Burginde carried it off, to bring it back steaming. Sigewif was now sitting next Ælfwyn, and took the pottery cup from the nurse. She placed it in Ælfwyn’s hands, which were shaking as the slender fingers wrapped round it.
“Drink this, my child,” the Abbess crooned. “Drink this, and when you are done, you may lie here as we work.”
The Abbess rose, and Burginde took her place next Ælfwyn, chiding her with loving words, prompting her to drink all.
The Lady of Four Stones did, and after found ease in lying down. Burginde stayed with her for awhile, sitting on the stool she ever sat upon when in the room. Ælfwyn was aware of Sigewif moving about, of the door sometimes opening, but did not feel she must lift her head. The wolfskin throw was thick beneath her, the pillow soft and smooth under her head. She became aware she lay on the bed in which Ashild was conceived. It now gave a strange but real comfort for her to be lying there as her daughter’s body was being readied for eternal rest. She let her eyelids flutter shut.
Sigewif found the raven flag as soon as she and Burginde began to undress Ashild. It was stuck to the back of her tunic, but they lifted it without it tearing. The dark body of the bird had absorbed Ashild’s blood when it still flowed, but some had seeped onto other areas, staining crimson the light blue of the woven background.
The Abbess spent a silent moment considering it, then folded the stiffened linen in thirds. It had absorbed Ashild’s lifeblood, and she would take it to Oundle with her body.
They unbuckled the seax and drew it off. The silver hammer Sigewif removed and set aside. Boots and clothing they removed, and then using the basins of warm water carried to them from the kitchen, began, with tender and loving hands, the washing of the body. Burginde’s eyes ran the whole time, and she bit her lip to steady herself, grateful only that Ashild’s mother had been spared the act she and the Abbess performed.
Hrald sat with Ceric and Worr at the high table. The hall had been emptied of women and children, though two serving women stood in the recesses of the kitchen passageway, waiting and watching. Seeing the men settle there, the elder of them, unprompted, returned with cups and a ewer of not ale, but mead. The woman poured out for them, and they took up their cups.
The fullness of its savour, strong, lush, and slightly sweet, filled their mouths and warmed their empty bellies.
After the first long draught Ceric looked down into his cup, and began to speak. His voice was strained and halting, as if he spoke from the distance of events lived long ago.
“I was scouting for Eadward, on the trail of Danes we chased from Lundenwic. I did not know we were close to Four Stones until I saw one of your cairns.” He shifted his eyes to Hrald. “It seemed a sign of good fortune; I recall laughing when I spotted it. It would give me a chance to come here, see you. See Ashild.”
Hrald took up his side of their recent actions.
“Two drekars landed at Saltfleet and killed most of my men there. One made it back to tell us of this. We set out after them. They were the men we fought.”
He looked up at the rafters of the roof, high above his head. He did not want to say the rest.
“I needed every man, sending more to Oundle, and to protect the horses. Ashild wanted to come, to act as courier only, should we need her.”
Hearing this, tears began running from the eyes of Ceric. He could hardly bear to revisit the last moments of Ashild’s life.
“She had a war-flag… I saw a raven of the Danes. It was all I saw.”
Ceric sat there, shaking his head against his deed.
Hrald’s voice too was raw. “It was the raven flag she made for me. But she was the first to ride under it, when she went to Oundle and killed the Dane there.”
Saying this, Hrald was finally able to release his tears. He put his face in his hands and wept.
Worr, sitting across from the friends, was moved to think of his own life. Hardened by battle and years as he was, no man could be inured to such suffering as that visited upon Ceric and Hrald. Losing his wife or boys in such a mishap would be disaster too great to grasp. It was akin to Cadmar, many years ago, going to battle with his sons, and watching them both be hacked down before him.
Worr took another draught of the mead in his cup, letting it drive his thoughts onward. He gestured to the two that they do the same.
Hrald took up his cup. He told of Onund, a man Ceric well remembered, and of how Onund had lured him into the wood. Ceric recounted riding into the dwindling action and how he had stepped on the Dane’s spear to sever its point.
