Far Traveler (5 page)

Gleawceaster? But how could she not be buried here in the heart of Mercia? Gleawceaster marked the old border between Mercia and Wessex. My fingers tightened around Æthelstan's.

“Ælfwyn”—King Edward had turned to leave, but he stopped. “Your mother,” he pronounced with difficulty, “your mother was ... she was my ... I'm sorry.” He ducked beneath the lintel and was gone. A tear trickled down my cheek.

“Another journey, Wyn,” Gytha said quietly. “We'd better get ready.”

BY THE THIRD HOUR OF DAYLIGHT, GYTHA HAD PLAITED UP MY hair, washed my face, and brushed the dust from my clothes as best she could. Now she was packing the few things we had brought from our wagon. Swollen-eyed, I waited outside with Dunstan and watched as one by one, each thane stopped before King Edward, bowed, and exchanged a few words that I could not hear. After his pledge, the thane went with his men to stand behind the king's party.
Mother used to stand and receive the pledges this way.
Many a man she had greeted by name, I remembered, knowing his family's history, and rewarding his loyalty with gifts to show her gratitude. Her gifts to her allies had always been very fine—gold perhaps, a valuable horse, or a beautifully worked saddle.

Sometimes, I remembered, my mother's eye would find me where I watched the procession, and she would smile....

How I needed her! Æthelstan's words stabbed at me again.
Removal to Wessex. Marriage.
Who could help me? I glanced at Dunstan's impassive face, then looked across at Æthelstan. My cousin looked at me and tried to smile. He had sat with me for more than an hour this morning, speaking quietly of Mother, of how happy he had been during his years in her care. Still, in all that time he made no move to tell me what he knew of the king's plans, and when he went to rejoin the king, I felt more pain, not less. Æthelstan was not the same boy who had ridden away from Lunden not half a season before. He was King Edward's son, and heir to the West Saxon throne.

“Lady Ælfwyn.”

I gave a start. Dunstan had turned to me with a little bow. Then he, too, went to stand before the king and it struck me—
The pledge of all Mercians at Tameworthig.
King Edward was demanding a pledge of loyalty even from Dunstan, who had been born in Wessex, and who had served my mother in Mercia ever since her marriage.

So the king must be worried that even
these
men, who had served Lady Æthelflæd for years, might not be loyal to him now.

More Mercian thanes from the land surrounding Tameworthig now passed in front of the king, declaring their loyalty to him and receiving his promise of protection. But I saw some of these men begin to shift with nervousness when the king spoke to them. Others turned their heads anxiously, as if they wished to speak with their companions before their audience with the king ended. The knot of Mercian landholders who had finished making their pledges was growing into a restless crowd, and I could hear raised voices as they milled among each other.

“What's happening?” I asked in a low voice as Dunstan returned to my side. His jaw tightened.

“Girl,” he said with surrender in his voice, “I don't want to give you any more sorrow, but I'll tell you what I know.” The old fighter drew me up close to him. “These Mercians, who came to show honor to Æthelflæd, have had to pledge loyalty, along with all the levies of their lands, to the West Saxon court. As have my men. Mercian money and goods will go to Wintanceaster now, not to Lunden.”

“But Mother always sent Mercian wealth to the king,” I protested. Dunstan shook his head.

“Not the whole levy,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “Not every silver penny of it, which is what the king will now require.” He leaned closer. “These people,” he finished in a low voice meant for my ear alone, “these Mercians who came today to honor their lady and her good rule, have begun to fear the end of Mercia itself.”

I felt a swell of dread, cold and ugly inside of me.
The end of Mercia?
I searched Dunstan's countenance for outrage or even fear, but saw something far worse: pity.

TWO DAYS LATER THEY BURIED MY MOTHER AT THE EAST END OF St. Oswald's Minster in the vast square vault where my father also lay. The abbot began chanting the last words of the Latin service, but I hardly heard him. I stood beside my uncle the king, whose features were as rigid as the carved faces of the saints. Today it was hard to see any clear sign that Edward had cared personally for my mother. But the year the minster was finished, I remembered, Uncle Edward had raided Lincylene to bring Mother the relics of their holy ancestor Saint Oswald of Northumbria. In tribute to Mother's work, Edward had said, Saint Oswald's bones would ever rest at Gleawceaster.

