Far Traveler (2 page)

“On the first day of the spring market?” Æthelstan asked. “That was just ill luck. How could I have known that your mother would be at the armorer's stall as we passed?” My cousin plunged through a stable doorway and led me along the dim corridor between the stalls.

“But I ...”

“Don't you want to see him again?” Æthelstan tossed over his shoulder. “If I had been given such a horse ... look! There he is!” He pointed at the next stall. I stopped as Æthelstan hurried forward. I could see the big white stallion moving in the dusty shadows, and I took a step back.

Why had
I
been given such a horse, I wondered unhappily. Yesterday my mother, Æthelflæd, had brought him to me. “He's a fine one,” she'd said, smiling as the horse tossed his head, “a grandson of the matched greys I brought with me when I came to Lunden from my father's court. I want you to have him, Ælfwyn.” Mother had put the stallion's lead rope into my reluctant hand, and I had stood there stupidly, wondering if Mother had mistaken me—her shy daughter—for someone who might have some use for this animal.

“A beauty,” Æthelstan murmured, holding out a handful of hay to coax the horse nearer. “What will you call him, Wyn?”

“They told me his name was Winter,” I replied. The horse's head appeared at the opening and I jerked back, startled. Æthelstan shot me a quick look, then a grin split his handsome, sun-browned face.

“He may be big, Wyn, but he behaves himself. Look.” He grasped Winter's halter and the horse obligingly brought his head down, gazing calmly at me with one large eye.

“I've never been a good rider—you know that,” I said miserably. The stablemen usually gave me some sleepy old beast if Mother required me to ride. I always had trouble just keeping up with the rest of the company. It was enough to send me scurrying to the library any time a ride seemed likely.

“I'm telling you, he won't be hard to ride. Just watch this.” Æthelstan stepped into the stall, took a handful of the horse's mane, and vaulted smoothly onto his back. Winter merely shifted one hoof, adjusting to the new weight. “See? Still as a stone!” Æthelstan said proudly, patting the horse's arched neck.

“Even if my legs were as long as yours, I could never do that.” I frowned up at my cousin.

“Here, I'll help you up,” Æthelstan said eagerly, leaning down to catch my arm.

“No! I can't!”

But he had already begun to heave me up, and in another moment I was straddling the white warhorse behind Æthelstan, my long undergown bunched around my knees.

“I told you, he's as steady as you could wish,” Æthelstan said with satisfaction. “But ease off there, Wyn,” he said, craning his neck to look at me. “You'll squeeze the breath out of me.”

I made myself loosen my arms around Æthelstan's waist, but my fingers still gripped the belt over his tunic. I had never sat such a tall horse, and the ground seemed a long way off.

“He's been well trained—see how he answers to just a touch here. ...” Æthelstan pressed gently with one knee, and the horse turned. I squeezed Æthelstan's belt harder. “And let's try this.” Æthelstan leaned over the horse's withers and Winter stepped forward out of his stall.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Don't worry, Wyn,” Æthelstan replied happily. “We'll just see how he goes!”

No one stopped us as we trotted through the stable yard. After all, I thought as I clung grimly to Æthelstan, Winter was my horse—Mother's gift to me—and everyone in the stable must know that now. Heads turned as we flashed along the road through the center of Lunden, and I muttered a stream of protests into Æthelstan's ear as he lifted the horse into a canter.

“Mother never gave permission ... miss Latin again ... Brother Grimbald won't ... I'm falling!”

Æthelstan heeded nothing but the last words of my harangue, which made him reach back quickly to keep me from pitching sideways. He never slowed the horse, and in a few moments we were at the south gate of Lunden's defensive wall. Æthelstan flung up an arm and shouted to the sentries, who recognized him and called back their greetings. Almost before I knew it, we had ridden outside the
tun.

I clung in silence to my cousin's torso as he made for a little rise nearby. Winter slowed as we reached the top, coming to a halt as Æthelstan settled his weight squarely on the horse's back.

