by Katy Moran
“You ride like a berserker,” Essa said.
The man laughed and swung himself out of the saddle. “My name is Egric the Atheling. I’ve been sent here by my cousin.” The gold tips on his sword belt and buckle clinked slightly as he moved, as if somebody was playing music for him at every step.
“Who’s your cousin?” Essa said, although he had a feeling that he already knew the answer, and had been much too rude.
“Seobert the Wolf King.” Egric laughed. “Do you show me where to stable my horse – we’ve had a long ride through this cursed marsh of yours. And what of you, boy? There aren’t many like you so far east, with red hair and such dark eyes. You are a half-breed, am I right? How came you to be in this East Anglian hall?”
Essa turned to him, taking the horse’s bridle. They were almost the same height. “We are the Wixna,” he said. “We are not East Anglian. When we go in, a woman will greet you. Do not ask her the name of the man who is chief. He is dead, and she sits at the top of the table here now.”
Egric raised an eyebrow. He looked as if he were struggling not to laugh again. “Really? I heard her mate was killed, oh, eight winters back it must have been, but I thought some ambitious young man would have supplanted her by now.”
“Well, they have not,” said Essa. “I just thought you should know.”
Once the black stallion was stabled, fed and watered, Essa took Egric to the hall, shoving open the door as he led the atheling forward into the light. The babble of chat and laughter died and silence washed across the hall like a wave as it became clear that King Seobert had sent no ordinary messenger. Hild was at the fireplace with Cole and Lark’s mother, peering into the copper pot.
“It just needs a little while longer.” Hild turned around and stood up straight; she was still holding the spoon and set it on the table, laughing. She was growing fuller this past year, Essa thought, and wondered if she’d ever look like Cole’s mother, who was round and red-faced, and ran out of breath when she chased across the yard after one of the chickens. Yet Hild was very fair still, standing in her hall wearing a gown the colour of blood held up at the shoulders with a pair of gold brooches. The bones of her face were fine and strong and she looked equal to anything.
But when she glanced past Essa and her eyes settled on Egric, her mouth set in a straight line as though something had angered her. It must be that she’s fretting about the news from the court, Essa thought. The news from the Wolf King. And he wondered what Egric was going to tell her.
“Pike stewed in cream and tarragon,” Hild said. “I am so sorry, my lord, but we are rough around the edges this evening. I was not expecting Egric the Atheling.”
He loosed the scabbard from his belt and bowed low, laying his sword at her feet. “My lady. I am honoured to be your guest.”
Hild dropped to her knees and took up the sword. She stood up straight again, stopping to rest with her hands pressed to her thighs as though she had hurt her back, and returned the sword to the prince. “The pleasure is all ours,” she said in a thin, colourless voice. “I see you have met Essa, my fosterling. Now, do you come and meet the rest of my men.” She turned to Essa. “Take the drinking horn and fill it, my honey. Don’t forget the stand – the silver one.” There was a strange yearning look to her face that Essa didn’t like: it made him think of when he was younger, and she hated to let him out of her sight. What was wrong with Hild tonight? Maybe it was her time of the month, and she wanted a hot stone from the fire to wrap in a blanket and hold against her back. Maybe her head ached and she was tired. Either way, Essa hoped she wouldn’t treat him like a little child in front of the atheling.
She turned away, and Essa was about to move when he felt a hand on his arm.
“I thank you for the warning,” Egric said softly into Essa’s ear. “But be warned yourself, Aesc, son of Cai, that I do not take kindly to impertinence.”
It had been so long since anyone had spoken to Essa in his own language that at first the rushing, songlike words were like nothing but the sound of water tumbling over rock. And then he saw their meaning.
Aesc, son of Cai.
For a moment Essa stood still, unable to move. Then he ran outside, and stood in the yard, letting the air chill his burning face. He knew he should go back in and pour the mead as Hild had asked, but he could not.
