by Katy Moran
Passing by with a jug of wine in her hands, Thorn nudges me in the ribs, rolling her eyes at him. I ignore her and she frowns, looking puzzled. “What’s wrong?” she hisses. “Cai, you’ve been like this for days. Can’t you just—”
“Here’s to the damnation of Godsway and the Northumbrians!” Goodlord’s voice booms out across the hall, and they all raise their cups and cheer like the fools they are, for you can be sure that next harvest-time the Wolf Folk shall be pledging their loyalty to the Kentish against the Mercians, or to Wessex, or probably even to cursed Northumbria.
“He’s always been a fool,” mutters Thorn, aiming a poisonous look at the back of Goodlord’s head. She glances at me. “Oh, suit yourself, Cai.”
I ignore her, watching Edge pour beer for Leofric further down the table, his face blank. How does he stay so calm while this gapeseed damns his father?
It’s my grandmother who says it. She’s sitting by Leofric, who’s awed by her, as any fool can see. How much for her holiness, I wonder, and how much for the fairness of her face? I’ve seen the men’s eyes on her, even though she is old – Thorn told me this last was her forty-first summer.
“How can tha wish damnation on Northumbria, Goodlord, when there’s northern folk around this table?” My grandmother is smiling, and others smile and laugh, too, for they all know she was a Northumbrian princess long ago, before she was so holy. I wonder why she chose to give her life to God in East Anglia instead of in her own country.
“Fair play to you, Elfgift; I always tell any woman she knows best,” Goodlord says, squashing his bulk back onto the bench. There’s more laughter, as if he’s told a great joke. Anwen shoots him a pretty sour look, though.
Cenry wanders over, holding a basket of bread. He leans closer, whispering in my ear, “They don’t much like each other, do they?” I just shrug, and Cenry sighs. “Look, Cai,” he hisses, “haul yourself out of this useless sulk. It takes a lot to rile my da, but if you go on like this then you’ll really know of it.”
“What makes you think I care?”
“Fine. You’re being a fool, though—”
Wulf turns to look at us and Cenry falls quiet so fast I nearly laugh. “Go, get your meat before these guests of ours do finish the lot,” Wulf says. Cenry grins and walks off, but before I can follow him Wulf grabs my arm. Oh, wonderful. “Wait.” He smiles, yet I’ll be taken in by his charm no more. “Come on, Cai, haven’t we given this enough talk? I was harsher than I ought to have been when you came back from Elmet, and you were cursed rude. I’m grateful you went, and grateful for what you did. I’m right glad you’re back in one piece, too. For God’s sake, let’s have a truce.”
We? Hardly. I’ve listened; he’s spoken. I shrug. “As you will, my lord.”
Wulf’s eyes narrow. They are dark green, like the mere in shadow. I’ve taken it too far now. “Be warned, Cai son of Essa,” he says, quietly, “that I grow quickly bored with mannerless ill-cheer, and you would be wiser not to bore me.”
I grab the beer-cup and go without taking my leave. I know I’m earning harsh words and I do not care. I’ve to walk by Elfgift to get my meat. I keep my eyes on the floor as I draw near, hoping she’ll not see me.
“Do you sit down with me, child.” My grandmother smiles, and I swallow a blind urge to run: what can I say to her? I have to glance away for she’s too much like Tasik, and I feel an ache in my belly when I look at her. “It’s time we had talk,” she says. “Tha hast so many chores in this hall I wonder you get a moment to breathe.”
I slide onto the bench, elbowing Leofric aside. At least I’m riling the god-man, which is good enough for me.
He gives me one of those looks. “I hope, Cai,” he says, “that you will recall your manners.”
My grandmother smiles on him, and he looks mazed, as if dazzled by the sun. “Father,” she says, honey-sweet, “is it true that you have a splinter of the True Cross set in glass?”
“My dear woman,” Leofric says. “Allow me to fetch it.” He’s gone in a heartbeat, and I look on her with new respect.
“Such an odd grasp of the Faith,” my grandmother says. “So much fire and punishment he forgets God loves us. When you are my age, you’ll know how to manage such folk.”
I grin at her, borne up by the first flash of true cheer I’ve felt in a while.
