Ease The Dawn

Chapter 10

The heavy fog that surrounded Winchester was so dense it concealed the first light making the morning bells seem out of place. The chamber was dim with little light coming through the diamond mullions and the warmth from the stone fireplace barely reached the men.

They sat in silence around a table at the centre of the room. Strained silence, broken only by the scuffing of Aethelred's boot on the gritty floor and Burgred's thick fingers tapping on the table. The fire crackled and the resignation obvious in the King's posture felt as loud as the quiet.

Slouching deeply in his chair, Alfred, studied the skin on the back of his clasped hands.

"He has no intention of negotiating with us. I do not understand the purpose of this kidnapping." Aethelred cut through the stiff atmosphere, raising both hands in question.

"There is a plan," Alfred replied without looking up. "He is not a man to act without meaning. There is something he wants." Nodding softly, his voice was muted as if he was speaking to himself. "We must wait."

"While Aethelswith sits and rots in the encampment?" Aethelred scoffed.

"Brother," Alfred straightened and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. "I want her returned safely. You must know this, but we can not be foolish." His face was pensive and his wariness was showing around his eyes.

Each night, he would rest his head on his lavish goose-feather pillow, sick with thoughts of his sister's treatment. Conjuring images of where she might be forced to sleep while he lay in luxury. Was she hungry or cold, injured, he wondered, worrying if the heathens acted out their vengeance towards him, by forcing themselves upon her. His mind would race until he felt ill. Come morning, his reasonable self would admonish some of the fear, remembering the young, intelligent prince from all those years ago. He too had been young, very young. Since that time, the crippled prince had accomplished more than so many infamous Vikings. Alfred sensed, prayed, that Ivar was a true gamesman, one unlikely to tip his favour with carelessness or brute treatment of Aethelswith. His belief in his sister also provided a sliver of comfort. Her intelligence and iron nerve would serve her in any volatile circumstance as would her good sense...he hoped.

"It seems impossible," Burgred blared, finally joining the discussion. "The time for exchanging terms has passed. Our attempts to penetrate their parameter guard failed as did our blockade to impede their river access to Abingdon. They ransacked it! Their offensive strike was bloody merciless. We cannot allow them to advance further into Wessex." Clearing his throat, he shrugged. "Or Kingdoms north of Wessex."

Pressing his lips together, Alfred all but rolled his eyes. His disenchantment for Burgred was clear as he listened to the man rattle on, knowing there was nothing more important to him than becoming king of Mercia. Nothing.

"We have sacrificed nearly two chapters of our best men to those Northmen animals. Will be far more if they move on Winchester," Burgred continued, oblivious to the discomfort of the other two men. "Our attempts to rescue were fruitless."

"The strategy to resolve through force may still be a possibility," Aethelred interrupted. His strength and value always demonstrated through battle. Less often with strategy and politics and he, unlike his brother admittedly, was short on Devine patience.

"Well," Burgred shifted uneasily in his chair. "Perhaps, we must consider that the cost of retrieval is too great," pausing, he ran a hand down the front of his face, "and accept the loss... for Wessex." Burgred shook his head, sighing deeply, averting his eyes from the brothers. "Face a most unpleasant truth."

Both brother's eyes darted to Burgred. Alfred's solemn face giving little insight to his opinion but Aethelred's anger was clear.

"This is Aethelswith we are talking about," Aethelred spat.