Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  The king and his court will be here soon. She must trust the gods. She pillows her head on her bent arm and tries to breathe slowly, but every few minutes her eyes open and she finds herself staring into the hearth-embers.

  The next morning, Wilona wakes to find Touilt has already cleaned the hearth and built a fresh fire of apple wood.

  “You should have woken me up,” says Wilona, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

  “I don’t sleep much these days and you needed the rest. Now, go and find a rowan tree in fruit. I know it’s early, but the tree by the meadow’s edge is in full sun and should be ready. We need red fruit. Find a branch that leans toward the south, shake it, and gather four berries. Bring them to me, along with four leaves.”

  Wilona runs to use the netty and then splashes water on her face and hands at the well, uttering a prayer, for it would not do to gather medicine unclean. She finds the tree and when she returns Touilt takes the berries. She casts one into the flames, along with one of its leaves, saying, “Goodness is mine, just like this tree, beware the flames I cast at thee.” Then she takes the second berry, and a leaf, saying, “Knowledge is mine, as of this tree; beware the flames I cast at thee.” And with the third, “Strength is mine, just like this tree; beware the flames I cast at thee.” She then takes several strands of hair that were wrapped in a little cloth inside her pouch and puts them, with the fourth leaf and fruit, into an iron pot. She roasts them over the fire until they’re dry and black, the hair sizzled away to nothing.

  “Lord Caelin’s hair?” Wilona asks.

  “One never knows when one shall need such things,” says Touilt, staring at the pot. “I keep my eyes open. Found these the night Elfhild gave birth.”

  When the berry and leaf are cooled, Touilt wraps them in a red cloth and, with Wilona’s help, buries it near their threshold. “This should protect the house and us from whatever evil has sickened Caelin. We shall trust the spirits. I’d place a charm near him, but it’s too dangerous.”

  Touilt does not need to elaborate. A charge of witchcraft could mean death.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Second Travelling Month, Bebbanburgh Castle, Northumbria

  Servants and slaves run back and forth, scattering the chickens and geese. The air is full of dust and shouting and the smell of manure. Servants seat the ladies of the court in carts lined with bolsters and shaded with brightly coloured awnings so they will be neither jostled nor overly warm on this fine day. Other carts are packed high with things the court cannot, apparently, live without: glassware and silver platters, fine clothing and tapestries, pillows stuffed with eider feathers, flagons of wine, and sweetmeats. The king’s companions are already on their horses, and the beasts stamp and toss their heads. The craftsmen usually in charge of this section of the fortress—carpenters, metal workers, masons, and weavers—keep to the doorways of their workshops, well out of the way of flashing hooves and irritable noblemen. Egan, having already packed his meagre possessions, does the same.

  Little Hild, the king’s ward and great-niece, waves at him from her seat beside her mother, Breguswyth. Her father, Hereric, one of Edwin’s chief nobles, was poisoned by Cerdic of Elmet, a rival king, with whom Hereric had taken refuge while Edwin was in exile. The first thing Edwin did when he regained his throne was to invade Elmet. He blood-eagled Cerdic himself, cutting the man’s lungs out of his back and laying them on his shoulders like bloody wings.

  Recalling the story, Egan shudders, crosses himself, and shakes the image out of his head. The unpredictable storms and horrors of war, so far outside the laws of Christ, frighten him. He smiles and waves back at the freckled, pug-nosed little imp. Hers is a spirit of unbridled enthusiasm and she is always off somewhere at a gallop. It’s no wonder she’s excited. Bishop Paulinus baptized Hild and her mother earlier in the year, and Hild has taken to Christianity with a vibrant devotion. The child bounces up and down in the cart. Her mother utters a sharp word and Hild sits and smooths her tunic. Egan smiles. It will be hard to mould Hild to the life of a peace-weaver princess. He wonders if she might one day hear the call and devote herself to monastic life. The Lord Christ would make good use of such a bright flame.

  He rubs his temples. The day is barely begun and already he has a headache. From Bebbanburgh to Ad Gefrin is not far. If he was permitted to go alone, Egan could travel it in less than half a day, instead of the two days it will surely take with all this pomp and foolishness. He had, in fact, begged the bishop to let him go alone, but he’d timed his request badly.

  Egan had found the bishop playing nine-men-morris with Coifi, the king’s Druid priest, recently converted to Christianity. The board was set on the table between them, the fire danced merrily, and a young man sat on a stool by the hearth, playing softly on a lyre. Paulinus rose and glowered at Egan, telling him there had better be a good reason for the interruption. Coifi, a stout badger of a man whose nose was at that moment even redder than usual, refilled his glass of wine, ignoring Egan completely.

  “Your lordship,” Egan stammered, “might I not go ahead and meet the people of Ad Gefrin? I speak their language, and perhaps I could set the groundwork for you and the king, opening hearts and allaying any fears a large deputation might invoke?”

  Bishop Paulinus looked down his great beak of a nose. “Are you saying, Brother, that a bishop of Christ would frighten the people?”

