The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan

by Jayden Woods

  Then he got on top of her, and seemed to have gotten the better of her. He stared down at her through the pale strips of his hair, eyes blazing. In a moment of illumination, she jabbed her knee into his groin.

  He groaned and fell back.

  Belatedly his housecarls came to his rescue, and before she could move she was yanked up and pinned down again, this time on both sides, her wrists crushed sharply against the table.

  Canute looked down at himself, his tunic ripped open, his chest beaded with dark blood, his body bent uncomfortably around his aching loins. He seemed at a loss. When he looked at her again, she could not tell whether he was furious or fascinated.

  “Who did you say your father was again?” he said with heaving breath.

  She had never said it to him, as she recalled. He had not given her the chance. “He was Ealdorman Alfhelm of York.”

  He frowned with puzzlement, then shook his head. “Should I know him?”

  She bit back her anger, which was easy to do when she felt as if a single wrong move would cause the king’s housecarls to break her arm. “King Ethelred chose Uhtred to take over, because he seemed the stronger warleader against the Scots.” She groaned with discomfort, struggling to maintain her composure. “He had my father killed, and then his men took out my brother’s eyes while I watched.”

  This did not phase him in the least. “This is of no use to me.”

  “Yes it is, you bastard!” This caused the housecarls to squeeze her tighter, but Canute only looked amused. “Despite my family’s exile, I have managed to keep a lot of lands, and a lot of wealth—”

  “Be more specific.”

  “I own nearly two hundred hides ... I think. In Northampton.” She hurried past this uncertainty. “More importantly I have connections. I know thegns in the Danelaw and beyond because of my upbringing; they are kind to me because they feel sorry for me. I know some who are loyal to King Ethelred.”

  At this, Canute came closer, leaning over her splayed, constrained body. She thought she felt his gaze, exploring her more intimately than it had before. For some reason, she did not feel ashamed of her body this time.

  “Don’t you see, Canute? I am invaluable to you. And you know you can trust me, because I would never help King Ethelred. I swear it on the blood of my dead family.”

  He sneered a little, but her heart raced, for he was so close to her now that she could feel his breath against her neck. Then, without any warning at all, he kissed her.

  She had never been kissed before. She was not sure what she should have expected. But this, to be sure, was not it. She was held captive, unable to move, and her arms ached; but there were his lips, stiff against her quivering mouth, cool in temperature. It was anything but romantic or tender. Even so, she would not have pulled away, even if she could have. She felt as if he was testing her, somehow; and considering how long he lingered there, breathing against her, his slitted gaze looking in to hers, she felt as if she passed.

  Finally he pulled away, a strange look on his face.

  “I suppose you’ll do,” he said.

  *

  That night, he gave her a bed on which to sleep, and then he shared it with her.

  That day and the next few weeks were a flurry of confusion and excitement for Alfgifu. Somehow, she had succeeded in connecting with Canute in a much deeper way than she had ever expected. She was by his side by day and then—a few times—by night. She did not know if he thought of her as a wife, but it seemed as if suddenly, she was one. She overheard his housecarls saying that he had never “chosen” a woman before. He did not act, as far as she could tell, as if he had fallen in love with her. It seemed, indeed, as if he had simply chosen her. He let her follow him around as he executed his affairs; when he was at a loss he turned to her for council. And at night, sometimes when she would last expect it, he would enter the chamber he had given her and invite himself to her bed. Often he would blow out the candles, and carry out his mission very matter-of-factly; but sometimes she would insist on keeping them lit, and then she would purposefully resist him. A struggle would ensue, making her blood roar and her toes tingle, and when he overcame her she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did.

  Alfgifu wanted to feel victorious, but she did not let herself. She knew that Canute was using her, as surely as she was using him. The nature of their relationship puzzled her, as he continued to say nothing of marriage.

