Sidroc lifted his hand to his hair and ran it through the dark strands. He sat there, thinking on what power was in the faith of the Christians. To answer this he need only think of Sigewif. She had been named Victory-woman. Warrior blood ran in her veins. She was a princess, sister to a great King, and, Sidroc wagered, the most powerful church woman in all of Angle-land. Sigewif would understand the purport of bringing Ashild’s spear into the sanctuary built with her father Yrling’s silver.
Hrald spoke again, and to his father. “Her shield – I have it, in the treasure room. It is the same you made for me when I was here with Ceric.”
Indeed, Sidroc had memory of her carrying it at Oundle.
Hrald looked again to Ceridwen, recalling something of note he must share.
“Ælfred, your King, sent a rich gift to Oundle, to honour Ashild’s memory. Sigewif showed it me. A casket of walrus ivory, holding a huge nugget of raw gold, as large as half my fist.”
“The King sent it,” Ceridwen echoed in wonder.
Hrald nodded.
At this moment a small child burst through the open doorway and came running in towards her mother. She stopped when she saw Hrald, then placing a finger in her mouth, scampered to Ceridwen.
“This is Rodiaud, our youngest,” Ceridwen said, giving her wet eyes a wipe with her fingertips. The child’s entrance lightened the mood for all. With the Sun falling on her small back, she seemed almost to glow. The child had bright hair, the same chestnut-gold shade as her mother, and piercing green eyes as well. Ceridwen gave the child a kiss, smoothed the waves of her hair with her fingers, and sent her on her way out to the kitchen yard again.
“Rodiaud,” Hrald repeated. “What name is that? It is as pretty as she. I have not heard it before.”
“It is known only on Gotland,” she answered. “It was the name of Rannveig’s mother, she who first owned this hall when Rannveig was small.”
“She is beautiful,” Hrald told her as the girl ran off. “The same size as Ashild’s son, Cerd.” As soon as he said it he caught his breath, aware he had failed to convey this vital fact.
Ceridwen’s hand rose to her mouth. Tears again sprang into her eyes, but above a mouth which was smiling. “A child… Cerd,” she gasped.
“Ashild wanted to name him for the babe’s grandfather,” Hrald answered.
“My own father,” Ceridwen murmured, in wonder.
“Ceric did not know about the boy until… until he brought Ashild home. But Cerd grew used to him, quickly.”
Sidroc had been taking this in. There was joy in the arrival of any child, but this one was an heir of not one but two halls. Urd, the youngest of the Norns, was twisting the thread of life in ways to bind the families ever deeper together. And Ashild had given him a name to honour his shield-maiden’s family, and not her own. This struck him. Ashild was of willful, but deliberate nature. There was deep meaning in this, to him at least, almost as if she intended the boy to be raised at Kilton. Certainly with such a name, none would forget he was of Wessex.
Hrald moved his head, as if in remembering. “I have something for you. From my mother.”
He went to his pack and drew forth a small and flat wooden box, its two halves tied with a strip of leather. He brought it to Ceridwen at the table, and watched as she opened it. Something wrapped in linen and packed with straw was within, and she shook both from the object. She revealed a piece of fired potter’s clay, into which a small child’s handprints had been pressed.
“They are Cerd’s,” Hrald told her. “You and my mother have a grandchild, and she wanted you to have this, until you can meet him yourself.”
Ceridwen lifted the piece to her lips and kissed each tiny print. What sweetness was this, to come from so much loss, she marvelled. By some benison of Fate a child had been left, one named after her own father, one now being loved and cared for by Ælfwyn. She could only hope that Ceric could know comfort from his boy.
She sat gazing at the shallow hand prints preserved by the potter. Then she looked up at Hrald, with a question. “Did they hand-fast, or wed in the eyes of the Church?”
Hrald paused a moment. “Their union is seen as such.” A wry smile touched his lips for a moment, as he said the next. “And Burginde let it be known as such.”
Ceridwen had to smile as well, for her recollection of the resourceful nurse was still strong.
Hrald could say more of this. “Ceric named her as wife many times, to Ashild, to me, and to others. He had a golden ring for her, that of his grandsire, which he placed on her finger after her death. She was buried with it.”
