The guardsmen on watch atop the castle battlements had spied Wulfric coming along the road from some distance away, and the great fortress’s gates rumbled open as he approached. Dolly’s hooves clopped across the drawbridge, and as Wulfric passed beneath the barbican into the outer yard, he was reminded why, as much as he loved Alfred, he rarely enjoyed visiting his friend’s royal seat. The guards and other men-at-arms who met him as he entered gazed at him in quiet fascination, as though some mythological hero made flesh stood before them.
To many of these young men, of course, that was exactly who Wulfric was. Sir Wulfric the Wild. The man who had killed more Norsemen than any other in the Danish campaigns, by more than double. The man who had single-handedly slaughtered a dozen barbarians in defense of the King’s life and then refused the lavish lands and riches offered him in reward. The man who, it was said, the King trusted and listened to above all others, even the Queen herself.
Wulfric tried to avoid the eyes of the man who took Dolly’s reins for him as he dismounted, but he could feel them boring into him. This would be the story of his visit here, he knew. An unremitting parade of genuflection and reverence that would soon have Wulfric itching for home, where the merest suggestion of any such display would earn him a hard rap on the knuckles with a wooden ladle. He liked that far better than this.
He hoped at least to avoid visiting the barrack where that god-awful painting of him hung. Wulfric had refused to sit for it, and so the artist had been forced to make do with whatever descriptions and drawings he could garner from others. The result, Wulfric had thought when he first saw it, was ridiculous. He was depicted holding a shining sword aloft in an absurdly heroic pose, all puffed up with pride, a trait that Wulfric had taken pains to avoid his entire life. The artist had even restored the part of his ear famously lost to a Danish axe at Ethandun, as if it were better that he appear invulnerable. But Wulfric liked his ear the way it was. It served as an ever-present reminder to himself that death was never more than an inch away, that even the most celebrated warriors were as mortal as any other.
It might have been useful to the young soldiers who passed through here to be reminded of that also; as it was, the painting would inspire in those men only a naively romanticized notion of heroism, one that would be roughly dispelled in their first real battle. The only thing rendered with any accuracy at all, Wulfric thought, was the scarab pendant that hung around his neck—they had, at least, got that right. Yes, definitely avoid the barracks, he reminded himself. Then he thanked the man who stabled his horse and made his way across the yard toward the inner bailey and the castle’s central keep, where Alfred resided.
Just being here in the royal household, with all its trappings, made Wulfric uneasy. The idea of royalty had always struck him as inequitable, an attitude no doubt inherited from his father. No man is greater than another by birth, he had taught his young son. Only by deed. But Wulfric was also a man of God, and kings and queens, many believed, were chosen by God himself, for he alone knew who among the people had it within themselves to lead their country to its rightful destiny.
Having witnessed firsthand what Alfred had accomplished, Wulfric found that belief difficult to argue against. The crown had been thrust upon Alfred at a young age, after the untimely death of his brother, and he had, through sheer courage and audacity, turned years of bitter and bloody defeat at the hands of the Norse into the unlikeliest of victories. He had brought England back from the brink of annihilation. Now, thanks to his guidance, it was safer and stronger than ever. Could any other man have done such a thing? Could Wulfric? He doubted it.
Though Wulfric knew as well as anyone not to use the name Alfred the Great in the King’s presence, he believed it to be warranted. For he was a great King and, more than that, a great friend. He had not needed to reward Wulfric for doing a soldier’s duty, but everything Wulfric now counted as a blessing in his life he owed to his friend’s generosity. The two of them had spent countless hours together, eating and telling stories and slowly coming to the mutual realization that in another lifetime they would have been brothers. As it was, in this one, they practically were.
“Wulfric!”
Alfred strode briskly across the Great Hall and clapped his arms around Wulfric in a fond embrace. And in that moment, with all royal formality dashed away by that informal gesture, Wulfric’s unease lifted. They were surrounded by enough timber and stone in this one room to build Wulfric’s house twenty times over, yet Alfred’s greeting made him feel as though he had simply wandered over to visit his neighbor, Brom, to borrow a loaf of bread. He was in the company of a friend first, his King a distant second. He returned the embrace warmly.
As they separated, Wulfric could see that all was not right. Alfred looked tired and haggard, as though he had not seen a good night’s sleep in some time. Whatever predicament had led him to summon Wulfric was no doubt the cause, and Wulfric wanted nothing more than to know the nature of it, but it was not his place to ask.
“My thanks to you for coming so quickly,” said Alfred, as cheerily as he was able. “How was your journey?”
“Uneventful,” Wulfric replied. “I made good speed, which I hope to also on my return.” He wasted no time letting Alfred know how keen he was to be on his way.
Alfred laughed. “You’ve only just arrived and already you’re planning your trip back?”
“Your invitation is never anything less than an honor,” said Wulfric. “But I am reluctant to be far removed from Cwen at the moment.”
“Ah, how is the beautiful Cwen? Wait, she’s not sick, is she?”
Wulfric beamed in the way only an expectant father can. “Far from it.”
Alfred knew that look. He had six children of his own. A grin spread across his own face, and he grabbed Wulfric by the shoulders and embraced him again, more firmly. “God bless you, you horny bastard!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “How far along?”
“Six months, thereabouts. Her back aches and she waddles like a duck, and last week I swear I saw her eat a piece of coal. But for all that, she is still the most beautiful woman I could ever hope to lay eyes on, much less have married.”
“She is that,” Alfred agreed. “Do you hope for a son or daughter?”
“Cwen gives no mind to that and prays only that it has its health. As do I, although whenever I dream about it, it is always a boy.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Alfred said, the smile fading from his lips. “I pray that we might have you home before he is born.”
And something inside Wulfric sank like a stone.
They ate dinner together that night in Alfred’s private chamber. Wulfric had no appetite. He had suspected, of course, that his hope of returning home the next day was a fantasy, but now it was confirmed. Whatever task lay before him was to be measured not in days or even weeks, but in months.
Alfred seemed determined to put off discussing anything of import for as long as possible, leaving Wulfric to nod and smile politely as he privately tortured himself with questions of what lay in store for him. He cringed as he remembered the promise he had made to Cwen just before he left. What are your words worth, he asked himself, if they crumble into dust so easily? But to whom did his allegiance belong? His beloved wife carrying his unborn child? Or to his best friend and his King, to whom he owed everything he had? He found himself praying for some hope of returning home without having broken his covenant with either.