  Whatever the case, it seemed as if she had at least been able to spur him to action. He called together the people of Lindsey and invited them to raid and plunder alongside his Vikings. His warriors stretched their limbs and sharpened their blades and she felt the vibrancy of war in the air. The people cheered to Canute and looked to him as their ruler.

  Canute was a natural leader, she thought. He had a way of commanding people’s attention almost effortlessly, even when he spoke with a quiet voice. He certainly did not lack in confidence; in fact, his surplus of it easily overwhelmed the lack of anyone else’s. Despite all this, she worried that he had not yet established himself as king the way he needed to. The people followed him now because they were restless; but what would happen when they faced King Ethelred’s forces? Would they stay united under Canute’s commands?

  More importantly, how would Canute stand against the influence and trickery of Eadric Streona?

  Even with the Vikings’ eagerness to go raiding and pillaging, she sensed small threads of doubt amongst them. Perhaps, she thought, it was because they still did not know where they would go, even as they made to prepare themselves. When the jarls finally asked aloud where they would go first, Alfgifu leaned close to Canute and whispered in his ear, “Mercia.” His eyes flicked towards her, the only sign of acknowledgment; but otherwise he did not respond.

  Mercia was the logical choice, after all. The lands of Mercia were lush and fertile, less ravaged than the southern lands, and very, very nearby. Some would even consider their current location to belong to the official earldom of Mercia, as they had once been grouped together, until the Seven Boroughs came together to form the Danelaw. No one would assume that her real reason for suggesting it, of course, was because it was the earldom of Eadric Streona.

  Alfgifu had never been raiding before. She felt certain that she would enjoy it. When she told Canute that she wished to pillage and slaughter alongside the men, he laughed at her, though in an affectionate tone. She brought it up again that night as he led her through the grass to her lodge. He stopped, turned to her, and put his hand on her belly.

  “You have more important things to do.”

  A roar filled her ears when she heard this, for belatedly, she understood her purpose. Canute wanted an heir, and he wanted it soon. This was probably the reason he had chosen her so quickly, more than from any flare of passion or feeling of “connection.” In one sense the notion of giving Canute an heir filled her with excitement. But at the same time, her ears burned with frustration.

  “You are among Christians here,” she reminded him. He was Christian, himself, or at least wanted to be; she knew because he wore a cross around his neck. But she’d noticed that some of his men still wore the pagan symbol of Thor’s hammer. Without a doubt, it was easy for him to forget how he should act. “They will want a legitimate child, one produced from a marriage in the eyes of God.”

  “God sees everything I do, I assure you.” He wore a strange smile on his face. His pale skin and hair seemed to glow white in the moonlight. “If you give me a healthy son, then we’ll see about marriage.”

  “That’s not how it works—” she began, but he had already stopped listening, and she bit her own tongue. She would give him what he wanted, so long as she got what she wanted from him, eventually.

  “Why did you come here, Alfgifu?” Chills trickled down her body, for it seemed that his eyes, now possessing a tiny twinkle, had seen into her mind. The smile from his face was gone.

  “I told you. I hate Ethelred. I want you to be king.”

/>   “Ah.” He gave a small nod, and she thought she had satisfied him. Then he cocked his head at her again. “Is that all?”

  Her heart pounded in her chest as if it wanted to escape. Fear filled her. Could he truly read her thoughts? Was it some sort of pagan power? For a moment it seemed to be so.

  “I investigated your father’s death. Ethelred did not order him to be killed. Alfhelm died of an accident.”

  “An accident!” Her voice came out like a squeal, and her cheeks flushed with both fury and embarrassment. She could only hope that Canute could not see the extent of her distress in the darkness; but then, Canute seemed to see everything. “And then King Ethelred killed my brother for laughs?”

  He only continued staring at her intently. “Then what do you think happened?”

  “I know what happened,” she snarled. “It was Eadric Streona. He killed my father, and then he covered it up, and Ethelred rewarded him for it.”

  Canute chuckled softly. “Eadric Streona. He must be a smart man, if he got away with it. In any case, he is very powerful now.”

