace treaty, Constantine had ventured into Northumbria in an effort to raise local support against Athelstan. He had always failed.
“What about him?” Hakon asked.
“They said he has been fighting within his borders. Trying to get the other Scots tribes to follow him.”
Hakon saw no real significance to the news and turned his attention back to his cup. After another sip, he glanced back at Louis. “What else?”
“The men told us that there has been fighting in your father's kingdom. That it is no longer safe to trade there.”
Hakon's stomach dropped. “Fighting? Why?”
“They said your father abdicated his throne to your brother Erik—the one they call Bloodaxe—and your other brothers did not accept it. The feud has caused skirmishes throughout the kingdom. The traders left just after the fighting broke out. In fact, most traders have left. It is too dangerous, they say, to remain.”
“When was this?”
“I think they said it happened around the time of the last harvest.”
Hakon thought about the news. His memories of Erik were as vague as those of his father, but what he did remember was not pleasant. “Why Erik? He is not the oldest—and did he not kill Bjorn?”
Louis shrugged, unable to answer.
Hakon's thoughts wandered. “Did he mention why my father stepped down?”
“I think they said that his health was failing. He is an old man now, is he not?”
“Aye. He must be. He was old when I left and that was three winters ago.” Hakon placed his cup on the table and sank down into his bed.
Louis set his own cup aside. “What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
Hakon entwined his fingers. “Nah, not wrong. It's just that … I never really knew my father. And now it looks like I may never have the chance.”
Louis frowned. “Sorry I brought you such bad tidings.”
Hakon lifted the corner of his mouth in a weak grin. He was glad of the company, despite the tidings, and told Louis so. For a while longer they sat and drank, giggling as the mead lifted their spirits. Though they were no strangers to the honeyed drink, the mead was strong, especially for boys of their age. By the time they had drained the second cup, both boys felt light-headed and somewhat dizzy.
Louis tilted the pitcher toward Hakon's cup, but he pulled it away. “I have had enough, and am tired.”
Louis stared blearily at him. “Just a little more,” he coaxed. “What can it hurt? You are bedridden anyway.”
“True enough,” Hakon admitted. “But I want no more for now. I am tired and my head is thick.”
Louis' face sagged but he didn't argue. Instead, he clumsily gathered up the dishes, chortling as he juggled them, and left the room.
When his footfalls faded, Hakon leaned back into his down pillows, closed his eyes, and tried to forget about Louis' ill tidings. But the ominous thoughts and images flooding his mind thwarted his attempts. He imagined a green country, full of dramatic mountains and deep waterways, now blackened and lifeless. He saw towns, once thriving, now dark and empty. Streams and brooks that once babbled blue and icy now ran red with the blood of brothers and cousins. Ravens squawked eagerly in nearby trees, relishing the carcasses that littered the fields. And over this hideous world presided the brother whom Hakon remembered only for his fiery hair and the stories of death that surrounded his name.
A knock at his door interrupted his nightmarish vision. “Go away, Louis. I don't want to talk anymore.”
There was a moment's silence, then: “I am sorry to disturb you, Hakon.”
Hakon propped himself up with his good arm. The voice was female. A girl's.
“I—I thought—”
“Come in,” Hakon blurted.
Aelfwin stepped into the room. She wore her hair loose, and it fell in a long, black, shining mass to the middle of her back. “I thought you might like something to cheer you up.” She lifted her face and smiled. Though it was more an embarrassed grin than a smile, it brought a rush of heat to Hakon's cheeks.
Before he could respond, she held out a loose circlet of pine branches, holly, and mistletoe. Hakon supposed it was a wreath, but the mistletoe vine was not tied tightly enough around the holly and pine, giving the whole piece a drooping, ephemeral appearance. “My mother and I make these for our friends. It is a Christmas wreath.” She came forward and handed it delicately to Hakon. “We hope it brings you some cheer.”
Hakon held the pathetic gift and could not help but smile. “Did you make this?”
Aelfwin nodded, then scratched her head. “Well, my mother helped.”
“It is … wonderful. I thank you.”
She looked around the room. “The priests will have to hang it. Perchance there.” She pointed to a spot on the wall above Hakon's bed.
Hakon handed the wreath back to her gently, so as not to do any more damage than had already been done. She took it and placed it on the table. There was a long pause as both tried to think of something to say.
Aelfwin finally broke the hush. “I saw you on the log that day. You were good.”
Hakon grinned, forgetting that the log fight was the reason for his current predicament. “Do you think so?”
She nodded. “Sometimes I wish that girls could do those things.”
