The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan

  The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia:

  Alfgifu the Orphan

  Jayden Woods

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods

  Edited by Malcolm Pierce

  “Then came King Ethelred home, in Lent, to his own people; and he was gladly received by them all. Meanwhile, after the death of Sweyne, sat Knute with his army in Gainsborough until Easter ...”

  --The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1014

  *

  Spring, 1014 A.D.

  Gainsborough

  Alfgifu of Northampton did not want to admit that she was nervous, but when she saw the Viking encampment looming ahead, her fear burned in her stomach until she could not ignore it. She forced herself to think the same thought over, and over, and over again: Canute lost his father, too. Canute lost his father, too.

  This single thought struggled to stay afloat as the approaching camp drowned her with physical sensations. The lines of brightly painted shields along the burg walls seared her eyes. Meat-scented smoke burned her nostrils. The clashing of playful weapons rang in her ears. These sensations pulled her too deeply into a reality that made her doubt the strength of her purpose.

  But Canute lost his father, too.

  A growl rumbled from her throat, and her thin legs clutched tightly around her horse, making it lunge forward. When she thought about it too much, she wondered if this single fact had truly been reason enough to travel almost one hundred miles and introduce herself to the new King of the Vikings. She had so many hopes for what to accomplish here, but as far as true justifications went—or reasons to believe she might actually succeed—they all boiled down to a mere gut instinct, and the one thought that seemed to accompany it.

  Yes, Canute had just lost his father. She had lost her father many years ago, and it had changed her life irrevocably. This would bind her to Canute, she thought, and form a permanent connection. She would be able to help him in a moment of weakness; she would be able to understand what he was going through better than most. She would be able to gain his trust.

  And once she gained his trust, she would be able to turn him against Eadric Streona.

  *

  “What do you mean, he is busy?”

  “He’s busy,” repeated the thick-skulled housecarl, gulping from a horn of mead.

  “This is unacceptable,” hissed Alfgifu. “I have brought him two hundred pounds. I have brought him horses, and cloaks, and fine blades, and—”

  “These are very good gifts, my lady.” The warrior nodded approvingly while running his calloused finger over one of the blades in discussion. “I think he will actually like them, more than most of the gifts he has received. But … Canute is busy.”

  “He cannot be too busy to see me.” She straightened as tall as she could, her chest swelling, her chin thrusting high. But this movement felt like a mistake once the housecarl’s eyes began roving her body. He did not seem pleased by what he saw, and this only made her tremble with more fury. People had always told her she possessed a “boyish” figure. She was skinny, her chest flat, her limbs lanky, and on top of all that her face was very square. She could only hope that this would keep the housecarl from thinking about her womanhood, so she forced herself to stand secure and not wither under his gaze. “I am Alfgifu of Northampton. I am the daughter of Alfhelm, who once ruled as Ealdorman of York—”

  “And our king just died, so I don’t care who the hell you are, you stupid bitch; go away.”

  “Just died?” She looked around curiously at the soldiers lounging in streets and lodges they had taken over. The place was filthier than it should have been, she realized: a sign that the army had been here for some time without moving. The men and women labored through their daily chores with sloth and boredom. How long had it been since these Vikings were mobile, she wondered? Had this whole army stayed here since the death of their last king, doing nothing, even though the king of the Anglo-Saxons had left his own country for a short while? She could hardly believe it. “But Canute has been your king for almost two months,” she observed aloud.

  “I said go away!”

  He shoved her, so hard that she tripped on her skirts, and then she fell into the mud.

  She should have been furious. She should have been overwhelmed with shame and outrage. Here, in the filthy, stinking dirt, she faced utter humiliation, which she feared more than death itself. And yet faced with it, she overcame it. She felt as if she had just been pushed off a cliff. Where once the view dizzied her and prevented her progress, she now realized that she would survive the fall to the bottom. She heard men laughing at her, but this only fed her determination to prove them wrong. It gave her the strength to pull herself from the filth. Silent, expressionless, she flapped the muck off her dress and lifted her chin again. The men grew quiet, watching her curiously. She stared back at them, her gray eyes as solid as stone.

  She had control of her emotions, though it was not about to seem so. She gathered them all in the pit of her belly. She let them rise up and make her chest swell. Some of it overflowed slightly, making her blood boil and her hands squeeze into such tight fists that her nails pierced the skin of her palms. But when she let it out of her throat, all the rest was worth it. She let out a sound that was more than a scream; it was also the roar of a lion, the howl of a wolf. It was a cry of pain and sorrow—but also of strength.

  When it was over she closed her mouth and listened to her own cry echo through the hills. Her vision swam with the exhilaration of her release. The men all around her were dumbstruck, and their eyes were filled with terror. She felt a small smirk on her lips.

  She could not say for how long she waited for a reaction. The time passed on and on, but she was in a state of calm, so she did not measure it. She only took note when a distant door swung open: the door of Canute’s own hall. Surely he resided there, for it was the biggest building in sight, and it was guarded by men wearing rings of gold and silver: men who were probably his personal guards, or as the Danes called them, housecarls.

