Far Traveler (8 page)

You decide whom I may see, I thought resentfully, and who may talk with me. “No,” I muttered, “I have had no word.”

“Well, Lunden is peaceful, at least for now,” he said. “It's the Mercian borderlands that worry me, with Rægnald in Eoforwic.”

Rægnald in Eoforwic.
I felt as if someone had struck me a blow.

“You hadn't heard that,” Uncle Edward murmured after a moment.

“Where is the Northumbrian king, Wilfrid?” My voice had fallen to a whisper.

The king shrugged. “No one knows. But we will hold Mercia's Northumbrian border. My father took these lands back from the Danes, and I won't relinquish them now.” He sighed. “Ælfwyn, why do you think I left your mother to rule Mercia after your father's passing?”

“B-Because she was prepared to lead,” I stammered. “And—and because the people of Mercia loved her.”

“For both of those reasons,” the king said quietly, then added, “and because she was loyal to me.”

Because she was loyal to me
—and Edward worried that I was not, that Mercia was not. I hung my head, helpless and angry. There was no reason to hope for my freedom any longer.

“When Earl Aldwulf comes back,” Edward concluded as if following my thoughts, “we will arrange for your marriage. I will not need to see you again until then.”

 

Marriage to Aldwulf, I thought, brushing away furious tears as I rushed along the street, careening around travelers, tradespeople, and servants. I would finally be married to that stolid old retainer, Mercia was Edward's, Eoforwic had fallen, and King Wilfrid was lost or dead. There seemed to be no escape from these things, not even into the studies that had meant freedom while Mother was alive, and forgetfulness after her death. Nothing I could read now would make me forget that I was homeless, nearly friendless, and about to be given as a kind of prize to one of my uncle's allies.

“Hey there! Watch his feet! He'll kick if you come up behind him that way!” a young slave from the stables shouted at me. I'd almost run into the two horses he led. The lighter horse sidestepped nervously, then jerked his lead out of the stableboy's hands. “Hi! Stop that!” he yelled, grabbing for the rope.

I stumbled backward trying to avoid the pale horse's hooves. The horse reared and snorted, and then I saw.

“Winter,” I murmured, watching the slave and another man catch the rope and quiet both of the horses.

“This one's new,” the boy responded sheepishly to the angry shouts that rose from the crowd. “Doesn't like Wintanceaster much yet.”

That makes two of us, I thought as I stood tear-streaked in the middle of the road, watching them lead my horse away.

FOR A WEEK AND A HALF I WAITED. I COULD FIND NO PLEASURE in reading, and so I sat, hollow-eyed and idle, until Aldwulf's party returned.

“Aldwulf's holding is little more than a half-completed burgh, taken from the Danes just two winters back,” Gytha said as she entered my room, still wearing her traveling clothes. “Until they rebuild the defensive wall, everyone must gather in Aldwulf's own villa in case of an attack. And the villa is scarcely larger than a farmer's house! So I said to him ...”

Then she saw my face.

“The king told me I must marry Aldwulf,” I said.

“They have to let me come with you,” she choked, catching at my hands, “just like at Lunden!”

“Why haven't
you
had to marry?” I asked. My words brought Gytha up short.

“Wyn, I ...” She searched my face.

“I thought maybe your mother, or mine, or ... or
someone
permitted you to—to live as a single woman, and to remain my companion all these years.”

“Wyn, I've been happy to stay with you,” she said slowly, “but my birth has kept me unmarried.”

“Your birth? But your mother is a widow, with one of the finest estates in Mercia,” I retorted, “and you are her only child. You are beautiful, and you would make a husband rich!”

“My mother,” Gytha said, speaking with great care, “was a captive of war in her youth, enslaved in the Danelaw. You have never heard this, Ælfwyn?” Dumbly, I shook my head. “Mother was rescued, but she was not alone: She had an infant daughter, me, the child of some Dane who lay with her and then sold her again. It is known in Mercia that I have Danish blood in my veins,” Gytha said with a bitter smile, “enemy blood. We own rich lands, as you say, but I am not a suitable match for a highborn man.”

