Abomination by Gary Whitta Page B

thought.
    “I have seen things,” he said at last, his voice not much above a whisper. “Things that have led me to question my own faith. And may cause you to question yours.”
    A gust of wind howled against the window. Wulfric could not tell if the room had suddenly grown colder or if it was his imagination. Either way, Alfred’s demeanor troubled him. These were not the words of a rational man, and Wulfric had never known his King to be anything but.
    “Why am I here?” he asked, finally.
    “In the morning, I will show you,” said Alfred as he rose from his chair, prompting Wulfric to do the same.
    “I am not tired,” said Wulfric, determined to get to the source of whatever was causing this uncharacteristic behavior. “I came along way. If this is why I am here, if you have something to show me, show me now.”
    “In the morning,” said Alfred. “The things I speak of should not be seen so late before sleep.”

    Wulfric did not sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned restlessly through the night, partly because the bed, though far more comfortable and spacious than his own, was not his own. He had rarely spent a night away from home since making his new life there, and when he did, sleep did not come easily. He missed the feel of his own pillow, lumpy as it was. He missed the smell of whatever Cwen had been baking, left out to cool overnight. And most of all, he missed Cwen, the warmth of her back as he nestled himself against her, his hand on her firm, round belly, feeling the gentle stirring of his unborn child within. All the luxuries and appointments of Alfred’s castle only reminded him how far he was from them.
    But mostly he did not sleep out of concern for his friend. He had seen Alfred drawn and wan before—many times while on campaign—but never like this. Wulfric knew better than most the strength of the man, knew that it would take the gravest of matters, more grave even than war, to weigh so heavily upon him. Alfred’s words repeated incessantly in Wulfric’s head as he shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedsheets.
I have seen things that have led me to question my own faith
. Wulfric knew that Alfred’s faith in God went to the very core of his being. It made him the man he was, had given him the strength to drive back the Norse even when all seemed lost. If all the horrors of battle, of seeing comrades bloodied and cleaved all around him, could not shake this man’s belief, then what in God’s name could? It was a question Wulfric could not solve, though he racked his brain, and it haunted him stillwhen the first cock crowed and one of Alfred’s pages arrived to fetch him.

    Alfred was waiting for Wulfric in the Great Hall. He made no offer of breakfast, nor did he enquire how Wulfric had slept; it was plain enough to see. While the King last night had seemed determined to delay the matter at hand, this morning he was equally determined not to tarry. He escorted Wulfric from the hall and through the castle’s winding hallways until they arrived at a door with which Wulfric was not familiar; he thought he had seen all of the castle in his time here, but this was new to him.
    The door was constructed of the heaviest oak and barred by an iron gate that appeared to have been added recently. Two guards stood watch by the entrance. Wulfric did not like it here. He had never much cared for small spaces. Looking back now, he realized that the walls and ceiling had been gradually contracting as they progressed along the hallway, so that now they stood at the end of what felt more like a tunnel. He was already beginning to feel distinctly uneasy.
    “What is this?” he asked.
    “The dungeon,” Alfred replied. He nodded to one of the guards, who unlocked the iron gate and swung it open, then did the same with the door behind it.
    “Here,” said Alfred. He produced an embroidered cloth and offered it to Wulfric. It was damp, and there was an almost overpowering, but not unpleasant, odor from