Now the gesture seemed little more than a show of the king's strength, I thought miserably as I stood hunched beside him. The saint's bones proved that Edward would take whatever he wanted—even the body of a holy man—and distribute such possessions where it pleased him.
Am I his possession, as well?

Not even Gytha was with me now. She had been gone without a word when I had awakened this morning. To whom could I look? On my other side Æthelstan rubbed his jaw as he shot a glance at me, then looked away unhappily. No, I found little comfort in Æthelstan's presence now.

With a grinding heave the monks slid the broad stone slab over the vault.
Mother!
The king strode forward flanked by his guards, and Æthelstan and I followed him past the abbot, past the abbess, and along the line of Mercian nobles who had been permitted inside the chapel for their lady's burial. At the doors the king let his escort go ahead, and then led Æthelstan and me out into the minster's courtyard.

Rain was falling on the crowd of Gleawceaster townspeople and other Mercians who had gathered from the surrounding burghs and countryside. The crowd seemed restless—they jostled each other, and a few began to shove against the royal attendants near me. I heard a shout, and then another, closer this time. All at once a figure in a muddy cloak and hood pushed past the guards and lunged at me, grabbing my arm.

“They buried the lady without me!” the person wailed. “Why was I turned away?” With a cry of panic I tried to pull free. Æthelstan raised his hand to cuff back my assailant when, suddenly, I recognized the stranger.

“Don't touch her!” I shrieked, blocking my cousin's blow. Still clinging to my clothes, the figure slipped weakly to the ground. I knelt and pushed back the hood of the cloak.

It was Edith. But the neat, sharp-tongued Edith I knew appeared completely undone. Her greying hair had fallen down around her shoulders and stuck to her cheeks in wet hanks.

“They buried her without me,” she moaned again. “They would not let me in.” I stared at her in horror. Edith had come all the way from Lunden to Gleawceaster, and no one had even told me she was here.

More shouts were ringing out across the courtyard. It was a woman's voice again. I looked up to see two guards struggling with another cloaked form. I saw a flash of red hair.

“That's Gytha! My companion Gytha!” I cried out. “Let her go!” I saw the guards drop their hands in surprise as I turned back to Edith. A second later Gytha shouldered in beside me, breathing heavily, and took her mother's cold hands in hers.

“I met her outside the minster this morning when I went to get more food,” she told me between gasps. “She rode from Lunden to Tameworthig, and then came here without stopping. The guards wouldn't let us come to you.”

“What is all this?” King Edward's voice was angry, growing louder as he strode toward us. “Who disrupts us, with no respect for Lady Æthelflæd?” I stood up and half faced my uncle as Gytha helped her mother sit up.

“This ... this is Edith, mother of my companion Gytha”—I faltered—“and daughter of Red, a thane who gave his life to serve Lady Æthelflæd. She was kept outside by the guards.” The king looked at the women behind me, and recognition flashed in his eyes.

“Pardon, Lady,” said King Edward to Edith. “I—I knew your father when I was a boy. My guards should not have kept you outside. And this is your daughter? Ælfwyn's companion?” He pointed at my friend. Edith nodded.

The king turned to Gytha: “Take your mother into the abbey. Give her dry clothing, food, and rest. She is our honored guest.” With a nod Gytha moved to obey the king. But Edith was already struggling to her feet.

“I will stay with Lady Ælfwyn.” Edith's voice was louder and steadier now, though her body still trembled with cold. “Mercia is her home, and mine. We would be ashamed”—her voice echoed across the listening courtyard—“if you were not
our
guests in our own country.”

The crowd pressed closer as Edith spoke, and when she had finished, there was a murmur as her words were passed back to those who had not heard. The townspeople had drawn near enough that I could smell the wet wool of their clothes. I could see their faces harden as they heard Edith's words.
Our own country,
she had called Mercia, as if the king had no claim upon it.

