by Joan Wolf
The thanes who followed Alfred that night were all young, and could easily be distinguished as belonging to the prince by the headband all wore bound around their brows. It had become the fashion of late among Alfred’s men, particularly the younger ones, to copy the prince’s style. His men were all clean-shaven also, although Alfred’s face was smooth because his beard had yet to grow and not because of any razor.
They moved carefully, keeping as much as possible within the trees to avoid being spied by the Danes on the other side of the river. The night was moonless, but the faint starlight gave them enough light to see their way. By daylight all but two of them had returned to the Saxon camp, with neither king realizing they had been gone. Edgar and his fellow companion, Brand, returned by noon, after verifying with the local folk that there was indeed a ford across the river at Willowburg. Then Alfred went to see Ethelred and Burgred.
Burgred would not hear of an attempt on the Danish camp. “The Northumbrians were slaughtered when they met with the Danes within the walls of York,” he said stubbornly to Alfred. “We must fight in the open if we are to have a hope of victory.”
“But they will not come out into the open, my lord,” Alfred strove to keep his voice patient. The April sky was deeply blue, with high white clouds sailing across the Danish camp, so tantalizingly close on the far side of the river. “They know we outnumber them,” Alfred went on. “They will keep within the safety of Nottingham unless we force battle upon them. And there is this ford—”
“No,” said Burgred. Then, to Ethelred: “He should not have left camp without my permission.”
Ethelred’s brown eyes were clouded. He looked worriedly from Burgred to Alfred, “If we hold siege long enough,” he said to his brother, “they will have to come out for food.”
Alfred turned his impatient gaze to Ethelred. “The fyrds will never be able to hold siege for any length of time,” he said. “Even now the shire thanes and ceorls are longing to be home. And we do not have enough men with just the hearthbands. We must have the farmers as well. You know that, Ethelred, as well as I.”
Burgred drew his bulk up to its considerable height. “I am the leader of this army, Prince,” he said to Alfred, looking down his broad fleshy nose. “You would do well to remember that.”
“Alfred does not mean to be importunate,” Ethelred said.
“He is more than importunate, He is impertinent,” returned Burgred. “You have ever given too much heed to so young a boy, my brother. In consequence, he has too little regard for age and experience.” And with these parting remarks, Burgred turned his back on the two West Saxons and lumbered away with dignity in the direction of his tent.
Ethelred looked at Alfred. His brother’s young face was not wearing any of the expressions that Ethelred had expected to see. Alfred did not look angry or humiliated or contemptuous. Instead his eyes were cold, level, and implacably stern. He said to Ethelred, very quietly, “Burgred is making a terrible mistake.”
“Perhaps,” Ethelred returned. “But I cannot overrule him, Alfred. The Mercians will not follow me if their own king is against me. And the West Saxons are not strong enough to storm Nottingham alone. We have no choice but to hold siege for as long as we can, and hope for the best.”
And so they waited. And while they waited the men of Wessex and of Mercia began to melt away. Few could see the point of sitting day after day on the banks of the Trent when there were more important things to be done at home. The shire thanes fretted that shepherds, cowherds, goatherds, and swineherds would not be properly attending to their business in the absence of their lords. The ceorls felt their absences from home even more urgently than did the shire thanes. What work was done about the farm of a ceorl was usually done by the owner; if he was not home in the spring, it would be a hungry winter the following year.
By the end of April the combined armies of Wessex and Mercia had lost over three thousand men.
“I shall sue for peace,” Burgred said. And Ethelred agreed. There was nothing else to do, he said to Alfred, considering the depleted state of the Saxon armies.
The peace was negotiated by Burgred’s representative, Edred. Ealdorman of the Tomsaetan. Ivar the Boneless drove a hard bargain. In order for him to leave Mercia, he demanded that Burgred pay him five thousand pounds in geld.
Alfred was livid when he realized that Burgred was going to agree to the terms.
“Where is the Mercian witan?” he stormed to Athulf. He had sought out the young ealdorman as soon as Alfred understood that his arguments would not persuade Burgred to reject the Viking demand.
