“Of course not,” I said. “He may be the king, but I’m not a fool.”
She laughed, which made Stiorra echo the laugh. “I wish I could come with you to Lundene,” Gisela said wistfully.
“You can’t,” I said forcefully.
“I know,” she answered with uncharacteristic meekness, then touched a hand to her belly. “I really can’t.”
I stared at her. I stared a long time as her news settled in my mind. I stared, I smiled, and then I laughed. I threw Stiorra high into the air so that her dark hair almost touched the smoke-blackened thatch. “Your mother’s pregnant,” I told the happily squealing child.
“And it’s all your father’s fault,” Gisela added sternly.
We were so happy.
?thelred was my cousin, the son of my mother’s brother. He was a Mercian, though for years now he had been loyal to Alfred of Wessex, and that day in Wintanceaster, in the great church Alfred had built, ?thelred of Mercia received his reward for that loyalty.
He was given ?thelflaed, Alfred’s eldest daughter and second child. She was golden haired and had eyes the color and brightness of a summer’s sky. ?thelflaed was thirteen or fourteen years old then, the proper age for a girl to marry, and she had grown into a tall young woman with an upright stance and a bold look. She was already as tall as the man who was to be her husband.
?thelred is a hero now. I hear tales of him, tales told by firelight in Saxon halls the length of England. ?thelred the Bold, ?thelred the Warrior, ?thelred the Loyal. I smile when I hear the stories, but I do not say anything, not even when men ask if it is true that I once knew ?thelred. Of course I knew ?thelred, and it is true that he was a warrior before sickness slowed and stilled him, and he was also bold, though his shrewdest stroke was to pay poets to be his courtiers so that they would make up songs about his prowess. A man could become rich in ?thelred’s court by stringing words like beads.
He was never King of Mercia, though he wanted to be. Alfred made sure of that, for Alfred wanted no king in Mercia. He wanted a loyal follower to be the ruler of Mercia, and he made sure that loyal follower was dependent on West Saxon money, and ?thelred was his chosen man. He was given the title Ealdorman of Mercia, and in all but name he was king, though the Danes of northern Mercia never recognized his authority. They did recognize his power, and that power came from being Alfred’s son-in-law, which was why the Saxon thegns of southern Mercia also accepted him. They may not have liked Ealdorman ?thelred, but they knew he could bring West Saxon troops to confront any southward move by the Danes.
And on a spring day in Wintanceaster, a day bright with birdsong and sunlight, ?thelred came into his power. He strutted into Alfred’s big new church with a smile across his red-bearded face. He ever suffered from the delusion that others liked him and perhaps some men did like him, but not me. My cousin was short, pugnacious, and boastful. His jaw was broad and belligerent, his eyes challenging. He was twice as old as his bride, and for almost five years he had been commander of Alfred’s household troops, an appointment he owed to birth rather than to ability. His good fortune had been to inherit lands that spread across most of southern Mercia, and that made him Mercia’s foremost nobleman and, I grudgingly supposed, that sad country’s natural leader. He was also, I ungrudgingly supposed, a piece of shit.
Alfred never saw that. He was deceived by ?thelred’s flamboyant piety, and by the fact that ?thelred was always ready to agree with the King of Wessex. Yes, lord, no, lord, let me empty your night soil bucket, lord, and let me lick your royal arse, lord. That was ?thelred, and his reward was ?thelflaed.
She came into the church a few moments after ?thelred and she, like him, was smiling. She was in love with love, transported that day to a height of joy that showed like radiance on her sweet face. She was a lithe young woman who already had a sway in her hips. She was long-legged, slender, and with a snub-nosed face unscarred by disease. She wore a dress of pale blue linen sewn with panels showing saints with halos and crosses. She had a girdle of gold cloth hung with tassels and small silver bells. Over her shoulders was a cape of white linen that was fastened at her throat with a crystal brooch. The cape swept the rushes on the flagstone floor as she walked. Her hair, gold bright, was coiled about her head and held in place with ivory combs. That spring day was the first on which she wore her hair up, a sign of marriage, and it revealed her long thin neck. She was so graceful that day.