  Her breath pumped in and out in angry huffs, filling the quiet night like little thunderclaps. “Let’s raid Mercia,” she said, her voice barely rising above her breath, “and find out just how powerful he really is.”

  “I like you, Alfgifu,” he said, surprising her. Some of her anger drained away and she felt at a loss. “But your intelligence disappoints me.”

  “What—!”

  He put a finger against her lips, pressing harshly. “You are blinded by your foolish feelings, and that is a grave weakness.” She felt a tremor go through him even as he said this, and as if to hide it, he quickly pulled away. “Eadric is powerful. He is also a potential ally. So I see no reason to fight him.”

  She could not believe what she was hearing. It made her sick to her stomach.

  “Consider his relationship with Thorkell the Tall, my own mentor. Consider his relationship with the churches. Consider the gifts he gave my father. Consider the way he discourages Ethelred from marching into battle—”

  “SILENCE!” She almost wanted to scream again, the way she had done on the day she first arrived. But Canute had a dangerous look in his eyes now, and she did not think that ploy would impress him a second time. She did not think he appreciated being interrupted, either, she realized. She gulped, searching herself for more anger. “I did not come here to become Eadric’s ally,” she spat. “And if that is your plan, then I am leaving.”

  “No,” he said. “You are not.”

  “Oh—watch me!”

  She turned and stormed away.

  “Alfgifu!” The strain and fear in his voice as he called after her only encouraged her. She walked faster, disappearing into the night. “Stop her!”

  Almost immediately, shapes seemed to form from the blackness and move towards her. She felt unexpectedly calm as she pulled her dirk from her belt and slashed at them. They were large and heavy men, weighted down by their axes and chainmail; she could hear them coming long before they reached her. She smiled with satisfaction as her little blade met flesh, slicing someone’s palm as he clutched for her.

  Despite this, the men formed a line that blocked her from fleeing into the city. As surely as she could detect the warriors approaching, so could she also sense the ones lingering nearby. Her own hearth companions were in or near her chamber, and far too few to match Canute’s. Crying out with exasperation, she turned and went the other way.

  Her feet carried her of her own will to the dining hall. At first she did not know why. The slaves within, who had been enjoying the leftovers of the night meal in the glow of candlelight, fled in confusion and embarrassment. In their absence, her gaze carried down the littered table to a single goblet, shining amidst the scraps.

  She hurried to it, picked it up, and slammed it against the wood.

  At first, the jolt only seemed to carry up her fingers and wrist, causing her pain and feeding her anger. Shouting, she struck again. The metalwork of the cup cut into her hands, and she wasn’t sure if the red liquid slipping from her grip was leftover wine or her own blood. It hardly seemed to matter as she beat the table with all her might, hoping against reason that if she struck hard enough, she would break it.

  Somehow, through her own haze of huffing and hitting, she felt Canute nearby, standing and watching her. He was not trying to stop her anymore; only witnessing her exercise of futility. She sensed his satisfaction as something finally cracked under her exertions; but it was not the goblet. It was the table.

  She yelled with rage, turned around, and flung the cup into the embers of the hearth. Sparks ignited and gushed into the air near Canute. They seemed to reflect in his eyes as he glared at her. They stared at each other a long while, the warmth of the fire in between them. Alfgifu felt that her own hair had spilled below her shoulders, which distressed her, for she hated the thin, frizzy nature of it. Though she normally kept it tightly bound, it must have fallen loose during her frenzy.

  “What else did Eadric give you?” she demanded, breaking the silence.

  He did not answer her. “If you ever command me to be silent again,” he said, “I will burn your lips with boiling water.”

  She flinched as he stepped towards her. She tried to maintain her stream of thought against a crashing tide of fear. She had heard of Eadric’s gifts to the Vikings before; what were they? He had given them livestock, and food, and ornaments, but most importantly, he had given them hostages. Yes, somewhere, there were hostages …

  Canute surprised her by reaching out and grasping her hair. He twisted it in his hand until she cried out, then he pulled her down, forcing her to her knees.