Hakon was not so dumbstruck as to miss his chance. “I could teach you. Secretly. Your mother would never know.”
Deep crescents creased Aelfwin's cheeks as she grinned, exposing the small gap between her front teeth. “I would like that.” She switched the subject abruptly, awkwardly. “My mother tells me that you are the son of a king. From the North. Is that true?”
Hakon sat up straighter in his bed, suddenly uncomfortable. He had had conversations like this before, and they usually end
ed badly. “Aye. My father is Harald Fairhair. I am his youngest son.”
Aelfwin's emerald eyes grew wider. “Really? Where is your home? How far to the north?”
“Far. Half a moon's sail.”
Her face puckered, as if she had just tasted something sour. “Are you a Dane, then?”
“No! Not a Dane. I come from farther north.”
This news seemed to pacify her somewhat. “It is good you are not a Dane. My father tells me they are dangerous.”
This topic was making Hakon squirm. He had to think of another.
“You will go back someday? To become king, I mean?”
“Mayhap.”
“You will make a good king, I think.”
Emboldened by the compliment and the mead, Hakon asked, “Why do you say that?”
She had no ready answer. She moved her mouth as if to speak, but emitted no sound. “I … I think, because you are brave, and fair.”
Hakon soared. “I will take you with me when I return home, and you can be my queen. I will prove to you just how brave I can be.”
Aelfwin blushed deeply and shifted uncomfortably. Seeing her sudden discomfiture and fearing she would leave, Hakon thought to apologize. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Father Otker appeared in the doorway. Aelfwin jumped as the monk cleared his throat.
“Young lady. I think it is time for you to leave young Hakon in peace. He needs his rest.”
She bowed respectfully to the monk. “Yes, father. Good-bye Hakon,” she mumbled as she retreated through the door.
“Good-bye,” he called after her. “Thank you for the wreath.”
Chapter 7
The months and years that followed Hakon's injury were the best of Hakon's life.
The classroom studies continued, but in new, and far more interesting directions. Satisfied with his students' progress in Latin, Father Otker replaced the monotonous colloquies with stories taken directly from the Bible and other historical texts. Stories of Jesus and his disciples were seasoned with fascinating tales of biblical heroes such as David and Solomon, and history's great leaders: Gregory, Alexander, Charlemagne, Alfred, and many others. Tales of divine victory swelled Hakon's chest and whet the appetite of his budding mind. He fed on acts of heroism so incredible they could only have been orchestrated by the hand of God, for there could be no other explanation. He drank the bitter ale of pointless defeats, wondering how such greatness could collapse so suddenly. In his mind he fought beside these kings and leaders; suffered their fates; felt their anguish; reveled in their victories; thrilled in their greatness.
The classroom tales gave birth to a fever that drove Hakon to the limits of his physical abilities. Hakon's injuries had healed, but their legacy lingered. His newly mended arm could not swing in a full circle without cracking and popping in protest. Worried that there may be some internal damage to his neck, the priests prohibited Hakon from any exercise that consisted of tumbling and rolling. But Hakon refused to succumb to his physical limitations. It did not matter that his arm could barely wield a practice sword, that those he had bested in the past now bested him at every meeting. Like the kings of yore, he was determined to succeed, to excel.
When others stayed inside seeking warmth during the winter months, Hakon headed for the practice field. When others quit for the evening meal, Hakon remained, deriving energy from the stories of greatness that began each day. Little by little, his body healed itself. His arm mended. His skill in weapons improved. His body grew like a reed, so that by the summer of 931, he had not only regained all that had been taken from him in his fall, but had begun sparring with older boys and even young men.
Hakon's growth mirrored a period of peace and prosperity in Athelstan's Engla-lond. Danish raids ceased, allowing men and women to turn their attention to their individual trades, their livestock, and their crops. Fair weather brought healthy crops season after season; families throughout the land fattened and grew, producing a fresh crop of strong sons to fill the ranks of Athelstan's future fyrds.
Such prosperity permitted Athelstan to focus his energies on furthering peace throughout the land. The number of witans increased substantially, and consequently, so too did the number of charters and writs. No longer threatened from without, the fyrds turned their attention inward, improving roadways, expanding towns, enforcing the new laws of the land. Robbery, murder, and other violent crimes abated. Criminals retreated to the darkest corners of Engla-lond's forests.
Commerce improved, for traders and merchants no longer feared bandits hiding along the roads and trails, or lawlessness at market. As business flourished, mints sprang up in or near the market towns to handle the growth in trade. Athelstan even enacted laws to monitor coin weights and metal content so that values could be fixed and traders assured of a standard tender.