  A man peered from the door. She had never seen Canute before, but she did not think this was him. This man looked too old and—in any case—she simply sensed that if it was Canute, she would know it. He only peered at her a moment, then returned inside.

  She stood calmly and patiently. Her heart scrambled and thumped in her chest, but otherwise she reigned in her feelings. After all, she had just released her emotions in the most powerful scream of her entire life. She could relax now.

  After a moment the man walked out of Canute’s tent again. Her heart surged, this time with eagerness. He made his way through the mud to the housecarl who had pushed her, and who now wore a very abashed look on his face.

  “What the hell is going on, Gunnlaug?”

  Alfgifu answered for him. “I am Alfgifu of Northampton. I brought gifts for King Canute, and this man—Gunnlaug—pushed me into the ground for my trouble.”

  The king’s man looked warily from one of them to the other. Gunnlaug seemed torn between surliness and guilt. “She insisted on seeing Canute.”

  Canute’s housecarl surprised them both by reaching out and grabbing Alfgifu’s arm. “Then she’ll see him.” And he started to pull her away.

  “Hey!” Alfgifu squirmed until at last she escaped his grip. But he kept walking, and she was forced to scramble after him, feeling humiliated once more. She wanted to insist on bringing her hearth companions along, but if he refused her, it would only increase her embarrassment. Besides, she told herself, she wouldn’t need them.

  Any remaining fight in her drained from her bones as they walke
d past a group of freshly captured slaves. They were Anglo-Saxons, captured on raids no doubt, and they were mostly women. Their dresses were ripped, their hair disheveled, and they were so weary and hopeless that they were not even tied up. They were guarded by men who reached out and fondled them, and before her very eyes one of the Vikings pulled one up and dragged her away.

  Alfgifu stared after them curiously a moment, then turned her eyes ahead once more. They were nearly to Canute’s tent.

  Before they entered, the housecarl stopped her forcefully and searched her with his hands. She gritted her teeth and endured it. For another rare moment, she felt grateful for possessing a body that most men found unattractive. His hand struggled to find her small breasts, and then it did not linger. When he was done, finding nothing of interest beyond her small table dirk, he released her and said, “Go on in.”

  It was strangely calm inside the tent, and she paused at the entrance to let herself adjust. The air was thick and stuffy with smoke and old wood, but this was softened by the aromas of warm bread and meat, and what appeared to be fresh, clean rushes covering the floor. Nonetheless she felt enveloped by an uncomfortable heat as she continued moving forward, and she wondered if she imagined it, along with the unnatural red glow that seemed to cover everything. The fire in the hearth was low and calm, hardly a source for such a hellish visage. Altogether the hall was very quiet, though occupied by at least a dozen men and women: jarls, housecarls, and the best of the female captives, she suspected.

  Alfgifu felt unexpectedly jealous as she watched these women sit on the men’s laps, whispering in their ears or listening to their conversations. These captives had settled more comfortably into their new roles than the ones outside. They were also beautiful, and clean, and had even been given nice linens to wear. But did any of them realize what power they possessed by being here, in this hall? How easily it had come to them, not even of their own will, and yet they wasted it, doing what was expected of them until the time passed. They probably cried themselves to sleep at night, wishing they were back on their old farms tending cows and chickens. Her jealousy turned into resentment, and then to complete hatred. Fools, all of them! They deserved to go back to their little lodges and live the dull, isolated lives from which they’d been plucked. But they would never be able to recognize what was reward and what was punishment, for they were all idiots.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw Canute.

  She doubted her instincts at first, because he sat all alone, and he looked even younger than she’d imagined. He was not yet twenty years old, if even nineteen yet. He was thin and lanky, though his shoulders were of a sturdy width, and it looked like he would stretch to be quite tall when he stood. But all that was difficult to determine as he was hunched over the table, gripping a gilded goblet, staring through his own mess of thick, jagged hair. Almost everything about him, she thought, was jagged: from the edges of his joints, to his jutting chin, and even to the corners of his eyes, narrowed and squinting as he peered through them.

  When he turned to look at her, she struggled not to tremble with fear.

  His intensity amazed her, and frightened her, and excited her all at once. In a sense he did not look at all as she’d expected him to, but at the same time he seemed everything she could have hoped for. He was not handsome in the typical sense, for he had a somewhat long, hooked nose, and his eyes were so high and narrowed. But from those eyes, a gaze shot from his youthful face like barbed arrows, transfixing her. He seemed to her like a hawk, peering far into the distance, seeing further than anyone else could see.

  He looked her up and down, and her skin bristled with bumps as she wondered what he saw in her.

  “You,” he said. His voice was somewhat high-pitched and soft, but it rang through the room like a bell. “You’re the one that made that sound?”

  “Yes, my king.” She felt she could not bear his gaze much longer, and looked down at herself. But then she felt horrified, for she remembered that she was covered with mud. “I am Alfgifu of Northampton. My father was—”

  “I thank you for your gifts,” he said, and she realized he had no more interest in her identity than he had for a single thread of his tunic. “I will take them and use them to conquer Engla-lond, and that is how I will repay you. Unless there is something else you want, you should go.”

