“You honour me.” Ricbert kneels before Elfhild and takes the horn.
“Drink deep of our friendship, Lord Ricbert,” says Lady Elfhild. “Let us be well.”
He drinks, perhaps a tad too long, and hands the horn back to Elfhild.
“Rise, Ricbert, and let the naming feast begin.”
With this the hall erupts in table pounding and calls of good will. The baby, startled, begins to cry, and the warriors laugh and remark on the strength of the little one’s lungs.
“And now, Ladies, pass the horn, so we might toast the gods and goddesses for their blessing and protection,” says Elfhild.
Touilt motions for Wilona to join the serving women. They toast first to the gods and then to each other’s health. Cries of “Be hale!” echo through the hall. Then Ricbert stands and moves before Lord Caelin’s and Lady Elfhild’s chairs.
“May the gods be with you,” he says, and his voice fills the hall.
“And also with you,” say the guests.
“Today we welcome the child of Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild into the family and the tribe. I call upon them to come forward, and to Lady Touilt also, who will bring the child.”
Wilona’s heart dances on the inside of her wrist and she feels dizzy. It’s as if she isn’t inside her own skin but inside Elfhild’s, feeling the effects of the wine she, and not Wilona, drank. Elfhild rises, steadies herself on Caelin’s arm, and although she smiles serenely, Wilona knows she’s nervous. A strange energy floats like marsh gas throughout the hall. In the previous nine days and nights, had Lady Elfhild found anything wrong with the child it would have been her duty to inform her husband and accept his decision whether or not to leave the child exposed in the forest, where she would be spirited away by elves or die from starvation, the elements, or the beasts. Happily the child is perfect, but still, a great deal depends on this moment. People shift on their stools, shuffle their feet. The fire crackles and pops. Wilona senses unnamed things watching, waiting for a misstep, and she laces her fingers together tightly. Caelin and Elfhild step down with Touilt following, the baby cooing in her arms.
When they stand before the priest, Touilt unwraps the child, who kicks her legs at the sudden chill. Touilt traces a rune on the child’s belly, kisses her forehead, and places her, naked, on the rush-strewn floor before Caelin. The baby whimpers. Elfhild clasps her hands so tightly the knuckles whiten. Wilona’s own fingers prickle with desire to pick up the tiny creature, as vulnerable to the spirits in the room as a young hare is to hawks.
“Caelin, lord of this hall,” says Ricbert, “will you recognize this child as your own?”
“I will,” says Caelin.
“Then claim her.”
Caelin plucks the baby from the floor. Colour brightens Elfhild’s face. Wilona realizes she’s been clenching her fists; red crescents are imprinted on her palms. The world is a sharp and jagged place, and to be included in the embrace of family means everything. Touilt passes the soft wool blanket to Caelin and helps him settle the child.
Ricbert’s smile is wide. “Bring the babe forward, father. Yes, just there. Lady Touilt, will you hold the sacred water for this child, and thereby bond yourself to her?”
“I will.” Touilt takes a silver bowl from one of the servants.
“Excellent. The time is come, then, Caelin. Tell us the child’s name.”
Caelin looks down at his daughter and then across the great fire into the faces of the assembled guests. “This name was chosen for her not by me but by the goddess Sif, wife of Thunor. The goddess revealed herself to my lady wife as she laboured, and on her instructions we sacrifice tonight.” The hall hums with approval.
“Hail the goddess!” “Blessing of the goddess on the child!” the men cry.
Caelin turns back to Ricbert. “The child’s name is Swanhwid.”
Ricbert dips his fingers into the bowl of water Touilt holds. He makes the sign of Thunor’s hammer over the child and sprinkles her with water.
“Welcome to this house, to this family, to this world, Swanhwid, all blessing be upon you.” From around his neck he produces a silver hammer amulet, tied to a leather thong, and places it around the baby’s throat. “May Mjölner protect you. May your aim be true, and may your heart’s desire always return to you.”
Touilt brings her face close and whispers so only the parents and the baby hear her words. She tucks something inside the folds of Swanhwid’s blanket and then raises her head, and her eyes lock with Lady Elfhild’s. The shimmering air around Touilt grows more restless still, until Wilona sees figures twitching and writhing about her head and shoulders. Elfhild gasps, as though she, too, sees the strange apparitions. Touilt steps back beside Elfhild and Caelin and faces the priest.