Traders and farmers were not the only subjects to benefit from this social prosperity and economic boom. Pious as ever, Athelstan gave generously to the churches, monasteries, and nunneries. Though he frowned on displays of opulence in the clergy, he thrilled in the construction of centers of worship. It was not uncommon to see more than one tower reaching for the heavens in the larger towns, such as London or Winchester.
Like these rising walls and waxing towns, Hakon's feelings for Aelfwin blossomed and grew. The courtship began in fits and starts, for she was older and Hakon unaccustomed to the game of affections. He felt awkward in her presence. His tongue tripped over itself when she spoke to him. He was aware of his every movement and aware of how stupid he felt at every moment. But the more time he spent in her presence, the more the barriers of his awkwardness chipped away, until finally these things became past memories.
Aelfwin was not like other girls that Hakon knew. She hated being confined, and quickly grew bored at the loom and the ale-bench. Aelfwin enjoyed adventures, especially those with an element of danger. Hakon delighted in this quirk, and never shied from her venturesome suggestions. Together she and Hakon stole plums and pears from the monastery gardens, laughing as they made their escape. They played practical jokes on her mother's maidservants, hiding pins and articles of clothing. They guarded the walls of Winchester from make-believe enemies, and pretended they were the king and queen of imaginary lands. When winter came, they sledded. With Hakon in front and Aelfwin gripping his waist, the two screamed and laughed their way down the slope of a knoll outside the town gates, usually ending their high-speed journey in a heap of limbs and snow.
At first the relationship was not physical. Aelfwin was just a friend. A beautiful, feminine creature, but a friend nevertheless. Someone with whom to play, to run, to laugh. Though he knew something of the physical aspects of love from overheard conversations, he did not understand exactly what was expected of him. He was content to sit beside her, to feel her warmth, to smell her hair, to soar at the sound of her voice and thrill in her laugh.
As time went by, the girl Hakon had delighted in as a friend became, before his very eyes, a young woman. Her chest swelled and her body stretched and curved beneath her dress. Hakon, too, changed. His seed began to spill in his sleep. His voice cracked, then dropped. His muscles grew more defined; his body lengthened into that of a young man. As he changed physically, his interest in Aelfwin evolved into something altogether new and different.
It could be found in a lingering glance, a gentle touch, a provocative conversation. There was a hint of it in the way they brushed against each other while walking or sitting, the lingering gaze of their greetings and farewells, and the heat that always rose in Hakon's belly and his cheeks when she was near. It could be found also in the new restrictions their elders placed upon them. They were no longer permitted to sleep in close proximity, or to share the cup at meals. If they disappeared too long together, questions followed.
Their time together was precious, but fleeting, for both knew deep down that it could not last. Eventually Hakon would travel home and she would go where her father decided. They spoke half-jokingly of runn
ing away together, or of convincing her father that they belonged together. It was a discussion that always left a palpable, depressed silence between them.
The end of their bliss came during Easter of 933, when Aelfwin's family attended the celebration at Athelstan's court in Winchester. As a sailor can read the tides and a warrior the movements of his enemy, Hakon knew upon seeing Aelfwin's red-rimmed eyes that something was wrong. She was in her sixteenth year. He was fourteen.
“Come,” she said, pulling him away from the festivities that crowded Winchester's streets. “We need to talk.”
They walked in silence down Tanner Street, past the structures that housed the tanning vessels and from which hung a myriad of stretched and softened hides. Hakon gazed at these absently, wondering what words might pass between Aelfwin and him. Soon they were out of the gates and heading for the Itchen, where normally small groups of women washed laundry and chattered and cackled like excited hens. Today though, due to the celebration, the banks stood empty and silent. Aelfwin led Hakon to a spot upriver and sat on the bank. She removed her shoes and dipped her feet into the cool water. Hakon did the same.
“My father has found a husband for me,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded choked.
Hakon did not trust himself to speak.
“His name is Eadbald, the future earl of Somerset. He is a good choice, I think,” she offered before Hakon could respond. “He will treat me well. He is bold and wealthy—”
“When?” Hakon demanded.
“Next spring. At the equinox.”
“Then it is settled. I wish you well.” Hakon pulled his feet from the water and began to rise.
Aelfwin placed a hand on his leg. “Please, Hakon. Wait.”
Hakon would have walked away had he not glimpsed the despair in her eyes. It reflected the despair in his own heart and gave him pause.
“Please, sit. I do not want us to part so badly.”
Hakon stood, torn between the pain of walking away and the heartache of sitting beside her.
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