The Edge of Light by Joan Wolf

ten-mile radius of Nottingham have fled,” Athulf said. “The very name of Ivar the Boneless is enough to strike terror into the stoutest of hearts.”
    “No resistance has been offered to them?” Alfred asked.
    “No,” answered Athulf, and his blue eyes met Alfred’s stoically. Athulf’s eyes were paler by far than his sister’s, Alfred found himself thinking inconsequently. Then Athulf added, “The king has not yet called up the fyrd.”
    So Alfred had begun to suspect. He looked around the circle of Mercian nobles, however, and said in surprise, “You have not called up the fyrd, my lords? But why not?”
    “Not all the thanes of Mercia would be enough to defeat Ivar the Boneless and his godless, blood-soaked army,” Edred answered him angrily. “In the name of God, Prince, these are the men who have spent the last ten years despoiling the great cities of France! They are professionals! Compared to them, we know nothing of making war.”
    It was Athulf who replied to his fellow countryman: “We are going to have to learn, my lord.” He looked around the faces of the nobles who comprised the Mercian witan, and added, “The Danes are not going to go away.”
    There was a brief unhappy silence. Then Alfred said crisply, “No, I fear they are not.”
    Burgred looked at him. “Alfred …” The Mercian king’s voice was almost pitiable in its misery. “What should we do? What will Ethelred do to help us?”
    “He will raise the fyrds of all the shires to come to your assistance,” Alfred answered in the same crisp voice. “Ethelred suggests that we wait until the spring, when the roads are passable. Then will he march the combined fyrds of Wessex to join with the combined fyrds of Mercia before Nottingham. We think it is safe to wait until the spring. The Danes are unlikely to attempt a move in midwinter.”
    Athulf’s thin dark face began to blaze. “Thanks be to God!” he said.
    Even Edred was nodding judiciously. “Good. Perhaps one strike with our combined armies will be enough to rout this Danish threat forever.”
    Burgred said, “And perhaps the Danes will be satisfied with their plunder, will return to Northumbria before the spring.”
    There was a startled silence. Athulf looked disgusted. Even the Bishop of Renton looked at his king in wonder. Alfred said, “Perhaps they will, my lord. But I would not wager any money on it.”
    “Nor would I,” Athulf said, and there was a general murmur of agreement among the rest of the Mercian witan.
    “We will raise our fyrds, Prince,” Edred said to Alfred. “And come the spring, let us see what we can do to drive the Danes from this land forever.”

    “Athulf!” Elswyth pounced on her brother as soon as he came out of the great hall after meeting with the witan and the West Saxon prince. “I must speak to you!”
    Athulf tried to shake her hand off his arm. “I can’t stop now, Elswyth. I have business to attend to.” Then, when she showed no signs of letting go her hold on him. “When did you arrive in Tamworth? I thought you and Mother were at Croxden.”
    “Mother is still at Croxden,” Elswyth replied. “I got to Tamworth but an hour since. I must speak to you, Athulf!”
    He had been trying to walk forward, dragging her beside him, but now he stopped dead. “Mother is still at Croxden? Then how did you get to Tamworth?” He swung around to look at her, and for the first time noticed that she was wearing boy’s clothes.
    “I rode,” she replied, the unmistakable ring of defiance in her deep voice. She dropped her hand from his arm.
    “Who brought you?” His brow was beginning to cloud ominously.
    She put up her chin. “I made two of the grooms come with me.”
    At that, his anger kindled. “God in heaven! Elswyth! The Danes are at Nottingham and you are careering around the countryside by yourself! Are you mad?”
    She did not back away from his wrath. His anger had never intimidated her. “Not mad, Athulf,” she