Ricbert smiles. “And so, Swanhwid is welcomed here. Let us all, then, celebrate her arrival. Let the feast begin!”
Three days later the sky is so thick with forget-me-not blue, Wilona imagines she could scoop it out and smear it on her skin. Touilt has sent her into the woods to gather fuel. She walks the path past the yew tree to the sacred well, where she stops to dip her fingers, make the sign of Thunor’s hammer on her breast, and say a prayer.
“And what business are you about this day?” says a voice behind her.
It’s Dunstan, whom she hasn’t seen since the naming ceremony. She’s about to admonish him for sneaking up on her, however when she sees him, her smile fades. An angry, puffy slash is visible on his cheek. “What’s happened? Are you badly hurt?”
“No. It’s all right.” He chews the inside of his mouth. “Really, it is. My fault.”
“What could you have done to deserve such a lashing?”
Dunstan shrugs. “Alwyn says I’m clumsy. Perhaps he’s right. I break things, you know.”
“Alwyn did that to you?”
“Not Alwyn. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Lord Caelin, I’m afraid.”
“What have you done to anger him?”
“I took him a new chest Alwyn carved. A beautiful piece of work, all dragons and geese. I turned a bit quickly, didn’t see a Frankish goblet, blue glass. The chest knocked it. Well, I knocked it. Smashed. And it was a gift from King Edwin, apparently. What does it matter, Wilona? It’s his right.”
Wilona touches his arm. “I am sorry, Dunstan.” She sneaks another look at his face. She will ask Touilt for yarrow salve to heal his wounds. Wishing to cheer him, she says, “I’m off to gather kindling. Come with me; the day’s so fine.”
“I can’t. Alwyn’s set me a task—on top of six bowls I must make for Lord Caelin’s table, I owe six brace of hares for Caelin’s pot as a sort of reimbursement. I set snares two days ago and checked last night, but they were empty. I daren’t come back empty-handed tonight. I’ll walk you as far as I can, though.”
They set off across the small pen where Wilona had led the sheep that morning. At their approach the sheep bounce away, kicking their legs out behind them.
“Silly things!” Dunstan laughs. “I found a ewe with her head caught in the hurdles the other day, and when I went to free her, well, I was afraid she’d tear her head off trying to get away! I had to flatten her ears to push her through.” As he laughs, he grabs his face. “Ouch! Oh, I mustn’t!” And that sets him off again. When he calms down he asks, “What did you think of the naming ceremony? Quite grand, wasn’t it?”
Wilona recalls the platters heaped with slices of dark and fragrant meat, the generous cook-pots from which the servants produced sauces made from apples and honey, as well as vegetable stews seasoned with garlic, rosemary, and bay. Bread, still warm, broke apart in the hands, releasing steam and the scent of yeast. Rich cheeses, some creamy, some hard, dotted the tables. Laughter and goodwill filled the hall. The bard sang songs of sweet merriment. “Oh, yes,” she says to Dunstan. “It was a splendid feast.”
“Ricbert was certainly in his glory in those fine white robes and that oak leaf wreath on his head.”
“Don’t forget the sceptre! He wi
elded it like a sword.” Wilona grins, although the truth was she found Ricbert, the high priest, intimidating. “He does have a deep voice, doesn’t he? It can’t help but make an impression.”
Dunstan nudges Wilona. “You made an impression of your own, you know. But you’re not angry with me, are you? For what I said to Godfred?”
Wilona blushes. While she was serving drink to the men, one of them, so young he was still more willow than oak, put his arm around Wilona’s waist and told her she was pretty and he hoped to see her later. His breath stank of a rotten tooth. She twisted out of his grasp while he laughed, and he would have reached for her again, but Dunstan, three men down the trestle, leaned forward and said, “By Thunor, Godfred, it’s a brave man who’ll woo the seithkona’s apprentice and risk her wrath.” Instantly, the air around them chilled, and Godfred went pale and asked her forgiveness. He muttered how he’d been away, fostered with the headman at Thirlings, a village to the east. “I didn’t know,” he said. For the rest of the night the men had been courteous but didn’t tease her as they did the other serving girls.
