The Edge of Light

by Joan Wolf

  Alfred recoiled. It happened before he knew it was going to happen, so he could not disguise it. Flavia stopped and looked from him to Elswyth. “Mama?” she said, uncertain where she had never been uncertain before.

  Elswyth stepped forward and picked the child up. “Papa is all dirty, Flavia,” she said calmly. “He doesn’t want to touch you until he’s had a bath.”

  “Dirty?” said Flavia and looked at Alfred from the safety of Elswyth’s arms. Her blue-green eyes were wide with wonder. “Papa?”

  “Very dirty,” Alfred said.

  Flavia peered closer. “Dirty!” She sounded extremely pleased.

  Elswyth was looking around for Flavia’s nurse, and as the woman came forward she handed her daughter into another pair of arms. Flavia screamed in protest. Elswyth ignored her and said to Alfred. “Come into the sleeping room. They’ll have a bath for you very shortly.”

  It seemed to take forever for the tub to be filled, Serving girls kept coming in and out with buckets of water. Alfred stood, his hands clasped out of sight behind his back, and listened to Elswyth telling him about a new litter of pups in the kennel. Finally the tub was filled and he could shed his clothes and submerge his filthy, bloodstained body in the hot water. Elswyth handed him a cake of soap and went out to the main hall. He ducked his head under the water and washed his hair. Three times. His nails washed clean as he was doing his hair. He scrubbed at his ears, at his face, at his chest, at his knuckles. The tub had been set before the brazier, but even so it was cold in the sleeping room. The water was turning chill when finally he felt that he was clean enough. The serving girl had left a towel on a stool near to the tub, and he wrapped himself in it as soon as he stepped out. He dried his body hastily and reached for the clean clothes Elswyth had left out for him on the bed. He was fully dressed and sitting on the room’s one chair crossing the garters that bound his trouser legs when Elswyth came back into the room.

  He looked at her, a full long look, the first he had permitted himself since he came home. She smiled. “All right now?”

  His returning smile was wry. “All right.”

  She came to stand beside him, and picking up the towel, rubbed his hair to dry it. He sat perfectly docile under her touch. He did not move even when she fetched a comb and dragged it ruthlessly through the still-damp tangles. It wasn’t until she had finished that he spoke.

  “I couldn’t bear to touch you,” he said. “I felt so … unclean. I killed so many men, Elswyth.” He was still in his chair and she was standing now before him. He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “I couldn’t touch you or Flavia with all that blood still on me.”

  “I know,” she said. Her beautiful face was very grave. “I saw.”

  He shuddered. “Ethelred said it was even in my ears!”

  At that she stepped nearer and drew his face against the bulk of her stomach. “You are clean now,” she said quietly, “The blood is all gone.”

  He pressed against her and she held him tighter. Finally, in a muffled voice that yet held a distinct edge of bitterness: “At least I did not get sick in front of all my men.”

  She smoothed the hair that would not show gold again until it was dried. “Hawks kill without thought or without mercy,” she said. “So do wild boars. It is well that men are different from beasts. Is that not why God gave us souls?”

  There was a long silence. Then he said, “You do not think I am craven to take killing so ill?”

  “No.” The baby within her kicked so that they both felt it. She said softly, “I have carried life and know how precious it is, with how much care and toil it is brought into the world. It is well to mourn its passing, even by necessity.”

  Slowly he moved away from her, and slowly rose to his feet. They stood there in silence for a moment, the chair between them. He looked into her eyes. “On the battlefield,” he said honestly, “I killed without thought and without mercy. It was not until after that …”

  Her answer was prosaic. “Once committed to the battlefield, Alfred, there is no choice but to kill. That or be killed. And to me you are worth more than the whole Danish army, So bear that in mind when you take up your sword.”

  He did not answer, but his eyes were his own again, clear and golden; the dark look was gone. She reached for his hand. “Come and make your peace with Flavia,” she said. “Or she will give us none of our own.”

