The Edge on the Sword by Rebecca Tingle

to the West Saxons.” There was cheering in the hall, and Flæd turned to find her mother beside her with the silver cup.
    “Drink, Flæd,” she said softly, “and be honored.” Flæd took the heavy vessel in her hands. She looked at her mother, remembering how yesterday Ealhswith had tried to forewarn her of the king’s news. There were her two sisters, pointing at Flæd and chattering eagerly to the women beside them.
They don’t really understand yet But Edward.
…Edward sat with lowered head, twisting his fingers in Wulf’s fur.
Edward can see what this must mean.
Finally she caught Alfred’s keen gaze—her father was waiting. Flæd brought the cup to her lips and tasted the mead, sweet and stinging on her tongue.
    The noise from the hall carried through the burgh to the half-finished outer wall, where the drenched sentries grumbled at their bad luck. Beyond their sight, at the far end of the meadow, a horse newly freed from a bridle shook its head and began trotting around the lake. It would join the herd again unnoticed after its brief absence, and the two new horses which followed close after it would likely graze undiscovered among the other bays and browns of the roving band. Three muffled figures, dusty from a swift journey, watched the horses go, then disappeared noiselessly into the wood.

II
Spring

6
The Marsh
    Æ THELFLÆD WAS CRAWLING ON HER BELLY THROUGH THE MUD . Brown clay-filled earth sucked at her hands as she pulled herself along. Her clothing clung to her like an eel’s skin, and even her face and hair were the color of the marsh. Above the wetland grasses last year’s bulrushes waved frowsy heads, molting brown fuzz in the sunshine. Here and there a blackbird lit upon a stalk to snatch at the fluff for nest lining, bending the bulrush and then catapulting back into the sky as the stem sprang upright. Flæd moved slowly, careful not to disturb the rising and landing of the birds.
    It had taken all her effort to come this far today and find herself alone. Several days earlier, spring planting had sent everyone into the fields, including Father John, who was bound with the members of his order to lend a hand with plowing and sowing. As soon as they found themselves released from lessons, Flæd and Edward had gone to the woods together for the first time in many weeks.
    That had been an awkward excursion. The brother and sister had kept to the best-known paths, shying away from trails which were private to the two of them and frequently looking back at the large man who stumped along a little distance behind. They had ended up at the riverbank, sitting glumly on a driftwood branch while Wulf trotted up and down the water’s edge.
    What can we say to each other, Flæd had fretted. The Mercian crouched a few paces off—close enough to hear any word she uttered. It distressed her that Edward had never yet mentioned her betrothal, but how could she speak plainly of Ethelred, of the wrenching fear she felt each time she thought of leaving her home and family, while her warder was listening? He was Ethelred’s man, she knew, and the thought had sealed her lips.
    Even after this unsatisfying walk, Flæd had been sure that she and Edward would go to the wood again the next day, but when she asked him, Edward refused to meet her eye.
    “It wouldn’t be just us,” he mumbled. Stung, Flæd glanced toward her warder. “I’m sorry, Flæd,” Edward said, pleading now. “It’s not the same. I’m going with Father John.” Flæd was heartbroken.
    In her chamber that night she wondered what else Ethelred of Mercia would take from her before she even left the burgh, before she ever met him. She would not leave for two more seasons, but already her betrothal had pushed her brother away I will lose nothing more, she thought, staring at her open window as an idea glimmered inside her.
    This morning she had walked to the deserted scriptorium alone except for her guardian, who took up his usual position