He ran up to the top of the earthworks on the Mercian side, where the flatlands stretched out towards their camp, and lay flat on his back in the long grass, staring up at the night. Out in Long Acre the cattle were restless, lowing up at the night. It sounded like the calling of lost spirits.
How does he know who I am? Essa thought. And how dare he? How dare he come here and say such things to me, as if Father is still alive? It’s as if he knows something about me I don’t know myself.
Egric the Wolf Prince was playing games with him.
Gold
COLE came next, scrambling breathless up the earthen wall. “Why did you run off like that?” Essa sat up. “Nothing. I just— Never mind it. What’s the atheling’s news, then?”
“Well, you know Seobert’s a Christian?” said Cole. “They’re saying he’s given up violence for good; he won’t strike another man ever again. He won’t go back to the Wolf Hall at Rendlesham; he says he’s going to stay in Bedricsworth monastery till the day he dies. And all the court of the Wolf Folk believe it. But they still won’t pick another King, because they reckon Seobert was chosen by their God. Egric and a few of the other athelings are the only ones left with any sense, so they’re riding out to all the border people, like us, to make sure we’re still swearing allegiance to the Wolves and not about to throw in our lot with the Mercians.
“Anyway, I don’t understand these Christians. Isn’t the High King Christian too? King Godsrule, the one who took over after Penda killed Edwin. Is he going to go off into one of these monastery places?”
“Not every Christian does it,” said Essa, and then added, uncomfortably, “I’m one, aren’t I?” He had only formless memories of kneeling with his father in little wooden god-houses, and threads of dreams about fiery angels, and a brave young lord dying in sorrow to save his people. “But you can’t be a king without having to kill a few folk. If Seobert won’t lead an army, we’ll be overrun by Mercia before the year’s done. There’ll have to be another king.”
“Huh,” said Cole. “Do you know what they say about Mercians? They say they’ve got heads like dogs and eat children.”
“I suppose they can fly like birds and breathe fire as well,” said Essa, remembering his opponent at Fox and Geese in that Mercian hall across the border, his clever green eyes and rounded shoulders, the way he moved with the loose grace of a hound, or a wolf. “Don’t be such a halfwit. They’re just the same as us.”
“Maybe they are and maybe they’re not,” Cole said. “But they killed our father seven summers back, Lark’s and mine, and if we have a fight on our hands, I hope I’ll send a few of them after him—”
“Hild says come in.” It was Lark, standing framed in the firelit doorway of the hall. In the glow, the braided coils of her hair looked like shining metal. Essa flinched at the sound of her voice. What gave her the right to stare right through him the way she did, as if he were nothing more than the mud out in the yard?
Cole rolled his eyes. “We should get back.” Essa followed him down the mound and across the yard, brushing past Lark on his way through the hall door. She stepped back, holding herself away from him as though his touch disgusted her. He felt a flash of anger. Bitch, he thought again, making sure he did not meet her eye.
Inside the hall, the benches were crammed with people and Hild stood at the end of the table with the big copper pot before her, holding the drinking horn with both hands. The atheling was seated to her right. The only other person standing was Red, who grinned when he saw Essa come in.
What was happening? The whole hall was wreathed in silence. It was as if they had walked into the aftermath of an a
rgument. People glanced over their shoulders at them and looked away, staring back at the table. Lark did not look away so quickly, though. She turned in her place on the bench, and as her eyes rested on Essa he felt the blood rush to his face. She was looking at him. For the first time in years, she was looking at him. Something had changed, changed in the time it had taken him to step into the hall. It was only a moment, but when she turned away, Essa felt a crushing hollowness inside.
“I’ve a bad feeling about this.” He hadn’t realized he was speaking aloud until he felt Cole’s hand on his arm.
“Shhh, it’s—” Cole said.
“Thank you for coming in,” said Hild. She raised the great ivory horn and Egric held out a cup, ready for her to pour. Essa felt as if they were speaking in a language he had never heard before. The drinking horn and Egric’s cup must mean something to bring such a deep quiet over the benches, like the damp sods of earth they laid over the fire at night.
