The Edge on the Sword (15 page)

“Greet her, then,” said Alfred, with a sly look on his mobile face. “Chief Aldorman of Mercia,” he pronounced, stepping around Ethelred and his men, and taking the startled Flæd by the hand, “here is Lady Æthelflæd of Wessex.” In spite of her own dismay, Flæd could not help noticing that surprise had frozen Ethelred’s features at the moment she stood before him. She was keenly aware of her rumpled gown, of the fuzzy hairs that had escaped her braid and trailed into her face, of the half-mended shoe which showed a pink flash of her toe through the remaining hole. She hid this foot behind the other.

“Lady Æthelflæd,” the Mercian aldorman spoke, regaining his composure, “your message was most gladly received in Lunden. I am
honored to greet you in your father’s burgh.” Ethelred placed special emphasis on this last word, showing a trace of his former smile, and dropped to one knee.

“You are welcome here,” Flæd said softly, finding her own voice. She bowed her head to the aldorman, and then stepped back beside her warder. Ethelred broke into a grin when he saw Red standing there. He strode forward and laid his hand on Red’s shoulder.

“It is very good to see you again,” he said warmly. Ethelred looked over at Alfred. “My retainer has insured the safety of Lady Æthelflæd?” he asked.

“He has indeed met the challenge of that task,” Alfred replied, eyeing Red and Flæd with a half-smile. “Ethelred,” he continued, “you and your men have had a long and weary ride. Take your horses to our stables. We will send food to your quarters, where you may rest yourselves until morning when we will meet here to talk again.”

“I trust we will also find time to celebrate this happy visit?” Ethelred asked with a quirk to his mouth.

“Tomorrow we shall feast,” Alfred agreed.

“In a day or two my horses will be rested,” Ethelred mused innocently. “I had thought, perhaps, a race?”

“I have not forgotten your boasts,” the king told him. “I would like to see if these Mercian horses are as fast as you claim. Yes, we will announce it. The next day, a race between West Saxon and Mercian riders.”

When Ethelred and his men had gone, Red and Flæd were sent to their rest. Flæd was still reeling with the evening’s surprises, and was glad to walk through the cool night air with only the familiar company of Red and the masspriest John, who went with them.

“I believe Ethelred has raced here before,” Father John said as they walked.

“Ethelred has raced
here
?” she asked in surprise. John nodded, and Flæd thought she could detect amusement uponhis face in the starlight.

“If your father has kept this story from you, it is not because of modesty,” her tutor told her. “Ethelred bested fine riders who had the swiftest mounts of the West Saxon stables.”

“Here?” Flæd asked again.

“You have never noticed it, then?” John said with curiosity. “It has not been used since just before your father brought his family to this burgh.” Flæd shook her head, still not understanding. “The raised ground around the edge of the meadow?” John asked. “Edward tells me you walk there to avoid the winter floods.” Suddenly Flæd could picture it—the vast oval of worn, elevated earth ringing the pasture. A racecourse. “Your father
passed through this settlement with a group of West Saxon and Mercian retainers, Ethelred among them,” Father John was saying. “The races they ran against each other here gave them a little respite from the wars. Perhaps that happy time encouraged your father to come back here with his wife and children.”

Ethelred had raced horses in their own pasture against Flæd’s father. This did not surprise her after what she had just seen in Alfred’s chambers. The aldorman had laughed and blustered. He and the king had warmed each other with their banter. He was her father’s true friend, she felt more certain after tonight. But he cooled when he saw me, she remembered. We are still strangers to each other. And perhaps, a little voice nagged, he did not like what he saw.

Well, Flæd thought with a toss of her head, perhaps I am not sure I liked what I saw. In the morning, wearing her good clothes and her full dignity, she intended to have a second look at Ethelred of Mercia.

“W
E
WILL
NOT
STAND
BY
WHILE
D
ANES
CROSS
OUR
BORDER
!” Ethelred insisted.

“Chief Aldorman,” Asser said patiently, “we do not suggest leaving Mercia defenseless. But we must choose the proper time and place to move against the enemy.”

Flæd rubbed her eyes wearily. She and Red had listened all morning while Ethelred and his advisors deliberated with Alfred and Asser. The men reviewed all they had learned from the border guards. They questioned Red closely again, probing his memory of Danish battle tactics. Now they had settled in to argue over what to do next.