Nervously, I looked for the king's guards. They were nowhere near us. Somehow a group of laborers had pushed past them, shoving their way farther between me and the rest of the royal company. Across the sea of bodies, I saw Edward motion furiously to Dunstan, who immediately rode over to the wall where Edward and his men had been forced. I noticed that Dunstan's men, also on horseback, were positioned at regular intervals around the crowd. They seemed to form a kind of semicircle. Was I mistaken, or had I seen the members of my mother's guard urge their horses forward a step or two—all at the same time?

King Edward was speaking rapidly to Dunstan. This Mercian crowd was clearly challenging his authority here. Æthelstan, standing beside him, had gone white and silent.

Now the king was gazing at me with a kind of calculation in his eyes. He flung a sharp order at Dunstan, who dismounted and handed his reins to Edward. The king swung up onto Dunstan's horse and began pushing through the crowd alone, toward me.

“Ælfwyn,” he barked above the din, “my men and I must return north. We can't stay here in Gleawceaster”—he looked hard at Edith—“as your
guests.
”

Surely with a word he could have driven the crowd off. But not on the lady's funeral day, I thought with a lump in my throat. The love and honor my mother had won in her lifetime still meant something. The king's final words seemed to prove me right.

“Æthelstan will visit Mercia to bring us news of your welfare. And I promise you, girl,” King Edward finished with a sentence that was as much threat as promise—“Wessex will not forget Mercia.”

I stared at his fierce face looking down at me, and I nodded.

The king rode to the edge of the crowd, dismounted, and threw the reins to Dunstan. Without a backward glance he left. Æthelstan and the members of the West Saxon royal guard followed.

At my side, Edith was suddenly full of vigor, glaring after the king with her fists planted on her hips. Relief flooded me, and then anguish. I buried my head on her shoulder.

“Edith, I thought the king was going to take me to Wessex,” I said into the sodden wool of her cloak. “Why did he leave me here instead?”

“Edward thought Mercia died with Æthelflæd,” Edith muttered. “We showed him he was wrong.”

MY FRIENDS BROUGHT ME BACK TO LUNDEN, AND FOR NEARLY two months I kept to my chamber, at first only crying and sleeping, and sometimes trying to eat a little of the food Gytha and Edith brought me. It was Grimbald who drew me out at last.

“I won't have her wasting her days like this,” he had fumed, speaking to Edith as I huddled beneath the bedclothes. “Seven years I've taught her, at first because it was the lady's wish, but later because Ælfwyn was a fair student.” He paused. “In truth, she was one of my best,” he continued at last, sounding even angrier. I felt his bony hand on my shoulder as he gave me a little shake. “I'll expect you in the scriptorium tomorrow morning, girl,” he said sharply. “Your mother would have wanted it.”

Despite his strong words, Grimbald looked a little surprised when I shuffled into the scriptorium the next day. “See that you come before the third hour rings next morning,” he said curtly, but there was an unaccustomed gentleness in his manner as he brought the books and arranged them in front of us on the slanted table. I caught my breath as he removed a tiny volume from a battered leather pouch.

“Mother's handbook,” I whispered. Grimbald nodded.

“Edith brought it back from Gleawceaster, with the lady's other things. She gave it to me for the abbey library, but I thought perhaps you should keep it for now.” My fingers trembled as I touched the plain binding. Mother had always carried her book with her. Inside it she had copied charms, riddles, battlesongs, bits of histories and saints' lives—any favorite readings she wanted to keep close by to read again at her leisure. Grimbald reached around me and opened the book, leafing through it until he found the page he wanted.

“Remember the scop's poem?” he asked. I stiffened, recalling the night a traveling singer had entertained us after supper. Grimbald had been seated nearby that evening. He must have overheard me tell my mother that a scop's entertainment could never be as fine as the poems I'd been learning to read. Then Mother had taken out her handbook.

“She showed me this lament,” I mumbled.

“Yes,” Grimbald replied, touching the words written in Mother's own hand, “a lament written by a scop.”