Far Traveler (21 page)

I shook the loose dirt from my dress. A meal in my house with Aunt Dove. A year ago would I have guessed that, come another spring, I'd still be shut up here at Sceaftesburh, forbidden to venture out of sight of the abbey? With a sigh, I went to dip a few handfuls of water from the trough inside our stable.

There were no horses here now: King Edward had permitted me to come to this cottage outside the abbey walls with the provision that neither I nor any companion who joined me here would keep a horse. When Edith left for East Anglia two days ago, she went in an oxcart sent specially from Wintanceaster—that was the only way for us to come and go. I splashed my cheeks and straightened up, looking at my fingernails. Most of the black had washed away. Hoping my face was clean, too, I headed in.

“I have some news for you,” my aunt said as I entered the house and joined her at the table where she'd laid out a few things for us to eat. “This morning I had a visit from Bishop Frithustan.” My eyes widened, and I glanced up from the soft cheese into which I'd begun to dip a piece of the new bread. Frithustan? The bishop of Wintanceaster had come here? But I had no opportunity to ask questions. “He began,” my aunt was saying testily, “by reminding me that some churchmen continue to argue that all men and women of holy orders must keep entirely apart, that they should never even occupy the same abbey, as the monks and nuns at Sceaftesburh do.” My aunt shook her head. “The men and women in my care have separate quarters for sleeping, and do not eat or pray beside each other—that has always been sufficient in the past. And which of them should I turn out? My monk John, who can heal an ox of any injury this side of death? Sister Wulfrun, the baker's widow, who makes this excellent bread?” She brandished the round loaf. “I need every one of my brothers and sisters at Sceaftesburh. Together we do God's work well.”

“Did you wave bread at Bishop Frithustan?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” She scowled, replacing the loaf on the table. “I listened while he gave me other news, which you should hear.” Aunt Dove's voice, which had risen with indignation, suddenly grew quiet and serious. “King Rægnald, the bishop tells me, has indeed accepted Edward as his lord, as have all who live in Northumbria—English, Danish, Norse—everyone.” She fell silent, looking at me intently to see how I would take the news.

So it was finally well known, this thing I had guessed when I saw Uncle Edward's coin in Cirenceaster.
Everyone north of the Humber, even Rægnald, who calls himself their king.
“Do you think,” I said in a soft voice, “that Edward would let me go back to Lunden, now that matters in Northumbria are resolved?”

Aunt Dove's face was sorrowful as she shook her head. “Not to Lunden, dear. You mustn't hope that he will ever consider that.” She took one of my hands in hers. “There are still too many people who would use you, he fears, to challenge the West Saxon throne. He might consider marriage for you, to an ally across the sea, perhaps.”

“But I have pledged my loyalty to King Edward and Wessex for everyone to see!” I protested. “I have lived here quietly for well over a year, speaking to no one but you and Edith. Will nothing convince him that I am not a threat?”

“Ælfwyn,” my aunt said, and it seemed to me that she spoke with some difficulty, “for your own protection, as well as his, he wants you in a safe place. And you have been happy here, haven't you?” She squeezed my hand. “You have had me, and Edith, and your books, and your writing. I'm going to send your poem back to Wintanceaster with Bishop Frithustan,” she added. “I told him the king should see it.”

“The king doesn't care about poetry,” I muttered.

“The bishop will tell the king what I said, and Edward will read your poem,” Aunt Dove responded with certainty. “Listen to me, Wyn. I see how your poem honors my sister Æthelflæd. Judith is indeed as valiant and as loyal to her people as we always found Æthelflæd to be. But Ælfwyn, your Judith
worries
about what she has to do. She says, ‘Sorely now is my heart heated and my gloomy mind much afflicted with misery.' I find your Judith more like ... more like you, Ælfwyn. You doubt yourself—I see it—but in the face of your fears, you still try. When Edward reads your poem, in Judith he will see Æthelflæd, the sister he trusted all his life. But I hope he will also see Ælfwyn, who has pledged her own fealty to the crown, and ought not ...” She trailed off.

