Free The Edge of Light by Joan Wolf Page A

lying now on the bare earth of the clearing.
    The prince was so slight, How had he managed to hold up that spear?
    Beside her, Athulf was saying much the same thing.
    A West Saxon thane passing Athulf said with a grin, “We all learned years ago never to come between Alfred and his boar. He’ll have your head if you do.”
    “He is stronger than he looks,” Athulf said.
    “He’s strong as a man twice his weight,” the thane boasted. “He may not be big, but you’ll find there’s little our prince cannot do.” Then he was by them, running up to Alfred’s side and saying something they could not hear. Alfred laughed, put a hand on his arm, then turned away to reclaim his horse.

    There was a feast after the hunt that day, also in honor of Alfred’s birthday. Ethelswith loved to play hostess to her brothers and had done all she could to make the occasion as grand as possible. Though it was still daylight, torches were burning in the wall sconces of the great hall, illuminating with their glow the giant frescoes that were Tamworth’s glory. The frescoes had been painted in the last century, in the glory days of Offa, and the most famous of all the paintings was the one of Offa’s fellow monarch, Charlemagne, surrounded by his companions, among whom happened to be included Offa himself. There were other scenes from the life of Offa, and scenes as well from the lives of other heroes out of Mercian, Prankish, and Roman history. The frescoes were famous in England, and Ethelswith was very proud of them.
    She had filled her hall this night with the high nobility of Mercia, summoned to this banquet in order to do honor to her younger brother. Burgred, of course, had the high seat, and Ethelred sat this night in her usual place beside him. Ethelswith had chosen to sit beside Alfred on the bench directly to Burgred’s right, and on Alfred’s other side she had placed Athulf, whom she thought Alfred would find congenial. Beyond Athulf sat his mother, his brother, and his sister.
    The feast was to begin with the presentation of Burgred’s gift to Alfred. Silence fell slowly upon the crowded room as the thanes and ladies along the wall benches saw the king rising to his feet.
    Alfred sat beside his sister and listened with all outward attention to Burgred’s extremely flattering speech. He did not dislike his brother-by-marriage, but too often he found Burgred somewhat wanting in quickness of wit. In truth, Alfred never spent above an hour in Burgred’s company without finding himself pitying Ethelswith the dullness of her marriage. Then he would take himself to task for lack of Christian charity. Burgred was good and kind, he would chastise himself. The poor man could not help it if he was also dull.
    But he was dull. It was nice, of course, that he thought so well of Alfred, but it would be even nicer if he would just stop talking and allow everyone to eat. Alfred affixed his alert, attentive expression even more firmly into place and began to replay in his mind the afternoon’s hunt.
    Suddenly his sister’s elbow caught him in the ribs. He blinked, focused, and saw that Burgred was holding out a sword and looking at him.
    “Go and take it from him,” Ethelswith hissed into his ear.
    Alfred rose from his place and went to bow gracefully before the King of Mercia. Burgred placed the sword into his hands. The king’s fleshy face was beaming. Alfred felt the familiar twinge of guilt. Poor man. It was not his fault he was thick of body and dull of mind. “Thank you, my lord,” he said with his quick charming smile. “I shall treasure this gift with all my heart.”
    He stepped back to return to his place, and a sigh of relief ran around the hall as the guests realized that he was not going to speak further. Alfred’s eyes glinted with amusement, though his face was grave as he resumed his place beside his sister.
    “Thank you,” Ethelswith murmured in his ear. “Everyone is starving.”
    As the serving folk came