“I always thought you had the life you wanted,” I said feebly.

“Our family was almost destroyed by the Danes,” Gytha explained. “It will die away entirely now, if I cannot marry and bear an heir.”

“I'm sorry.” I hung my head. “I didn't know.”

“Don't be sorry, Wyn,” she said in a quiet voice. “King Edward is giving you what I can't have.”

 

My uncle called me to him the next morning—to make our agreement with Aldwulf, I thought for certain as I trudged through the heavy rain to his council chambers. It was not until I'd wiped my dripping face that I saw not Aldwulf, but a woman sitting in the corner behind Edward.

“Ælfwyn, this is Abbess Æthelgifu,” the king told me as the woman stood up, tall in her grey robes.

“
Aunt
Æthelgifu,” the abbess said firmly, “or Aunt Dove. Æthelflæd always called me Dove.”

Æthelgifu? This nun was the first of my mother's two younger sisters, I realized. I had heard how she'd taken holy vows while still a girl, and how she'd become abbess at Sceaftesburh—an unusually young woman at less than forty winters for such responsibility. I'd always been told she never left her abbey.

And yet here she stood in King Edward's council chamber in Wintanceaster.

“Shall I tell her why I'm here, Edward?” she wanted to know. My uncle said nothing. “Ælfwyn”—my aunt stepped forward to take my hand—“I have heard that you will marry Aldwulf of East Anglia. That is an honorable path for Lady Æthelflæd's daughter. But,” she said, turning to look at the king, “a woman may also pledge herself to God, and thus bring honor to her kin.”

The king tapped a finger to his lips. “As I told you, Aldwulf deserves my thanks and friendship”—he scowled—“and my own daughters are very young. ...”

“For Aldwulf a promise now might suffice as well as a wife,” Aunt Dove put in, a little sadly.

Edward rubbed a hand over his knuckles. “You see how this could cause me great trouble, Æthelgifu?” My aunt merely inclined her head. “Give her the choice, then,” he said brusquely, standing up to go. “I'll need to know by tomorrow night.”

Could this be true? I couldn't move. Aunt Dove stayed beside me until the king had gone.

“I'm happy to meet you at last, Ælfwyn,” Aunt Dove said. “Æthelflæd always wrote so proudly of you. You are a scholar, she said.”

“I used to read with her. Now ... it's difficult.”

“I am sorry to hear that, child.” She paused. “But don't you have a book with you, in your pocket?”

I had forgotten the handbook, but now I took it out and handed it to my aunt. She opened it and gazed at its first beautifully illuminated page, which had been a gift from their father, King Alfred, to my mother. For several minutes she leafed through the book, and then she closed it gently.

“It seems a worldly thing to me”—Aunt Dove smiled—“mostly full of poems about lost people, from what I saw. But I'm glad you have it with you.” Aunt Dove looked into my worried face, then bent to kiss my forehead. “Peace, Ælfwyn, be at peace. I have asked the king to give you a choice.”

 

That afternoon I lay curled on my bed, with Gytha sewing nearby. I was remembering a story Mother had once read to me, an exemplum from the
Dialogues
of Pope Gregory the Great. A greedy nun crept into the abbey garden and gobbled up a lettuce, swallowing a little devil who rested there. The demon made the woman jump and shout, wracking her until a priest arrived to cast the spirit out.

“Poor thing!” I had cried.

“Poor devil, perhaps,” Mother had answered with a grin, “but do not pity the woman. She made her choice.”

I sighed. Poems about lost people—that's all Aunt Dove had seen this morning. She would not have understood Mother's pleasure in the strange tale of the devil and the lettuce. A worldly thing, she had called the handbook. It was not the sort of reading a nun would do.

“What do you think ... it would be like,” I asked Gytha hesitantly, “to go to Sceaftesburh? To join the sisters there?”

“They follow Saint Benedict's Rule,” Gytha said slowly. “Do you remember how Pope Gregory describes it? The followers of the rule own nothing, though they are fed and clothed sufficiently. From the third to the ninth hour they labor with their hands, with calls to prayer and time for godly reading before and after. All things are done in moderation, as Benedict ordered.”