  He released her from his fierce gaze and turned back to his food. Even though she felt as if she had just been freed from a harsh grip, she trembled with frustration. She had not come this far so that he could dismiss her. He had heard something in her scream, that roar in which she had bared her soul; otherwise he wouldn’t have called her in here. “My father also died before his time, my lord.”

  He seemed to pause, only for a moment, before responding smoothly. “That is unfortunate for you, perhaps.” He tossed back a drink from his goblet, swaying slightly as he did. Either he had already drunken a great deal, or it did not take much to intoxicate him, for the effect of the spirits seemed to hit him quite suddenly. “My father’s death, however, made me a king. Fortunately for me.”

  This made her grind her teeth together and glare at him with a gaze almost intense enough to match his own. But now he did not even notice; now he only seemed to have eyes for the pretty cup in his hand. “That’s a very pretty goblet,” she hissed. “Someone else’s gift to you?”

  His fingers played thoughtfully over the ornate decorations of the rim. “A gift to my father, from Ealdorman Eadric Streona.”

  The name seemed to flip a switch in her. Eadric Streona. The man who changed her entire life. The man who took everything from her. The man who killed her father.

  The man she had come here to destroy.

  She swept in closer to Canute, planting her hands on the table, lowering her voice. “Your father’s death may have made you a king in name,” she hissed. “But do your men think of you as one?”

  He paused, going terribly still.

  “The man outside, Gunnlaug, he said his king had just died. You have had two months to establish yourself—two months in which King Ethelred was gone from Engla-lond, no less—and yet they still think of your father as the king. You have squandered a golden opportunity to overtake Engla-lond.”

  “Tread carefully,” he said.

  She lowered her voice, but continued to speak relentlessly. “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he snapped. “Now shut your mouth.”

  Instead, she sat down next to him and leaned in closer. He tensed, slender fingers tightening around his disgusting prize of a cup. “Were you ready for your father to die, Canute? Were you ready to become king?”

  He inhaled sharply, but said nothing.

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to answer. I understand. I know what it’s like to think that you are unshakable, and then discover that you’re not.”

  He turned to look at her, slowly this time, the pale discs of his eyes snaking to the edge of his lids. “Do I look shaken to you?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “No, you don’t look it. But I think you are good at hiding it. Just as I am.”

  At that, he chuckled, and the sound of his high-pitched chortles made her stomach turn. “No you’re not. You’re practically blue with fear, woman.”

  She pulled back, anger stinging her tongue. “And you—you’re even more afraid than I am. If you were ready to be a king you would already have a plan. You would have mobilized your men while Ethelred was away, and while the Anlgo-Saxons thought your Vikings were weakened by their unexpected loss—rightfully so! You could have proved to everyone that you’re all the man your father was. Instead you are sulking here in the safety of the Danelaw, getting fat with Easter feasting!”

  His smile had long since vanished, and his lips were curling down into a scowl.

  “If you were as ready to be a king as you want everyone to believe, you wouldn’t linger here in Gainsborough, hiding your face and hesitating about what to do next. It’s so diffe
rent now that he’s gone, isn’t it? It’s not what you thought it would be. You thought you were ready. You thought it would feel wonderful to be free from his constant scrutiny, from the need for his approval, from the way you only seemed to matter to other people so long as he was around. But now you got your wish and it’s not at all what you expected. Is it?”

  He moved so quickly that he must not have been as intoxicated as she thought, after all. One moment his hand was around his cup, and the next it was around her throat, shoving her back and pinning her down to the table. She heard dishes clatter and stools knock over, but then all she could hear was the sound of her own breath, or lack thereof, as she tried to force it past the vice-like grip of his hand.

  Once she got over the shock of it, she began fighting back. He only had one hand free to protect himself as she reached for his own neck, stretching her nails out as far out as she could, as if they were claws. She could not reach his throat, but she managed to grab his tunic, her fingers scrambling and curling until she had her hands full of the stiff fabric. She yanked at it, unable to pull him closer, but managing instead to rake the smooth skin of his chest with her nails.

  He leapt back, hissing with anger. At that moment she pounced on him, flying off the table and swinging for his face. He scrambled back, towards the fire, and when he fell a cry rose about the room, for it looked as if he might fall into it. As she watched, she feared she might have done something truly stupid. And in that moment of pause, he was able to grab her, pulling himself to safety and carrying them both to the floor.

  As soon as she began wrestling with him against the rushes she lost track of who did what. They grabbed at each other, pulling, pushing, and twisting. They rolled and scrambled, and while her body seemed to be running over with pain and discomfort, at the same time her blood felt hot and throbbing within her, dulling everything else and replacing it with a numbing exhilaration. She listened to his panting breath, his grunts of effort as he tried to overcome her, and felt as if every part of their bodies touched completely, even tough they flailed and rolled about, constantly moving. She was rewarded by a profound satisfaction every time she escaped his grasp or returned one of his blows.