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Alfred is greeted by Lady Gisela. “Good morning, Lord King!” she sings, her voice floating on the morning breeze. Of course, he is at Coccham and it is summertime. The air carries the scent of wildflowers and dried grass. Alfred is sitting at Uhtred’s table, although Uhtred himself is absent. Gisela sits beside him with Uhtred’s young son in her lap. Her hair is almost golden in the sunlight, like a halo around her face.
No one else is here. No priests, no manservants, no girls, no guards… Only the woman and the baby beaming at him.
Alfred swallows. His tongue is heavy in his mouth. “Where is Lord Uhtred?”
Young Uhtred shrieks with childish glee at something Gisela whispers in his ear. Gisela laughs, focused on tickling her son’s ruddy cheeks, perhaps not hearing his question.
“My Lady, where is your husband?” Alfred asks again. The words are foreign somehow. Strange. As if they are occurring to him after he has already uttered them.
Gisela turns, smiling brightly. “Ah, my Lord. I am sorry. He is bathing.”
“Bathing?” Alfred echoes. Sweat beads at his collar—the summer warmth. “But surely he knows we are here.”
“He does, Lord, yes!”
“I see.” In truth, he does not.
“He asked that you join him as soon as you’ve finished eating.”
Was he eating?
Alfred looks down. In front of him is a plate of fresh pottage, still steaming gently. As if on cue, his stomach churns uncomfortably. “I am finished, Gisela, I fear.” He knows that trying to fill his stomach will only exacerbate the pain.
“Oh,” she frowns and drops her head. “I am sorry, Lord. It is your stomach?”
“It is,” Alfred nods. He smiles but knows it is a poor attempt. The lady is disappointed, and Alfred feels a pang of regret. “I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize, Lord. Perhaps you can eat later once you feel better.”
Alfred nods to acknowledge her kindness, although he is doubtful he will feel better later.
“Gisela, you said that Uhtred wishes me to join him?”
“Yes, Lord, but he means no disrespect by it. He means to show you something important.”
Alfred is taken aback. “Important? Well, where is he?”
“Lord, he is by the river.” Gisela points toward the door. The sunlight falls across her body like the finest of silk.
“So he is bathing…”
“Yes,” Gisela nods, as if this clarifies the matter.
At a loss, Alfred thanks her and takes his leave from the table. The pain is not so terrible that it hinders him, although it is a constant dull companion as he crosses the hall and steps into the courtyard.
He spots Uhtred straight away, near a clearing in the reeds by the river. His figure is unmistakable, although Alfred is not used to seeing him undressed.
Alfred continues toward the riverbank, dazed by the warmth and sweetness of the summer air. If God made man in His image, then surely Uhtred is Adam—naked and without shame. Alfred tries to shake the thought. It feels profane.
Uhtred turns and sees him and grins, squinting against the sun. “My Lord King!”
“Uhtred.” Alfred smiles cautiously in return. “You look well.”
“I am, Lord,” Uhtred responds. In the sunlight, his damp skin glistens. He does look well, Alfred thinks. Strong, healthy. There are scars, of course, but they appear faint. Has Uhtred begun to age backward, whereas Alfred feels older and sicklier by the moment?
Alfred clasps his hands behind him. “I admit, I do not understand why you’ve asked me to join you here.”
“At Coccham?” Uhtred frowns.
“No, at the river,” Alfred clarifies, approaching the bank. The ripples dance in the sunlight. It is quite beautiful. Alfred bends down to touch the water at his feet. It feels refreshingly cool against his fingertips. “Is your bath more important than your king?”
As Alfred straightens his back, the dull pain in his gut sharpens suddenly. He gasps out loud. It feels like a dog digging its teeth into his insides. Shuddering, Alfred sinks onto the sandy bank of the river, holding his belly. His vision darkens.
“My Lord!” he hears Uhtred cry.
“It will pass,” Alfred gasps after a moment, and he prays to God that it will.