Godly reading, I thought, not histories of battles or scops singing out from the page. I'll face fasting, and night vigils, and holy thoughts until I am an old woman, until I am laid in my sanctified grave beside the abbey's sheltering walls.

“We should go find something to eat.” I stood up fretfully, peering at the lowering sun. The ninth hour. At Sceaftesburh they'd be calling me to prayers now.
I should eat and drink as much as I want—as much as I can hold—while I still can.

 

“What should I choose?” My question burst out desperately as Gytha and I sat on the storeroom steps, biting into the barley cakes and withered apples we had collected. “What would Mother have wanted?”

“I don't know, Wyn,” Gytha said with a helpless shrug. “She always used to tell us to give you time.”

Time to read, I thought, fingering the sack that held our food. Time to think and learn. She gave me books, too, of course. And a horse—beautiful, strong Winter, so unsuitable for a poor rider like me. She might have given me several splendid books instead, and I would have loved them. She must have known that.

“Dunstan used to tell me stories about the time when Lady Æthelflæd was a girl in Wessex,” Gytha was saying, still trying to answer my question. “She ran away from her father's home and got lost, more than once! She even stole books to take with her. I wasn't to tell you those tales, Dunstan said.” Gytha smiled. “But I always did think it was funny, to imagine the Lady of the Mercians doing such things.”

That passed away
—my mother's childhood willfulness had disappeared by the time I was born, I mused.
“She ran away from her father's home ... she even stole books to take with her.”
But she had once wanted her freedom, I suddenly understood. Before all her years of loyalty and obedience, before she became leader of Mercia, my mother had simply wanted to choose for herself what to do. She had remembered that, and she'd given me a horse.

“Gytha,” I said, grabbing up the bag of bread and apples, “I—I need you to help me get some things.”

 

“You say you want to ride out in this muck, Lady?” The stableman put a hand on Winter's tether, but kept his skeptical gaze on me.

“Just to the minster. The abbess of Sceaftesburh”—I showed him the handbook—“wants this for her scribe to copy before she leaves Wintanceaster. Immediately, they said.”

The man hesitated another moment, then went off, grumbling softly. “A ride in this slop'll spoil that grey coat—and hard words from the stablemaster if he's not cleaned up soon as they're back. Don't suppose the lady'll stay around for any of that, with her own clothes covered in mud. ...” He returned with a saddle and bridle stained with years of use. Would Aunt Dove begin to search for me?

When the slave had finished, he offered his cupped hands, and I let him help me onto Winter's back.

Had he felt the leather leggings I wore beneath my skirt? I forced myself to look him directly in the eye, and cocked my head a little, as if to say,
anything else?

“Keep his head in, my lady. You're a small one, on that great beast,” was all he said.

No one stopped me as I rode through the open doors of the stable. I was well cloaked and hooded, and no one in the king's
tun
knew that Winter had once been Lady Ælfwyn of Mercia's horse.

Just before I reached the marketplace, I awkwardly reined Winter into a side street and slipped off his back. Quickly, I led my horse into the deserted shadows just beyond the tannery, a place most folk avoided thanks to the stench of curing hides. I dropped the reins over Winter's head and stooped down to scoop up handfuls of mud. He shifted once or twice as I began rubbing the mud onto the parts of his coat not already splattered by our short ride—neck, rump, even his face and ears—until Winter's near whiteness was closer to the dirty grey of his mane and tail.

My turn now, I thought, looking around fearfully. No one had yet ventured into this dark, stinking corner of the
tun.

I pushed back my hood and reached beneath my cloak. With some difficulty I stripped off the old gown I had worn beneath my wraps, wadding it into my satchel along with the handbook. Beneath it I wore the dirty wool and leather clothes Gytha had bought from a boy in the street. I still had Mother's dagger, and I drew the little knife from its sheath, hoping it was sharp enough for the job I had to do now. I raised the knife and, wincing, severed the first few strands of my long hair.