For a moment the corners of Hrald’s mouth lifted in a brief smile. “Asberg would like that,” he said in praise.
Ceric went on, telling of seeing a second dragon banner of Wessex, that of Edwin his brother, and then finding Cadmar dying upon the field. Hrald had heard from Ceric of the warrior-monk, and nodded his head in consolation.
“Did you see your brother,” Hrald asked.
“I did, a moment only.”
Worr spoke now. “And again, as we were riding out.” He looked to Ceric, glad to be able to relate this. “He was on a horse, with his body-guard, Alwin.”
The horse-thegn took breath before going on in lowered voice. “The Prince knows what happened, and will tell him.”
A silence fell over the men, one broken by Hrald.
“She was looking for me,” he said, his voice shaking with this truth. “She was looking for me.”
“Yes.” This was Ceric, with an answer so deadly he could barely let it drop from his lips. “And I found her.”
The cry of a small child rent the ensuing silence. Hrald lifted his head across the hall to the wooden stair near the main door. He looked at his friend.
“You have a son.”
Ceric’s lips parted.
“Ashild named him Cerd.”
Hrald gestured the serving woman over, bid her bring Ealhswith and the child down.
The girl came down, her lovely face tear-streaked, holding a curly headed boy in her arms. Ealhswith tried to smile as she stood before them. The boy was restless and squirming in her arms.
Ceric looked without speaking at the boy. The hair was similar to his own, the eyes closer to those of Ashild. The boy was beautiful. Ceric had never dreamt their few hours together had brought forth new life.
“Cerd,” he said.
Ealhswith nodded, and smiled through eyes that still glistened. “It is the name of your grandfather. Ashild told me.”
“Yes, it is a name from my mother’s family.”
She brought the boy closer. The child reached naturally for Hrald, who took him first. Then the boy’s eyes were caught by the bright hair of Ceric. He reached for the nearest strand and closed his small hand around it.
Ceric lifted his hands. “Come, come,” he whispered to the boy. Cerd gurgled, and let himself be passed from the arms of his uncle to those of his father.
When Ælfwyn awoke, the Abbess and Burginde were at her side. The shrouded body of Ashild lay before them. The binding linen Burginde had carried in was from the linen store, one of the small spaces by the weaving room. It had been destined for tunics, or shifts, or sheets and towelling, the thread spun by Burginde and woven by Ælfwyn, Eanflad, and perhaps even Ashild herself. They used two lengths to wrap the body.
A third linen covering had been placed as pall over Ashild, falling in snowy folds around the edge of the table. Sigewif had gathered up the long wands of rosemary and laid them as a cross on Ashild’s breast. The air of the treasure room was scented by the sharp and clean aroma of their spiky leaves.
That night the Abbess slept in the bower house with Ælfwyn, Burginde, Ealhswith, and little Cerd. Hrald, Ceric, and Worr passed the night with Asberg in his house, that which Ashild had been living in. In the treasure room Wilgot the priest took a chair and kept vigil at Ashild’s side the night long, chanting the psalms and giving praise to God the Father.
In the morning three waggons were prepared. One would carry As
hild; the second, the Abbess, Burginde, and the women of the family of Four Stones. The third would bear Wilgot, Jari, Inga, and Abi.
All who would be making the journey to Oundle filed in to view the shrouded body. Once it was lifted, Ashild would be carried away from Four Stones, never to return.
A pallet was made ready on which to place her into the waggon. Hrald and Asberg lifted her body, and placed it upon the pallet. With Kjeld and Asberg’s older son Ulf they hoisted it shoulder high out to the waiting waggon.
As they left the room Sigewif looked to the two men from Kilton. She had seen three spears set against the wall, not restrained in any holder, and guessed they were theirs.
“Bring me her spear,” she asked, to Worr.
He moved to the three weapons and closed his hand about that which she had carried. The Abbess nodded her thanks.