He is so focused on the pain that he hardly sees Uhtred’s naked and dripping-wet figure approaching. When the lord crouches in front of him, Alfred feels him there rather than sees him. But God, does he feel him—can feel the weight of Uhtred’s shadow. The heat of him. Alfred shivers.
“My Lord,” Uhtred says, close enough that his breath brushes Alfred’s cheek.
The cramps are relentless. Alfred shakes his head. “A moment, please.”
“My Lord,” Uhtred says. “You must allow me to help you.” His tone is both firm and gentle.
Alfred would laugh if he could. “Help me?” he grinds out. “How can you–” He doesn’t have the will to finish the sentence.
Uhtred peers at him, too close for comfort, his clear eyes darting around Alfred’s face. “You must bathe,” he says, with an earnestness that takes Alfred aback once more. Luckily, the pain is beginning to subside enough that Alfred begins to think clearly.
“I must bathe?” Alfred repeats, incredulous, under his breath. “You wish to baptize me, Uhtred?”
“I do not intend to baptize you, Lord, I intend to heal you.”
Alfred feels the air still around him. He must not have understood correctly. Uhtred could not have said what Alfred just heard.
“What did you say?”
“The water, Lord,” Uhtred continues, as if steeling himself for a fight. His eyes search Alfred’s face once more. “I can heal what ails you.”
“What ails me…” Alfred feels heat beginning to rise in his chest, flushing his cheeks. In his anger, he almost forgets the pain.
“Yes, Lord.”
“And you believe that this… your river here… will remove my affliction?”
“I do, I know it. Lord, it was done with Edward by Iseult–”
“Do not,” Alfred stammers, although his voice catches in his throat. “Do not dare.” This frightens him. It frightens him also that Uhtred does not appear to share this concern.
Alfred continues, for good measure, to ensure the man’s understanding. “I allowed you to say such things in the past. I… allowed you to take Edward, I realize this. But no longer, Uhtred.”
“So, then, it is just water,” Uhtred backtracks, daring to smile at his king. “If it is just water, what is the harm in bathing? I can help you,” he nods to Alfred’s chest, gesturing to his clothing.
“I am not—”
But Uhtred is already beginning to unfasten Alfred’s robes, stunning the king into silence. Alfred’s mind is hardly operating. Uhtred’s fingers work deftly to untie the fastenings, his fingers sweeping across the delicate skin of Alfred’s throat as he does so.
As Uhtred’s calloused hand slips beneath his tunic to tug it from Alfred’s shoulder, Alfred finally, instinctively, pushes him away. Alfred’s heart hammers mercilessly in his ribs. Suddenly, he is acutely aware of his own body–his pale, slim figure–next to Uhtred’s. Alfred feels smaller still.
“What–What do you think you’re doing?”
“Removing your clothes,” Uhtred barks back, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
“No,” Alfred stammers. “How dare you?”
“What, will you go in fully dressed, Lord?” Uhtred says, lowering his voice, as if speaking to a child.
“I will not go in at all, Uhtred! You will not touch me again!”
Uhtred’s jaw tightens, although his expression remains absurdly concerned—even tender. Alfred wonders if words and language have lost all meaning. It’s as if Uhtred has not heard him at all.
“Impossible,” Uhtred mutters. But his expression is soft as he brushes Alfred’s wrist with his thumb. “You are frightened, Lord. I understand.”
Again, Alfred finds himself stunned into silence. He looks down as if expecting Uhtred’s touch to have burned him—left blackened skin. Before Alfred’s mind can catch up to the events unfolding before him, Uhtred leaves his side and goes back to the water, bending down to catch some in his hands.
Alfred sits in the mud, shivering. Shaking. Like a scared girl. Uhtred should not be able to speak to him that way. Uhtred should not be able to think about touching him that way. And yet, he did it. It was done.
Why can’t he stop shaking? Alfred pulls his robes back around his shoulders.
Clouds are beginning to gather overhead and the tall grasses throw long shadows across the river. They sway back and forth, whispering amongst themselves in the gathering wind.
No, something is wrong. Alfred does not know why, but he feels a sense of dread creeping into his bones. His body feels heavy; stiff. The pain in his gut, like a wounded dog, like the devil, returns with a vengeance.