  Alfred’s sleep was restless and he woke the following morning to a headache. Nor was he surprised to feel the familiar, unwelcome pain in his forehead. All his life, it seemed, after great emotional turmoil would come a headache.

  Elswyth did not seem to be surprised either. “It’s snowing,” she said to him. “You could not have left in any case.” Which made him feel somewhat better, and he settled in to endure.

  The headache lifted toward evening and he fell asleep, When he woke again it was full dark and the lamp had been lit. Elswyth was sitting in the chair next to it, and in its clear yellow glow her unguarded face was laid bare.

  His first thought was that she looked tired. There were faint shadows he had not noticed before beneath the blue eyes, and hollows beneath the magnificent cheekbones. She looked older, he thought, immeasurably older than the girl he had married but two years before. She did not know that he was watching her, and she shifted on her chair as if she were uncomfortable. Her hand went to her side and she shifted again.

  Two babes in two years, he thought bleakly. True it was that a child was a gift from God, but even so, Alfred had not felt joy when Elswyth told him he was to have another child. He knew how fettered she had felt while carrying Flavia; and then, so soon, to face again the long weary months of bearing.

  What had she said to him yesterday? “I know with how much care and how much toil life is brought into this world.” He felt a sudden flash of anger and frustration. He had not married her to burden her like this!

  It had happened so quickly because Elswyth had stopped nursing Flavia, or so Cyneburg had said. Elswyth had come down with a fever that was short but fierce enough to dry up her milk. Flavia had had to be put with a wet nurse, and within a month Elswyth was once again with child.

  She would nurse this child until it could ride a horse, Alfred thought now savagely. And, as if she sensed his unrest, her head turned.

  “Alfred. You are awake.” She rose and came to stand beside the bed. She smiled. “Better?”

  She was still in her blue day gown and her hair was pulled away from her face and set in a crown of braids on top of her head. How few women could bear that severity of hairstyle, he thought. But the hollows in Elswyth’s face only emphasized the beauty of her bones. “Yes,” he said at last. “Much better.” He sat up and fixed the pillows to make a backrest beside him. “Come and join me,” he said. “You look tired.” When she hesitated, he got up, came around the bed, picked her up, and deposited her gently into the nest he had made. She laughed and settled back, trying to get comfortable. He tucked a pillow into the small of her back. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  He went round the bed again and rejoined her, picking up her thin hand and holding it in his. “It will be soon,” he said softly.

  She sighed. “I hope so.” Then: “The snow stopped earlier, but now it has begun again.”

  “I have to start back tomorrow. I promised Ethelred I would not delay.”

  She was looking at their clasped hands lying so quietly on his thigh. He too was wearing his clothes, but without the thonged garters and without shoes. “I want to go to Wantage,” she said.

  “Wantage is too close to Reading, love,” he answered, still softly. “Nor are you in any fit condition to travel.”

  Still she stared at their hands. “I hate it here in Winchester. There is nothing for me to do.”

  “I know. When once the babe has come, I shall move you to one of our manors. If not Wantage, then to Chippenham, or perhaps into Sussex.”

  “I like Wantage best. Wantage or Lambourn.” She soun
ded fretful, not at all like herself.

  “As soon as the Danes leave Reading, you can return. I promise, Elswyth.”

  At that she raised her eyes to his face. “Winchester doesn’t feel like home.”

  “Doesn’t it?” He put an arm around her and drew her close against him. She laid her head on his shoulder and he heard the sound of a weary sigh. The fist of his hand that was not holding her clenched. But his voice was quiet as he said., “I knew I would get a headache. It was inevitable. And all I could think was that I must get home before it happened, that I could not have one in the camp.”

  She stirred a little. “So Winchester is home to you?” She sounded surprised.

  “No,” he answered simply. “You are.”

  There was a long pause. The charcoal brazier glowed in the corner, a dimmer light than that cast by the oil lamp. “Yes,” she said finally. “That is it. No place is home if you’re not there. But Wantage would be better than here.”

  He laughed a little unsteadily. “I shall do my best to chase the Danes out of Reading, love, so you may go to Wantage.”

