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The Saxon. Margaret Moore
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Bayard had more than obeyed his overlord’s orders. The fortress’s walls were of thick timbers, with a gate at the main road. Inside, the other buildings were all nearly finished. The hall, where Bayard’s people ate, slept and spent their time when not working or, in the case of the warriors, practicing for the warfare that would inevitably come, was the finest Adelar had ever seen.
Around the hall the more important and richer thanes had built bowers, smaller buildings that doubled as personal halls and sleeping quarters. Bayard, too, had a bower, the largest, of course, and his was closest to the hall.
Adelar hoped he would never see this burh aflame, destroyed by marauding Vikings. Indeed, he would fight to death to prevent it.
When he had arrived here months ago, he had made no claim of kinship on his cousin, yet Bayard had accepted him into his household at once. Bayard’s nephew Ranulf had protested, citing the tales of Adelar’s father’s traitorous and criminal acts. Bayard had discarded them all, although Adelar had revealed to him privately that everything Ranulf had said was true. His father, Kendric, had led the Viking raiders to their village. He had paid them to kill his wife, and when that plot failed, Adelar had no doubt that his mother’s death had been no accident, as Kendric had claimed. Because of all this, Adelar had disowned his father, and his father had disowned his son.
Bayard had listened to everything, then he rose and said simply, “Welcome to my hall, cousin.” For that, and the trust that Bayard had demonstrated thereafter, Adelar would be forever in Bayard’s debt.
Adelar entered the hall and divested himself of his weapons. Low, guttural voices and an outburst of raucous laughter told him where the Danes stood.
Filled with the anger that always rose in him when he saw Vikings, Adelar strode down the hall beside the long central hearth.
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,