Thorvi turned back to the men on the lead ship. “The Rus,” he told them, with real satisfaction. “They have had a long river passage to reach the Baltic, and then across to here. They are bringing furs, I wager, and also precious stones from their mountains.”
Thorvi’s next words brought grins to his listeners’ faces. “Your luck-spirits smile today. They will want your blades, and you can fill your small purses with great treasure from their carnelian stones, jasper, and lapis.”
They shipped their oars, tied up, and made ready to quit the ships. Hrald’s men retrieved leathern bags and wooden boxes from where they were stowed, and some of the Rus traders, seeing this, had already come forward to meet them upon the planked walkway fronting the piers.
Hrald headed to the brew-house, with Aszur and Thorvi at his side. Off the ship and its ever-present smell of tar, Hrald became aware of something he had forgotten, or perhaps had never noticed when here as a boy.
It was the smell of Gotland, a clean mineral bite, as if the Sun-washed limestone, from which all growth sprang and every building was rooted, lived and exuded its own fresh and stony scent.
They passed through the men sitting at the brew-house benches, who nodded at the tall stranger with the fine weaponry. Within was a man wearing an apron, and wiping a stack of pottery cups. He smiled his greeting, as all in his trade are wont to do.
Hrald gave a nod in return and spoke.
“We are seeking Sidroc, of Tyrsborg.”
The brewer regarded him, nodding his head at the name.
“Sidroc the Dane? Já, he trades with us here.”
“I am his son.”
The man laughed. “I can see that.”
At this Hrald too must smile.
“I was here once as a young boy. I have memory of sailing around the tip of the island. It took half a day or more to reach there. Am I right?”
“Já, you are. It is a double cove, one deep, one shallow. There are rauks just north. If you reach those you have passed it. But you will see the landing pier. Also there is a good brew-house there.”
Hrald had again to smile. “Já. The brewster is a friend.”
Before long the brewer had his reward, and was kept busy carrying jugs of ale to the fifty visitors eager to celebrate their success with the Rus. Hrald lifted his cup with the rest of them, grateful for the safe arrival, but not a little troubled at what tomorrow might bring. Not until he had set his eyes on Gotland had he given thought that all might not be well here. Something amiss could have happened to his father or family since he had seen him, casting them in as great a sorrow as afflicted Four Stones. The brewer’s ready naming of his father helped him beat this notion back.
It would have been a simple thing to spend the night at Paviken, and with its ready access to ale his men were eager for it. But Hrald wanted to press on, and Aszur and Thorvi agreed. If they rounded the tip of the island tonight, they could camp just on the eastern side of it, and save the run up the coast for the morning.
They did just that, the quickly lengthening days allowing them light enough to round the vast rauk at Gotland’s southern tip. They ran their ships up on a shingle beach that shone in the moonlight, boiled up their browis on shore, and slept on their ships.
Dawn came as early as dusk came late, and they heaved the hulls fully back into the water and splashed through it to clamber aboard. The eastern side of the island slipped by, struck by a brilliant Sun which rose in a sky first pink and then deep blue. A coastline of sand and shingle beaches, wooded coves, towering rauk fields, and watery sea marshes waving with sedge slipped by. The Sun was near to overhead when Hrald, now standing in the prow with Thorvi, spotted their final landfall. He saw the tall and long fish racks first, already partially loaded with drying slabs of fat herring. Then came that solemn place of burial and its pyre-places. His eye skipped onward, and blinked in recognition. Here was the great carved figure of Freyr, with his painted beard of wood, which he and Ceric had gaped at. Just after it came the row of workshops and stalls themselves. It culminated at the far end in the brew-house, looking just as he recalled it, an open-walled building with roll-up awnings, now lowered in the cool weather. Rannveig’s brewing shed and many outbuildings stood behind it, and then her snug house, with its gardens running almost to the shingle beach. A road behind the brew-house drove up at a steep angle behind it, where Tyrsborg lay. The leaves of the trees were not yet fully in, and even from the ship Hrald could see the peak of its sharply-gabled roof. He swallowed.
No ship was tied at the pier, and they oared up to it. As at Paviken, folk came from their stalls to look on the three war-ships. They caused no alarm, peacefully rowing in. Raiders bent on attack would have driven their ships to the beach and leapt out brandishing spears, war-cries straining their throats and distorting their faces. These men looked warriors, but those here to trade, and not to raid.
Rannveig was already out, in her work yard. When she stepped from the brewing shed she saw the ships rowing in. She stood a moment. Warriors often came, just to drink and eat. If they headed for her brew-house she might have a busy and profitable day ahead. They would range along the trading road, bartering from stall to stall what they carried with them for what they needed to continue their journey. The ships tied up. One of the first to jump from the ships was unusually tall, lean, and with dark hair lying on his shoulders. She studied him, and gave a soft gasp.
