Abomination. Gary Whitta

      Alfred went on to a great victory at Ethandun, and the war turned after that. Alfred routed the Danish host and pursued the surviving rabble all the way back to Chippenham, where the rest of the Norse were by now garrisoned. With the Danish king, Guthrum, sequestered inside, Alfred saw his chance to break them once and for all. Thus, with his entire force arrayed around Chippenham’s walls, Alfred began a slow siege. After two weeks, the Norse within were starving, their will to resist broken. In desperation, Guthrum sued for peace, and Alfred offered the terms that would at last bring the war to an end.

      After his triumphant return home, Alfred’s first order of business was to have the young infantryman who had saved his life at Ethandun brought before him. Wulfric had no idea why he had been summoned to the royal court, and so was surprised when he was told to kneel and felt the flat of Alfred’s sword touch first one shoulder, then the other. “Arise, Sir Wulfric,” the King said. And the young man who once swore he would never so much as hold a sword rose, a knight.

      Wulfric was a common man with no noble heritage, and so it was explained to him that all knights must have a coat of arms to signify their house. With little heraldic precedent to draw on, Wulfric decided to take as the symbol of his house a cherished memory from his childhood. His father had taught him as a boy to identify all manner of curious beetles and bugs, and Wulfric’s favorite among all was the scarab beetle. His father had explained that its armored shell made it hardy and resistant to all manner of hostile conditions. Wulfric, who knew the hard life of a peasant, had liked that. He also liked that the scarab’s favorite pastime was to collect dung. And so it was that years later, wrestling with the fact that he was no longer a commoner but a Knight of the Realm, he thought it the perfect way to remind himself of his lowly beginnings. For what could be more lowly than an insect that spends its days half-buried in shit?

      Once Wulfric had a coat of arms by which his house could be known, all he needed was a house. Alfred granted him his choice of castles and lands up and down the kingdom, but Wulfric would take none of them. Instead he settled on a house and a plot of land where he could raise turnips and carrots and perhaps find a wife for himself. If God were willing, perhaps he would even see fit to bless him with a son or daughter, but Wulfric would not ask for anything he had not yet earned. To his mind, all he had done of note was kill men in battle, and he did not see why that should ever be rewarded.

      When Wulfric stepped through the door, Cwen, his wife, turned in surprise from the stove where soup was cooking. “You’re back early,” she said. “Did you forget something?”

      By God, that soup smells good, Wulfric thought as the aroma hit him. Of all the reasons he had chosen Cwen for his wife, her cooking ranked only second. Well, perhaps third, he thought to himself.

      “Yes,” said Wulfric wearily. “I forgot, if only briefly, that I will never be out of Alfred’s debt.”

      Cwen did not appear to like the sound of that at all. She placed her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Please, not that look,” Wulfric said as he sat. “How about some of that soup?”

      “It’s not ready yet,” said Cwen, softening not even a little. “What do you mean? Those riders I saw on the hill, they were the King’s men?”

      “He’s summoned me to Winchester.”

      “And of course you said no.”

      “I could hardly do that. Not after everything he has done for me. I must at least go and see what he wants.”

      Cwen stepped out from behind the kitchen table. She was getting bigger every day. The child was due in only a few months. That was why Wulfric was out on the plow, though the horse was sick. When his son was born—somehow, Wulfric knew it was to be a boy—he would not want for food to eat, nor any of the things that Wulfric had gone without as a child. He would be the son of a knight. Perhaps Wulfric would ask Alfred for that castle after all, so that his son might grow up in it.

      “You’ve got it backward,” Cwen said sternly. “You’ve always had it backward. It’s Alfred who owes you, not the other way around. He’d be dead if not for you.”

      “I only did what I was sworn to do,” said Wulfric. “What any soldier would have done in my position. But Alfred did not have to knight me, nor set me up for life the way he did. Look at all that I have—more than I ever dreamed. My own house, my own land.” He rose from the table and took his wife by the hand. “My own wife, the most beautiful in the world.”

      “Save your flattery,” said Cwen, though the faintest hint of a smile suggested that it had made its mark. “I am quite sure Alfred did not grant me to you.”

      “True, but I would not have won you had he not made me a knight.”

      “I didn’t know you were a knight when I agreed to marry you.”

      “If I were not, I would never have had the courage to ask,” he said, close enough now to kiss her. And kiss her he did.

      They kissed, and made love, and later Wulfric got his soup, and they ate together by the hearth.

      “Don’t think,” Cwen said, looking up from her bowl, “that with a few fine words and a quick roll on the bed you can buy me off. You’re not disappearing off on some campaign. I want you here when the baby is born. I need you here.”

      “Who said anything about a campaign?” Wulfric replied.

      “Do you take me for a fool? Why else would Alfred send for you? I’ve heard the rumors about the king in the Danelaw. They say he’s nearly dead and that the Norse may rise up again under some new warlord.”

      “Rumors, that’s all,” said Wulfric. But Cwen knew him well enough to know that while he might wish that were true, he did not believe it. She reached over and took her husband’s hand.

      “Wulfric, look at me. I know Alfred is your friend, but I am your wife, and this is your child.” She placed her other hand over her bulging belly. “I want you to promise me, here and now, that you will not let him send you on some new war against the Norse.”

      Wulfric squeezed her hand tightly, met her eyes. “I promise.”

      Satisfied, Cwen smiled and returned to her soup.

      “I’m sure it’s nothing, really,” he said. “Maybe Alfred burned another batch of cakes and wants to borrow you for his new head cook.”

      Cwen laughed, and kissed him on the forehead, and rose to fetch them both another bowl.

      Early the next morning, Wulfric left his house with a saddle and provisions for a long day’s ride over his shoulder. He unbolted the door to the stable, and his horse, Dolly, peeked out from the gloom inside.

      “How are you today, old girl?” he asked. Dolly did not reply until Wulfric brought the saddle down off his shoulder and slung it over her back. She stamped a hoof and snorted unhappily.

      “Oh, stop complaining,” said Wulfric as he fed her a handful of oats. “You had all of yesterday off. Today, bellyache or not, we ride. We’re going to see the King. And I’ll bet you his carrots are a lot better than ours.”

      FOUR

      Wulfric arrived at Winchester early that evening. He had ridden tirelessly throughout the day, eating his lunch in the saddle, stopping only so that Dolly could briefly rest and drink and get her oats. Wulfric hated the thought of being away from Cwen and the little one for even one night, and he would do whatever was in his power to avoid a second. Perhaps, he thought, Alfred wanted only a small thing,