The Edge on the Sword (7 page)

She began to walk, sliding the book into a leather satchel she had hidden beneath her tunic. Only a few tradespeople were abroad, and Flæd moved as stealthily as she could, slipping around behind the potter’s stall, skirting the ovens of baking bread, passing swiftly in front of the open forge where the blacksmith, with his back turned, was beating and folding a bar of glowing metal to make a strong blade. Now only the stone ramparts lay between Flæd and the trees at the edge of the great meadow. Today the masons, spared from field labor, were working inside the unfinished wall. If she could pass unseen through a gap, she would reach the edge of the wood without anyone stopping her.

Picking up two thumbnail-sized pebbles, Flæd crouched down and threw them, hard, at one mason’s back. With a yell he spun and swatted at his shirt. The others jeered good-naturedly—no one had thrown anything, they insisted. When he still complained, they went to inspect the welts on their friend’s shoulder. As soon as the way was clear, Flæd rounded the wall and ran, her bare feet noiseless on the dusty path, the satchel beating against her legs. Moments later she was concealed in the wood.

The winter lake had receded, leaving a shallow bottomland covered in downy grass. Beyond the river’s opposite bank lay a permanently wet
hollow, and for this marsh Flæd was bound. She crossed the silty river, holding the satchel above her shoulders, and then plunged into the marsh. Rushes closed around her, and she began her slow wriggle through the mud.

At the heart of this marsh lay a place Flæd and Edward had discovered in a year of drought. They had wandered along an empty streambed, eventually reaching a gentle rise where a great tree had died. The weight of the dead hulk must have dragged it to earth, where the length of the trunk now lay decaying into the ground. Only the upturned foot of the tree was still whole, though hollowed, with bare, dead roots curling like claws.

Flæd reached the knoll and crept carefully onto the firmer ground. Insects sang in the grasses around her as she wiped mud from her hands and arms and peeled off her sodden outer tunic. She made her way to the fallen tree and settled herself among the roots.

Inside its satchel the book had stayed safe from the damp and muck. Flæd tried to brush the last of the drying mud from her hands before carefully loosening the bindings. She drew out the great codex and placed it gingerly in front of her. I am a thief, Flæd thought, and to her own surprise, she felt no remorse. The half-finished poem had been bothering her. Its characters—the hero, the monster woman, and her son—filled her thoughts. Apparently Alfred had said nothing of her midnight confession to her tutors. No part of the book had appeared among her lesson texts, as she had vainly hoped her father might suggest. Nor, she thought fiercely, could she ever read secretly in the scriptorium again. Mud-spattered, in the middle of a swamp, Flæd opened the book with her first feeling of reckless happiness since becoming the ward of the Mercian envoy.

The hero set off alone in pursuit of the monster woman. She dove beneath the waves of her poisonous pool, and the hero followed, fighting off water serpents, until at last he found her, fought with her, and killed her. Then he beheaded her son, and brought the head to the king to receive the reward he had earned….

With a start Flæd sat up from a dream in which the hero was offering the golden necklace from his treasure hoard to a princess. How had she drowsed off? Looking at the sun, she guessed it was past the ninth hour. She could still return to the burgh well before the workers came home, in plenty of time for prayers. For a moment she worried what her warder might do when she returned. He must be cursing me, Flæd thought to herself, and perversely, the thought made her glad.

Flæd closed her book. She found a dry nook for the satchel deep inside the hollow of the fallen tree, and strapped it tightly to discourage small animals. I will keep it for just a few days more, Flæd decided. I’ll try to
come back and finish the story. No one will miss the codex tomorrow, or the next day, or even the next, she told herself.

At the foot of the hillock Flæd caught sight of her reflection in the standing water. Her face and hair were grey with dust. The tattered hem of her shift fluttered around her knees, and bits of grass and moss bristled like fur in the dried muck of the tunic she had shrugged on again. For a moment she stared at her image, shocked, and then she threw her arms out with a grin, sending a flock of blackbirds careening up from the mound. I am a monster woman, she thought, a monster woman standing at the edge of her pool.

