The Edge of Light Read Online Free PDF

hammering. It’s … gone.”
    “Thanks be to God,” Ethelred said fervently,
    “Yes,” said Alfred again. He lifted his head from the pillow as if to test that it no longer hurt, then placed it carefully back. His golden hair spread behind him like a halo.
    The door opened and Judith came in, carrying more cloths.
    “I’m better, Judith,” Alfred said immediately. “The headache is gone.”
    “Thanks be to God,” said Judith, in unconscious echo of Ethelred.
    Alfred looked from his father’s wife to his brother. “But … what caused it? I have never had a pain like that before.”
    Ethelred reached over and put a large hand on Alfred’s small one where it rested on the yellow wool rug that covered the bed. “It is not easy,” he said, “being made an orphan.” He added very gently, “I will take care of you, little brother. Never fear.”
    The child’s long, gold-tipped lashes fluttered, for a moment, hiding his eyes.
    “Are you tired?” Ethelred asked. “Could you sleep for a little?”
    Alfred nodded. Ethelred thought he looked very young and very fragile, and he bent over and kissed his little brother’s forehead gently, as if his head were as tender as a newborn babe’s. Alfred’s lashes lifted and he smiled.
    “Go to sleep, my dear,” Judith said from behind Ethelred, and the lashes lowered once again. Ethelred and Judith looked at each other, then walked together softly out of the room.

    Alfred listened to the familiar Latin of the Mass and bent his head so that his hair would swing forward to screen his face. He was standing between Judith and Ethelred, and he did not want them to see that he was crying.
    It was wrong of him to be so sad, he thought, desperately trying to stifle the tears. His father was with God. His father was happy. It was selfish of him to be so unhappy. It showed a lack of proper faith.
    He bent his head a little further forward. All he could see of Judith beside him was her hand resting on the kneeler before her. On the far side of Judith, unseen at the moment, was Ethelbald.
    Ethelbald had been kind to him about his headache. He had even given Alfred one of his own headbands to wear—”to ward off the evil,” he had said with a laugh.
    Ethelbald was the true king now. A warrior-king, in the great tradition of their house.
    But Ethelwulf had had his own kind of greatness, Alfred thought loyally. He would always remember his father’s words upon resigning his kingdom to his importunate son: “A true king is one who ever sets the good of the kingdom above his own personal ambition.”
    The tears threatened again. Never, Alfred thought desolately, never had he felt so alone. Not even when he had been sent to Rome for the first time, at the age of three, a standin to fulfill his father’s pledge to go on pilgrimage.
    Then Ethelred was putting an arm around his shoulder and drawing him nearer. Do not worry, his brother’s touch seemed to say. I am here.
    For a moment Alfred leaned gratefully against the hard warmth of Ethelred, and then, resolutely, he straightened away. Ethelred gave him an approving look before both turned once more to the altar where Bishop Swithun was celebrating the funeral mass for their father.

    Two days after the funeral, Ethelwulf’s will was read before the witan. The witenagemot went on for quite a long time. Alfred sat with Judith in her sleeping chamber, trying to concentrate on a Latin poem and ignore the rumble of male voices from the hall.
    Judith was nervous. Alfred could tell from the way she prowled the room; she, who was never restless, today could not seem to remain still.
    “What is it, Judith?” he asked finally, when she crossed behind him for the dozenth time in as many minutes.
    She halted by the brazier, and he turned to look at her. Her back was to him and her voice was muffled as it came over her shoulder, “I suppose it’s just that I am beginning to realize that I must return to France.”
    “I have been