Abomination. Gary Whitta
attention returned suddenly to the table. The King had been talking for some time, but the oddity of the question was such that it stood out from all the rest.
He waited for Alfred’s face to crack. The King never had been able to keep a straight face when telling a joke, but Alfred’s expression now was as somber as Wulfric had ever seen it, even during the darkest days of the war. This was not a jest. And there was something unsettling about the look in Alfred’s eyes. It suggested that he knew more, much more, about the subject he had just broached than he had yet volunteered.
Wulfric thought carefully about his answer before speaking. “I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”
“You’ve seen no evidence of God, either,” Alfred replied, as though anticipating the answer. “And yet you believe.”
“God was with us at Ethandun,” said Wulfric. “We could not have turned the tide of battle otherwise. I remember you said so yourself.”
“Direct evidence,” the King retorted. “Something before your very eyes that defies all nature, and science, and reason. Something that cannot be explained.”
“Then no. But faith is the evidence of things not seen, is it not?”
For a long moment, Alfred did not speak. He simply fingered the stem of his goblet and stared into the blood-red surface of the wine within, lost in some dark thought.
“I have seen things,” he said at last, his voice not much above a whisper. “Things that have led me to question my own faith. And may cause you to question yours.”
A gust of wind howled against the window. Wulfric could not tell if the room had suddenly grown colder or if it was his imagination. Either way, Alfred’s demeanor troubled him. These were not the words of a rational man, and Wulfric had never known his King to be anything but.
“Why am I here?” he asked, finally.
“In the morning, I will show you,” said Alfred as he rose from his chair, prompting Wulfric to do the same.
“I am not tired,” said Wulfric, determined to get to the source of whatever was causing this uncharacteristic behavior. “I came a long way. If this is why I am here, if you have something to show me, show me now.”
“In the morning,” said Alfred. “The things I speak of should not be seen so late before sleep.”
Wulfric did not sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned restlessly through the night, partly because the bed, though far more comfortable and spacious than his own, was not his own. He had rarely spent a night away from home since making his new life there, and when he did, sleep did not come easily. He missed the feel of his own pillow, lumpy as it was. He missed the smell of whatever Cwen had been baking, left out to cool overnight. And most of all, he missed Cwen, the warmth of her back as he nestled himself against her, his hand on her firm, round belly, feeling the gentle stirring of his unborn child within. All the luxuries and appointments of Alfred’s castle only reminded him how far he was from them.
But mostly he did not sleep out of concern for his friend. He had seen Alfred drawn and wan before—many times while on campaign—but never like this. Wulfric knew better than most the strength of the man, knew that it would take the gravest of matters, more grave even than war, to weigh so heavily upon him. Alfred’s words repeated incessantly in Wulfric’s head as he shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedsheets. I have seen things that have led me to question my own faith. Wulfric knew that Alfred’s faith in God went to the very core of his being. It made him the man he was, had given him the strength to drive back the Norse even when all seemed lost. If all the horrors of battle, of seeing comrades bloodied and cleaved all around him, could not shake this man’s belief, then what in God’s name could? It was a question Wulfric could not solve, though he racked his brain, and it haunted him still when the first cock crowed and one of Alfred’s pages arrived to fetch him.
Alfred was waiting for Wulfric in the Great Hall. He made no offer of breakfast, nor did he enquire how Wulfric had slept; it was plain enough to see. While the King last night had seemed determined to delay the matter at hand, this morning he was equally determined not to tarry. He escorted Wulfric from the hall and through the castle’s winding hallways until they arrived at a door with which Wulfric was not familiar; he thought he had seen all of the castle in his time here, but this was new to him.
The door was constructed of the heaviest oak and barred by an iron gate that appeared to have been added recently. Two guards stood watch by the entrance. Wulfric did not like it here. He had never much cared for small spaces. Looking back now, he realized that the walls and ceiling had been gradually contracting as they progressed along the hallway, so that now they stood at the end of what felt more like a tunnel. He was already beginning to feel distinctly uneasy.
“What is this?” he asked.
“The dungeon,” Alfred replied. He nodded to one of the guards, who unlocked the iron gate and swung it open, then did the same with the door behind it.
“Here,” said Alfred. He produced an embroidered cloth and offered it to Wulfric. It was damp, and there was an almost overpowering, but not unpleasant, odor from whatever the material had been soaked in. Wulfric was no herbalist, but his friend Aedan, who owned the field neighboring his, grew many types of fragrant plants, and so he recognized the smell—a concoction of lavender and mint. It was not unlike the perfume Cwen had made for herself from the bushel of herbs Aedan brought them as a welcoming gift when they first set up house, and for a moment Wulfric found it comforting; it smelled to him of home.
Then the dungeon door opened with a creak and something else rose up out of the dank, musty air within. Wulfric could not identify it—he had never before smelled anything quite like it—but it was foul. He immediately pressed the cloth against his nose and mouth, but even the strong aroma of the perfume only partially blocked out the stench. Wulfric looked at Alfred and noticed that he had no such cloth of his own. “Where is yours?” he enquired.
“It pains me to say that I have grown accustomed to the smell,” Alfred replied. He lifted a flaming torch from its cradle on the nearby wall and they began their descent.
Wulfric followed the King down the winding stairs, the two of them led by one of Alfred’s guards while the other remained above, locking and barring the door behind them. All trod warily as they descended, Wulfric most of all; the dank stone steps felt slippery underfoot, and his mind was racing with thoughts of what might await them at the bottom. Winchester’s dungeon was reserved not for deserters or common criminals, who typically languished in the stockade, and not for high-ranking enemies of the crown, who were sent to the tower, but for the worst and most despicable of those who sought to harm Alfred’s kingdom. Who was down here? A captured Danish spy with tidings of a fresh plot? A foiled assassin? Or something beyond even his busy imagination? Wulfric did not know whether to feel relief or dread in the knowledge that he would find out soon enough.
With each step, the fetor wafting from the darkness below grew more powerful. Wulfric twisted the cloth Alfred had given him to wring out more of its perfumed scent, but it was no use. Even with the cloth pressed firmly against his face, the stink was so strong by the time they reached the bottom of the steps that Wulfric could barely keep himself from retching. What the hell was it? Sulfur, perhaps? Similar, but worse.
Even in the bright light of their torches, the narrow corridor at which they arrived gave up little. The stone walls on either side extended for only a few feet before disappearing into the deepest, most impenetrable blackness Wulfric had ever seen. This was no ordinary darkness, not simply the absence of light; it was as though something down here was radiating darkness, filling every corner of this dungeon with it. Wulfric was not a man easily unnerved, but at this moment he was gripped by a powerful desire to retreat up the steps, to be away from this place. Still, he stood firm.
The guard,