Ceridwen gave a nod of gratitude. It signified that Sigewif, Abbess of Oundle, acknowledged the union, and the child as well. No woman would be buried thus with an ornament on her finger; only a ring designating her as wed would be acceptable for such an august interment as that granted Ashild. Cerd would be seen as the true heir of both his parents.
Hrald was aware he had left his men at Rannveig’s a long time. He had need to get his other pack, as well. It was then he realised he had carried no gift for the family of Tyrsborg. He had not expected, fully, to survive the journey. It was part of the reason he had forbidden Jari the trip; the sheer danger of it. Yet he had travelled with a full complement of weapons, the act of which assured his innermost self that he did wish to live, or that his life was at least worth defending.
Still he looked at Ceridwen, and his father, and made the simple admission.
“I have brought you no gifts.”
She answered with a mild remonstrance, one lit by her smile. “You have brought us the greatest gift. Yourself.”
They walked out of Tyrsborg together, into the welcome Sun of a day growing warm with the promise of Summer to come. Little Rodiaud was in the kitchen yard with Gunnvor and Helga, and ran over to them, throwing her hands against her mother’s skirts and smiling up at her. Ceridwen picked her up, as she did so thinking of the boy just her size who Ælfwyn was cherishing.
They paused near the stable doors, and Sidroc again looked down the hill to the water, where the fine ships lay tied at the pier.
He looked with admiration at his son. “You come in three ships from Lindisse.”
“Two,” Hrald corrected. “The third is a capture, from the narrow western straights of Dane-mark.”
Sidroc threw back his head. He could not help his glee. “A capture!”
He was about to ask more when Eirian and Yrling emerged from the forest path.
The hound Flekkr raced to them, yipping his greeting. Both children stopped for a moment when they saw the tall man standing next their father. They now had twelve years and had not seen Hrald since they were toddling children not much bigger than Rodiaud. Hrald had been a boy of nine years. Yet they knew him, for Eirian, looking between her father and the tall stranger, discerned who he was.
She ran right to him, shrieking, “Hrald! Hrald!”
Her twin brother was still pulled up short on his heels, and watched his sister run to the arms awaiting her. Hrald caught her up and lifted her in the air. Yrling stood open-mouthed, in awe at this big warrior who looked so much like a younger version of his father.
“Have you come to live with us?” was Eirian’s first question of her half-brother.
Hrald had to smile at her. She had unusual comeliness already, with none of the awkwardness marking many girls at the same age. In stature she was like Hrald, or their father, tall and long-legged. Their own leanness was made manifest in her slender form. Her hair too spoke of her father; it was a dark brown, her mother’s chestnut tresses adding richness to the hue. She had blue eyes, dark blue, very much those of Hrald or Sidroc.
“Not to stay. For a visit. Until the next full Moon. Then I must take ship again.”
The girl had thrust her hand in Hrald’s and he kept smiling at her.
“They were at Tindr’s home, in the forest,” Ceridwen told him. “Tindr is wed, to a beautiful woman of the Sámi, Šeará. Together they have
two fine children, a boy and a girl. They live in a forest clearing, in a round house they have built in the way of the Sámi folk. He will be glad to see you again.”
Now Yrling came up, grinning. “I am Yrling!” he proclaimed.
It made all laugh. “I recall you,” Hrald assured him. Yrling’s hair had been a bright ruddy yellow as a toddler, and had darkened to an ambered brown. The boy was more his mother’s son in colouring, with fair skin, blue-green eyes, and a nose dotted with freckles. He now rocked forward on tiptoes, spotting the war-ships below.
“Are those your ships?” He was looking in wonder at Hrald.
“I came in them; but two are hired, from the big trading town of Jorvik, in my homeland. The third we captured in Dane-mark, and I have given in payment to Aszur, who owns the other two.”
“You captured a ship?” Yrling could scarce contain his excitement at this.
Hrald nodded at Yrling, and then looked to their father. “Two raiding ships of the Danes thought to squeeze us, in one of the western island passages. They did not yet know we had a second ship, ourselves.”