“Look, Wyn. Isn't it a fine sight?” I gazed out where my cousin pointed as Winter dipped his nose into the spring grass. Farmed fields lay side by side in strips, their broad furrows barely green with the year's young planting. The road from the gate ran through open pastures down to a distant river, and beyond that lay a tangle of shadowy woodland, dark at the edge of the blue sky. “How could we spend the whole morning in the scriptorium on a day like this?” Æthelstan demanded.

“All this light would make it easier to copy the lesson,” I answered stubbornly, but inside I was beginning to feel glad we had come.

It was always like this, I thought to myself. Ever since my cousin had joined our household as a fosterling some seven winters earlier, he had drawn me into his schemes. And yet however reluctantly I went, I always found myself enjoying Æthelstan's company. From the first days of our childhood together, he'd been ready with a smile for me, and with real friendship. Sometimes I wondered why. Wasn't I just the mousy girl who could best him at reading and writing, but who shrank from walks in crowded streets, from the friendly conversation of my mother's many noble visitors, even from the touch of an unfamiliar servant?

Still, somehow Æthelstan liked me. I rested my chin on his shoulder, content. And of course there were things we shared. We were highborn—he the son of the West Saxon ruler King Edward, and I the daughter of Edward's sister Æthelflæd, who ruled the ancient kingdom of Mercia in Edward's name. Æthelstan had rarely seen his parents or his brothers and sisters since he'd come to live with us, and I was my mother's only child. I found myself remembering how in my ninth winter I had watched my father waste away on a sickbed. His death had left me without family except for Mother. And then just a few months after my father's passing, Æthelstan had come, already tall though he had not yet lived through his twelfth winter, often bored with the customs and duties of noble life, and surprisingly fond of his shy cousin Ælfwyn.

“What's that?” Æthelstan asked suddenly. I felt him lean forward to peer into the distance, and the horse, still grazing, took a step down the hill. “Hold there!” Æthelstan slid to the ground and caught Winter's halter. “Good boy.” He raised a hand to shade his eyes, still looking out toward the river.

“Do you see something?” I asked, trying to find what had caught his eye. Then at the far edge of the river I saw movement—horsemen, a group of them, with wagons behind. A large party had reached the fording place. I guessed that they would cross the river and be at Lunden's southern gate before the abbey's bells rang to mark the third hour of daylight.

The third hour ...

“Æthelstan, we have to get back! Brother Grimbald will already have missed us for a quarter of an hour—”

“Grimbald?” Æthelstan shook his head. “It's not he who worries me now. But you're right. We'd best be safely in front of our books when that crowd gathers in your mother's council chamber. Come on.” He started to lead Winter down the hill.

“What do you mean? Who are they?” I protested, craning my neck to see the first riders begin splashing across the river.

“I guess you've dulled your eyes with so much reading,” Æthelstan said dryly as he pulled himself up behind me—he would make me guide my gift horse back to the stable, it seemed. “Did you not see their crested helmets, the decoration of their horses and wagons?”

I shook my head, too intent on the balance of Winter's rolling strides to look back again.

“It's the West Saxon royal guard, Wyn,” he told me, “and my father, the king.”

BROTHER GRIMBALD HAD NOT FINISHED SCOLDING US WHEN my companion Gytha hurried into the scriptorium.

“Another tardy arrival,” the elderly monk said crossly. “Well, Saint Augustine's writings have survived these many hundred winters. They will wait for one more student to find her seat.” He gestured to a space at the writing table beside me.

“Pardon, Brother”—Gytha ducked her head politely and tried to smooth her windblown red curls—“but I have not come for the lesson today.” Æthelstan raised an eyebrow at me. “Lady Æthelflæd has asked me to bring Ælfwyn and Æthelstan. They are wanted in her council chamber.” Æthelstan was grinning outright now, his smile almost a match for Brother Grimbald's scowl. “I apologize, Brother Grimbald,” Gytha said as Æthelstan and I stood to go. “The lady said they must come right away.”

I touched our tutor's sleeve. “For our next lesson, is there anything to prepare?” The dour expression on Grimbald's face did not change as he ran his finger along the margins, showing me a dozen new pages of reading.