They set off, into a morning which carried more than a breath of coming chill. The troop riding as escort on this sorrowful errand was fronted by Kjeld and others of Hrald’s body-guard. Then came the Jarl himself, flanked by his Uncle Asberg, and Ceric, and Worr. Forty men rode with them. As they rolled forward some of the cottars who had followed Ashild’s white stallion to the gates of the hall began walking behind the last of the horsemen. They were women and girls mostly, leaving their daily tasks, willing to walk hours to dedicate the day in honour of the daughter of the hall. Once away from Four Stones the mourners passed folk in carts, and shepherds driving their flocks. These asked, with wondering eyes, of their journey, and were told by those trailing behind.
When they reached Oundle, all paused in the hall to wash hands, and to drink the welcome-cup, that symbol of life which was never neglected even in the face of death. All received it, the warriors and family of Four Stones in the hall of the Abbess, the village folk amongst the serving men and women thereof, where they were welcomed by Prioress Mildgyth with the generous hospitality due all guests.
Then the waggon bearing Ashild was driven close to the oak portal of the church. The same men who had carried Ashild from the treasure room now carried her into the church, the first shrouded figure to be sanctified before the presence of the Holy Tabernacle there upon the altar. A table covered in white linen stood before the altar to receive her body.
Every inmate of the foundation stood within the church, nuns, lay sisters and serving women on the left, monks, brothers and laymen on the right. All who travelled from Four Stones crowded in, the door remaining open so that some crofters might stand upon the broad stone step and hear the chanting of the prayers and ringing of the chimes. Ælfwyn’s mother, Sister Ælfleda, stood upfront with the elder nuns, and smiled her tender blessing as she saw her daughter. Bova stood in the back of the church with the youngest nuns, her hands clasped, face wet with tears. Wilgot joined the two priests ready at the altar.
The Mass was held, benedictions given, tears shed. A blessing upon the heads of all was made. All filed out, save family, Ceric, and Worr. Sigewif stood before them. In the corner of the church, to the right of the altar, lay one of the largest slabs of limestone which made up the flooring. It was of a whiteness and purity of grain that brightened the corner. The Abbess led them to this.
“Under this stone is where Ashild shall lie.”
Through a window on the side, a beam of brilliant sunlight fell upon it.
A meal was shared, no funeral feast, and of necessity simple. With warm embraces and many a kiss the Abbess saw the grieving family off.
Then Sigewif returned to the church. The stone-worker and his men were already prying up the slab of limestone designated to lie over Ashild. They grunted and strained at their work, positioning the small log rollers they would use to push the stone aside so the soil underneath could be dug. For a moment the attention of the Abbess was taken up solely by them. Then she saw a slender figure kneeling on the far side of the trestle which held Ashild’s shrouded body. It was a nun in prayer: Bova.
Ceric and Worr remained at Four Stones two more days. To be amongst the family of the hall and grieve with them as they spoke of Ashild was the greatest solace for Ceric. To learn to know his little son, to see the boy smile and play, to have Cerd run to him, crowing with laughter, gave both a supreme joy and pain. In the boy’s presence he could almost forget the act that had denied him his wife, and their son his mother.
“You have nothing of Ashild’s,” her mother said to him as he prepared to leave. “I have a keepsake.” She held out the small golden cross he recalled Ashild wearing, both as girl and later as woman. Ælfwyn’s next words imbued the gift with even greater meaning.
“She wore it when your son was born.”
He closed his hand about it, uttering his thanks. Before her he dropped it over his head. Then his hand returned to his collar. He pulled from under his tunic the large golden cross with its heart of garnet, and entrusted it to Ælfwyn.
“Ælfred gave this to my father, when he came home blinded. I told Ashild one day our son would wear it.”
Tears, always so near, welled in Ælfwyn’s eyes. She kissed the cross for its sacred import, and for who had worn it, father and son, and for who would wear it next. She kissed Ceric, a kiss of benediction on his brow.
Cerd in her arms reached for the shining chain, and pulled at it. She let him take it, a cross almost as large as his grasping hand.
