The Edge of Light by Joan Wolf Page A

the invaders.”
    “They could not live together, but they rallied to die together.” Alfred’s tone was noncommittal.
    “The two kings did not actually die together,” Athulf said. “Aelle was captured.”
    Ethelred said, “I did not know that.” The look on the young Mercian’s face made both brothers slow their steps. The heat of the day had become oppressive. Even Alfred’s golden skin was lightly sheened with sweat. “What happened?” Ethelred asked.
    “You do not know?”
    “I would not be asking if I knew.” Ethelred began to pluck at his eyebrow, a sure sign that he was worried.
    “Aelle was taken prisoner. Then they …” Athulf’s voice faded a little and he cleared his throat. He began again. “The Vikings apparently have a traditional way to deal with captured kings. As York burned before his eyes, they took Aelle, and while still he was living, they cut out his ribs and his lungs and spread them like eagle’s wings in an offering to their god, Odin.” He looked at the two West Saxons. “They call this slaughter the ‘blood eagle,’ “ he said, his face and his voice very grim.
    “Dear God in heaven!” Ethelred’s brown eyes were dilated in horror.
    “May God have mercy on his soul,” Athulf said, crossing himself.
    “Amen.” They had almost come to a halt while they spoke, and now they commenced once again slowly to climb the hill that led to Tamworth’s royal hall. “I did not hear aught of this,” Ethelred said. His face was streaming with sweat.
    “We must withstand them.” Alfred’s voice was hard and abrupt, “Such barbarians must not be allowed to gain their way in England.”
    “A true word, my lord,” Athulf replied heartily. Then they were before the great door of the royal hall of Tamworth.

    Ethelswith of Mercia sat beside her husband the king in the stifling hall and watched her brothers advancing toward her from across the room. Ethelred had put on weight since last she’d seen him, she thought. And he was looking very pale. Ah well, he was approaching thirty; no longer a young man. But not old either, she added quickly, remembering she was but two years behind him. It must be the young men on either side of Ethelred who made him suddenly seem so … middle-aged.
    Ethelswith’s eyes went from Ethelred to Alfred. She had a fondness for her youngest brother and remembered that he would turn eighteen in two days’ time. An important birthday. I must give a banquet for him, she thought. Then, with a pang of nostalgia: How much he resembles Mother.
    They had reached the high seat and now Burgred rose to welcome his visitors from Wessex. Burgred made Ethelred look young, Ethelswith thought as she watched her brother and her husband going through the ceremonial greeting. Burgred, massive of shoulder and thick of limb, was accepting Ethelred’s gift with courtesy. Then he gestured, and one of his own thanes was coming forward with the matched wolfhounds that were his return gift to his brother-by-marriage.
    It was Alfred’s face that lighted when the dogs were brought forth. He snapped his fingers and the dogs came to him instantly, as dogs always did. He fondled their ears and looked up at Ethelred, his golden eyes alight. “They are beauties, my lord.”
    Ethelred was too pale, Ethelswith suddenly thought. It must be the heat. She rose from the high seat and said, “You do not look well, brother. Come and sit and I will send for some mead.”
    Ethelred smiled a little shakily, “It is so hot.” Then, as they all began to move toward the chairs that had been set near to the door to catch whatever air was moving, “Young Athulf has just been telling us of Aelle’s fate. We had heard nothing of this blood eagle in Wessex.”
    Ethelswith frowned and set her lips. She did not like to think of what had happened to Aelle. It made her skin crawl. She heard Burgred mumble, “Shocking,” and then they had reached the chairs and a serving man was coming with the