[My stepmother] was sitting behind an embroidery frame, working gold thread onto a fabric strip for the bishop’s vestment. Her two daughters were with her. Hilda was standing near my stepmother reciting, with more feeling than required, a poem about the crumbling remains of a once magnificent city that had been built by giants.
. . . a tall warrior stepped out. I don’t know what it was about him, but I think I stopped breathing. The servants went about their tasks with increased diligence. There was nothing soft about the man. His muscular frame was covered from shoulder to waist by a shirt made of shiny metal rings. Below that you could see the points of the leather shirt he wore beneath. He wore no helmet. The angles of his cheekbones seemed to provide their own protection. Were his eyes narrow, or was he squinting in the sun? The light glinted off the gold hilt of his sword, and I sensed danger in a primordial way, like a hare smelling a fox. I wondered how many women he had ravished, how many men he had killed.
The villagers had assembled under the yew trees, and the royals were the hot topic. One of the women had apparently heard a good one about the queen.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the incense. One of the nuns was playing a lyre. She led the sisters in singing psalms. I opened my eyes and watched them. In the choir two groups of nuns faced each other, novices in front, the others on a step behind them. There were about thirty members of the order then, and all but one were at Nones that day. Their white faces gleamed in the candlelight. They seemed transported. They radiated a purity I found both admirable and totally alien.I spotted Athelflad. She was second in from the altar. I found her voice reedy, but she loved to sing and was completely enthralled by the music. I shut my eyes again and prayed that an atheling would fall in love with me, preferably one who wouldn’t have any connection to King Beorhtric. When the service was over I waited for Athelflad outside the church. Her dark hazel eyes sparkled when she saw me.
. . . the group included 30 warriors, many of them famous heroes like Unferth, Werwulf and Erpwald, whose reputations spread before them like road dust before horses’ hooves. One of the priests traveling with the group had told . . . the latest story about Werwulf.“He had a beautiful lady friend at their last encampment whom he treated very well. He gave her gold rings and a jeweled belt. He brought her to court—everyone knew her. The night before they were to leave Werwulf visited the lady in her bower and made love to her.“ ‘I must leave you, my lady,’ he said. ‘And how will you fare without me?’“The lady wept. Then she said, as they must part and there was no help for it, she hoped she would find a younger lover. Werwulf took her in his arms, embraced her tenderly, and bit off her nose.”
I entered the chamber. The light was dim and the first thing I noticed was the smell. The sour breath of the sleeping monarch hung in the air like the still fog of a summer morning. I set down the pitcher and turned to look at Beorhtric. He was lying on his back on the bed, his legs apart. His tunic had worked its way up above his waist, and his penis was practically lost in a great mass of gray and black pubic hair made even more eye-catching by the pale white of his skin. A linen sheet, intricately embroidered along one end with colorful interlocking beasts, covered only his chest and then trailed onto the floor. There was a pillow under his neck, and his head fell back, diminishing the effect of the great wattles of flesh beneath his chin. His mouth was open. He snored loudly and with great inventiveness.
I jumped. I turned around and saw a woman who could have come from the stars. I didn’t think it was possible to be so beautiful. On her head the woman was wearing the sheerest of veils. Rather than concealing it seemed to create an aura around the dark brown hair pulled back from her face and braided into labyrinthine patterns. She was about average height for a woman, but stood in so erect and commanding a posture that she seemed as tall as a man. Her head was small, and her features finely chiseled. Her gown was embroidered all over with gold thread that gleamed even in the dim light of the chamber.
In Courting Trouble a young warrior is eager to prove himself. He goes in search of conquest. Along the way, he is directed to an encha...
