The Edge of Light by Joan Wolf Page B

one of the greatest of Mercia’s nobles. And I have a rich dowry, or so my mother and Athulf say.”
    “You flatter me, Elswyth,” he began, clearly intending to refuse her.
    “I like you,” she cried, and now her voice was anguished. “I hate Edred.”
    He was beginning to look harried. “Elswyth, you don’t understand—”
    But she would not listen. “How old are you?” she asked.
    “Eighteen.”
    “Well,” she said stoutly, “it is time you were married.”
    He began to laugh.
    “You said you wanted to help me.” She was being unfair. She knew it and didn’t care. He was her only hope. “Well, help me, then. Marry me.”
    His laughter was quenched as abruptly as it had begun. His face grew grave. “I am sorry, Elswyth,” he said. His voice was very gentle but very final. “I would like to help you, but I cannot marry you.”
    “Why not?” she shot back. Elswyth on the trail of something she wanted was relentless. “Are you betrothed to someone else?”
    “No.” A look of strain came over his face. It was not a look she had ever seen there before. It made him look older. “It is just … I have determined I shall never marry. That is all.”
    She saw that there was something more here than just a reluctance to wed her. Something deeper. She regarded him thoughtfully. He was looking off into the distance once more.
    “Why not?” she asked again.
    He laughed lightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, like you, I am one who will do better alone.”
    “Perhaps you would,” she answered slowly, “but that is not the reason, is it?”
    He came back from wherever he had been and, reluctantly, he turned to her. Even in the dimness she could see that there was a white line around his mouth. She waited for him to rise and walk away from her, but he did not. At last he said, “No.” He spoke unwillingly, but he went on. “That is not the reason. You see, I am … flawed … Elswyth. I am not fit to marry any woman, Though”—and even in his obvious distress he managed a quick, charming smile—”if I were to marry at all, I would be happy to marry you.”
    She looked him over, her eyes speculative. What could he mean, flawed? He was perfect to look upon. Beautiful, in fact. She had seen him kill his boar; he was strong enough, and brave enough. There was only one thing she could think of and, being Elswyth, she asked, “Are you gelded?”
    She could see the shock that ran through him at her words. “Of course not!” The lamplight caught the burning gold of his eyes.
    She said reasonably, “Well, what was I to think?”
    After a minute he laughed unwillingly. “Exactly that, I suppose. No … there is something wrong with my head, Elswyth.”
    “Wrong with your head?”
    “Yes.” The white line had come back to his mouth. “I get terrible headaches. There is something wrong inside my brain, I think. I have prayed and prayed, but still the headaches come. I think now they will never go away.” He spoke almost carelessly, as if it were of no great moment, but the line around his mouth was even more pronounced and she understood that this was a subject he almost never spoke about.
    “How often do you get them?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “It varies. Sometimes every few weeks, sometimes not for months.”
    She realized that these could not be normal headaches. He was not the sort who would exaggerate pain. Quite the opposite, she thought. Elswyth understood instantly, in her bones, how Alfred must feel about these headaches. And so she knew how to answer him.
    “You are not perfect,” she said, her face severe. “You cannot expect to be perfect. That was Satan’s sin, was it not?”
    He did not answer, but his eyes flared a sudden brilliant gold.
    “Alfred,” she said, and now she leaned a little toward him, the hunter closing in on her prey, “you are wrong if you think you can avoid marriage. You are a boy, and so they may not be able to force you, as they are forcing me, but