“Now let me hear it from your mouth, child,” she says then. “How did you come here?”
I freeze. Elfgift has had this tale already from Wulf. Why does she want to hear again how I failed to save her son? What am I to say?
“It is all right.” Her voice is kind. “Wulfhere has told me you fear your father dead, and think the fault’s yours, but he’s right: you weren’t to blame. All I want is to hear your side of the tale.”
So I tell her, although I don’t know why she laughs when I reach the part where I made for the wall in our courtyard, and Tasik snatched me back. I did not think it so amusing. “He hated me,” I finish, staring at her bold in the face. She wanted my tale and now she’s got it. I’ll not hide anything; if she wants to despise me, let her. “He hated me because I’m a liar.” Then I say it before I can stop myself: “A liar like his own father.”
“Where did you hear this?” The words snap sharp out of her mouth. She’s a quick temper, for a god-woman.
“Tasik told me,” I say in a rush. “He said although he’d given me his father’s name, he wished I hadn’t got his skill at deceit.”
My grandmother takes a sip of wine. “Yes,” she says. “I am sure he did. Well, Cai, you must know that a man can be a liar, and many other things as well. Life is rarely so simple. Look, here comes the good man Leofric with his relic, and I must let him bore me clean out of my skull with the tale of it.” She smiles. “Now, be away – I’ve no wish to see you rush into a mither with my holy friend, for he’s told me all about your wickedness. But do you come to me again before I ride south; you make me laugh, and we must all take our merriment where we find it, in these times.”
My grandmother is not like any god-woman I’ve ever met before.
Out in the yard, I cursed near break my neck tripping over Mildreth. She’s hunched up by the side door of the hall, and what she does there God only knows, but it’s cost me my supper, which now lies in the dust with my bowl.
“What’s wrong with you, you daft lump?” I cry, and straight away feel a fool. Mildreth’s with child, and the father has clear said he’ll not own it – nothing to laugh about when there’ll be a brat to feed.
Mildreth says nothing, just shakes her head. Her face is wet with tears, and all I can hear above the roar of the feast in the hall is her sobbing. It’s a lonely sound. I don’t know why I sit down beside her.
“I’m all right,” she says, which is a lie, for she can barely cough up the words for puthering out tears. “I’m all right.”
If anyone sees me do this I shall die of shame: I put my arm around Mildreth’s heaving shoulders and pat her on the back.
“The children down in the village,” Mildreth sobs. “They – they throw things at me when I go by. It shan’t be long before their mothers do as well. I wish I could go back and change things. I’m – I’m so afraid of going to hell, even though I know I’ve earned it.”
This is the longest and strangest talk I’ve ever had with her. We’ve not gone beyond “Good day” and the weather before, and now we’re on to eternal damnation.
“Well,” I say, “you can bear me company there, then. You’re not so great a sinner as I am.”
She laughs then, with a wet, spluttering, unhappy sound, shaking her head.
“Why don’t you just tell who it was that did it?” I ask. “You didn’t get like this by yourself, did you?”
But Mildreth shakes her head. A tear drips off the end of her nose. “Just leave me,” she whispers. As I stand, she looks up, smiling wetly. “Thank you, Cai. I know everyone says you’re wicked, but I don’t think you are truly. I think you’ve a kind heart.�
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I go before she has the chance to say anything even more sickening. Dear Christ, what a night of odd talk this has been, what with my grandmother, and now this. One thing I know: I shall stay away from girl-folk as long as I can. Trouble finds me quick enough as it is.
A sennight later
THEY WERE married this morning, Cenry and Thorn, hand-fasted together before God, and now the whole hall is bursting with firelight and song, and soon they will push back the long tables and dance. The nights are drawing in, growing chill, but even so, folk have spilled out into the courtyard, and I hear their chat and laughter. It sounds far away from the darkness of the stable.
All I can think of is how to make sure I leave this place with Penda when he rides out to another of his halls.
I sat alone at the shadowy end of the hall while the rest of them stuffed roasted meat and new bread and spiced puddings into their faces, pouring enough Frankish wine down their throats to flood the valley. When Wulf came, I was polishing Penda’s sword, Darknail, dipping my cloth into a bowl of linseed oil and working up such a shine that the blade shone silvery black like the side of a mackerel.
