Abomination by Gary Whitta Page A

more than to know the nature of it, but it was not his place to ask.
    “My thanks to you for coming so quickly,” said Alfred, as cheerily as he was able. “How was your journey?”
    “Uneventful,” Wulfric replied. “I made good speed, which I hope to also on my return.” He wasted no time letting Alfred know how keen he was to be on his way.
    Alfred laughed. “You’ve only just arrived and already you’re planning your trip back?”
    “Your invitation is never anything less than an honor,” said Wulfric. “But I am reluctant to be far removed from Cwen at the moment.”
    “Ah, how is the beautiful Cwen? Wait, she’s not sick, is she?”
    Wulfric beamed in the way only an expectant father can. “Far from it.”
    Alfred knew that look. He had six children of his own. A grin spread across his own face, and he grabbed Wulfric by the shoulders and embraced him again, more firmly. “God bless you, you horny bastard!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “How far along?”
    “Six months, thereabouts. Her back aches and she waddles like a duck, and last week I swear I saw her eat a piece of coal. But for all that, she is still the most beautiful woman I could ever hope to lay eyes on, much less have married.”
    “She is that,” Alfred agreed. “Do you hope for a son or daughter?”
    “Cwen gives no mind to that and prays only that it has its health. As do I, although whenever I dream about it, it is always a boy.”
    “I have no doubt of it,” Alfred said, the smile fading from his lips. “I pray that we might have you home before he is born.”
    And something inside Wulfric sank like a stone.

    They ate dinner together that night in Alfred’s private chamber. Wulfric had no appetite. He had suspected, of course, that his hope of returning home the next day was a fantasy, but now it was confirmed. Whatever task lay before him was to be measured not in days or even weeks, but in months.
    Alfred seemed determined to put off discussing anything of import for as long as possible, leaving Wulfric to nod and smile politely as he privately tortured himself with questions of what lay in store for him. He cringed as he remembered the promise he had made to Cwen just before he left.
What are your words worth
, he asked himself,
if they crumble into dust so easily?
But to whom did his allegiance belong? His beloved wife carrying his unborn child? Or to his best friend and his King, to whom he owed everything he had? He found himself praying for some hope of returning home without having broken his covenant with either.
    “Do you believe in witchcraft, Wulfric?”
    Wulfric’s attention returned suddenly to the table. The King had been talking for some time, but the oddity of the question was such that it stood out from all the rest.
    He waited for Alfred’s face to crack. The King never had been able to keep a straight face when telling a joke, but Alfred’s expression now was as somber as Wulfric had ever seen it, even during the darkest days of the war. This was not a jest. And there was something unsettling about the look in Alfred’s eyes. It suggested that he knew more, much more, about the subject he had just broached than he had yet volunteered.
    Wulfric thought carefully about his answer before speaking. “I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”
    “You’ve seen no evidence of God, either,” Alfred replied, as though anticipating the answer. “And yet you believe.”
    “God was with us at Ethandun,” said Wulfric. “We could not have turned the tide of battle otherwise. I remember you said so yourself.”
    “
Direct
evidence,” the King retorted. “Something before your very eyes that defies all nature, and science, and reason. Something that cannot be explained.”
    “Then no. But faith is the evidence of things not seen, is it not?”
    For a long moment, Alfred did not speak. He simply fingered the stem of his goblet and stared into the blood-red surface of the wine within, lost in some dark