Wilona has thought a lot about it since. It was the first time she’d been openly referred to as the seithkona’s apprentice and not merely her servant. Seithkona, claimed first by Touilt, and then Eostre. Touilt had dreamed of Eostre carrying Wilona inside an egg, and she said that, along with the fact Wilona had appeared out of the moors on the new moon after the spring equinox, confirmed that she belonged to the goddess of spring and of beginnings—one for whom no marriage is permitted. Touilt had been married, of course, but had been widowed before the goddess claimed her. Being the seithkona’s apprentice is more than Wilona, as an orphan without family protection, might have hoped for, and she should be grateful. One day, like Touilt, she’ll become the seithkona of Ad Gefrin and spend her days apart, in the little hut by the holy well. Such a life may water the seeds of loneliness, but it also offers position and respect. Sometimes, though, she can’t help but wish she were like any other girl, able to invite the attentions of a boy, to live anonymously, beyond the sphere of Lord Caelin’s interest. But it does no good to wish.
“I’m not angry with you, Dunstan. Everyone serves the gods, and it’s they who decide what becomes of us. It’s no insult to speak of it. Nor, I hope, will it insult you if I speak the name …”—she bats her eyes and simpers—”… of the lovely Roswitha!”
Roswitha, one of the goose-girls, is as plump and sweet as an apple. How Dunstan had scowled at the naming feast when Roswitha allowed herself to be dragged to the knee of a young warrior, and how he’d blushed when Roswitha noticed, disentangled herself, and winked at him. He blushes the same way now.
“Aha! I knew I was right!” Wilona claps her hands.
“You see too much. Must be Touilt’s training.”
“I’d have to be blind not to see how you feel about her! Come on, no pouting! She likes you, too. I can see. Everyone can see!”
“Do you think so? Really?” And so he is restored to good humour.
As they enter the forest Dunstan says, “We must part ways here. Be careful, Wilona.”
“I’ve no fear of the woods! If I had my way, I’d live alone in the forest.” The words surprise her as much as him. She reaches in the pouch tied to her belt and pulls out a linen-wrapped packet. She unfolds it, revealing a lump of cheese, a heel of bread, and a handful of cherries. “Something tells me you weren’t fed today.”
Dunstan hesitates only for a moment and then breaks a piece off the bread and takes a few cherries. “You are my heart-friend, Wilona. I’m grateful,” he says, with uncharacteristic seriousness.
“You’re as silly as the sheep, Dunstan!”
She is deeper in the woods and alone now. The breeze plays through the leaves and the ground is spongy with moss and ferns and smells of rich loam. The work of bending and lifting and carrying the twigs and branches warms her, and Wilona ties her shawl around her waist. Then, all at once, an odd chill sweeps over her and the flesh on her arms turns to goose pimples. She squints up to see if a cloud is passing, but there’s only blue sky between the treetops. The back of her throat tingles strangely, and for a moment she’s dizzy, which she puts down to looking up too quickly. As she lowers her eyes, she notices something at the foot of a nearby oak—feathers and pellets, droppings, and bits of bone. An owl must have a nest above. Her heart thumps. There, caught in a piece of bark, lies a long feather, striped black and beige and brown. She plucks it from the bark and places it in the pouch at her waist, with words of thanks. She bows her head, waiting for the presence.
A robin in the oak tree nearby shrieks, startling her. A red squirrel inches along a bough toward a nest, no doubt heavy with blue eggs. The squawking robin dives at the squirrel and then another robin appears. The harried squirrel dashes down the oak trunk and races into the middle of the grove, its tail high in the air. Wilona drops the wood, claps her hands, and yells. The flash of red fur scurries across the clearing, zigzagging to avoid the beaks and claws, races up another tree and, disappearing into a hole, chatters indignantly. Wilona stands at the base of the tree. The robins hop from limb to limb, chirping with triumph, and then fly back to guard their unborn babies. Wilona laughs, and as she does, the back of her throat tingles again.
