by Joan Wolf
Alfred’s eyebrow quirked. “He has little choice.”
“True. But I expected him to object to the baptism.”
“And he did not?”
“He seemed almost to welcome it! At first I did not understand, but then it came clear. I hope you realize, my lord, that Guthrum’s idea of Christianity is not your own.”
“What is his idea?” Alfred asked curiously.
“He thinks your god is more powerful than his. And, being Guthrum, he is anxious to get upon the winning side.”
Alfred’s white teeth flashed. “Perfectly understandable.”
“But what is the point of baptizing him?” Erlend cried in bewilderment. “He has no understanding of what he is doing, of what your religion really means.”
“I know that,” Alfred replied, and now his face was grave. “But if his own religion is not sufficient to bind him to his word, perhaps a new and more powerful religion will be.”
Erlend’s triangular brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
The reply was blunt. “I mean to scare Guthrum so badly with what will happen to him if he breaks his oath to Christ that he will keep out of Wessex forever.”
Erlend could feel his eyes stretching wide. “Scare him?”
“That is right.” Alfred’s mouth was grim, his voice harsh. “Honor means nothing to Guthrum. It is self-interest alone that drives him. I mean to make it seem very much in his self-interest that he keep his word to me.”
There was a moment of silence as Erlend digested these words. “Why don’t you just kill him?” he asked curiously.
“If I had caught him in battle, I would have killed him,” came the sober reply. “But he has sued for peace. If I kill him now, I shall probably find myself involved in a blood feud with the Danes who have settled to the north. They will feel obligated to avenge him. I do not want to involve Wessex in a blood feud, Erlend, so it is best if I can arrange matters in such a way that Guthrum and I cease to be enemies and become neighbors instead.”
“You will let him have Mercia, then?”
“He can have whatever part of England he chooses, but he cannot have Wessex.”
“What hostages will you take?”
Alfred smiled. “Not you, my friend. You have served your time in that capacity, I think.”
Erlend did not reply.
“What will you do, Erlend?” It was Alfred’s turn to ask a question. “Will you sail home to claim Nasgaard, as you said you would?”
“Home,” Erlend said. His smile was crooked. “I don’t know where home is anymore, my lord. I have been from Denmark for so long … have dwelled for so many years among your people … I am like a creature caught between two worlds.”
“You will always have a place in my household,” Alfred said, and Erlend felt his heart begin to accelerate.
“As your harper?” he asked.
Alfred shook his head. “As my friend.”
Erlend bent his head so his hair would swing forward to hide his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I am going to do.” His voice sounded oddly muffled.
“Become a Christian with Guthrum,” Alfred said.
Erlend’s head came up slowly. His nostrils were dilated and he was breathing as if he had been running. He found Alfred’s grave eyes waiting for him. “You understand what Guthrum does not,” Alfred said softly. When Erlend still did not answer, he said, “Think about it, Erlend.” The king’s hand rested for a brief moment on his shoulder; then Alfred went out into the sun, leaving Erlend alone in the tent.
The baptism ceremony for the Danes was held at Aller, the church where Alfred and his men had worshiped during their time at Athelney. Receiving baptism along with Guthrum would be twenty-nine of his chief men, and Erlend Olafson, his nephew.
Like Athelney, Aller was deep in the marshes of Somerset. Guthrum looked around with interest as his horse followed Alfred’s through the perilous reeds; there was no way of telling to the untutored eye where lay dry land and where lay water. All Guthrum could see for miles around was this vast sea of reeds.
Guthrum looked from his surroundings to the back of the man riding before him. These marshes had been the saving of Alfred of Wessex, he thought. Had it not been for them, and the protection they had afforded …
Alfred’s head suddenly swung around, as if he had heard Guthrum’s thought, and the two men looked at each other. Guthrum said in his thick Saxon, “You … lucky …” and he gestured to indicate he meant the swamps.
Alfred grinned. “Yes,” he replied. “I know.”