The man took in the trading road in a glance, as if he knew it, and came straight towards the brew-house, followed by his men. The brewster stepped from the small garden in which she grew her flavouring herbs for her ale. She took a few steps towards the man. He was young, dressed in a simple dark tunic, leggings and boots, but well armed with sword and knife at either hip. A leathern pack hanging from his shoulder was all he carried. A light flickered in his eyes as he saw her.
She was the first to speak.
“Hrald.” It was the boy, grown to young manhood, and with a man’s cares.
He gave a nod.
She moved, as quickly as her years and girth would allow, to embrace him. “What – what – why…”
He gave his head a single shake. She saw a thin white scar on his forehead, one that resolved itself into a furrow on his brow.
“I must see my father, and his wife. Can my men stay here?”
”Já, já, bring them in,” she urged.
He could see her concern for him in her face, and he tried to smile at her. He recognised for the first time how old she was; she must have near to sixty years. She jingled as she walked, just as he remembered, the countless bronze keys at her waist tinkling like the bells of an ox-cart, but far more merrily. Around the plump neck were her bright beads of coloured glass, each different from the next. There were perhaps more strands than ever now, adorning her. She stood before him, studying his face, seeing, he thought, the shadow of the tragedy he must tell.
“I will see you soon,” he promised, at which she nodded, biting her lip.
He climbed the hill to Tyrsborg, fastening his eyes on the gabled peak as he started up. The narrow stone face of it came into view, with his father’s bind-rune carved above the door. From the stable a thickly-furred and spotted dog with a bent-down ear ran out to greet him. It offered a single yip and a furious wagging of its coiled tail.
The cook Gunnvor and serving woman Helga stood there in the kitchen yard, the first stirring a cauldron, the second wringing out a cloth into a basin. They looked at the stranger, then knew him for who he was. “Mistress, mistress,” called Helga, running to the side door of the hall.
At this Sidroc emerged from the stable. At almost the same moment Ceridwen came from the door of the hall. Hrald had stopped just before the stable opening, where his father, confronted so unexpectedly with his son, took a great stride forward. Hrald could not move, seeing him. His eyes were burning, the red heat of the rims brimming with hot tears.
Sidroc threw his arms around him, and a moment later Ceridwen’
s arms were about them both. A muffled cry came from Hrald, one which dissolved into great shuddering sobs, welling up from the centre of his being.
They stood thus until Hrald’s breathing slowed. Neither his father nor Ceridwen let loose their grasp on the boy; and his own grip never lessened, as if he held on for life itself.
Sidroc was facing towards the sea, and the three newly-arrived war-ships down at the wooden pier. They looked ships that would make any war-chief proud to stand at their steering-oars. Ceridwen was aware only of the suffering of a boy she had ever loved. Every possibility of disaster crowded in on both their minds, and each in their way fought to quell them as they led Hrald into the hall.
Both Gunnvor and Helga were looking on, their own distress and eagerness to help manifest in the way they held their hands towards their mistress, awaiting orders.
“Helga,” Ceridwen asked. “Please to bring us ale.”
They entered the hall proper, passing the two looms set against the side door, a small shuttle dangling from the weft of one where Ceridwen, in her haste, had let it drop. Now finally here, Hrald paused to look and take it in. The Sun was strong, and low enough to pour in through the doorway and cross the breadth of Tyrsborg in a single channel of golden light. The fire-pit rimmed with large stones was there running down the middle of the space, sleeping alcoves on either side. He saw the one he had slept in, and the common wall it shared with that of Ceric’s. The door to the treasure room was off to one side, the broad trestle table on which meals were taken before it. Hrald looked to the pegs where as a boy he had claimed one as his own. He moved to them now. He lowered his pack to the floor. He unbuckled his sword belt and hung it from the remembered peg, a gesture which seemed to separate himself from the blade as quickly as he could, now that he was within Tyrsborg’s walls.
This ready removal of his weapon was not lost to his father’s eyes. Hrald wore the signs of his estate in the sword. It was a blade Sidroc recalled, his own second choice as a fine weapon, which Hrald had wielded at the duel securing Four Stones’ future.
They moved to the table, and sat so that Hrald was between them, with Sidroc at the head, Hrald at his right, and Ceridwen next him.
Helga came in with a tray of beaten copper, upon which sat a bronze ewer and deep pottery cups. Ceridwen poured out, placing the foaming ale before them all. They brought it to their mouths, for all had need to ease the stricture in their throats.
Hrald put down the cup and drew breath. “I come to tell you what no one else can,” he began.
He looked to his father’s wife. In her face was both fear, and loving concern. Knowing what he must tell her, Hrald felt almost unable to speak.
Ceridwen was as well beyond words; the swallow of ale she had taken had come close to choking her, for her throat was too tight to permit real opening. Yet her heart had grown so large in her breast that she could both feel and almost hear it as it throbbed within her.
It was his father’s face that spurred Hrald on, the heightening apprehension of the wait marking it with a kind of diffuse anguish.
