Far Traveler Read Free Page B

said with a shrug.
    â€œMarry?” Æthelstan stared. “Marry whom?”
    â€œAldwulf of East Anglia,” I replied, feeling sick as I said the name.
    â€œHe’s an old man!” my cousin exclaimed. “Older than my father! And you ...”
    â€œI’ve passed my sixteenth winter,” I muttered, gazing at my horse. “I’m older than my mother was when Grandfather Alfred gave her away.”
    â€œBut Wyn, I thought—” Æthelstan gripped the low door of the stall. “It was better to leave thinking that you would be here, in Lunden, when I returned.”
    â€œPerhaps we’ll meet in East Anglia,” I said, looking straight ahead. “I’m sure King Edward’s son would be a welcome guest in Aldwulf’s household.”
    â€œÃ†thelstan!” The shout rang out down the passageway, and Winter lifted his head, blinking a dark eye at us.
    â€œThey’ve already gathered all my things,” Æthelstan said helplessly. “I have to go.” He glanced once more into the stall. “You will ride him when I’ve gone, won’t you?” I shrugged, unable to speak, and then his arms were around me. His young man’s soft beard brushed my face. “God go with you, cousin,” he whispered fiercely, “until I see you again.”
    â€œWe ride, Æthelstan!” came a second shout, making Winter toss his head, and Æthelstan turned and ran for the stable door.

3
    ALONE
    I REMEMBER THE SPRING RAINS AFTER ÆTHELSTAN LEFT—A grey month when we rarely saw the sun, and the men who worked the land shook their heads and spoke of flooded furrows and seedlings washed away. Grimbald taught me on my own, or occasionally with Gytha when she found time to read with us. He seemed surprised at the number of pages I wanted to study each day, but there was little else for me to do between lessons. It was muddy in the streets of Lunden, and I had little taste for any excursion now that Æthelstan was gone.
    My own chamber seemed best on days when I was not wanted at the library. Gytha saw how I preferred things, and on dim mornings when we had to close the wooden shutters against the rain, she made the serving women bring me extra rushlights and candles for reading, despite their frowns at such a waste.
    Sometimes Mother came to read with Grimbald and me. She had been my first teacher when I was a little girl just learning the shapes of my letters, and her taste for old songs about heroes and their brave deeds helped form my own love for English poetry. Grimbald had little use for monsters and battle-stories, but when Lady Æthelflæd appeared at the scriptorium for a third day, he again put our studies aside to indulge her.
    â€œSave the lines you have prepared until tomorrow,” he told me grudgingly. “Today we will read the deed of Judith, a maiden who saved God’s people from the barbarian sword.” I closed my book, glancing at my mother, who wore a broad smile.
    â€œYour teacher remembers the sort of tale I liked, when he and I used to study together,” she murmured as Grimbald turned away to his pile of manuscripts.
    â€œHe taught you?” I whispered, surprised.
    â€œWhen first I came to Mercia”—she nodded—“when he was a younger monk, not long at the abbey. He was gloomy, even then.”
    My teacher turned back to us. “Smiling, are you?” Grimbald scowled at me. “Well, I don’t suppose you know this text.” He placed an open book before me with a thump and I shook my head.
    â€œI have heard others tell of Judith, from God’s holy writings,” I told him, “but I have not read the story myself.”
    â€œGood,” he grunted. “You can show us how well you read Latin by sight.”
    It was not a particularly difficult passage. I began reading aloud slowly, stopping whenever Grimbald or Mother wished to take a few lines. I