The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan (2 page)

He seemed to pause, only for a moment, before
responding smoothly. “That is unfortunate for you, perhaps.” He
tossed back a drink from his goblet, swaying slightly as he did.
Either he had already drunken a great deal, or it did not take much
to intoxicate him, for the effect of the spirits seemed to hit him
quite suddenly. “My father’s death, however, made me a king.
Fortunately for
me
.”

This made her grind her teeth together and
glare at him with a gaze almost intense enough to match his own.
But now he did not even notice; now he only seemed to have eyes for
the pretty cup in his hand. “That’s a very pretty goblet,” she
hissed. “Someone else’s gift to you?”

His fingers played thoughtfully over the
ornate decorations of the rim. “A gift to my father, from Ealdorman
Eadric Streona.”

The name seemed to flip a switch in her.
Eadric Streona. The man who changed her entire life. The man who
took everything from her. The man who killed her father.

The man she had come here to destroy.

She swept in closer to Canute, planting her
hands on the table, lowering her voice. “Your father’s death may
have made you a king in name,” she hissed. “But do your men think
of you as one?”

He paused, going terribly still.

“The man outside, Gunnlaug, he said his king
had just died. You have had two months to establish yourself—two
months in which King Ethelred was
gone
from Engla-lond, no
less—and yet they still think of your father as the king. You have
squandered a golden opportunity to overtake Engla-lond.”

“Tread carefully,” he said.

She lowered her voice, but continued to speak
relentlessly. “You miss him, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he snapped. “Now shut your
mouth.”

Instead, she sat down next to him and leaned
in closer. He tensed, slender fingers tightening around his
disgusting prize of a cup. “Were you ready for your father to die,
Canute? Were you ready to become king?”

He inhaled sharply, but said nothing.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to answer. I
understand. I know what it’s like to think that you are unshakable,
and then discover that you’re not.”

He turned to look at her, slowly this time,
the pale discs of his eyes snaking to the edge of his lids. “Do I
look shaken to you?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“No, you don’t look it. But I think you are
good at hiding it. Just as I am.”

At that, he chuckled, and the sound of his
high-pitched chortles made her stomach turn. “No you’re not. You’re
practically blue with fear, woman.”

She pulled back, anger stinging her tongue.
“And
you
—you’re even more afraid than I am. If you were
ready to be a king you would already have a plan. You would have
mobilized your men while Ethelred was away, and while the
Anlgo-Saxons thought your Vikings were weakened by their unexpected
loss—rightfully so! You could have proved to everyone that you’re
all the man your father was. Instead you are sulking here in the
safety of the Danelaw, getting fat with Easter feasting!”

His smile had long since vanished, and his
lips were curling down into a scowl.

“If you were as ready to be a king as you
want everyone to believe, you wouldn’t linger here in Gainsborough,
hiding your face and hesitating about what to do next. It’s so
different now that he’s gone, isn’t it? It’s not what you thought
it would be. You thought you were ready. You thought it would feel
wonderful to be free from his constant scrutiny, from the need for
his approval, from the way you only seemed to matter to other
people so long as he was around. But now you got your wish and it’s
not at all what you expected. Is it?”

He moved so quickly that he must not have
been as intoxicated as she thought, after all. One moment his hand
was around his cup, and the next it was around her throat, shoving
her back and pinning her down to the table. She heard dishes
clatter and stools knock over, but then all she could hear was the
sound of her own breath, or lack thereof, as she tried to force it
past the vice-like grip of his hand.

Once she got over the shock of it, she began
fighting back. He only had one hand free to protect himself as she
reached for his own neck, stretching her nails out as far out as
she could, as if they were claws. She could not reach his throat,
but she managed to grab his tunic, her fingers scrambling and
curling until she had her hands full of the stiff fabric. She
yanked at it, unable to pull him closer, but managing instead to
rake the smooth skin of his chest with her nails.