  “No!” She pulled away from him at that, and twisted to look into his face. “You are safest with them at Reading. Don’t mind me, Alfred. I am just feeling sorry for myself. Pay no heed to what I have said.”

  “I always pay heed to what you say,” he replied. “You usually make a great deal of sense.”

  “Not now, I don’t.” She picked up his hand and held it to her cheek. “Once the babe is born, it will be better.”

  “I know it will. And let us hope that there will be no more babes for a few more years.”

  “I will say amen to that,” said Elswyth, and for the first time he could hear an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice.

  He laid his cheek against her hair and thought that perhaps it was no bad thing that he would be away at war. It would give her a respite.

  It snowed through the night but stopped once again with the dawn. Alfred and his companions rode out of Winchester as soon as the sun was fairly up. The road was not so easily traversed in this weather, and it was a long ride to Silchester. By nightfall it had begun to snow again.

  The camp at Silchester was still when Alfred finally rode in, the snow muffling all sound. In the morning the crystal beauty of the world was breathtaking, but the snow had severe consequences for the West Saxon army. More and more men began to slip out of camp to return to their homes.

  “Is there nothing we can do to stop this leakage of our troops?” Alfred asked Ethelred furiously. It was but ten days since their great victory, and the West Saxon army was at less than half the strength it had been at Ashdown.

  “It is the snow,” Ethelred replied. His face and voice both were weary. “The women at home will not be able to do all that is needful with this amount of snow. The men are returning to their farms out of necessity, Alfred. If their cattle are not fed, they will die.”

  “The Danes are more important than the cattle,” Alfred said. His face was set and stern; there was a white line around his mouth.

  “To you they are,” Ethelred answered. “To me. Not to most of the men who comprise the fyrd.” Then, to his brother’s implacable face: “Be fair. Our wives are not struggling to maintain a precarious existence in our absence. Our children are not like to go hungry. The same is not true for most of our men.”

  There was a moment’s pause; then Alfred let out his breath. “You are right.” He gave his brother a crooked smile. “I wonder if the West Saxons realize how fortunate they are in their king?”

  Ethelred sighed. “I doubt it.” His brown eyes were somber as he surveyed the diminished numbers in his camp. He was fully as aware as Alfred of the problems such leakage raised. “We thrashed the Danes soundly at Ashdown,” he said now to his brother. “Let us pray that they keep to their camp at Reading for the winter. Come spring, we can raise the full fyrd again.”

  “Spring will be the time for the sowing,” said Alfred. “Something else the Danes do not have to concern themselves with.”

  Ethelred shrugged. “We will do the best we can with what we have. And trust to God for the rest.”

  “Amen,” said Alfred, and went off to speak to the guards who were next on watch at Reading.

  On the night of January 20, the night that Elswyth’s son was born, the Danes crept out of Reading under cover of darkness and slipped past the West Saxons at Silchester, moving south. It was not until near morning that Ethelred’s scouts at Reading realized what had happened and galloped to the king’s camp to sound the alarm.

  “God in heaven,” said Ethelred. “They are past us and heading for Winchester!”

  “We must go after them,” Alfred said. His face was no less grim than Ethelred’s.

  “We are at less than half-strength.”

  “We have no choice,” said Alfred, and after a moment Ethelred agreed.

  “You are right. We must go after with all speed. But first I shall send a messenger to Winchester to warn the city. Cyneburg and Elswyth must be prepared to flee if necessary.”

  “Elswyth is near her time, Ethelred,” Alfred said, his voice as clipped as ever it got. “She cannot flee.” One fist clenched. “At all costs, we must turn the Danes back from Winchester!”

  The diminished West Saxon army was on the march by morning’s end. The Danes, their advance scouts told them, had not pushed straight through to Winchester but had taken up a position near the market town of Old Basing, some fourteen miles to the south of Reading.

  “As ever, they have chosen a good defensive position,” Alfred muttered when told the news. “The water meadows of the Loddon will protect them well.”