The red squirrel has ventured out of his hole but this time takes a path away from the nest, across a small clearing. Just then, from nowhere, a great dark rush swoops earthward. Before she understands what she’s seeing, a hawk carries away the now-limp squirrel. Poor squirrel, thinks Wilona. It was only doing what squirrels do. What plan can the gods possibly have for the small things of the world? she wonders. What are we meant to learn from the pitiless way of beasts? She swallows some unexpected tears, and when she does, the tingle in the back of her throat grows hot, as though there is a dry spot there, cracked and torn. She swallows again. It hurts.
She presses her now-icy fingertips to either side of her neck. The skin is feverish and too tight, lumpish, and swollen under her ears. She battles a wave of fatigue as she rushes to gather up enough twigs and branches to fill her bundle. The day is no longer full of summer’s soft promise, the woods no longer safe. Sharp pains shoot up her legs, as though she’s walking on needles. Her heart hammers. She doesn’t think she’s been elf-shot, but then again, she has no iron on her. She is vulnerable. The oaks and beech trees, a moment ago benevolent companions, now seem like long-fingered demons. She drops her burden and wants to run but is too weak. She sets her eyes on the forest’s edge, wills her heart to go there, and prays her feet will follow.
The path leading to Touilt’s dwelling seems miles too long, and a sweat breaks out on Wilona’s brow. Each step is a bargain with her legs. She pictures herself sitting against the sun-warmed wall. She concentrates on that. It occurs to her that perhaps her people call again from beyond the veil of death, and perhaps this time she will go to them. Everything is too intense. The soft cooing of wood pigeons is like shrieking falcons; the spicy smell of the maiden pinks growing by the path makes her stomach heave; the sunlight is like needles in her eyes.
It seems like hours before she stumbles to the holy well. She bends to drink, her throat dry as straw. Her legs crumple. The ground beneath her, and the moss-covered stone on which she rests her head, feel as soft as duck down.
Someone nudges her. Dunstan is standing above her, a brace of hare over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. She wants to tell him she’s just very tired and will be all right soon, but her tongue is thick, and the words spin in her head like lazy hawks.
“Don’t move. I’ll get Lady Touilt.”
Wilona is about to tell him something, but then she can’t remember what, and the world begins to look far away. The yew tree dances. Elba stands on her hind legs and hops up and down. Voices somewhere are saying things, but nothing makes sense. Harp music rises from the well, and at first the air smells of strawberries and honey, then of mugwort and burdock. She is in her bed. A great weight upon her chest makes i
t difficult to breathe. Voices grow louder, and some scream. Shadows twitch and fly all around, forming into dark shapes that cause her to cry out, although she’s not sure she’s making any sound at all. Wormy fingers slither on her brow. She wants to swat and smash them, but when she tries her arms are like stone. Red flames flicker all around her bed and scratching talons probe, search … and she is falling, slipping, sliding …
CHAPTER FOUR
Ioua Insula
After Prime, Egan returns to his cell for the daily period of scripture reading and meditation, to find Father Bresal waiting for him.
“I have come from the abbot, Brother Egan. We have things to discuss.”
Egan’s heart flutters, sure he’s about to be sent back to Eire, or sent on the next trade boat for whatever port the traders set. Since the day he rescued the lamb and appeared near-naked in the eating hall, things have not gone well. There was laughter, of course, and pointing and jokes at his expense. This was to be expected. He knows the ludicrous sight he made and doesn’t begrudge his brothers their fun. But Abbot Ségéne was anything but amused. Cloth was valuable, even the rough cloth of Egan’s habit, and many hours went into its weaving. He had been called to the abbot’s chambers and made to give an account of himself. When he finished the abbot asked what penance he thought he ought to perform for the sin of waste. Egan left the choice up to the abbot, and so his rations were cut in half for a moon, he spent two nights in prostration and prayer before the holy cross, and another kneeling on the cold chapel stones. He hadn’t protested, and added a fourth night, for he was ashamed of his desire to tell the abbot he thought the life of the lamb worth more than his scapular. The abbot knew best. He had all the lambs of the monastery under his care, human and animal both. What did Egan know?
Against a Darkening Sky Page 4