Ceric looked at his son. The boy was smiling as he held the gold, then laughing as he placed one arm of the cross into his mouth. This was his child, born of his beloved wife. Their union, however brief, united two great halls, two Kingdoms. Kilton needed an heir, for what if Edwin died without issue? The fear was real, the need urgent. Yet he could not wrench this babe from the bosom of his mother’s family. Cerd was all they had left of Ashild. To take him was a doubled cruelty. He could not raise his son, but must try to find comfort in knowing the boy had been granted. If Cerd was needed at Kilton, Hrald, if he lived, would allow him to come.
Another amulet of Ashild’s remained at Four Stones. Her father’s hammer of Thor was left by the Abbess on a shelf by Hrald’s bed. When he found it, Hrald closed his hand about it. As emblem of the Old Gods, it was memory not only of Yrling, but of his own father, Sidroc.
He must go to Gotland, and see his father. Ashild had been in his keeping, and Ceric, widowed of her, was his best friend. None but he could stand before his father and Ceridwen and bring this news. He could not sail until the Spring, but sail he would.
Chapter the Sixteenth: Ashild of Four Stones
ASHILD was lowered into the soil beneath the church of Oundle the day of her funeral mass. The stone-worker returned to the sanctuary next day with his chisel, and began pounding at the rock, working the lines of the inscription the Abbess had drawn for him: Ashild of Four Stones.
The morning after Ashild had come to Oundle, Bova arrived early to the church. She laid a single blossom on the slab of white stone beneath which Ashild lay. She did so again the next day, replacing that which she had offered the day before with a fresh flower. Now she placed the bloom upon the name carved there. It gave Bova pleasure to see the tall, sharp-edged letters, as bold as Ashild had herself been. Sometimes it was an herbal sprig the nun bent down and offered. Whatever she laid there, she did so with a prayer for the soul of Ashild.
A month after the daughter of Four Stones had been laid to rest, a woman and her daughter appeared at Oundle’s gate. They were finely dressed and accompanied by an escort of five warriors. The girl, of perhaps sixteen or seventeen Summers, bore a large sheaf of flowers in her arms.
“We would visit the resting place of Ashild,” her mother told Prioress Mildgyth. The prioress tilted her head to one side in unspoken question, but nodded.
She led them to the church. The single flower Bova had placed upon the stone slab in the corner caught their eye. They went to it even before the prioress gestured toward it, pausing only to genuflect before the altar.
The girl knelt down and placed her flowers at the foot of the slab. T
he sheaf she had brought to Ashild’s tomb was of late-blooming flowers, Michaelmas daisies, leaves of striking colour, boughs with nuts upon them for fruitfulness, dried and feathery grasses, an armful of gathered beauty.
Her mother stood with bowed head at the edge of the slab, and crossed herself.
Mildgyth, seeing the reverence in which they addressed themselves to the tomb, went to Sigewif.
The Abbess, not wishing to disturb their devotion, greeted them as they left the church. They were of an old Anglian family to the west, and the elder daughter thereof had wed a wealthy Dane more than ten years ago. The mother gestured to her younger daughter.
“We had heard of Ashild’s courage, and her death. My daughter had been sickly, weak in body and fearful at night. Then she dreamt of Ashild. She began to ask her for advice and counsel, as if Ashild were a friend to her. She grew strong and less frightened. This is why we have come.”
The woman wore a costly necklace of strung pearls about her neck. She drew it off and placed it in Sigewif’s hand.
“A gift to Oundle,” she told her. “In honour of Ashild.”
Theirs was but the first visit to Oundle. Other women and girls journeyed to offer their respects, even as the cold hardened and the weather grew harsh. Some had heard of Ashild from monks and priests who had visited the foundation. Others had been read the letters of one of Oundle’s nuns, who had described in detail the life and death of the young woman as she knew it. All who came to stand before the gates had some token to give, even if it be a humble branch of evergreen to lay near that which Bova replaced each morning. Rich women pressed purses of silver into the hand of the prioress, or inspired perhaps by the golden necklace and bracelets on the painted statue, removed their own jewels then and there and presented them as gift in honour of Ashild.
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