Cole nodded. He had gone very pale. “She’s got the mead cup,” he said. “It must be rings – Egric’s going to give rings to Hild, and she’ll give them to us, and she’ll be our lady.”
“Not you, Essa,” said Hild.
Everybody stared at Essa, and then Cole and Red walked around the table to Egric and Hild, watched by the whole hall.
Every muscle in Essa’s body tensed as he sat down, shouldering aside his neighbours. Had they all known this would happen? Somehow, he found himself next to Lark, her body warm against his. Why did she not draw away? It had been so long since they had touched. What was it – two, three years since that morning when she had left him in the stable? The heat of her drew the breath from his lungs, making him feel dizzy. He stared straight ahead.
Egric waited while Hild poured a stream of straw-gold mead into his cup. He got to his feet, raised the silver cup to his lips and drank. Essa felt his chest tighten as all around him people started to cheer. It was as if the silence had never been. A huge bubble of noise rose to the rafters and broke against the roof. Hild let the horn rest in its stand on the table and unhooked a small pouch from her belt. She laid it next to the copper pot and unwrapped it. Even from this distance, he caught the glimmer of gold within the leather folds.
“Honourable ring-bearers of the Wolf Folk,” Egric said to the hall. “You now have two more fighting men.” The cheering grew louder; people shouted Red’s name and Cole’s name and drummed their cups and knife handles on the table, their eyes bright and shining. Egric held up one hand, for quiet. “The Mercian dogs may be howling at our gates,” he yelled. “But we shall fight to the death to defend our borders, for we are the Wolves, and by God, we shall run once more.” Egric turned to face Hild, bowing his head in a show of deference. Tonight, she was chieftain of this hall as if she were a man, a war-leader.
“Once again, the Wixna pledge their loyalty to East Anglia and the Wolf Folk,” she said quietly. Not everyone was joining in the cheering and clapping: at the back of the hall, Essa saw some of the older men shaking their heads, grim-faced. But they had no choice: the Wixna were buffeted on one side by the might of the Wolf Folk, and threatened on the other by the Mercian hordes. Their old chief had worn the ring of the Wolves, and taken a Wolf Princess into his hall. So the Wixna were bound by gold and by Hild, who they all loved, and they had no choice.
Essa forced himself to watch Cole receive a golden ring from Hild, then Red. He imagined the feel of the cold metal slipping around his own finger, binding him for ever to his lord.
Everybody raised their cups, drinking to the young men who would now be fighting for their lady and their king the next time Penda of the Mercians chose to send his men across the border. Then Egric spoke again.
“Aesc.”
Essa flinched at the use of his proper name; the sound of it pulled him back down into the hall next to Lark, who sat so still beside him. He was Aesc, ash, an ash tree swaying in the wind.
“Get up!” Lark said, her voice low. It was the first time she had spoken directly to him in years, since the day he had killed the man in the woods and they had been forbidden each other’s company.
A different kind of silence had settled on the hall now. There was an air of unease. He could feel every single person in the village watching him. Their eyes were like needles in his back.
“Hold out your hand,” said Egric.
Essa obeyed, feeling as if somebody else was directing his movements. Surely he couldn’t lift his arm when it was heavier than the whetstone by the hearth? But he did, and felt cool metal slipping down the middle finger of his right hand.
“I have a feeling you might come in useful to me,” said Egric, his voice low and quiet against the tumult that had broken out on the mead benches. People were clapping and cheering. “Wear my ring, Aesc. I’m going to need your keen ears and your sharp eyes soon. But you’ll need to learn absolute obedience, and I can tell you’re going to find that more difficult than most.” He laughed. “But you must learn, all the same.”
Essa hardly heard. He looked down at his hand and saw the band of gold. He was bound now. He belonged to Egric; he had been chosen. Why then, instead of being wild with joy, did he feel as if a heavy weight was pressing on his chest, squeezing the life out of him?