Guthrum understood him. He found Alfred’s crisp diction surprisingly easy to follow. “How long …” he said. “To church.”
“Not long now,” came the reply. “We are almost there.”
And indeed in less than half an hour they had come to the church at Aller. Aller was like Athelney and Glastonbury, an island when the waters were high in spring, but in the summer its moat dried up and it was left accessible on all sides. At this time of year they still had to cross by the narrow planked bridge that gave access to the church to the people of the surrounding area.
The church at Aller was a small narrow stone structure with high narrow windows cut into the stone on both long sides. There were many churches in Wessex that were more impressive. Indeed, the church at Wedmore, not too far distant, would have seemed a more likely place to hold these auspicious baptisms. Wedmore not only had a large church but also was a royal residence and could provide comfortable accommodations for all of the party.
But it was at Aller that Alfred had prayed during the most bitter hours of his exile in Somerset, and it was to the baptismal font at Aller that he was bringing his Viking king and all his followers. It was Alfred’s thanksgiving for the way his prayers had been answered.
Guthrum had been in Christian churches before, but only to sack them. Today he was here to profess allegiance to the Christian god he had so often defamed, and he found himself impressed. Aller was not nearly as large as many of the monasteries Guthrum had previously passed time in, but there was power breathing in the air here. Guthrum could feel it; it prickled the hair on the back of his neck. This was the well from which Alfred drew his strength, Guthrum thought as his eyes went searchingly to the grave face of the man who was his sponsor.
Alfred was not weak, nor was he the man to worship a god who was weak. Alfred was a leader, strong, ruthless, and, thanks to his god, blessed with luck.
Guthrum’s eyes moved from the golden-skinned face of his godfather to the crucifix that hung over the altar. This hanging god expected faithfulness from his worshipers. Guthrum had been made to understand that. When he swore an oath on the statue of the hanging god, he must keep it. If he did not, ill luck would plague him all his life, and in the afterlife he would burn in a place called hell.
He had been a fool all these years to think Christianity a religion of weakness, Guthrum thought now as the white linen headband was bound over the chrism on his forehead. This Christ was a god of battles, a god of vengeance. Guthrum could understand power like that. Gladly would he pledge his allegiance to such a god.
A god was in the air. Erlend felt this as well as Guthrum as he knelt before Alfred’s priest and felt the coolness of the chrism being placed on his forehead. Light was slanting in through the high narrow windows cut into the stone and falling on the tapestried hangings, on the golden altar vessels, and on the two fair heads of Alfred and Guthrum. The diffused scent of balsam hung in the air, the scent of the god. Father Erwald was chanting words in Latin as he bound the white linen headband around Guthrum’s forehead to keep the precious chrism in place. Then the priest was advancing to do the same for Erlend.
Erlend had not yet decided what he would do when this christening tide was over. He could take the men that Guthrum had promised him and sail for Denmark to reclaim his inheritance. Or he could go with his uncle and settle the lands of East Anglia, which was what Guthrum planned to do. Guthrum was no more for Denma
rk. He liked it in England, he said. He liked the climate and he had come to like the women. He would stay here and rule as king over the lands of East Anglia and Mercia. Erlend was welcome to join him.
Or he could stay in Wessex. At Alfred’s court, as Alfred’s friend. Heart-whole at last, no longer playing a role, pretending to be that which he was not.
The priest was now going down the line of Danes, binding the linen around all their foreheads. The linen must remain for a week, Alfred had told Erlend; then it would be removed in a chrism-loosing ceremony. That ceremony would be held at the royal manor of Wedmore, whence the party was headed on the morrow.
A beam of light slanted in the window and fell on Alfred’s face. The king was looking at Guthrum, and he wore an expression that Erlend had not expected to see in this particular place, at this particular moment. There was no trace of triumph, of exultation, of joy, on Alfred’s face. Instead the king looked almost grim.