A darker shadow fell across me and when I looked up, there was Wulf. He sat down beside me. “Why do you work when you should be feasting?” he said.
I shrugged and made no answer. Darknail was so bright I could see my face in her. Wulf reached out and took the cloth from my hands. I stared down at the blade.
“My father is a demanding man,” he said, “but even he does not expect work to be done at a time like this. Cenry and Thorn have both been asking for you, and the girls, too.”
“I’ve been given a task,” I answered, not looking up, “and I would like to finish it, my lord.”
In one swift move, Wulf snatched Darknail from my lap and re-sheathed her, leaning the sword-belt against the wall. “Come with me.”
Out in the yard, Wulf leaned back against the wall, thumbs hooked into his belt, shoulders hunched. He watched me a moment before speaking: I hate it when he looks at me like that, as if he can see inside me, and I can hide nothing.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve had my fill of this game you play, allying yourself with my father. He may be old, but he’s a dangerous man and if you knew the half of what I do you’d be glad of your lot and show me some respect instead. Now will you come inside and have a drink with Thorn and Cenry?”
A wave of misery rolled over me. “No!”
“Fine. Stay out here till your temper grows better.” And Wulf went back inside without another word.
So I am out in the stables with no one to talk to but Maelan, annoyed that I feel so guilty. Why should I care if Wulf’s got himself all riled up? But someone is coming: I can just hear them walking across the yard through all the chatter and shouting. How can they all be so merry when I feel so wretched?
Oh, no. Whoever it is, they’re coming into the stables. I sink lower into my pile of hay, leaning back against the wall. I pray to God it isn’t Cenry or Thorn. They won’t find me. But it’s not. It’s Elfgift. What does she want?
She pauses in the doorway, looking swiftly around. Moonlight strikes the linen veil she wears wound about her head. There is something about the upright, proud way she stands that puts me sharp in mind of Elflight.
My sister, I think. My twin – where are you now?
My grandmother steps forward, smiling, and I realize with a jerk of horror that she can see me. I should not be surprised: I could never hide from Elflight or Tasik either, so why should I be able to hide from Elfgift?
“No stomach for a feast?” She sits down beside me.
I shake my head.
“I knew I should find you out here,” Elfgift goes on. “You are much more like your grandfather than Essa. Cai often preferred the company of horses to menfolk, and he used to sulk fearsomely, too. With your father, there would just be a great blaze-up, and that was the end of it – but I’m sure you’ve seen a few of those yourself.”
“I’m not sulking.”
She raises one eyebrow – it’s a trick of Tasik’s, and it snatches away my breath for a moment. “Yes you are,” she says, “but no matter. I don’t mind – there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t miss Cai, and so it is good to see him in you. I loved him out of all reason, you know. We ran away together when I was fourteen summers old. I was meant to marry a Pictish chief who was as ancient as I am now, and I had no stomach for that. The devil of a lot of fuss we kicked up, your grandfather and I.”
I laugh.
Elfgift turns, and gives me a bland, innocent smile. “Thorn has ever been one for sulking, too. Ever since she was a little girl. I’m glad she’s hand-fasted to your foster-brother, for even a fool could see he’s not that way, and will always be able to tease her out of a black mood. I think it’s best for married folk not to be too alike. Ah well, such talk is not like to interest a lad your age. Come, let’s go inside.”
She gets up, quick and lissom as a girl, and glides towards the door without looking back. She knows I’m going to follow her.
Well enough, Grandma, my dear: you win. I slide to my feet and go.
Back in the hall, the air’s thick with heat and honey-wine. I see Penda, leaning back against the wall, watching the riot ebb and flow around him. He watches all from beneath lowered eyelids, always with that thin smile on his face. Everyone else, on the other hand, is in their cups, even Wulf, who can hold his wine better than most. He’s mired in chat with that lout King Goodlord, but when he sees me walk by with Elfgift, Wulf reaches out and pulls me over. “Ah, here’s my ranger, Goodlord,” he says, grubbing up my hair. “The youngest and the best. Am I not lucky to have such a one?”