“And ought not be confined against her will,” I finished bleakly. I sat, staring at a bit of bread crust in front of me as the pause lengthened. “So Rægnald will remain enthroned at Eoforwic, promising loyalty to King Edward,” I spoke at last. “And the English and Danes and Norse there are satisfied with that?”

“They trust Wessex to keep peace in Northumbria,” Aunt Dove answered. “For now, that is enough.”

We were both silent after that, until with another sigh Aunt Dove pushed herself back from the table and stood up. “I'm needed in the scriptorium, they tell me, to supervise the new scribes for an hour or two. We have two nuns who are just completing their training here with us, and a brother who has come all the way from Italy to learn the English way of writing and decoration. Men and women working within sight of each other—what would Bishop Frithustan have to say about that?” She rolled her eyes impatiently, then returned her gaze to me. “Will I see you there this afternoon, Ælfwyn?”

“I've spent most of the past year writing in your scriptorium and reading in your library, Aunt Dove,” I replied. “Today I'm going to blacken my fingers with dirt instead of ink.” She nodded, and together we went to the doorway.

“You'll be in your garden, then?” she asked as we stopped on the threshold.

“I thought I'd walk to that rocky field where we found rosemary growing. I'd like a plant near the house.” Aunt Dove nodded and stepped outside. “The bishop will take my poem to the king?” I blurted out before she could go any farther.

“He'll take it”—she reached back and hugged me close to her—“and the king will see that he need not fear Ælfwyn of Mercia.”

 

Following a well-traveled path, I set out that afternoon, going past the wooden buildings of the abbey and out into the partly tilled fields where a few of the holy brothers from Sceaftesburh were plowing. At least I could walk a little distance away from the settlement by myself, which was better than it had been in Wintanceaster, I tried to comfort myself. A year and a half ago, wouldn't I have been more than content to live at some distance from my uncle's court, well supplied with books and the leisure to read them, and free of the threat of marriage to someone chosen by the king? A year and a half ago that would have felt like an escape. Now it did not.

No one was plowing the stony pasture when I reached it, of course—it had never been worth the bother. Early wild-flowers waved, white and yellow on their stems. I found a silvery, fragrant rosemary plant small enough that I could dig it out with the wooden trowel I'd brought. I pressed soil around its roots, lifted it onto the cloth I'd brought to wrap it in, and pushed myself up from where I'd been kneeling.

That's when a movement caught my eye. A horseman was riding up to the edge of my field—or were there two of them? No, it was a man on a dark bay leading a packhorse. They were already quite close, and I started to hear the clink of the horses' gear. The rider raised his arm.

“Ho, woman!” He was coming nearer and nearer. I dropped my trowel. “You there! I see the abbey over that way. Will this path lead me to it?” He was reining in his horse now, just a few paces from where I stood. “Answer me, will you?” the man insisted. “Does this path go to Sceaftesburh?”

“Wil,” I said.

It
was
Wil. When I spoke he went completely still. His hair and beard were well trimmed again, I saw—not the wild black tangle I remembered from Cirenceaster—but I think I'd have recognized that glower even if he'd shaved and painted himself blue like a northern pagan. Then he slid down from his horse and took three strides to where I stood.

“Why the devil can't I know you when I see you?” he demanded, then broke off, running his eyes over my clothes and hands. “Are you a slave here, Lady?” he exclaimed. “Has Edward rewarded your loyalty so poorly?”

“No, no.” His quick anger almost made me smile, although I was trembling with the surprise of seeing him. “I chose a muddy chore for myself today, that's all. I am kept at Sceaftesburh very comfortably.”

“Kept
at Sceaftesburh,” he responded. “Yes. I had heard that.” He reached out a hand, then let it fall to his side. “I had heard that,” he muttered.

“Where ... what are you doing at Sceaftesburh?” I faltered. “You're headed for the abbey, you said? To see my aunt?”

“To see Abbess Æthelgifu?” Wil snorted. He stepped back a pace. “Your king wouldn't welcome me in this country, Lady. I'm not about to announce my visit to his sister.”

“So you came to—to ...”

