*
At nightfall, the noises of battle faded down, to be replaced by the ongoing groans of the injured. At last, hungry and in need of relief, Alfgifu and her escort left the lodge.
In the twilight, they stumbled among the dead and wounded. The blood shone black in the night. Things squished under her feet that she was grateful she could not see. Embers and dying fires glowed throughout the city brighter than the moonlight. A second sky seemed to hover directly over the turf roofs where all the smoke collected in a thick, smothering blanket. Alfgifu coughed and rubbed her stinging eyes, feeling sticky trails on her cheeks where her eyes had already shed rivers of water.
Someone reached out and grabbed her ankle, begging for help. She nearly tripped. Resisting the urge to kick him in the face, she kept going.
Despite all the sobbing, and moaning, and the flames that refused to die, Alfgifu’s heart lifted. The number of dead was tremendous, the Vikings’ stores destroyed, their new horses scattered; but they still held the city. Whatever had happened, Ethelred’s forces had pulled away eventually, and that mattered the most.
Canute was in his lodge, but one would not have guessed by the silence hovering over it. She recognized some of his chiefs lurking outside, their faces either sullen or furious, but all turned away from Canute’s door. It was strange to her that not all of them were joined in a flurry of conversation and activity.
The housecarls guarding his door did not let her in at first, though she yelled and argued with them. She should have expected as much; Canute would not talk to his own chiefs right now. Why would he talk to her?
Then one of them stepped forward, and he said, “If she wants to, why not let her?”
This surprised her. She realized that Canute must not have forbidden anyone to enter; they were all simply afraid to. She noticed a dead body very close to the door of the lodge, and thought that it was a strange place for someone to have died from the battle. He had recently been stabbed in the chest, it appeared.
The housecarl followed her gaze. “That’s the last man who tried to go in.”
“Oh.” She gulped. “Well he won’t hurt me. I’m carrying his child.”
“You are?”
She had no idea, yet. But she thought it was a safe assumption. Canute must have assumed the same, or he might have let her escape the night before. She focused on the task at hand. “Do you know what is he doing in there?” she asked.
The housecarl shook his head helplessly. “He’s … talking.”
“Talking? To whom?”
He shrugged.
She took a deep breath, pushed back her shoulders, and clenched her fists. “Well I’m going in.”
As her trembling fingers pushed open the door, she reminded herself that she was not afraid of death. Only failure. And it would be a failure if she did not see Canute now, while all of his men were scared to, while he was vulnerable, and while there was no one else on earth he seemed to trust.
She stepped inside, very quietly, and closed the door behind her.
Canute was on the other side of the lodge, pacing back and forth along the floorboards, which creaked as if they might soon break apart and drop him into the sunken earth below. He wore no shirt, and his pale skin was splotched with dried blood and bruises. Surely enough, he was talking, though whether to himself or the hanging crucifix on the wall to which he occasionally cast his glance, she wasn’t sure at first.
“You’re not weak. You’re not idle,” he snarled. “You’re stronger than all of them. You did this on purpose. You let them believe victory was in their grasp. When they see your true strength they will cower. God chose you.”
So, she realized, he was indeed talking to himself … about himself.
“You’ll show them,” he went on. “You’re a man. A real man. You’ll even have a son soon ...”
Feeling more and more uncomfortable, Alfgifu at last announced herself by clearing her throat.
He turned to her with wild eyes. Then with no hesitation, in one flowing motion, he drew a knife from his belt and made to fling it.
“You won today,” she said quickly, as if her heart wasn’t racing in her chest.
He paused.
“You held your ground. That’s what matters. Now you must make it seem as if Ethelred made a mistake by attacking you at all.”
He lowered the knife. His eyes cleared, as if realizing for the first time who she was. “Alfgifu. Did God send you?”
She wanted to gawk at him. He sounded crazy. But she did not think it would be in her best interest to express as much. Instead, she walked closer to him, feigning confidence. “God does everything, doesn’t He?” She could see that this is what he wanted to hear. “And He does it for you, because He wants you to be King of Engla-lond. And Scandinavia.”
He dropped the knife, which thudded onto the floor.
She glared up at him, feeling his own gaze traverse her face, and remembering the way he had held her and chopped off her hair. “You said my emotions made me weak,” she hissed. “You were wrong about that, you know. You’re even more governed by your emotions than I am. It’s not what makes us weak. It’s what makes us strong.”
He flinched as she reached up and put her fingers against his cheek. His eyes were wider than she had ever seen them before, staring at her, desperate, searching. She had him now.
“Make Ethelred regret attacking you,” she whispered. “Show him that he has asked for his own demise. Make it seem as if this attack is what spurred you to raid the countryside. His people will hate him for it.”
“Hm,” said Canute. His gaze wandered off as he considered this.
“And there is another thing you can do.” She clutched his face tighter, pulling his eyes back to hers. Her voice grew even softer, smothered by her emotions, but he listened all the more closely as a result. “The hostages that were given to your father,” she breathed. There were many hostages, as she recalled; but the majority of them had been given by Eadric. They were valuable to him; maybe he even loved some of them. “You must kill them. And make them die slowly. You must take out their eyes, or chop off their limbs.”
Canute turned his head and kissed her trembling fingertips. “Good idea,” he said.
**
6
The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia:
HASTINGS THE HEARTH COMPANION
(back to Table of Contents)
“A.D. 1004. This year came Sweyne with his fleet to Norwich, plundering and burning the whole town.”
—Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1004
*
NORWICH
1004 A.D.