A shiver ran down Erlend’s back. Guthrum, he thought, had better honor his word this time.
Then Guthrum’s head turned, and for a brief moment the eyes of the two kings met. Erlend was certain that his uncle read in Alfred’s face the same message he had. For a moment his breath held as he watched Guthrum’s vivid violent eyes locking with Alfred’s ruthless golden gaze. Then a corner of Guthrum’s mouth flew upward in a crooked smile, and the Viking sketched a gesture of almost courtly submission with one of his hands. Alfred’s hawk eyes veiled themselves and he gave the Dane the faintest of nods. Then both kings were once again turning to the priest, who had finished with the linen and was returning once more to the altar.
The sun was hiding behind a cloud when the baptismal party issued out of the church. As they stood together near the small cemetery beside the church, waiting for their horses to be brought so they could continue on to Glastonbury, where they were to spend the night, the cloud passed over and the sun came out full strength.
An omen, Erlend thought, lifting his face to the warmth of the sky. He heard his uncle’s deep bellow of laughter and felt an unaccustomed stirring of affection.
The old pirate, he thought. He’s met his match at last, and he has the grace to acknowledge it. One has to admire him.
“You look very noble in your chrism linen, Erlend.” It was Brand’s voice, and Erlend turned to look into the familiar greenish eyes of his friend. Before he could reply, Brand said, “It was good of you to take his name for your own.”
Each of the Danes had had to take a Christian name along with the holy chrism. The name Erlend had chosen was Edgar.
“I miss him,” Erlend said simply.
“We all do.” Brand sighed. “I dread the thought of facing Flavia. She was so fond of him.”
“I know.”
They stood together in silence, each busy with his own thoughts; then there was a stir as the groomsmen who were holding the horses began to bring them up. Within ten minutes the whole party was on the way to Glastonbury.
* * *
Chapter 40
After passing one night in the guesthouses in Glastonbury, the entire christening party, with the addition of Elswyth and her children, proceeded on to Wedmore to spend the following weeks. The royal manor of Wedmore was situated on the edge of the Somerset marshes, near the foot of the Mendip hills. Its remoteness had saved it from being raided by the Danes during the recent invasion, and now it stood, well-stocked with food by its reeve, ready to play host to the king’s new-baptized guests.
The reeve was not alone in waiting to welcome Alfred and his party. Standing beside the small round man Erlend remembered from a previous visit was a tall thin red-haired thane with a distinctly nervous expression on his face. With a shock of disbelief, Erlend recognized Athelwold.
“Name of the Raven,” he said, “how had he the nerve to show his face here?”
“Alfred sent for him,” came Brand’s laconic reply. “As you can see from the look on his face, it was not Athelwold’s idea,”
Erlend turned to stare at Brand. “What does Alfred mean to do with him?”
Brand shrugged. “He has not confided in me.”
As the two men watched, Athelwold came forward to hold his uncle’s bridle. Alfred spoke to him briefly, dismounted, then turned to lift his wife from her horse.
Erlend looked at Elswyth. Her eyes were on her husband’s nephew, and Erlend shivered at the look he saw in that inimical dark blue stare.
“Athelwold had better keep his distance from Elswyth.” It was Brand, as discerning an observer as Erlend was. “From the look in her eye, she would put a dagger in him as soon as not.”
“She might do even worse,” Erlend said. “She might put him in the path of Flavia and Edward.”
Brand grinned, and shivered dramatically. “I might like to put a knife into Athelwold myself, but I have never been a man for torture,” he said.
Both men laughed and swung down from their saddles.
Athelwold had disappeared into the hall. Elswyth’s voice came clear. “I would like to tear his eyes out!” she was saying to her husband.
Alfred put an arm about her shoulders and began to walk her toward the hall, his head bent to hers, his voice pitched for only her ears to hear.
Erlend sighed with profound satisfaction. He was home.