He leapt back, hissing with anger. At that
moment she pounced on him, flying off the table and swinging for
his face. He scrambled back, towards the fire, and when he fell a
cry rose about the room, for it looked as if he might fall into it.
As she watched, she feared she might have done something truly
stupid. And in that moment of pause, he was able to grab her,
pulling himself to safety and carrying them both to the floor.

As soon as she began wrestling with him
against the rushes she lost track of who did what. They grabbed at
each other, pulling, pushing, and twisting. They rolled and
scrambled, and while her body seemed to be running over with pain
and discomfort, at the same time her blood felt hot and throbbing
within her, dulling everything else and replacing it with a numbing
exhilaration. She listened to his panting breath, his grunts of
effort as he tried to overcome her, and felt as if every part of
their bodies touched completely, even tough they flailed and rolled
about, constantly moving. She was rewarded by a profound
satisfaction every time she escaped his grasp or returned one of
his blows.

Then he got on top of her, and seemed to have
gotten the better of her. He stared down at her through the pale
strips of his hair, eyes blazing. In a moment of illumination, she
jabbed her knee into his groin.

He groaned and fell back.

Belatedly his housecarls came to his rescue,
and before she could move she was yanked up and pinned down again,
this time on both sides, her wrists crushed sharply against the
table.

Canute looked down at himself, his tunic
ripped open, his chest beaded with dark blood, his body bent
uncomfortably around his aching loins. He seemed at a loss. When he
looked at her again, she could not tell whether he was furious or
fascinated.

“Who did you say your father was again?” he
said with heaving breath.

She had never said it to him, as she
recalled. He had not given her the chance. “He was Ealdorman
Alfhelm of York.”

He frowned with puzzlement, then shook his
head. “Should I know him?”

She bit back her anger, which was easy to do
when she felt as if a single wrong move would cause the king’s
housecarls to break her arm. “King Ethelred chose Uhtred to take
over, because he seemed the stronger warleader against the Scots.”
She groaned with discomfort, struggling to maintain her composure.
“He had my father killed, and then his men took out my brother’s
eyes while I watched.”

This did not phase him in the least. “This is
of no use to me.”

“Yes it is, you bastard!” This caused the
housecarls to squeeze her tighter, but Canute only looked amused.
“Despite my family’s exile, I have managed to keep a lot of lands,
and a lot of wealth—”

“Be more specific.”

“I own nearly two hundred hides ... I think.
In Northampton.” She hurried past this uncertainty. “More
importantly I have connections. I know thegns in the Danelaw and
beyond because of my upbringing; they are kind to me because they
feel sorry for me. I know some who are loyal to King Ethelred.”

At this, Canute came closer, leaning over her
splayed, constrained body. She thought she felt his gaze, exploring
her more intimately than it had before. For some reason, she did
not feel ashamed of her body this time.

“Don’t you see, Canute? I am invaluable to
you. And you know you can trust me, because I would never help King
Ethelred. I swear it on the blood of my dead family.”

He sneered a little, but her heart raced, for
he was so close to her now that she could feel his breath against
her neck. Then, without any warning at all, he kissed her.

She had never been kissed before. She was not
sure what she should have expected. But this, to be sure, was not
it. She was held captive, unable to move, and her arms ached; but
there were his lips, stiff against her quivering mouth, cool in
temperature. It was anything but romantic or tender. Even so, she
would not have pulled away, even if she could have. She felt as if
he was testing her, somehow; and considering how long he lingered
there, breathing against her, his slitted gaze looking in to hers,
she felt as if she passed.

Finally he pulled away, a strange look on his
face.

“I suppose you’ll do,” he said.

*

That night, he gave her a bed on which to
sleep, and then he shared it with her.