  She heard the ring of metal as he pulled a knife from his belt, much longer and sharper than the sort that she carried, and her skin crawled with terror. It glinted in her eyes as he brought it near her face. Then he curved it around her head, and swept it through her hair.

  The sensation was strange as the pain of his grip fell away, freed by the blade. She watched with something like wonder as she watched the pathetic, lifeless strands fall to the floor.

  When he was done, Canute stepped back and surveyed his work. “Much better,” he said, and sheathed the knife.

  He turned and strolled away, tossing one last piece of her hair behind him. She reached up with a trembling hand and felt her neck where it was now bare but for a few ragged edges of the remaining hair. Why had he done that? Would it do any good to wonder? She did not think she would ever know the answer, if there was one. Perhaps he did it solely so she would wonder.

  His housecarls were waiting for him further down the hall. “Take her to her lodge,” he told them, “and don’t let her leave. I must treat her like a prisoner until she learns to behave.” He turned his head towards her slightly, intending that she hear every word.

  “And her housecarls, my lord?” one asked.

  “Kill them.”

  “Hey!” She scrambled to her feet. “No!”

  Canute looked at her curiously. He seemed surprised. “I kill them,” he said, “or you release them of their service to you.”

  “I—I—” She felt as if she was tearing apart inside. Canute must have guessed how difficult it would be for her to make a decision like this. She hated the thought of releasing them of their service to her; it was a severe blow to her pride, a destruction of all the work she had done to make them loyal to her in the first place. But was that really worth making them die, instead?

  She hesitated so long that the housecarls began to move, assuming that she would not have the will to save their lives.

  “I will release them,” she rasped. Her legs were wobbly as she forced herself to walk past them. She did not need to look at Canute to know that he wore an expression of victory.

  Perhaps he would win this round, she thought. But he would not win them all.

  *

  The Vikings and the people of Lindsey had not yet mobilized when King Ethelred attack
ed with his fyrd.

  She was still imprisoned in her chamber when it happened. There was nothing she could do. She awoke to the sound of yelling. She felt heat pour through the wooden walls. She heard horses neighing and blades clashing.

  “What’s going on?” cried Alfgifu to Canute’s housecarls. “Go and see, you fools!”

  A few of them obeyed her. A few stayed behind, determined to keep constant watch over her.

  The acrid smell of smoke bit the air. People screamed. Swords tolled. Light flashed beyond her shuttered windows.

  Fear seized her limbs. Her heart fluttered in her ribs, weak and rapid like a butterfly’s wings. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. She hated fear. She wanted to believe it could not touch her. She wished she could forget how it felt, that day the king’s soldiers barged into her beautiful manor, stabbing the men who had been loyal to her all her life, trying to catch her mother Wulfrun as she ran screaming, then grabbing her brother and throwing him to the floor …

  Alfgifu flinched as another scream echoed through the walls. She nearly fainted when the door of the lodge opened, but it was only one of Canute’s housecarls returning. She glimpsed blood splashing in the air before he closed the door behind him.

  “It’s Ethelred’s army,” said the housecarl.

  “How many soldiers?” gasped Alfgifu.

  “A few thousand. Hard to say—they’re pouring in.”

  All of the housecarls exchanged uncertain glances. They could not stand idly by doing nothing while they listened to their brethren fight and die around them. After all, they loved battle. It was their life, and their death.

  Alfgifu wanted to feel the same way they did. Instead, she felt debilitated. She could hardly believe that Ethelred had worked up the nerve to come here and fight Canute after months of exile from his own kingdom. Had she been wrong to come here? Had it all been for nothing? Would Canute’s forces be demolished, even more quickly than they had been gathered? Would she lose everything—her loyal hearth companions, her estates, her wealth, her dignity—all for a young Viking who would not live up to his father’s legacy?