  It was dark when the king’s forces stopped, some three miles from the Danish camp. Ethelred set guards to watch the Danes, with instructions this time to watch through the night as well as the day. Then he and Alfred and the ealdormen met.

  “They have a larger force than we,” said Ethelnoth of Somerset. “We cannot look for a repeat of Ashdown.”

  “We do not need to beat them,” Alfred answered. “We need to stop them.”

  A murmur of agreement went up from the other men in the council at these words. Then Ethelred said, “Granted that this is true, how is it best we go about our task? Shall we straddle the road south and offer battle?”

  “That would be folly,” said Ethelnoth instantly. “They outnumber us. I doubt our men would hold.”

  “Storm the camp, as we did at Reading,” advised Osric of Hampshire. “Even if they drive us off, as they did at Reading, still we will inflict hurt on them. And they will know we are yet in the field and prepared to fight.”

  There was a pause as all considered this possibility. Then Ethelred said, “I would say, my lord, that you have named our best course of action.”

  Murmurs of agreement came from the rest of the council. “Alfred?” asked Ethelred. “What say you?”

  “I agree, my lord. I think we should storm the camp.”

  “Very well.” Ethelred looked around the circle of men who sat on their heels around his campfire. “Tomorrow,” he said. “No sense in delay.”

  Ethelnoth grunted. “No sense at all. I shall tell my men to prepare for battle.”

  “And I. And I. And I,” said Osric of Hampshire and Ethelm of Wiltshire, and Ceolmund of Kent. Before they lay down to rest that night, the West Saxons had once more prepared their weapons and their souls to go out to fight the Danes.

  The women at Winchester posted their own scouts on the road that the Danes would come by, and prepared if necessary to flee. “You cannot, Elswyth,” Cyneburg said when she realized that Elswyth had dragged herself out of bed to practice walking around her room. “If the worst comes to the worst, you must hide somewhere within the city. You cannot possibly ride in your condition. And what of the baby!”

  “I can if I must,” Elswyth replied stubbornly. “I will not stay here to be taken as a hostage to hold at Alfred’s throat.”

  “You
cannot take an infant out on the roads in this weather.”

  “Edward will have to stay,” Elswyth conceded. “He will be safe enough. Who is to notice one more babe in the town? But my face is known; for enough geld, someone might well betray me. I cannot chance it. If I must, Cyneburg, I can ride. And so can Flavia.”

  Cyneburg looked at her with a mixture of exasperation and admiration, threw up her hands, and bustled out of the room.

  The news of the battle came to Winchester on the morning of January 23, brought by a thane who had ridden through the night. The West Saxons had attacked the Danish camp at Basing and been driven back. “But it was a fierce battle, my lady,” the man told Cyneburg, who relayed the news to Elswyth. “Though outnumbered, our men held firm for many hours. We drew off to the south, so the Danes know they will have to fight again if they wish to try for Winchester. We hurt them. We took hurts ourselves, but the king and the prince and the ealdormen are safe. Now we must just wait to see what the Danes do next.”

  On the morning of January 25 the Danes moved out of their camp at Basing and returned the way they had come, to the north. Unlike the West Saxons, the Viking army traveled by horseback, and by evening they were once more safe within the rivers of Reading.

  “We won,” Alfred said to Ethelred when they learned this news. “We lost the battle at Basing, but we won the most important battle of all. Winchester is safe.”

  “For now,” said Ethelred.

  “For now.”

  “And you have a son,” said the king with a smile. That news had been sent to the camp immediately after the baby’s birth. “Tomorrow we shall ride to Winchester and see him.”

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  The Danes lay quiet at Reading, guarded alternatively by Ealdorman Ethelm of Wiltshire and Ealdorman Ailnoth of Berkshire and their men. All those who were not of the hearthbands of the king or the great nobles went home to their farms, prepared if necessary to answer another call to arms. After Basing, Ethelred had been forced to send the fyrds home. It was not just a problem keeping the men away from their land, it was a problem feeding them as well.