“He is the son of my brother, Elswyth,” Alfred said to his wife much later that evening when they were alone together in their bedchamber. Elswyth had retired from the feast early, but she was still awake when at last Alfred parted from his guests and came into their room.
“I do not care whose son he is,” Elswyth returned now fiercely. She was sitting up in bed, propped against some pillows. Even by the dim light of a single candle, Alfred could see how her eyes were flashing. “He is a traitor! Were he anyone else, you would have him hanged. You know you would.”
He replied pacifically, “I do not deny that. But he is not anyone else. He is Athelstan’s son, and I cannot harm him.” He was undressing, laying his clothes with his usual methodical neatness in a folded pile on the garment chest.
“He would have harmed you! He would have you killed in the most vile and bloody way—”
“I know. I know. I am not excusing him.” He pulled his tunic over his head, emerging with ruffled flyaway hair. “Nor am I saying I will ever trust him. I am simply saying that I cannot hang him, thirsty though you may be for his blood.”
Her mouth curled downward. “You are making a mistake.”
“Perhaps I am. But I cannot do otherwise. I would never rest easy knowing I had taken the life of my father’s grandson. No matter what he may have done.”
Mutinous silence came from the bed.
He was down to his headband, which he untied and laid carefully on top of the pile of clothes. “If you could get your hands on Ceolwulf, would you hang him?”
“It is not the same thing,” came her impatient reply. “Ceolwulf is not worth the hanging.”
“Neither is Athelwold.”
Elswyth let out an explosive breath. “I hate to argue with you, Alfred! You always turn things about so it seems that you are in the right!”
Alfred grinned. “Guthrum admires you,” he said to change the subject. “He told me he thought you were very beautiful.” He began to walk toward the bed.
Elswyth snorted, not impressed by the Dane’s compliment.
“He also said he’d wager you were good in bed.”
“What!”
“But what impressed him most of all,” Alfred continued, ignoring her seething outrage and climbing in beside her, “was when I told him you had personally trained all the horses we robbed from him at Wilton. He was much taken with the improvement in them when he reannexed them at Wantage.”
“It seems to me you are getting much too friendly with that disreputable Viking,” Elswyth said severely. “Don’t forget, Alfred. That is the man who almost stole your kingdom.”
“I am not like to forget that, my love.”
H
e held out an arm and she nestled cozily into the hollow of his shoulder. “Do you really think you can trust him this time?” she asked.
The teasing note had quite left his voice when he answered, “I think so, but I promise you I have no intention of relaxing my vigilance. Wessex must be put into a perpetual state of readiness. I doubt we shall see real peace in my lifetime, Elswyth.”
She pressed her cheek against the warm bare skin of his shoulder. “So Guthrum will continue to be King of Mercia and East Anglia,” she said.
His arm around her tightened. “I am sorry, love. There is naught I can do for Mercia now. Our task is to hold out here in Wessex. For the moment we must leave it to Ethelred to lead the Mercian resistance. Ethelred and your brother Athulf. And perhaps someday Edward, who is half Mercian himself, will be able to take a more effective stand than I can.”
A little silence fell as she considered this thought. Then she asked, “What will you do here in Wessex?”
“I will build the fortified burghs we have talked about before. And I must work out a system that will enable me to keep an army in the field at all seasons. This coming and going of the fyrd is disastrous.”
“Mmm.” He felt the tickle of her long lashes as they brushed against his bare skin. He moved his hand up and down her shoulder in a slow, deliberate caress and touched his lips to the satin smoothness of her crown.
He said lazily, “And I must begin to seek out men of learning, teachers who will come to Wessex to help restore the civilization we have lost during these many years of struggle.”
“I knew we would get down to the books eventually,” came Elswyth’s husky voice.
He chuckled. “You know me too well.”
“What will Erlend do now?” she murmured. “Will he return to Denmark?”
He dropped a soft kiss on her hair. “I don’t know what he will do. Poor boy. He said to me the other day that he had been in England for so long that he was like a creature torn between two worlds.”