She caught my gaze as she walked toward the white-hung altar and her eyes, already filled with delight, seemed to take on a new dazzle. She smiled at me and I had to smile back, and she laughed for joy before walking on toward her father and the man who was to be her husband. “She’s very fond of you,” Gisela said with a smile.
“We have been friends since she was a child,” I said.
“She is still a child,” Gisela said softly as the bride reached the flower-strewn, cross-burdened altar.
I remember thinking that ?thelflaed was being sacrificed on that altar, but if that was true then she was a most willing victim. She had always been a mischievous and willful child, and I did not doubt that she chafed under her sour mother’s eye and her stern father’s rules. She saw marriage as an escape from Alfred’s dour and pious court, and that day Alfred’s new church was filled with her happiness. I saw Steapa, perhaps the greatest warrior of Wessex, crying. Steapa, like me, was fond of ?thelflaed.
There were close to three hundred folk in the church. Envoys had come from the Frankish kingdoms across the sea, and others had come from Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, and the Welsh kingdoms, and those men, all priests or nobles, were given places of honor close to the altar. The ealdormen and high reeves of Wessex were there too, while nearest to the altar was a dark herd of priests and monks. I heard little of the mass, for Gisela and I were in the back of the church where we talked with friends. Once in a while a sharp command for silence would be issued by a priest, but no one took any notice.
Hild, abbess of a nunnery in Wintanceaster, embraced Gisela. Gisela had two good Christian friends. The first was Hild, who had once fled the church to become my lover, and the other was Thyra, Ragnar’s sister, with whom I had grown up and whom I loved as a sister. Thyra was a Dane, of course, and had been raised in the worship of Thor and Odin, but she had converted and come south to Wessex. She dressed like a nun. She wore a drab gray robe with a hood that hid her astonishing beauty. A black girdle encircled her waist, which was normally as thin as Gisela’s, but now was plump with pregnancy. I laid a gentle hand on the girdle. “Another?” I asked.
“And soon,” Thyra said. She had given birth to three children, of whom one, a boy, still lived.
“Your husband is insatiable,” I said with mock sternness.
“It is God’s will,” Thyra said seriously. The humor I remembered from her childhood had evaporated with her conversion, though in truth it had probably left her when she had been enslaved in Dunholm by her brother’s enemies. She had been raped and abused and driven mad by her captors, and Ragnar and I had fought our way into Dunholm to release her, but it was Christianity that had freed her from the madness and made her into the serene woman who now looked at me so gravely.
“And how is your husband?” I asked her.
“Well, thank you,” her face brightened as she spoke. Thyra had found love, not just of God, but of a good man, and for that I was thankful.
“You will, of course, call the child Uhtred if it’s a boy,” I said sternly.
“If the king permits it,” Thyra said, “we shall name him Alfred, and if she’s a girl then she will be called Hild.”
That made Hild cry, and Gisela then revealed that she was also pregnant, and the three women went into an interminable discussion of babies. I extricated myself and found Steapa who was standing head and shoulders above the rest of the congregation. “You know I’m to throw Sigefrid and Erik out of Lundene?” I asked him.
“I was told,” he said in his slow, deliberate way.
“You’ll come?”
He gave a quick smile that I took to be consent. He had a frightening face, his skin stretched tight across his big-boned skull so that he seemed to be perpetually grimacing. In battle he was fearsome, a huge warrior with sword skill and savagery. He had been born to slavery, but his size and his fighting ability had raised him to his present eminence. He served in Alfred’s bodyguard, owned slaves himself, and farmed a wide swath of fine land in Wiltunscir. Men were wary of Steapa because of the anger that was ever-present on his face, but I knew him to be a kind man. He was not clever. Steapa was never a thinker, but he was kind and he was loyal. “I’ll ask the king to