 

“You didn't have to ask, Wyn,” Æthelstan grumbled as we hurried along beside Gytha. “I won't finish half of that. You'll have to tell me what it's about.” I grimaced, clutching the book Brother Grimbald had thrust into my hands as we left. I would much rather be on my way to my own room with Saint Augustine for quiet reading than headed off to a crowded council chamber.

“Did you know your father has come, Æthelstan?” Gytha asked. “He and his riders would take no rest, nor any food and drink, before they met with the lady.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Their horses are very fine—we should go to the stables after you greet him.”

“We've already—” I began, but Æthelstan's elbow in my rib stopped me.

“They've been talking since just before the bells rang for midmorning prayer,” Gytha continued, glancing sideways at me, but asking no questions. “They called for the two of you with some haste.” Nervously, I caught Gytha's hand, and she squeezed mine back. Gytha had lived ten winters longer than my sixteen, and was a good friend to me. Her sharp-tongued mother, Edith, oversaw all our household affairs, but Gytha would keep our secrets—I knew that, even if Æthelstan did not.

On the threshold of my mother's council chamber we heard the confusion of voices within. I hesitated, but Æthelstan stepped forward boldly.

“They're waiting, Wyn,” Gytha said as she slipped the book from under my arm and gave me a gentle push into the room.

Conversation stopped as Æthelstan and I appeared. I shrank closer to my cousin beneath the scrutiny of so many strangers' eyes.

“Ah, so you've come.” My mother strode across the floor in her dark gown as men in dusty leather armor and linked mail parted to let her through. She smiled at me as she gripped Æthelstan's shoulder and gave it a little shake. “I wasn't sure if Gytha would find you with Grimbald. Word reached me that a yellow-haired fellow had ridden off with my daughter.”

I felt my face burning. As usual, Mother had discovered our mischief. But Æthelstan remained unruffled.

“He's an irresistible horse, Aunt Æthelflæd,” he said boldly, earning a mock scowl from my mother before she cocked her head (wound round with heavy brown plaits), and called out:

“Edward, what would you have me do with your boy? Twice in a month he has abandoned his Latin tutor, taking Ælfwyn with him. I fear Brother Grimbald won't continue to teach children who show so little respect.”

“I remember at least one cleric who did when we were young,” muttered my uncle as he joined us. He stood even taller than Æthelstan, and looked as lean as the two shaggy sight hounds that shadowed him. The dogs circled us, touching our hands with their noses.

“It's true that Father John bore your disappearances when we were young,” Mother replied thoughtfully.

“And yours,” the king shot back. Æthelstan and I stared at the two of them, trying to imagine each of our parents as restless students. “But Æthelflæd,” Edward continued, “they are children no longer, as we have been saying.”

A shadow crossed Mother's face before she turned briskly to the king's men behind us. “You must eat, and rest a little before you leave us. My thane Benwic”—she gestured toward one of her own retainers—“will show you where to go.”

The room emptied quickly, and soon we were left alone with my mother and King Edward. Mother nodded to her two remaining guards, and they stepped outside, closing the heavy wooden doors behind them.

“You've grown, boy,” King Edward said to Æthelstan. My cousin stood up straighter, and indeed, he and the king met almost eye to eye. “I've left him in your care longer than some of my counselors liked, Æthelflæd,” he told my mother gruffly, “beyond his seventeenth winter, long after many noble sons have learned to ride beside their kin and carry their own swords.”

“Æthelstan can ride”—Mother's mouth twisted—“as he proved this morning. And we have given him a sword. ...” Her tone was rueful, and I glanced at her sharply. What was happening? Mother turned to Æthelstan. “I hope you have been happy in Lunden,” she said in a quiet voice, “for we have been glad to have you in our house-band.”

“But now I need you with me,” King Edward said. “The northern border is more troubled this season. My retainers and I ride to Mameceaster and Thelwæl to secure the fortresses, and to join any new skirmish we find there.” I saw a burst of joyful surprise on Æthelstan's face, and my own heart sank. I had always known Æthelstan's fosterling days in our court would end, yet I had not guessed it would be this sudden.