Athulf’s thin dark face was grim. “The witan agreed with the king,” he answered tightly. “They want to buy the Danes off.”
Alfred, who rarely swore, did so now. Athulf s mouth was thin as a sword blade. “I agree, Prince, I think we are making a grave mistake. But the king will not listen. He is … he is …”
“He is afraid,” Alfred said.
There was a reverberating silence. Then Athulf let out his breath. “Aelle died hard,” he said. “One cannot blame him, I suppose.”
“Burgred is a king.” Alfred’s eyes were burning gold. “His thought should not be for his own safety but for his people and his God.” The two young men were standing on the edge of the Trent, and now Alfred turned his face toward the rock of Nottingham, lying on the far side of the river, “Now is the time, Athulf!” His fists opened and closed at his sides. “God and all his saints, we have them! And instead, Burgred is paying them to go away.”
“I said that to the witan, Prince.” Athulf sounded more weary than angry.
“And the other ealdormen?”
“They agreed with Burgred.” Athulf also stared toward Nottingham. “Mercia has never fought the Danes,” he said then, his voice almost toneless. “We have no borders on the sea. The sight of Nottingham’s fortifications frightened more men than Burgred, Prince. Nor is the fright unjustified. Our troops are raw and untrained. We are no match for the Danes.”
“You have four thousand West Saxons to fight by your side,” Alfred said.
“We are losing men daily. You know that.”
“We are losing men because of our inaction!” Alfred was frustrated and furious.
A muscle in Athulf’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
“Prince … my lord Athulf…” A voice from behind caused both young men to turn in haste, neither wishing their words to be overheard by other ears. A youngster of about fourteen stood there, hesitant but with a look about his mouth that said he would not easily be dislodged. “Is it true?” he asked, looking from Athulf to Alfred, then back again to Athulf. “Is the king going to pay the geld?”
Athulf did not dismiss the boy, but instead answered him. “Yes, Ethelred. I am afraid it is true.”
The boy’s hazel eyes flared very green. “But he cannot!”
Athulf glanced at Alfred, then said to the boy, his voice very flat, “He can.”
“But …” The ardent green eyes turned again to Alfred. “What do the West Saxons say, my lord?”
Alfred looked at Athulf. “This is Ethelred of Hwicce,” Athulf said. “The brother of my promised wife. His father is one of our ealdormen.”
Alfred raised his brows in recognition. Then he looked back at the boy. Ethelred was a stocky youngster, with reddish hair and very fair, almost milky-white skin. “You are young to be bearing arms,” Alfred said.
“I am fourteen, my lord.” He raised his chin proudly: “I can wield my sword as well as any man.”
“I see.” Alfred’s eyes were level as they watched the boy’s face. He answered Ethelred’s question: “The West Saxons must bow to the decision of Mercia.”
A fiery flush stained the boy’s milky skin. You are wrong!” he cried passionately. He bit his already-chapped lower lip: “I beg pardon, my lord, I do not mean to criticize, but do you not see that we must fight?”
Alfred’s skin, tanned a deeper gold than usual by the sun, also
flushed with emotion. “Yes, Lord Ethelred,” he answered, “I do see. It is your countrymen who do not. Speak to your father. He is one of those in favor of peace.”
Alfred’s crisp voice was even more stinging than his words, and the boy’s skin paled again. “I know that.” Ethelred’s voice was choked. “I hoped that the West Saxons would feel otherwise.”
“The West Saxons cannot attack without the assistance of Mercia,” came the chill reply. “And I do not think that the Mercian fyrds would follow the King of Wessex against the wishes of their own leaders.” Alfred’s face made it clear that this was a fact he deeply regretted.
Now Athulf’s dark skin flushed with anger. “Mercia has its own king, my lord, and it is he who commands our allegiance.”
“You have made that perfectly clear,” Alfred snapped.
Ethelred looked from the fine-featured face of the West Saxon prince to the imperious and furious face of his future brother. He once more bit his maltreated lip. Then, uneasily: “I thank you, my lords. I did not mean to interrupt your speech.” He looked from Alfred to Athulf once more, bowed, and began to walk away.