Sidroc gave a laugh. “I will walk down with you and offer my praise to your captain,” he said. “The story will only get better over the next four weeks, and I want to hear it now.”
“I am coming!” Yrling said.
“And I am coming too,” Eirian chimed in.
All Ceridwen could do was nod her assent. “Ask Rannveig to come for supper,” she instructed Eirian.
At the brew-house Rannveig and Gudfrid, her cook, had indeed been busy, Rannveig with ladling out ale, and Gudfrid with griddling up platters of steaming oat cakes for the men to eat. A score of Hrald’s men still lingered within. The others sat resting in the bright Sun, both within the ships themselves, and on the wooden pier.
Hrald’s father and siblings were shown the vessels, and after asking leave, Yrling clambered aboard the lead drekar to explore it fully. Sidroc spoke some time with Aszur, Thorvi, and Öpir, glad to learn more of how things lay in Jorvik and in Dane-mark. Eirian, after a look at the ships, passed into the brew-house to convey the invitation, and was rewarded with an oatcake from Rannveig.
Hrald joined his little sister at the brewster’s, thanking Rannveig and reaching for the pouch of silver at his belt.
“Nai, nai,” she refused. She laid her hand over his to stop him. “Nothing, for this welcome ale. Your father sold a narwhale horn for me, one my husband Dagr won at dice. He sent it with Runulv to Frankland, who sold it in Paris to the King.” She smiled. “I may be the richest woman in the Baltic.”
They heard a whoop, and saw Yrling at the steering-oar of the lead ship, Aszur at his side. Even if she was tied up, Yrling seemed happiest aboard a ship. Rannveig looked at the boy, and then back to Hrald. “He is like Dagr, more at home on the sea than he is on land. He was born to it, just as Tindr was born to his forests.”
When Hrald returned to the pier and his father’s side, Yrling came running to them.
“That is my ship,” he told Hrald, a declaration made with pride.
The boy pointed down the beach, where beyond the reach of the tide, a ship had been pulled. It lay at steep angle to the pebbles, the open hull shrouded with tarpaulins against the wet of Winter.
“Your ship?” Hrald repeated.
Sidroc gave a laugh. “It is Dauðadagr,” he corrected, “the ship of my Uncle Yrling. When I returned from Four Stones three years ago I saw her, tied up at Ribe. Or I should say, the One-eyed God saw me. There is a carving Yrling had made, of Odin, which stands in the stern. The single eye is a chunk of quartz. Odin winked at me. A long dice game later, she was mine.”
“And one day she will be mine,” Yrling piped. “She is, after all, Yrling’s ship.”
Hrald had to laugh, as did their father, who also gave warning. “Such reasoning as that will take you far. Far into trouble.”
That night, despite her tiredness, Ceridwen lay long awake in bed. A single cresset lay burning on the table, to ward away the greater darkness of her thoughts.
Rannveig and Gudfrid had joined the family of Tyrsborg for supper, and the brewster had been made quietly aware of the news Hrald had brought them. Ceridwen had not yet told her twinned children about this loss; she needed time to consider how best to share it, just as she needed time to absorb it herself. If Eirian or Yrling noticed her eyes glistening at times at the table, or afterwards when they took a walk with Hrald down the trading road, the youngsters might ascribe it merely to her happiness at Hrald’s visit.
Now, lying in bed under the arm of Sidroc, she tried to order her thoughts, which seemed to lie like fragments of a shattered bowl upon the ground. She must try to collect the pieces even if the bowl could never be mended. The death of Ashild was as hard to compass as was the birth of her little son. Yet she knew both were real, as real as those gathered fragments which might suggest a bowl, but never again form one.
Ælfwyn had sent no letter with Hrald. There were times when words could not be captured, just as now Ceridwen could not direct her thoughts toward any answer. Yet much was said in the handprints of the little boy who lived on.
Tonight her greatest fear was for her own son, Ceric. Worr was with him, and she felt certain Worr would have taken him swiftly home to Kilton. There he would have his grandmother Modwynn and Edgyth to comfort and care for him. Ceridwen had never thought of Modwynn without her heart moving within her. That great Lady would be old by now, but she must still live; she must. There was no imagining Kilton without her.