“I think you are,” Elfgift says, rather tart, and she goes to sit with Anwen and Leofric, who is not so holy that he doesn’t get stone-blind drunk, I see. “Off you go, Cai; this is a night for you to be with your friends, not your old grandmother.”
What a cursed managing female she is.
Wulf gives me a hug and shoves me away. “Go on. They’ve been mithering me all night about where you’ve got to.”
For God’s sake, why must he make it so hard for me to hate him?
Cenry, Thorn and Edge are heaped up near the fire with some of the young ones from the village – not Mildreth, though, I see. Poor wench. Thorn runs up shrieking and throws her arms around me, forcing a cup of beer into my hands. “Where have you been?”
Edge grins at me, shaking his head. “Never mind where he’s been. Sit down, cousin, and have a drink.” And I’m grateful to him, for Edge knows what I’m like, that I’ve been off in a black mood, but he’ll not let Thorn make me admit it.
Cenry just sits there, sprawled on the pile of skins and rugs, looking at me. I look back at him, fending Thorn away. The dog-roses woven in her hair are making me feel drunk, dizzy. “Sorry,” I say to Cenry.
He grins, the shadow of Wulf. “Don’t be a fool.” He hauls me down beside him, and as I sit between Cenry and my cousin – my foster-brothers, my friends – I begin to wonder if I’ve been wise to swear my service to Penda.
I want to stay here: it is my home now, whether I like it or not.
It’s growing light outside, and someone has thrown open the great doors when I hear it. Most folk have now gone to sleep behind the drapes, or back to the village. I sit up, knocking over my cup.
“You fool,” Edge says, cuffing me. “I’m drenched.”
“Stow it!” I hiss.
Thorn’s lying with her head in Cenry’s lap. “What’s wrong?”
“Can’t you hear that? There’s a horse coming.”
Cenry glances at me. “I do.” He grins. “But I’m damned if I’m doing aught about it. Have another drink, Cai. It’s most likely Hlafy or one of the others coming back.”
But this is no ranger, riding closer and closer; I’m sure of it.
If we hadn’t all drunk so much, someone would have got up. But there is not even anyone at the gate. So the s
tranger comes in alone, into the hall, into the embers of our feast. A tall man he is, wrapped in a heavy plaid cloak, road-filthy and road-weary too, by the look of it. Beside me, Edge draws in a deep, hissing breath and his fingers tighten around his cup. The stranger pushes back his hood, and the early sun coming in behind him lights up a head of hair the colour of fire.
Tasik—
I feel my heart jump, and I sit up. Edge is gripping my knee so hard that it hurts. It is not Tasik. It is not him. This man is younger, and Edge has never seen Tasik before. A great, roiling wave of disappointment rolls over me, stealing the breath from my lungs. No one says a word.
The stranger looks about him, at the table littered with greasy fowl-bones, heels of bread, garlands of bruised dog-roses and ivy, and empty cups. An amused smile spreads across his thin lips. “The end of a feast,” he says in a dry, mocking voice. “What a foolish moment to arrive.”
Wulf’s on his feet now, and Anwen emerges from behind the red drape wearing just her shift, a blanket about her shoulders. Penda sits quite still, watching, waiting.
“Who do I welcome to my hall?” Wulf says, holding out his hand.
The stranger steps forward and clasps it. “Highrule,” he says, “nephew of Godsway, High King of Britain, son of Gods-
rule, who has been dead these last ten years and more.”
Beside me, Thorn sits up, clutching my cousin’s arm. “Edge!” she whispers. But he pays her no heed. The colour has drained from his face, and his jaw is set hard. “Well then,” Wulf says. “You are very welcome, Highrule. Here is my wife, Anwen, lady of this hall, and here is my father, Penda, king of this country.” There is no hint that so much of a drop of wine has passed his lips now, yet he must have put away close on a barrel of the stuff.
Still with that thin, mocking smile, Highrule walks around the table and drops to his knees at Penda’s feet.
The silent wait seems to last for days.
At last, Penda says, “Rise, Highrule, and do me the honour of telling me why you have left the side of your uncle and come to the hall of my son. What news do you bring from the north?”