Alfred said to Athulf, “If the Mercian witan had half the mettle of that boy, we should be in Nottingham tomorrow.”
The words were spoken to Athulf, but Alfred’s crisp voice carried and Ethelred heard him quite clearly. The boy’s milky skin flushed again, this time with a mixture of pride and pleasure.
Prince Alfred agreed with him, he thought as his steps took him farther away from the prince and Athulf. If the decision were Alfred’s, they would fight. Ethelred could see that quite clearly.
He kicked a rock at his feet. He had not expected to find such a fighting spirit lodged within the slender, almost fragile-looking person of the West Saxon prince.
Alfred, however, was as powerless as he to change the course of events here at Nottingham.
Ethelred went off to spend the afternoon throwing rocks into the river, a pastime which served not at all to alleviate his humiliation and angry frustration at his king’s unnecessary surrender.
* * *
Chapter 9
“Stay still, Elswyth! said Eadburgh, giving a none-too-gentle tug on the black braid she was plaiting.
Elswyth’s eyes watered with the sudden sharp pain, but she made no protest. Eadburgh continued to weave threads of gold through the thick braids that were the chief adornment of any unmarried Mercian girl. “There,” she said finally, stepping away to admire her handiwork. She added, almost grudgingly, “You have lovely hair, my daughter. If only you would take better care of it!”
“Thank you, Mother,” Elswyth said tonelessly. Her chief conversation with Eadburgh this last month had consisted of Eadburgh scolding and Elswyth replying in monosyllables. Elswyth had long since discovered that any attempt at a genuine exchange of thought with her mother was a useless endeavor.
Eadburgh’s mouth thinned. She had been at Croxden for the entire winter, seeing to Elswyth’s bridal linens, and perforce mother and daughter had spent more time in each other’s company than ever before in their lives. The interlude had agreed with neither’s temper.
Eadburgh walked now to the clothes chest in the corner of the room and lifted out a cloak. It was a beautiful cloak, made of the softest wool and dyed a deep blue to match Elswyth’s eyes,
“It is too warm for a cloak,” Elswyth said.
“Every lady must wear a cloak,” came the instant reply. “It is not seemly to go forth without one.”
Elswyth curled her lip. Eadburgh’s face hardened. She laid the cloak about her daughter’s straight shoulders and fastened it with a large enameled pin. “Be sure you keep it on you,” she said.
“Yes, Mother,” Elswyth replied.
“You may send in Margit and wait for me in the hall.” As Eadburgh watched her daughter walk to the door of the sleeping room, her lips folded in a thin straight line.
Elswyth found her mother’s serving maid, then went herself to stand at the door of their hall to look out, From where she stood, the royal hall of
Tamworth was clearly visible. Though it was still light outside, torches were blazing beside the carved double doors. This night’s great feast was being given by Burgred in honor of the saving of Mercia from the Danes.
Burgred had been in Tamworth since the previous week, bringing with him news of the peace and of its terms. Elswyth had been horrified when she learned that the Saxon armies had capitulated without a fight. When she had said this to Ceolwulf, however, he had assured her that Burgred had done the best thing. “We could not have fought the Danes within Nottingham,” he said. “We would have been slaughtered trying to storm the town. You do not know how well they have fortified it, Elswyth!”
Elswyth, knowing her brother’s peaceful tendencies, was not reassured. But Athulf had remained at Nottingham, as had all the West Saxons, and so there was no one else she could ask. Until now. King Ethelred and Alfred had ridden back to Tamworth today; it was their presence which had provided the occasion for Burgred’s feast.
Elswyth leaned against the open door and looked out into the busy courtyard. Their own hall was unusually quiet; most of their thanes were still at Nottingham with Athulf. Only Ceolwulf and a few close companions had returned to Tamworth with Burgred. Athulf would be returning shortly, however, she thought. For her wedding.