Flæd followed the stream to the edge of the marsh. She had stayed at the knoll for hours, and had noticed no sign of her warder in the surrounding riverland or woods. Freedom, she thought as she stooped to wash the grit from her arms, had felt sweet even for this little time.

“Lady,” a voice behind her said. She whirled to see the Mercian envoy standing half concealed in a stand of young elm trees. “My lady,” he said again, stepping forward onto the path, “we should return to the burgh.” Flæd stared at him, and then turned wordlessly toward the river. Scuffling ahead of her guardian, she forded the water and crossed through the wood, stepping into the meadow where a stiff wind had begun to blow.

Misery washed over Flæd in waves as the wind dried her clothes. Her time alone had been an illusion, with no true escape from the presence she loathed.

“I should have guessed you were there,” she mumbled bitterly into the wind. The steps behind her slowed, and Flæd looked back to see an odd conflict upon her warder’s usually impassive face.

“Lady,” he said finally, “I was charged to stay with you. Today that duty led me on a weary chase, but I never found the place where you rested all those hours.” He snorted, trudging on. “Muddied myself to the waist with trying.”

After days of his company, this was the first time Flæd had ever heard her guardian say so much. She could think of no response. She was even more startled to hear the man beside her speak again.

“Your father,” he said in a thoughtful tone, “also had success in the marshes.” Flæd could make nothing of this.

“What do you mean?” she finally asked.

Red turned to stare at her. “King Alfred’s stand at Sumursæte. You haven’t heard of it?” Flæd shook her head. “I thought you were learning history,” he muttered. They had reached the wall outside the burgh, where the masons were still at work. “Ask your tutor to show you the Chronicle,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass through the gap in the wall. “Find
the record of the winters just after your birth. And Lady”—he put out a hand to stop her—“do not go to the marsh without me again. I found these in the wood.” In his palm rested two chips of metal. “From a horse’s harness,” he told her. “The design”—he traced one of the objects with a fingertip—“is not West Saxon.”

Flæd was still mulling over this first conversation with her warder when she supped with Edward. She said nothing of her escape to the marsh, or of Red’s words—her brother was tired from his day among the furrows, and even Wulf lay spent beneath the table, worn out from chasing birds in the freshly plowed fields. Anyhow, Edward could have come with me, she thought wanly as she made her way to the scriptorium. He probably doesn’t care about the poem anymore.

Father John looked nearly as tired as Edward, but he welcomed her, and nodded politely toward her warder, who had settled by the door. Flæd stood beside John’s table in the rushlight.

“Today I heard of an English text”—she hesitated—“a chronicle of my father’s reign.”

“Yes, the great Chronicle,” John replied. “Every burgh in your father’s kingdom has a copy, and with each passing winter their scribes add a report of the year’s events.”

“I never knew of it before today,” Flæd said with some bewilderment. “May I read the Chronicle while you are in the fields?”

“A very good idea,” Father John said, smiling. “We have several copies in case of need at other settlements.” John crossed the room, took down a recently bound book, and opened it before her. “This one has seen no use since it was written, I think. Pity, for it was long and dull in the copying.” Flæd glanced up at him. “I was the scribe,” he admitted wryly.

Back in her rooms Flæd lit her own rushlamp and, mounding the bedclothes around her, began to leaf through pages filled with line upon line of Father John’s precise script. Sumursæte…Sumursæte…there! Near the end of the Chronicle she found it, under the entry date 878—five years after her birth, just as her warder had said. The Danes, she read, had routed the West Saxon armies. Alfred and his few remaining men withdrew into the Sumursæte marshes where, in the cold and wet, they hounded the Danish forces. The Danes began to fear this ghostly enemy who struck and vanished and struck again. A spirit of the marsh, some said. A demon, said others. For seven weeks Alfred’s tattered and hungry army abused the invaders, and the West Saxon king was never captured.

Flæd closed the book. Pinching out the rushlight, she lay back in her bed. Alfred had kept to his marsh for the course of two moons. Surely, she
thought as she burrowed into the feathers, with my warder watching nearby, my marsh will hide me for two more days.