That day and the next few weeks were a flurry
of confusion and excitement for Alfgifu. Somehow, she had succeeded
in connecting with Canute in a much deeper way than she had ever
expected. She was by his side by day and then—a few times—by night.
She did not know if he thought of her as a wife, but it seemed as
if suddenly, she was one. She overheard his housecarls saying that
he had never “chosen” a woman before. He did not act, as far as she
could tell, as if he had fallen in love with her. It seemed,
indeed, as if he had simply chosen her. He let her follow him
around as he executed his affairs; when he was at a loss he turned
to her for council. And at night, sometimes when she would last
expect it, he would enter the chamber he had given her and invite
himself to her bed. Often he would blow out the candles, and carry
out his mission very matter-of-factly; but sometimes she would
insist on keeping them lit, and then she would purposefully resist
him. A struggle would ensue, making her blood roar and her toes
tingle, and when he overcame her she suspected he enjoyed it as
much as she did.

Alfgifu wanted to feel victorious, but she
did not let herself. She knew that Canute was using her, as surely
as she was using him. The nature of their relationship puzzled her,
as he continued to say nothing of marriage.

Whatever the case, it seemed as if she had at
least been able to spur him to action. He called together the
people of Lindsey and invited them to raid and plunder alongside
his Vikings. His warriors stretched their limbs and sharpened their
blades and she felt the vibrancy of war in the air. The people
cheered to Canute and looked to him as their ruler.

Canute was a natural leader, she thought. He
had a way of commanding people’s attention almost effortlessly,
even when he spoke with a quiet voice. He certainly did not lack in
confidence; in fact, his surplus of it easily overwhelmed the lack
of anyone else’s. Despite all this, she worried that he had not yet
established himself as king the way he needed to. The people
followed him now because they were restless; but what would happen
when they faced King Ethelred’s forces? Would they stay united
under Canute’s commands?

More importantly, how would Canute stand
against the influence and trickery of Eadric Streona?

Even with the Vikings’ eagerness to go
raiding and pillaging, she sensed small threads of doubt amongst
them. Perhaps, she thought, it was because they still did not know
where they would go, even as they made to prepare themselves. When
the jarls finally asked aloud where they would go first, Alfgifu
leaned close to Canute and whispered in his ear, “Mercia.” His eyes
flicked towards her, the only sign of acknowledgment; but otherwise
he did not respond.

Mercia was the logical choice, after all. The
lands of Mercia were lush and fertile, less ravaged than the
southern lands, and very, very nearby. Some would even consider
their current location to belong to the official earldom of Mercia,
as they had once been grouped together, until the Seven Boroughs
came together to form the Danelaw. No one would assume that her
real reason for suggesting it, of course, was because it was the
earldom of Eadric Streona.

Alfgifu had never been raiding before. She
felt certain that she would enjoy it. When she told Canute that she
wished to pillage and slaughter alongside the men, he laughed at
her, though in an affectionate tone. She brought it up again that
night as he led her through the grass to her lodge. He stopped,
turned to her, and put his hand on her belly.

“You have more important things to do.”

A roar filled her ears when she heard this,
for belatedly, she understood her purpose. Canute wanted an heir,
and he wanted it soon. This was probably the reason he had chosen
her so quickly, more than from any flare of passion or feeling of
“connection.” In one sense the notion of giving Canute an heir
filled her with excitement. But at the same time, her ears burned
with frustration.

“You are among Christians here,” she reminded
him. He was Christian, himself, or at least wanted to be; she knew
because he wore a cross around his neck. But she’d noticed that
some of his men still wore the pagan symbol of Thor’s hammer.
Without a doubt, it was easy for him to forget how he should act.
“They will want a legitimate child, one produced from a marriage in
the eyes of God.”

“God sees everything I do, I assure you.” He
wore a strange smile on his face. His pale skin and hair seemed to
glow white in the moonlight. “If you give me a healthy son, then
we’ll see about marriage.”

“That’s not how it works—” she began, but he
had already stopped listening, and she bit her own tongue. She
would give him what he wanted, so long as she got what she wanted
from him, eventually.

“Why did you come here, Alfgifu?” Chills
trickled down her body, for it seemed that his eyes, now possessing
a tiny twinkle, had seen into her mind. The smile from his face was
gone.