Ethelred had seemed surprised to see Flæd waiting in the council room when he arrived that morning. After a moment’s hesitation the large man had smiled politely to her and bowed. Then he seemed to forget about her, turning instead to her warder and questioning him about his stay in Wessex. In fact there had been very little for Flæd to do at the council table that morning, and she had settled back further on her bench as the voices of the men rose in debate. Beside her Red was nearly as silent, speaking out only when he was addressed. Flæd tugged at a thread which dangled from her sleeve.

“And would you have us risk the lives of innocents, who understand nothing of this threat? Risk the lives of our children? The life of one so delicate as Lady Æthelflæd here, who will travel to Mercia only a week or so behind my own party if you send me back now?” Ethelred said heatedly. There was a small silence while he glared around the room. Ethelred’s frown deepened when he saw Alfred smiling, and noticed that even Red’s expression had lightened.

“Forgive us, Ethelred,” Alfred said to him, “for your argument is serious. Like you, we have thought my daughter delicate. She has begun to convince us otherwise.” Alfred paused, considering his next words carefully. “Ethelred, I need your presence in Lunden again as quickly as
possible—our talks have convinced me that our Mercian holdings must not be left vulnerable in any way. I could send my daughter with you now, it is true”—(Flæd caught her breath in alarm)—“but I have promised her these last few days with her family. Of course we will send her with a suitable company of armed retainers. I have confidence that Æthelflæed’s own hardheadedness will bring her safely to Lunden, in the watchful company of my men, and of your own valued thane”—the king nodded at Red—“just as we had planned before I called you here.” Flæd looked away from the table, abashed, but not before she had seen Ethelred color with embarrassment. Then Father John’s gentle voice sounded across the room.

“We should not wonder at Lady Æthelflæd’s boldness,” her tutor said. “Her mother, after all, is Mercian.” Flæd could feel some of the tension ease in the room as Ethelred and his retainers acknowledged the compliment. She wished herself ten days’ march away as Ethelred cautiously began speaking again.

When they left the council room, Flæd slipped ahead quickly to walk with Father John, avoiding Ethelred, who had stayed to exchange a few more words with the king.

“Thank you for speaking,” she said to her tutor. “The aldorman seems—he was close to anger today.”

“He is passionate about the land he governs, I would say,” John replied mildly, “and he has not judged you properly, but that would be a poor reason to spoil these talks. I only reminded the Mercians of a fact they already knew.” He looked at Flæd curiously. “You find the aldorman…unpleasant?” Flæd looked down.

“I don’t know what to think of him,” she muttered. “He doesn’t seem to care much about me.”

“Why is it,” Father John mused, catching the eye of Red, who strode along with them, “that people often fail to see what a woman can do? It is always true of the holy women whose lives are written in our books.” He threw up his hands in mock pleading. “To everyone’s surprise Saint Helen, mother of Constantine, discovered the true cross.” Flæd felt the shadow of a smile cross her lips.

“Who knew that Saint Juliana could wrestle a devil to the ground?” she joined in, feeling a little better.

“There is a poem which I haven’t shown you yet,” the priest went on, “in which a single Hebrew woman defeats the entire Assyrian army. While no one is looking”—he arched an eyebrow at Flæd—“she cuts off the general’s head. Please, Lady, spare the aldorman if he makes himself difficult again.” Flæd had to laugh.

That night Flæd sat beside Ethelred in the great hall. She wore the new straw-colored gown she would take with her to Mercia, and around her throat lay the necklace of twisted gold which Ethelred had sent to mark their betrothal.

“The necklace looks well upon you, Lady,” Ethelred told her, a bit stiffly. “Did my other gifts please you?”

“They are all very fine,” Flæd said shyly. “I…my mother is keeping them for me until I bring them to Lunden.”

“Lunden is not so far from here,” Ethelred said. (Yes, I know, Flæd thought to herself, a little offended—I have seen it on the map.) “But a wagon is never comfortable,” the aldorman continued. “I fear you will find it a longer and less agreeable journey than my hasty ride to your father’s burgh—from sunrise to just after sunset, we rode.”