In his mind, Essa heard his father’s voice: Being bound by a ring is the same as being shackled by an iron chain. For one moment, he thought of ripping the ring from his finger and hurling it across the room: he would be bound to no man. But then what would he be in this Wixna village with no ring? Neither a man nor a child, bound in honour to no one. He would be nothing.
He dropped to his knees before the atheling.
When he looked up, Egric was standing behind Hild with one hand resting on her shoulder, and she leaned back against him, wearing a smile that was like a fine gown covering a body mangled by the pox. The smile was for everybody else in the hall, not for Essa and his ring. He had never seen Hild touched by a man. She was always carrying some child, and he’d seen plenty of women braiding her hair, touching her arm in passing, but never a man anywhere near her. It must have been lonely for Hild, in those long years since Penda’s men had killed her husband: lonely and rather cold at night.
To the spirit world, and then to Mercia
ESSA lay on his back, watching the stars through the gently shifting branches of the ash tree, stirred by the wind. He could still taste the bitterness of the herbs he’d been given to drink: herbs he had never tasted before. Cole and Red were breathing quietly beside him: they were all forbidden to speak. They had worn their rings for a night and a day now, and they were going on a spirit journey. A little distance away, Onela and a few of the other older men were talking quietly, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying – the words seemed to melt into each other.
As Essa lay there, the stars began to move, blurring and spinning, and he found he could hear the ash tree growing, her great roots creaking as they crept through the ground beneath him. He was no longer lying beneath the ash tree in the courtyard, but soaring through the branches of Yggdrasil the World Tree, the great ash whose trunk contained the world of men; her branches the marches of the gods – the Aesir – where dead warriors feasted and whose roots cradled other, more mysterious realms.
Essa knew he had once thought of the world in a different way, of earth, heaven and hell, all watched over by the Holy Father. But that had been long ago. In the village, they sang of the Aesir, and Yggdrasil, and the battle of the world’s end that would come when mankind’s time was done. And now Essa was soaring up to the realm of the Aesir, hovering between the world of the living and somewhere else.
Then, suddenly, he felt he was circling above the village, looking down on the wisps of smoke rising from the thatched roof of the hall.
Burning with the thrill of it, Essa realized his spirit had left his body, but not to fly with the swallows that lived under the eaves, or run with the horses or the red roe deer. This was different. He was no longer tied
to flesh and blood in any form. He was flying free.
He saw the great earthen wall coiled around the village. Dark woods stretched off to the west and faded out towards marshland that reached all the way to the great Mercian forest. Caught between the woods and the marsh, he saw Penda’s camp, a dark hump on the landscape: a fort built by people long forgotten.
Beyond the old fortress, the Mercian forest spread even further west, for miles and miles. It seemed almost endless. Soaring in the sky like a bird, as if he were flying with Myfanwy again, Essa looked to the east and saw the long line of the Wolf Folk’s western defences: a huge earthen wall lying there like a sleeping snake. The flatlands stretched towards the coast, vast skeins of fenny water and boggy islands. Beyond that was the sea – and then he was no longer flying high above the earth, but was in a boat, crouching below the prow, soaked with seawater, listening to the song of the oarsmen. That was how his ancestors had come here, in the time of his grandfathers. His mother’s people, come from across the eastern water.
Then he was soaring again, up, up towards the stars, and he ached with the joy of it, because he was free.
Essa was the first to wake the next morning, opening his eyes to a clear dawn sky. Someone had been out in the night and laid blankets over them. His had slipped off in the night and his linen tunic was damp with dew. Off to his right he could see Cole and Red: humped, sleeping shapes. His head felt strangely clear – he had expected the herb-drink to leave him feeling sick, at least. He was tempted to lean over and shake Cole awake. Only that wouldn’t help, would it? he told himself. They were forbidden to ever speak of what had happened last night, of what they’d seen, and the places they had gone to. It was a journey you could only take alone. It was a journey that led to your secret self.