Alfred can hardly see through it this time. He has forgotten how to breathe. He tries to call to Uhtred but he cannot make a sound. His stomach churns violently. In a matter of moments, Alfred vomits and tastes iron in his mouth and in his nose. Blood. Wine-dark, it stains the sand black in front of him.
He has never experienced anything like this. Alfred lies on the ground, his face in the sand, swallowing gulps of air. Blood coats the inside of his mouth, thick and viscous. His insides are trying to break free of his body, he’s sure of it. He feels cold, colder than he’s ever felt in his life.
But Uhtred is there, he realizes, because on some distant plane of sensation he can feel Uhtred lifting him and holding him flush against his body. Alfred wonders vaguely, through the haze of agony, if this is how he will die. In the arms of a pagan.
Alfred clings to Uhtred—the only thing he is sure is still real. “Be still,” Uhtred mutters. “You must trust me.”
Alfred no longer cares about trust. He no longer cares about the water that Uhtred is wading into, carrying Alfred with him. But the water is cold. Colder than the air. Alfred gasps and tightens his grip on Uhtred’s shoulder, digging his fingers into slick, warm skin.
“Be easy,” Uhtred hums. “Be easy and trust me, Lord.”
And then he is in the river. It is freezing. Alfred opens his mouth to gasp and it fills with water.
Alfred jolts awake. He gasps, but this time it is air that fills his lungs, not river water. Is he dead? No, very far from it. He wipes his damp face shakily with his sleeve. He is in his bedchamber. No. No, he is in someone’s bedchamber, but not his own. Draped over the bed is a handsome animal fur. He is at Uhtred’s estate in Coccham. Pale sunlight suggests that it is early morning.
His sleep has drained him. If anything, he feels more exhausted than when he arrived the previous afternoon from Winchester. Instinctively, he holds a hand to his belly, waiting for the surge of sickness or cramping that he expects to come. But it does not. He sits under the bed linens, breathing sharply through his nose, waiting anxiously.
Nothing happens.
He begins to feel a little better, if anything. The dread of the nightmare eases somewhat, and although he still feels keenly vulnerable outside the comfort of his own bedchamber, he is almost ready to curl onto his side and attempt to sleep. But the household is already beginning to move about downstairs, and Alfred can just about make out the faint chatter of Gisela and her maids. Although he is exhausted, Alfred knows sleep won’t come again.
Soon enough, his own manservant knocks on the door to offer to help him dress. Still in a haze of sorts, Alfred dresses and joins the others downstairs.
Uhtred is the first person he sees. The ealdorman is sitting at his table, leg propped up on a bench as he whittles a piece of wood in his hands. It looks like a toy for Young Uhtred. Uhtred inclines his head and offers Alfred a polite greeting. “Good morning, Lord King. I hope you slept well.”
Alfred makes an attempt at a smile. “Thank you, Uhtred. I did.”
Uhtred hums in response. “Good. I had feared that my home might be too… pagan for your liking. I hope this is not the case?” Uhtred’s eyes twinkle as if to suggest that he knows very well this is the case.
“Oh, it is, Uhtred. This is a pagan’s hall. But you and your wife have been very hospitable indeed. I think, once you build the chapel…” Alfred muses, looking around with an air of great seriousness.
Uhtred huffs, but he does not look irritated. He almost laughs. “You must come back first thing when it is built, Lord. You will be the first to use it, I’m sure, after Hild.”
Alfred winces a little. A touch too far, maybe. Uhtred senses that he has pushed his luck and looks back to his work. But he says nothing—does not change the subject nor beg Alfred’s forgiveness. Truly a pagan through and through, Alfred thinks, although he tries to push it away. God lies in all realms.
“Lord King!” Gisela calls, coming to join them in the hall, her face pleasantly flushed. She wipes her hands with a cloth. “Good morning. It is a little early, Lord, I am afraid that your breakfast is not ready.”