“I came to find Widsith, that beggar,” Wil said, rubbing his forehead. “You may remember that the last time I saw him was outside Osgar's hall, where I wished him luck for his performance. For a year now I've wanted to know why Widsith thought it was a good idea not to tell me everything he knew about Lady Ælfwyn of Mercia.” There was bitterness in his voice, and I hung my head.

“I—I was running. I wasn't sure whom to trust. I thought it might make things worse for you, if you knew.”

“And ignorance was much better, of course! I bring every man and weapon I possess to wreak vengeance on the king and force his hand against Rægnald. You step into the hall and lo, my martyred lady is restored! You then remind us why, after all, we should trust King Edward to deal with the trouble in Northumbria in his own way, and I'm left to run with the few who will still follow me, away from Cirenceaster, possessing only what we have in our saddle-bags, wondering how long we have before the king hears who we are, and sets his riders on our track.”

“But he had made a treaty with Rægnald already! And I didn't tell Uncle Edward anything about you,” I protested desperately. “I promise you, I said nothing!”

“Indeed, no riders followed us,” Wil said in a gentler tone. “I guessed that we had you to thank for that. And you were right. Rægnald had already sworn fealty to Edward, as everyone now knows.” The wind was coming up, blowing my dress until it twisted around my legs. Wil kept talking. “I haven't heard tell of any new scop at Sceaftesburh,” he said in the same kind voice.

“I don't play or sing here,” I mumbled. “Sometimes I write. I finished my English
Judith.
I think it might be a good poem. Aunt Dove—Abbess Æthelgifu, I mean—is sending it to the king.”

“And what do you hope will come of that gift?” Wil wanted to know.

“I ... I hope he will remember me. I hope he will think of my mother's loyalty and service to him,” I replied listlessly.

“He should remember
your
loyalty and service,” Wil said with force. “If not for you, he would have faced enough rebellion at Cirenceaster to badly weaken his Mercian claims. And I will say this: Under my guidance Eoforwic still belonged to the Danes, but thanks to the treaty with Rægnald, Edward rules north of the Humber at last.” Wil shook his head wonderingly. “I would not have guessed that it could be so. But you saw it, Lady? How?”

“I only saw the brother whom Lady Æthelflæd had served and trusted all her life, and opposite him a man I had learned to ... to admire very much. I didn't want either of you to destroy the other,” I replied with difficulty. I looked into Wil's face. “Are you still angry with me?”

Wil didn't answer at once, and I couldn't read his expression. “Last month I went into Northumbria, secretly,” he spoke at last. “The Norse took farmland from my people after I was driven out, but as I rode through the countryside, I saw Norse and English and Danish settlers beginning to live side by side, to share a few things with each other. There is even talk of the archbishop returning to Eoforwic Minster before the end of this year ...” He trailed off.

In the plowed field nearest to the pasture where we stood, the monks had halted their oxen and were pointing at the sky. Spring storm rising. Time to stop. Time to take the tools and animals in. One of the brothers was shading his eyes, peering in our direction.

“I think they've seen you,” I told Wil. “You'd better not ...” Why was it so hard for me to say these words? “You'd better not stay.”

“I haven't really told you why I came to Sceaftesburh,” he said, ignoring what I'd said.

“To question Widsith—isn't that what you said?” I responded uncertainly, but Wil waved dismissively.

“First of all, I came to bring you your horse,” he told me.

“My horse?” I turned around to stare at the riderless mount again. “Winter!”

“When his cold-weather coat started to grow in—all those long white hairs coming through the dun—it took a month for me to figure out what you'd done.” Winter was still softly mottled with brown and dirty from traveling. I rubbed his arched neck.

“Thank you. But I can't keep a horse at Sceaftesburh,” I said. “The king won't allow ...” I glanced over my shoulder again—now all of the monks were staring at us. “Wil, in another moment they'll be coming. You—you can't stay here, talking like this. You've got to leave now!”

“I don't intend to leave Winter with you at Sceaftesburh,” Wil said, gazing at me.

“You don't?” One of the brothers had begun walking toward us.