how the people co-existed within these walls. The Danes and Saxons could get along, but only here. Outside in the farms and villages there was still strain. Every week brought more stories of the Danes’ brutality to the south of England. Even in Alvey lands there were stories of men fighting over the women, who numbered too few to meet the demands of every Saxon and Dane warrior. Then there were women like Ellan—women like their mother—who willingly chose the Danes over the Saxons. Many Saxons were bitter about that.
A fight was likely to happen soon. Lady Gwendolyn might refuse to see it, but Elswyth had heard the discontent with her own ears. Her own family, with the exception of Ellan, it seemed, would champion a fight.
‘You speak blasphemy. Father would never agree to you marrying a Dane.’ Elswyth crossed her arms over her chest and met her sister’s eyes which were green like the waters of the lake back home. Sometimes it seemed their eyes were the only thing they had in common. Instead of hair as dark as her own, Ellan’s was striped with honeyed tones. Her sister had always been happy and free from the worries that plagued the rest of the family, while Elswyth had assumed the mantle of responsibility. Ellan was like their wayward mother in many ways and it was worrisome.
‘As I said, Father doesn’t have to agree. I’ll choose my own husband, thank you very much.’
While Elswyth was certainly fine with Ellan choosing her own husband, their father and brothers would not agree to a Dane. Danes were not to marry.
‘I think it best to get below,’ she said, giving her sister a dubious look. ‘Lady Gwendolyn will need extra hands for tonight’s feast.’ Elswyth led the way along the rampart to the steps set into the corner of the wall. The fires had been burning all day in preparation for the men arriving, so that the air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat and vegetables.
Ellan’s eyes were alight with an infuriating glow as she looked over the crowd below. ‘I wonder which of them I shall marry.’
Elswyth rolled her eyes. Tired of arguing, she said, ‘You’ve had months to ponder that with the Danes left behind while these were out raiding or whatever it is they were doing. Why haven’t you chosen one of them?’ She had known that a large group of warriors led by a warrior named Rolfe were due to winter here, but she had not been able to find out what they had been doing over the summer months. She was certain it was information her father would covet.
Ellan giggled. ‘Because these are new. Why limit myself when there are so many to consider?’
‘You haven’t the faintest idea how to choose a proper husband, Ellan. I fear for your future,’ Elswyth teased and stepped on to the hard-packed ground to make her way to the great hall, careful to stay near the wall and away from the arriving warriors. They were creating such an uproar with their celebratory shouts and bellows that they seemed as wild as the beasts in the forest.
‘You make it sound difficult. You simply pick a man with a pleasing look and a disposition to match and there you have a good husband,’ Ellan explained.
‘Ah, well then, I pity the task ahead of you. None of these wildlings have good dispositions.’ As if to lend weight to her words, a man was thrown free from the crowd to land with a crash against the stone wall before them. He settled on his bottom with a hard thud before standing and shaking the wild mane of dark hair from his face. Muttering something in his harsh language that made his friends howl with laughter, he tackled one of them and the two rolled on the ground in a skirmish. The rest of their group shouted encouragements and circled around them. Elswyth resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. She would never understand the Danes.
Ellan hurried to catch up as Elswyth stepped around the group. ‘Certainly not one of those. But there are some. Lord Vidar is acceptable. I thought I might make a search through the men closest to him.’
It was true. Lord Vidar was acceptable, as Danes went. In the months they had lived in Alvey, Elswyth had come to greatly admire Lady Gwendolyn. Where her family saw Lady Gwendolyn as a traitor to the Saxons, Elswyth had come to see how well she and Lord Vidar got along. He was crude and sometimes boorish, but he treated his wife well and had gained the respect of the people in Alvey, even the Saxons. She’d seen how he could be fair and reasonable. Their marriage had brought two groups of people together while avoiding the bloodshed of battle. Elswyth still pitied Lady Gwendolyn, but perhaps in this one instance marriage to a Dane had been necessary.
Still, the subject hardly bore considering for her and Ellan, but there was no use arguing with her sister. The girl did what she wanted and always had. Elswyth had no doubt that an ill-considered marriage with a Dane would send her running back to the farm within a year. ‘I wish you luck sorting through that madness. As for me, I’ll remain unwed for the time being.’
Ellan snickered, but she took Elswyth’s hand to soften her words. ‘Father won’t like that any more than he’ll like me with a Dane. You know he’d see you wed to Osric.’
‘Osric?’ Elswyth laughed.
‘Aye? Why is that funny?’
‘Osric is... Osric. He’s a dear friend, but I’d never marry him.’ Though she had to admit that it would be the natural choice. He was her father’s trusted man on the farm and they had been friends since she was born, but he wasn’t what she wanted in a husband. She couldn’t name what it was that she wanted from a marriage except that it was to be more than a farmer’s wife.
‘I expect Father will disagree.’ Ellan sniffed and took the lead.
‘Nay, he won’t like it, but he cannot force me to wed.’ Lady Gwendolyn would never stand for it.
* * *
‘I haven’t found proof, but my gut tells me that Godric is in league with the Scots.’ Rolfe tightened his grip on his tankard of mead and tossed back a swallow, savouring the honeyed sweetness. The stench of treachery might have soured his homecoming, but at least there was mead.
Vidar cursed under his breath and shook his head. ‘Godric has that entire village in his grip. Either he knew of Durwin’s treachery or he won’t believe it. The only certainty is that he will demand blood in return for the man’s death.’
Rolfe ground his molars as he remembered the fight with the Scots, anger at the Saxon’s presence there still burning hot within him. ‘They have blood in return. I wanted to take Durwin alive, but he fought, cleaving two of my men before he was felled. He’d gladly have killed us given the chance.’
‘Are they well?’
‘Aye, one will bear a nasty scar, but they’ll both recover.’
Vidar nodded and leaned back, turning his tankard absently between his palms. ‘We’ll keep Durwin’s death quiet for now. I’m certain the news will make its way here in time, but there’s no sense in announcing it.’
Rolfe was in firm agreement. Many of the Saxons within Alvey’s walls had already made peace with the Danes, but there were some holdouts. He wouldn’t have them using this whisper of rebellion as a reason to fight. ‘I’ve already talked to my men. They’ll hold their tongues about him.’
‘Good. How were the talks with Haken?’
‘He has agreed to align with us should the need arise. He has nearly two hundred men on Alba’s west coast. Says there were a few skirmishes, but he rarely sees more than twenty Scots at once. I doubt we’ll have need of his men.’ Rolfe took another long drink.