T
HE
HERO
WAS
DYING
. H
E
HAD
WON
HIS
BATTLE
AGAINST
THE
man-monster. He had slain the monster’s mother. He had become a king, and had grown old. Now, at last, he stood facing a supreme foe. Flæd sat beside the marsh stump, tears streaking the mud on her face as she held the great book before her.

A dragon raged across the monster slayer’s kingdom. Taking the only young retainer who dared to help him, the hero met the worm’s horrible strength, braved its fiery breath. The monster broke the hero’s sword and seized him in its poisonous jaws. With a dagger the man slashed it open. His young companion stabbed its scorching belly, and together they slew the dragon.

But the hero, now a king, felt the burden of his age and his wounds weighing upon him. He could sense the dragon poison welling into his breast as the young retainer brought armloads of dragon treasure to pile before him.

“I have gained this for my people,” the king insisted. “Now you must serve them.” And so the hero died, and over his funeral pyre they raised a great new harrow by the sea.

“And his people said,” Flæd read through her tears, “that he was the gentlest and kindest of men, most considerate of his people, and eager to be remembered well.”

Flæd closed the book and drew a shuddering sigh. She was sorry for the death of the hero, sorrier still for the end of the story. But the poem’s last words were odd, Flæd thought as she returned the book to its hiding place. The final sentence spoke not of the monster killer’s battles, but of his gentleness, of his generous care.

Another puzzle, she decided as she slogged to the edge of the marsh. Today Red had walked with her this far and then, by an unspoken agreement, settled back against a tree to wait. Now he came forward,
brushing pieces of bark from his bristling hair. He held out a hand to help her onto the path.

“Lady,” said the Mercian, “are you hurt?” The fierceness in his tone startled her. Suddenly she remembered the tear streaks on her face.

“It’s nothing,” Flæd said quickly, scrubbing at her cheeks with a dirty hand. “It was only…only a poem I once read. I was thinking about it today.” She found herself telling him the story of the hero, of the monsters he had killed, and of the poem’s last words, which had seemed so strange to her.

“I heard that poem,” Red said slowly, “sung in a great hall for a king who was a warrior like your monster killer—he had fought his enemies for many years. But in the end”—the Mercian had begun to toy with the heavy band of metal on his wrist—“that king deserted his people.” Red said nothing for such a long time that Flæd began to think their conversation had ended. Then he spoke again. “If war struck this place, would your father leave your sisters, your youngest brother, or Edward in danger?”

Flæd shook her head, upset by the suggestion. “He would die first, and so would I,” she said with heat.

“A king must take care of his people as well as your father takes care of his children,” Red said, “the way we all try to protect our families—even,” he added, almost in a whisper, “when we can’t.”

That night, as Flæd and Edward sat together in a dark corner of the kitchen, she decided to explain at last how she had taken the great codex. “You read it without me, Flæd?” he cried, forgetting to speak softly in his disappointment. Because you refused to come with me, Flæd remembered, but she spoke gently to her brother, soothing him.

“There are many other poems in the book,” she whispered, “stories of saints and strange beasts and other heroes. Tomorrow I’ll bring it back, and you and I will find another time to read it.” A little sulky, Edward agreed. “Shall I tell you the rest of the story?” Flæd said, poking his rib.

“All right.” Edward squirmed, batting at her hand. So she told him, and Edward’s eyes widened in the dim light.

“A dragon,” he echoed when she described the last monster. “I’d like to find a dragon’s barrow, and kill the dragon, and take the gold.”

“Then what would you do?” Flæd asked, skeptically.

“I would build a great hall, and cover the roof and the walls with gold, and hang golden horns above the door, and I would sit on a high seat decorated with twisted gold, and drink from a golden cup.”

“Very fine,” Flæd said with a smile. “And what about the dragon?”

“What about it?”

“The dragon’s body. What would you do with the stinking thing?”

“Wulf and I would drag it into the sea,” Edward decided. “Or into the river,” he added, “if we found one to kill around here.”

Flæd nodded seriously. She finished the story for her brother, reciting the poem’s last lines of praise for the king. Edward listened, and then added his own resolution.

“In my golden hall we will also give out treasure to everyone in the kingdom,” he said with satisfaction.