The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan Read Online Free PDF Page A

it
appeared.
    The housecarl followed her gaze. “That’s the
last man who tried to go in.”
    “Oh.” She gulped. “Well he won’t hurt me. I’m
carrying his child.”
    “You are?”
    She had no idea, yet. But she thought it was
a safe assumption. Canute must have assumed the same, or he might
have let her escape the night before. She focused on the task at
hand. “Do you know what is he doing in there?” she asked.
    The housecarl shook his head helplessly.
“He’s … talking.”
    “Talking? To whom?”
    He shrugged.
    She took a deep breath, pushed back her
shoulders, and clenched her fists. “Well I’m going in.”
    As her trembling fingers pushed open the
door, she reminded herself that she was not afraid of death. Only
failure. And it would be a failure if she did not see Canute now,
while all of his men were scared to, while he was vulnerable, and
while there was no one else on earth he seemed to trust.
    She stepped inside, very quietly, and closed
the door behind her.
    Canute was on the other side of the lodge,
pacing back and forth along the floorboards, which creaked as if
they might soon break apart and drop him into the sunken earth
below. He wore no shirt, and his pale skin was splotched with dried
blood and bruises. Surely enough, he was talking, though whether to
himself or the hanging crucifix on the wall to which he
occasionally cast his glance, she wasn’t sure at first.
    “You’re not weak. You’re not idle,” he
snarled. “You’re stronger than all of them. You did this on
purpose. You let them believe victory was in their grasp. When they
see your true strength they will cower. God chose you. ”
    So, she realized, he was indeed talking to
himself … about himself.
    “You’ll show them,” he went on. “You’re a
man. A real man. You’ll even have a son soon ...”
    Feeling more and more uncomfortable, Alfgifu
at last announced herself by clearing her throat.
    He turned to her with wild eyes. Then with no
hesitation, in one flowing motion, he drew a knife from his belt
and made to fling it.
    “You won today,” she said quickly, as if her
heart wasn’t racing in her chest.
    He paused.
    “You held your ground. That’s what matters.
Now you must make it seem as if Ethelred made a mistake by
attacking you at all.”
    He lowered the knife. His eyes cleared, as if
realizing for the first time who she was. “Alfgifu. Did God send
you?”
    She wanted to gawk at him. He sounded crazy.
But she did not think it would be in her best interest to express
as much. Instead, she walked closer to him, feigning confidence.
“God does everything, doesn’t He?” She could see that this is what
he wanted to hear. “And He does it for you, because He wants you to
be King of Engla-lond. And Scandinavia.”
    He dropped the knife, which thudded onto the
floor.
    She glared up at him, feeling his own gaze
traverse her face, and remembering the way he had held her and
chopped off her hair. “You said my emotions made me weak,” she
hissed. “You were wrong about that, you know. You’re even more
governed by your emotions than I am. It’s not what makes us weak.
It’s what makes us strong.”
    He flinched as she reached up and put her
fingers against his cheek. His eyes were wider than she had ever
seen them before, staring at her, desperate, searching. She had him
now.
    “Make Ethelred regret attacking you,” she
whispered. “Show him that he has asked for his own demise. Make it
seem as if this attack is what spurred you to raid the countryside.
His people will hate him for it.”
    “Hm,” said Canute. His gaze wandered off as
he considered this.
    “And there is another thing you can do.” She
clutched his face tighter, pulling his eyes back to hers. Her voice
grew even softer, smothered by her emotions, but he listened all
the more closely as a result. “The hostages that were given to your
father,” she breathed. There were many hostages, as she recalled;
but the majority of them