Margaret Moore - The Saxon

Bayard, high-born, well-respected, handsome and proud, sat in a chair at the far end of the hall. To the right of him, seated on benches and stools, were the Danes, including Dagfinn, the leader of the band that lived closest to Bayard’s land. Ranulf and several of the Saxon warriors sat to Bayard’s left. Father Derrick, Bayard’s priest, stood behind him in the shadows.

The Saxons’ faces were carefully blank and their sword belts obviously empty. Nor were their visitors armed, for no weapons were to be worn in the hall. Nonetheless, several Saxon swords, bows, axes and spears were hung about the hall, a silent reminder that the Danes had best think again before provoking a fight.

Bayard did not immediately acknowledge Adelar’s presence, despite the Danes’ glances in his direction, and Adelar knew his cousin was not pleased with his tardiness.

“Ale, Dagfinn?” Bayard offered.

“Ya.” The huge, fair-haired fellow held out his goblet for a young female slave to fill. He gave her a long, lustful look, making the girl flush deep red as she moved quickly away.

As he watched them, Adelar realized that Bayard could be held somewhat accountable for these maggots waiting to have a part of his flesh. Even now he wore his finest brooch on his shoulder, with the Danes sitting close enough to count the jewels in it. His tunic was of wool dyed with the most costly of blue dyes, his sword’s hilt was of silver, the belt of soft worked leather. If he were the burhware, Adelar thought, he would take care not to be so ostentatious...but that would never happen. The only burh he stood a chance of commanding would be that of his father, and he would take nothing from him.

“Adelar, here at last,” Bayard finally said with a slight smile on his lips and displeasure in his eyes.

“Aye, my lord.” Adelar stepped forward, aware of the Danes’ scrutiny.

“Ah, you bring this fellow to our counsels again,” Dagfinn said, his Saxon words slow and halting. Although his tone was jovial, Adelar knew the Dane was not happy to see him, either.

“Since this meeting must be important to bring you onto my land, I wish to ensure that I understand correctly,” Bayard said smoothly. While Bayard did not like the provision for the Danes that Alfred had made, he thought it was too late to make them leave the country entirely. Bayard favored allowing the Danes to remain in England as long as they agreed to abide by Saxon law and to acknowledge Edward as the rightful king. He wanted peace above all things.

Adelar translated Bayard’s words into the Danes’ tongue. He did not agree that peace was acceptable by any means, but he had no right to interfere if Bayard wished otherwise. He was simply one of Bayard’s warriors, although kin. “I gather you wish to propose some kind of alliance?”

“Ya. A marriage alliance.”

Adelar stared at Dagfinn in stunned silence.

“What did he say?” Bayard asked. When Adelar spoke, Ranulf and some of the others shifted and began to mumble. Even Father Derrick moved a little as Adelar repeated the words. Bayard’s expression betrayed only slight surprise. “Tell him that I have no wish to take a wife again,” he remarked calmly.

“Why not?” Dagfinn demanded rudely. “You do not have a wife, or any sons. I have the perfect woman for you. And—” he paused a moment “—I might be persuaded to lower the Danegeld if our families were united in marriage.”

“I do agree that the Danegeld is much too high and welcome the possibility of altering it,” Bayard replied, “but I am not convinced a marriage alliance would be a wise solution.”

Adelar looked quickly at his cousin. Not only had he not scoffed outright at the Dane’s suggestion, he sounded as if he was actually considering the proposal. Yet such a thing was truly impossible. What would Cynath think of this marriage, let alone the king?

Dagfinn belched and shrugged. “If you do not agree, the Danegeld will remain as it is. Of course, you do not have to pay it. Then my men will attack your village, kill your warriors, burn the buildings to the ground and take your people as slaves.”

“Or perhaps my warriors will kill your warriors and you will get nothing. Then King Edward will make such war on you that your people will be driven back across the seas.”

“Or maybe Aethelwold will be acknowledged king.”

“The Witan has chosen Edward,” Bayard responded. “He is a proven leader in battle and Alfred’s eldest son. Although Aethelwold might believe he has some legal claim to the throne, no member of the Witan wants him for a king. He is a traitor and completely without honor.”

“In his will, Alfred did not say who was to succeed him,” Dagfinn countered.

Adelar masked his surprise as best he could, but how did this foreigner come to have such a clear understanding of the problem of succession?

“The Danes have acknowledged Aethelwold,” Dagfinn insisted stubbornly, as if what they did should influence the Saxons. “He already commands Essex.”

“So why do you wish to make an alliance?” Bayard asked.

Why indeed, Adelar thought, unless Dagfinn had little confidence in Aethelwold’s ability to rule or the Danes to control him. Adelar ran his gaze over Dagfinn’s men. Dagfinn was old and fat, and his men were not in good fighting trim. Only one of them, a red-haired fellow who watched Adelar constantly, looked to be capable of beating any of the Saxon warriors.

Was it battle Dagfinn feared? Did the Danes have as little wish to fight as Bayard? It didn’t seem likely, until one considered how long this band had been settled in the Danelaw. Years, with few true armed conflicts. And perhaps Bayard was not the only leader in the hall who sensed that Edward was going to be a more aggressive commander than his father.

“This squabbling need not touch us,” Dagfinn said in a slightly wheedling voice. “We are neighbors. And no one can profit during such times.”

That made sense, for the Vikings Adelar had known were more concerned with gain than the business of state and the succession of kings.

Unexpectedly, Bayard smiled and said, “Tell me of this woman you wish me to wed.”

Adelar wondered what kind of tactic this was. A marriage alliance with the Danes was completely unacceptable, given the situation between Edward and Aethelwold, and suspicious for the Danes to suggest.

“The woman is young and beautiful,” Dagfinn said with a leer, and not a little relief.

“I want to know if she is healthy,” Bayard asked.

“Very. And she knows much of healing. My people will be sorry to lose her, but the alliance is more important.”

“Is she strong-willed?”

“She is no simpering girl,” Dagfinn replied carefully.

Adelar fought to keep a satisfied expression from his face. Bayard had never liked strong-willed women. He liked his women placid, or at least filled with awe at his looks, his status or his wealth. And most women were. Even if Bayard was considering this marriage alliance, Dagfinn’s answer would put an end to it.

“Nor is Endredi a scold,” Dagfinn continued.

Adelar could not breathe. He couldn’t think. Surely his heart had stopped beating, the sun no longer moved across the sky, the fire had died. He saw nothing except sea green eyes regarding him steadily, containing neither condemnation nor pity, but understanding and complete acceptance, because Adelar had not meant to bring harm to Betha, only to get back home to his village. As they fled, his sister had fallen ill, and when they were taken back to the Viking settlement, she had died. Endredi had said little, but her eyes...her eyes had said everything. How much her silent comfort had meant to his lonely heart!

And then his father had come with his warriors. He had destroyed the Viking village when the men were away trading, taken the women and children captive and slaughtered the rest. His father had even dragged Endredi to his hall, intending to rape the girl barely on the brink of womanhood.