“There was a battle, last harvest-time,” he told them. “Some followers of Haesten landed at Saltfleet, killed nine of our men there. One survived to tell of it. We went after them. Ashild came as well, to serve as courier should we need her to ride back for more men. We caught up to them at a field on the western borders of Four Stones, and fought. After a while I went into the woods to face a single man, one who had been one of my own.
“While I was gone – ” his voice broke here, and he took a moment to steady it. “Ashild got off her horse. She had made me a war-flag. Asberg’s son Abi had been holding it. He had been hit in the leg by an arrow, and dropped it. She must have come, and picked it up.
“Eadward of Wessex arrived.”
Ceridwen’s lips had opened in surprise. Hrald went on.
“They had been chasing Danes from Lundenwic. It was all confusion, and my men told me, hard to know who was enemy and who was ally.”
He paused, and looked to Ceridwen.
“Your son, Edwin, was there, with the Prince. Edwin’s horse was killed from beneath him, and he suffered some slight hurt. But his retainer, Cadmar, was killed.”
Ceridwen’s hand had flown to her lips.
Hrald had need to draw breath now. “And Ceric… Ceric was there. He was with Cadmar when he died.”
He must get the next out, and could not without his own eyes again welling.
“Then Ceric saw what he thought was a Dane, carrying a raven banner. He threw a spear.”
He turned his head helplessly to those who flanked him.
“It was Ashild. It was Ashild.
“She was looking for me. And he killed her.”
A low howl came from Sidroc, an utterance of raw pain. He leapt up.
“Odin!” he cried. “Odin and his spear.”
On the day he left Four Stones Ashild had told him she gave herself to Odin. Now Odin had claimed her with a spear. That God of sorcery had indeed demanded the greatest sacrifice of her, as he had warned. It was by the spear that Ashild had distinguished herself, and it was by the spear she died.
Hrald’s eyes were locked on Ceridwen’s face. Her lips were moving, soundlessly. The tears which had gathered in her eyes were now spilling from them. Her hands rose to frame her face, then closed over it. A choking sob broke at last from within her.
“Ceric lives,” Hrald told her. His own voice was hoarse with grief, but say this he must, lest she fear even greater loss. “He lives.”
She clung to this, yet to fathom what his act had cost him – what it had cost all who loved Ashild – was beyond her ken. Her son had mistakenly killed the beloved daughter of Ælfwyn. It was disaster beyond her grasp, beyond comprehension. Her thoughts could go no further.
Ceridwen turned on the bench and reached an arm out to Sidroc, who was now standing next to his son. She reached the other arm to Hrald himself. She had no strength to push herself up, but the men took either of her hands, and she was lifted into their embrace.
They wept.
They stood united, clinging to each other in the face of ghastly tidings. Their shared mourning lent solace to each, yet for Ceridwen the unseen suffering of Ceric and Ælfwyn burnt like a flare in her breast. The death of Ashild sundered the hopes of the two halls with the cruellest severing imaginable.
The three sank down again to sit about the table, its broad surface solid and unchanged from the news, as they would never be. They sat a long time, unspeaking, yet as one in their common grief.
Hrald must finish, for any comfort that might be found in the tale’s unspooling.
“Ceric brought Ashild home. He stayed with us for several days, and did not leave until after Ashild was laid to rest.
“She was buried in the church of Oundle. Then Worr took Ceric back to Kilton.”
Hrald’s voice took on new keenness as he told the next.
“Oundle,” he said again. “Abbess Sigewif gave the honour of being buried there first to Ashild, for as she said when she claimed her body, Ashild rode to defend it.
“Her stone is a great slab of white, almost like snow, and on it is carved ‘Ashild of Four Stones.’
“And – and something began to happen soon after Ashild was laid there. Folk came to visit her grave. Women mostly, and girls, but some men too. They had heard of Ashild’s death on a field of battle, and wanted to ask her intercession.”
“As if she were a saint,” Ceridwen whispered.
Hrald nodded, and must smile. “It makes my mother laugh, and cry too. But Ashild’s grave has become a kind of shrine for folk, already.
“I wanted to go there, before I sailed. I saw for myself what my mother had told me. The Abbess opened the chest holding the offerings of silver and gems brought by those who visit. Then I went, alone into the church.
“On the wall by her stone is her spear. Sigewif mounted it there. She told me folk wanted to touch it. I looked at it and though
t of how, years ago, I found her one day by the Place of Offering, practising her throwing. The spear she used was huge; it made me laugh. She had a blister on her palm the size of a lady apple, but she would not stop.”
Sidroc took a deep breath at this; that was like Ashild, her stubborn persistence.
Hrald looked at his father, and they nodded in agreement. Sidroc had strong memory of Ashild’s obduracy as a little girl, a trait that never diminished as she grew to be a young woman.
Hrald went on. “I taught her how to use a spear, along with Asberg.”
He said the next with a mixture of awe, and sorrow, yet his eyes shone as he spoke. “To see the spear she had with her that day there on the wall at Oundle – my hand went to it as well. Ashild touched everything at Four Stones. But I too touched it.”
Hrald lowered his head at this memory.
For Me Fate Wove This Page 38
