hard rap on the knuckles with a wooden ladle. He liked that far better than this.
He hoped at least to avoid visiting the barrack where that god-awful painting of him hung. Wulfric had refused to sit for it, and so the artist had been forced to make do with whatever descriptions and drawings he could garner from others. The result, Wulfric had thought when he first saw it, was ridiculous. He was depicted holding a shining sword aloft in an absurdly heroic pose, all puffed up with pride, a trait that Wulfric had taken pains to avoid his entire life. The artist had even restored the part of his ear famously lost to a Danish axe at Ethandun, as if it were better that he appear invulnerable. But Wulfric liked his ear the way it was. It served as an ever-present reminder to himself that death was never more than an inch away, that even the most celebrated warriors were as mortal as any other.
It might have been useful to the young soldiers who passed through here to be reminded of that also; as it was, the painting would inspire in those men only a naively romanticized notion of heroism, one that would be roughly dispelled in their first realbattle. The only thing rendered with any accuracy at all, Wulfric thought, was the scarab pendant that hung around his neck—they had, at least, got that right.
Yes, definitely avoid the barracks
, he reminded himself. Then he thanked the man who stabled his horse and made his way across the yard toward the inner bailey and the castle’s central keep, where Alfred resided.
Just being here in the royal household, with all its trappings, made Wulfric uneasy. The idea of royalty had always struck him as inequitable, an attitude no doubt inherited from his father.
No man is greater than another by birth
, he had taught his young son.
Only by deed
. But Wulfric was also a man of God, and kings and queens, many believed, were chosen by God himself, for he alone knew who among the people had it within themselves to lead their country to its rightful destiny.
Having witnessed firsthand what Alfred had accomplished, Wulfric found that belief difficult to argue against. The crown had been thrust upon Alfred at a young age, after the untimely death of his brother, and he had, through sheer courage and audacity, turned years of bitter and bloody defeat at the hands of the Norse into the unlikeliest of victories. He had brought England back from the brink of annihilation. Now, thanks to his guidance, it was safer and stronger than ever. Could any other man have done such a thing? Could Wulfric? He doubted it.
Though Wulfric knew as well as anyone not to use the name
Alfred the Great
in the King’s presence, he believed it to be warranted. For he was a great King and, more than that, a great friend. He had not needed to reward Wulfric for doing a soldier’s duty, but everything Wulfric now counted as a blessing in his life he owed to his friend’s generosity. The two of them had spent countless hours together, eating and telling stories and slowly coming to the mutual realization that in another lifetime they would have been brothers. As it was, in this one, they practically were.
“Wulfric!”
Alfred strode briskly across the Great Hall and clapped his arms around Wulfric in a fond embrace. And in that moment, with all royal formality dashed away by that informal gesture, Wulfric’s unease lifted. They were surrounded by enough timber and stone in this one room to build Wulfric’s house twenty times over, yet Alfred’s greeting made him feel as though he had simply wandered over to visit his neighbor, Brom, to borrow a loaf of bread. He was in the company of a friend first, his King a distant second. He returned the embrace warmly.
As they separated, Wulfric could see that all was not right. Alfred looked tired and haggard, as though he had not seen a good night’s sleep in some time. Whatever predicament had led him to summon Wulfric was no doubt the cause, and Wulfric wanted nothing
He hoped at least to avoid visiting the barrack where that god-awful painting of him hung. Wulfric had refused to sit for it, and so the artist had been forced to make do with whatever descriptions and drawings he could garner from others. The result, Wulfric had thought when he first saw it, was ridiculous. He was depicted holding a shining sword aloft in an absurdly heroic pose, all puffed up with pride, a trait that Wulfric had taken pains to avoid his entire life. The artist had even restored the part of his ear famously lost to a Danish axe at Ethandun, as if it were better that he appear invulnerable. But Wulfric liked his ear the way it was. It served as an ever-present reminder to himself that death was never more than an inch away, that even the most celebrated warriors were as mortal as any other.
It might have been useful to the young soldiers who passed through here to be reminded of that also; as it was, the painting would inspire in those men only a naively romanticized notion of heroism, one that would be roughly dispelled in their first realbattle. The only thing rendered with any accuracy at all, Wulfric thought, was the scarab pendant that hung around his neck—they had, at least, got that right.
Yes, definitely avoid the barracks
, he reminded himself. Then he thanked the man who stabled his horse and made his way across the yard toward the inner bailey and the castle’s central keep, where Alfred resided.
Just being here in the royal household, with all its trappings, made Wulfric uneasy. The idea of royalty had always struck him as inequitable, an attitude no doubt inherited from his father.
No man is greater than another by birth
, he had taught his young son.
Only by deed
. But Wulfric was also a man of God, and kings and queens, many believed, were chosen by God himself, for he alone knew who among the people had it within themselves to lead their country to its rightful destiny.
Having witnessed firsthand what Alfred had accomplished, Wulfric found that belief difficult to argue against. The crown had been thrust upon Alfred at a young age, after the untimely death of his brother, and he had, through sheer courage and audacity, turned years of bitter and bloody defeat at the hands of the Norse into the unlikeliest of victories. He had brought England back from the brink of annihilation. Now, thanks to his guidance, it was safer and stronger than ever. Could any other man have done such a thing? Could Wulfric? He doubted it.
Though Wulfric knew as well as anyone not to use the name
Alfred the Great
in the King’s presence, he believed it to be warranted. For he was a great King and, more than that, a great friend. He had not needed to reward Wulfric for doing a soldier’s duty, but everything Wulfric now counted as a blessing in his life he owed to his friend’s generosity. The two of them had spent countless hours together, eating and telling stories and slowly coming to the mutual realization that in another lifetime they would have been brothers. As it was, in this one, they practically were.
“Wulfric!”
Alfred strode briskly across the Great Hall and clapped his arms around Wulfric in a fond embrace. And in that moment, with all royal formality dashed away by that informal gesture, Wulfric’s unease lifted. They were surrounded by enough timber and stone in this one room to build Wulfric’s house twenty times over, yet Alfred’s greeting made him feel as though he had simply wandered over to visit his neighbor, Brom, to borrow a loaf of bread. He was in the company of a friend first, his King a distant second. He returned the embrace warmly.
As they separated, Wulfric could see that all was not right. Alfred looked tired and haggard, as though he had not seen a good night’s sleep in some time. Whatever predicament had led him to summon Wulfric was no doubt the cause, and Wulfric wanted nothing
Similar Books