“It is early,” Alfred agrees, “I am sorry. I am in no rush to eat, so please do not let me disturb you.”
“Are you sure? I can have a girl fetch some apples, or milk…”
Alfred shakes his head. “No, thank you.” He doesn’t want to push his luck by putting anything into his stomach quite yet. He feels well, for the first time in a long while.
Uhtred glances at him and Alfred meets his gaze only for a moment before something makes him look away. Eager for something to do other than loiter in Lord Uhtred’s presence, Alfred notices the pale sunlight streaming through the window. “I’ll take some air, I think,” he tells his hosts. “One of the men outside will accompany me, I’m sure.”
“My lord, perhaps Uhtred could accompany you?” Gisela offers. “I know he is eager to show you what we have done in Coccham.”
“Perhaps my Lord King would prefer to wait until Lord Odda has arrived to formally tour the grounds?” Uhtred counters.
Alfred nods.
“But I would take some air with you all the same, Lord,” Uhtred says, hardly looking up from his woodwork. “It is a fine morning.”
Steeling himself, Alfred gestures for Uhtred to lead the way.
Outside in the courtyard, Uhtred stretches and stifles a yawn. Languidly, he ties his hair up as Alfred watches. There is a casual, intimate quality to his behavior that Alfred finds both off-putting and intriguing. For a young ealdorman relatively new to his lands and his kingdom, Uhtred behaves as if being in the company of a king were the most easy thing in the world.
“You did not sleep well,” Uhtred says, suddenly, almost as if speaking to himself.
Alfred shoots him a look. “Oh?”
“You look tired.” Uhtred is smiling and his gaze almost playful. Alfred prickles under it. Truly, he can understand why the girls blush when they serve him.
“Yes, well. I had a dream.”
Uhtred hums, raises his eyebrows. “Ah. Truth be told, I had a dream as well, Lord. It was a good one.”
Again, that grin.
Alfred bites back a small smile. “I shall not ask, then.”
“No, better not, Lord,” Uhtred tells him. “I am afraid it was sinful.”
Uhtred begins to walk, prompting Alfred to follow. It is, Alfred thinks, a nice morning after all. While it is not all bright sunshine, the weather is mild and the warmth of the late summer lingers in the air.
Naturally, given its proximity, their path takes them toward the banks of the river. The image of Uhtred, naked, flits through Alfred’s mind until he hurries it away. Alfred swallows down an odd, discomfiting feeling in his throat. He glances at Uhtred walking alongside him, and perhaps sensing Alfred’s eyes upon him, Uhtred turns to meet his gaze.
Alfred scrambles for something to say and comes up entirely empty.
Uhtred, mercifully, breaks the silence first. “Something troubles you, Lord?” he asks, as if picking the words carefully.
“No. Just tired, I think.”
Uhtred shrugs. “The water might wake you up. You could jump in if you wanted. That’s what I would do.”
“Here, Uhtred?” Alfred laughs, although he has almost forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other.
“Of course not. Further upstream, I mean. Where there are fewer villagers to see you.” Uhtred smiles. He is teasing and making it obvious. Perhaps he fears Alfred won’t understand a joke.
“Then again,” he continues, “I think the women might enjoy seeing you there, Lord.”
Alfred tenses. Uhtred must sense the shift in his demeanor, as he bows his head and sighs. “I am sorry, Lord. I did not mean to offend.”
Alfred nods but says nothing. It was all too familiar. Too comfortable. Uhtred should not be comfortable with him—should not feel free to poke and prod at him as if he were a friend and not a king.
Then why is Alfred not angry? Why is he not quick to rebuke him? Alfred realizes that despite himself, despite his God, he finds pleasure in it—Uhtred’s attention, his teasing.
“Your pain, Lord,” Uhtred’s voice draws him from his thoughts. “It is better today?”
Alfred nods. “So far, yes.”
“Good,” Uhtred says, and he looks at Alfred for a moment. “I am glad.”
They walk for a little while longer as the sun begins to peak out from the cover of the clouds. Alfred notices how the sunlight falls across the surface of the river, making the ripples dance.