“I can ride, my lord aldorman,” Flæd said slowly, trying to understand what Ethelred meant, “even if my party must come to Mercia more slowly than you and your men came here, I can sit a horse for several days.”

“I wouldn’t think it wise for you to come mounted into Mercia,” Ethelred replied. “Danish raiders ride like demons. Surely you would be safest with the guarded wagons bringing your goods. You have not understood the dangers we spoke of in the council room….”

Flæd felt a hot stab of anger. A small part of her realized that Ethelred was trying to be kind. A much less pleasant part of her wanted to recite all the Danish military history she had learned from the Chronicle. Instead, she shut her lips tightly and stared hard at her food. Ethelred seemed not to notice that their conversation had ended badly. He turned to Alfred on his other side and began a bantering speech which soon had the king laughing. Alfred stood to address the gathering.

“We welcome you, West Saxons and Mercians, to our hall tonight. Our guest, Ethelred, chief aldorman of Mercia, has just renewed his old boast, saying that Mercia breeds swifter horses and bolder riders than does Wessex.” The king raised his hand for silence as the noise rose in the hall again. “We must treat our Mercian guests with nothing less than respect,” he continued, “but it would be unkind to let them leave our burgh believing a falsehood. We must show them that they are wrong in this opinion.” There was laughter in the crowd now, and Flæd heard several good-natured jabs directed at the Mercian retainers scattered around the hall. Alfred raised his voice to be heard above the gathered people. “I propose a race in the great pasture tomorrow. All West Saxon riders who wish to meet the Mercian challenge may come, and Ethelred has promised that he and his men will be waiting there for us.”

There was talk of the race all around as the king and his guests at the high table stood to go. As Flæd filed past the bench where her brothers and sisters sat, she leaned over to hiss in Edward’s ear, “Meet me at my chamber tonight.”

He came much later that evening, and found Flæd sitting on her bed plaiting her hair and thinking hard. “Flæd,” he whispered, slipping beneath the door hanging and coming to sit beside her, “have you looked at the Mercian horses?” She shook her head. “They’re the best I’ve seen,” he told her worriedly. “Father John told me Ethelred won the last time he and father raced.”

“He said the same thing to me,” Flæd responded, “but I don’t think Father plans to ride tomorrow. Anyhow, this race will be different.” Speaking very softly to keep from waking her sisters, Flæd told Edward what she had in mind. When she had finished, her brother could scarcely sit still.

“But will it really work?” he wanted to know.

“A fresh horse, a light rider—it will work.” She put her hand on Edward’s shoulder to calm him.

“There is one more thing—something I haven’t told you yet,” she said to him. He looked at her with sudden concern. “I need to speak to Red about what I plan to do,” she explained.

“But Flæd,” Edward protested, “he won’t agree! He’s so careful, and he’s a Mercian!”

“He trusts me,” Flæd said simply. “I need to ask him.” Sulkily, Edward nodded, and shuffled reluctantly toward the doorway with Flæd. “Red,” she said as she ducked around the curtain, “Edward and I have something to discuss…”

The next day dawned chill and misty. Clouds covered the sun, which had warmed the pasture for so many summer days, and the river steamed in the unexpected coolness of the midsummer morning. At the starting point of the race Flæd stood beside her warder, grim-faced and hunched in the cold. For the first time in weeks she wore the grey cloak her mother had made for her, with the hood pulled over her hair and her hands wrapped in its warm folds.

As they had promised, Ethelred and the Mercian retainers who had come with him had been among the first to arrive at the racecourse that morning. Flæd could see Ethelred cantering his red warhorse to limber its legs as more people from the burgh gathered on foot and on horseback. Ethelred was calm, she could see, cooler than his horse, who toyed with the bit, trying to clamp it in his teeth and stretch into a longer run. Ethelred would have his hands full holding him back until the race began. She
spotted a young sentry from her father’s chambers (Dunstan was his name, she remembered) mounted on the yellow gelding from the pasture herd—a strong horse; the sentry had a chance. Other well-mounted men from the burgh came to mill about the starting point, riding among the Mercian visitors and eyeing the foreign riders and horses.

Through the mist Alfred and Ealhswith appeared, approaching the racecourse on foot. They stopped a little distance away from Flæd and her warder to survey the growing field of riders.