She tried now to picture the face of Ceric. She yearned to see him, and wondered if she ever would. And Edwin – Hrald had told them Edwin had suffered some slight hurt, and she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking of him. Edwin had been only a small boy when she last saw him. What kind of a young man was he becoming, she wondered. He had had a taste of the awe-ful reality of war, a combat in which Cadmar, the trusted friend of Kilton, had shed his Earthly garment.
Something she could not fully name was also troubling her, Sidroc’s feelings towards this death at her son’s hand.
The brutal fact was her son had killed Ælfwyn’s daughter. Sidroc had raised the girl as his own for the first decade of her life. The two families were interwoven to a depth that few ever were, in this and many other ways, with secret bindings known only to her, Sidroc, and Ælfwyn. Ashild was the daughter of the hall, a young woman both mothers hoped would become the wife of Ceric. Her loss was a shared tragedy which nonetheless could have riven the two families in a breach that could never be bridged.
The horror of Ashild’s death was its own chasm. Yet she must mourn for Ceric in almost equal measure.
She feared naming him, but must.
“Ceric,” she breathed. She had been lying on her back in the crook of Sidroc’s arm, and now she turned to him.
His exhale was long and slow. “I think of him too,” he assured her. He could not but think of him, having seen and done what he had in his own lifetime. He had considered the deed over and again since Hrald’s telling of it, and came always back to the same conclusion.
“It was no rash act, done in jealousy or rage towards his wife,” he held. “He saw the enemy on the field of battle. He must avenge Cadmar’s death. And it was response to all the ugliness upon that field. Battle will blind a man to other actions.”
He heaved a sigh, considering this.
“And – she held the war-flag.”
The urge to see that flag fall, to snatch it from the ground and carry it back to Kilton as trophy and recompense for the warrior-monk’s death would have been profound.
All he could do was repeat these things. War caused unintended casualties as well as those needful for victory.
They were both silent a while, until he spoke his own son’s name. “Hrald too,” he offered.
Hrald bore the burden of his own culpability in Ashild’s death; they had seen that. He had allowed her to come, and was certain she was looking for him. She had died in
his service.
Sidroc had further knowledge on this, one he knew Hrald shared. It was burden indeed, to know others died for your sake.
“They are both Christian, your son and mine,” he told her. “They will find remedy there.”
She put her head down against his chest, and nodded, speechlessly.
He too was silent, considering the two, hoping they would take whatever comfort they could to live with this loss. But he secretly questioned whether Ashild would ascend to their Heaven, or instead be called to the hall of Freyja, or even that of Odin, who took her. Would she be offered a choice, he wondered, and if so, would he see her again in the Goddess’ gemmed hall, when he and his shield-maiden were called there? Ashild’s father would be in Asgard, that was for certain.
Ceridwen felt an easing within her, listening to him. She wanted his thoughts on another report Hrald had shared with them.
“To learn of Oundle, of something close to veneration happening there at her tomb…” she could not complete the thought. “But it gave ease to Hrald to go there, heart-sick as he was.”
Sidroc wrapped his arm about her.
“All who knew Ashild may smile at this, but they will also take comfort from it, my shield-maiden. As you must. As you must.”
Chapter the Twentieth: Tyrsborg
BEFORE the Sun had quite risen next morning, Tindr came to the stable at Tyrsborg to tend to the three cows. They had acquired yet another milker, as Ceridwen had begun to make her own cured cheese under the tutelage of Gunnvor the cook, who had blended and pressed it at the farm on which she had once served. As Tindr moved between the animals, the skogkatts, which now numbered four, followed him, opening their pink mouths to receive a squirt of warm milk which Tindr shot them from the teat he pulled. It was something that always made Tindr laugh. It was the first thing Hrald, who was approaching the open doors, heard; the loud mewing of the begging cats, and Tindr’s well-remembered laugh, a honking like that of a gosling. He stood in the still-dim doorway, and waited for Tindr to notice him. Tindr rose from his stool and did so, blinking his eyes. He made a gurgling sound of surprise, and recognition. Hrald came to him and they threw their arms about the other.
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