Elswyth had not seen Alfred since their betrothal last Christmas. She would see him tonight, and in two weeks they would be married. Even though the evening was warm, Elswyth folded her arms as if she were chilled. Everything around her was changing, she thought desolately. The winter at Croxden with her mother had been dreadful. The Danes were still at Nottingham and unbeaten. In two weeks’ time she would be a wife. She wished, with all her heart, that she could be a child again.
The royal hall was filled when Elswyth and her mother and Ceolwulf and his thanes entered, and the heat of the fire and the press of people immediately made her cloak feel too warm. She looked around but did not see Alfred. The high seat where the two kings would sit was still empty. “We are to sit to the right of the high seat,” Ceolwulf was saying to Eadburgh. “Beside the West Saxon prince.”
Their party began to cross the open floor. They were at the great hearthplace in the center of the room when Elswyth saw Alfred coming toward her, moving with his distinctive light grace. She stopped.
“Elswyth,” Eadburgh began to say in annoyance, and then her mother too saw him.
“My lady. Elswyth.” He was in front of them now, smiling and looking from the women to Ceolwulf, then back again to Elswyth. “Your hair is all a-sparkle with gold,” he said.
Eadburgh, who had spent hours plaiting the golden thread into the thick black braids, smiled complacently.
“Mother did it,” Elswyth said. “In your honor.” She sounded as if she had been tortured.
Alfred looked from her to Eadburgh, then laughed. Elswyth, looking up into his amused golden eyes, felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. It was going to be all right, she thought. And smiled back, her thought as clear as crystal on her faintly flushed face.
Alfred took her hand, said, “You are to sit beside me tonight,” and began to walk with her toward the benches.
Shortly after Elswyth was seated, Burgred and Ethelred made their ceremonial entrance. Then Burgred opened the feast by speaking about the peace he had made with the Danes. Elswyth watched Alfred’s profile as they both listened to the king’s speech.
“Wiser to buy peace with geld than to buy it with men’s lives,” Burgred said, and Alfred’s perfectly straight nose seemed to her to grow thinner.
“The Danes will leave Nottingham as soon as the geld can be paid,” Burgred said, and a muscle quivered under Alfred’s smooth golden cheek. He was staring into space, Elswyth saw, and to one who was not as close to him as she, his expression would be impenetrable.
When at last Burgred had concluded and the food was being put on the tables, Elswyth said to Alfred,
“But where will the Danes go?”
He offered her a dish of spiced meat and, absently, she heaped her trencher. “Wherever there is more geld for them to collect,” Alfred replied tonelessly.
She took a white roll and broke it open. “So we have bought our safety at someone else’s expense,”
He also took a roll. “You might say that.”
She scooped up some meat, put it on her roll, and took a bite. On the other side of Alfred she could see that his brother and Burgred were talking. Ceolwulf, on her other side, was engaged in conversation with the man beside him. She asked, her voice low, “Why did we not fight, Alfred? You had so many men! Surely you should have met the Danes in battle, not left them free to prey upon some other kingdom. They will most like go to East Anglia next.”
He too looked behind him and beyond her. Then he answered, his voice pitched low like hers, “Burgred did not wish to fight and your witan agreed with him.”
“I see.” She scanned his face. “And you?”
His long fingers, ringed with gold, were tearing apart the roll. He had eaten nothing as yet. “The West Saxons would have fought, but there were not enough of us without the Mercians.” He glanced beyond her to Ceolwulf. Then: “Your brother Athulf would have fought also. But we were not the voices who carried the decision,” The bitterness in his tone was faintly audible. He was not used, Elswyth thought shrewdly, to having his advice disregarded.
“Together we outnumbered them,” he said. “We should have fought.”
Elswyth watched the long, nervous fingers of her future husband shredding his roll. Then she said, slowly and thoughtfully, “When you train a horse, you must never let him see that you are afraid of him. Once he sees that, once he understands that he has only to lay back his ears and you will give in, then he is out of your control. Nor will he grow easier to deal with as time goes on.” She raised her eyes to his face and found him staring at her. The white line was around his mouth again.