  “Certainly not, your lordship. It’s just with all the court—”

  “Ah, then perhaps you’re implying the king’s subjects don’t love him and will not welcome him with open arms?”

  Coifi at last seemed to take an interest in the conversation. He put the glass down and chuckled. “Insolence!”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Egan. “King Edwin is the most beloved of kings and deservedly so—”

  “Then clearly, you’re saying you’re better suited to deliver the good news of Christ’s message than either of us?”

  Egan thought he might faint. “Forgive me.”

  The bishop, looming above Egan like a stork over a minnow, was silent for the longest time. Egan’s legs were flimsy as boiled cabbage leaves.

  “Paulinus, we’ve a game to finish here,” said Coifi.

  “Get out,” said the bishop. “And pray to God that you might understand your place in the world, Brother Egan.”

  Egan backed out. Obedience. This is, he told himself, a lesson in obedience. As he shut the door, Paulinus said, presumably to Coifi, “That sanctimonious cur. I can’t bear him around me much longer.” As Egan slunk away, Coifi said something he couldn’t quite catch, but he thought he heard the name “James.”

  For a while, Egan feared he might be left behind entirely, but now, at last, the procession is ready to depart for Ad Gefrin and he’s among the company. Paulinus and Coifi ride identical grey stallions, their bridles adorned with silver and their manes braided with ribbon. Earlier in the day, a stable boy informed Egan he was to be given a roan mare to ride. Egan had declined, and the boy tried insisting, but Egan was politely firm.

  Even now, watching the bishop and the newly converted priest on such fine horses, Egan struggles not to let his distaste show. The procession moves beyond the gate, and Egan falls in step with the cooks, servants, and slaves.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ad Gefrin

  As the new moon approaches, the village is in a frenzy of preparation. The king’s feasting hall has been swept from top to bottom, spiders and mice banished, hangings beaten, paint refreshed, wicks trimmed, mattresses re-stuffed, bedding aired, furs and pillows set out for the comfort of the king. The thatch has been repaired, the exteriors whitewashed, the tapestries hung, and the lamps filled with oil. The king will bring tents with him, but Caelin and Elfhild are expected to provide comforts fit for the royal household, including servants and grooms for the horses. Feeding and caring for the royal mounts is a heavy burden. Livestock have been rounded up into the great enclosure and animals slaughtered before their time—pi
gs and cattle, hens and geese.

  The new amphitheatre, constructed to the specifications of the king’s builder, is impressive, if plain. There’s been no time for decorative flourishes. It stands behind the royal quarters and temple buildings, where during Blood-Month Ricbert sacrifices garlanded cattle, horses, swine, and sometimes wild goats to the gods. A totem pole stands there, guarding the nearby graves of the village’s recently dead, just as an ancient one guards the old graveyard at the end of the great enclosure. The amphitheatre is the shape of a large wedge, with stepped platforms rising from the ground in a semicircle, the first of which seats ten men, the next fifteen, and so on, until, on the topmost bench, thirty good-sized men may sit side by side. In front of the lowest step is a half-moon dais with a high wall all around and a canopy above so that whoever sits upon the chair will be protected from inclement weather.

  There is great speculation about the king’s speech, and why it was so important the amphitheatre be built just so. Wilona walks around it and tries to determine what its placement signifies. She’s watched the royal builder checking the line from the great mountain, through the ancient burial place and the king’s hall in one direction, to the temple of the gods and the cemetery in the other. Whoever sits in that chair will face east, the mountain behind him, as though the light of the dawning sun and the new day is before him, while the weight of the past backs him. She runs her hands over the oak beams and smooth-planed planks but discerns nothing more than warm wood. She walks to the dais and nods to one of Lord Caelin’s companions, who stands guard.

  “Forgive me, Lady, but you’re not permitted here.” He is roughly her age. His eyes look over her head, past her. He’s scratched a pimple on his cheek and inflamed it.

  “And why shouldn’t I draw near a vacant seat? I don’t wish to desecrate the place that will soon cradle the royal buttocks. I only wish to admire the craftsmanship.”

  “It’s not permitted.” He shifts a bit from side to side. No one likes to deny a seithkona what she wants, even a young one; it may bring bad fortune.

  “May I simply stand beside you then … What’s your name? Garth, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Lady Wilona.”

  “Well, you see, we’re old friends already. May I just stand near you and observe this wondrous, forbidden object?”

  He glances left and right. “Be quick then.”

  “As a summer storm.”

  The chair, like the amphitheatre, is oak, with a high curved back and broad armrests carved with Woden’s sun wheel. Good. And there, in the middle of the chair back is the hammer of Thunor. Wait—or is it? She squints. No, it is not. It’s been inverted; a cross, not a hammer, the sign of the criminal tree Touilt told her about, on which the Christian god died. She peers at the armrests. No, not quite sun wheel, either, not quite Woden’s symbol of life and death, because there at the uppermost spoke is a strange symbol, a loop within the circle, an arc turned sideways, like the crook on a shepherd’s staff. She turns back and faces the rising seats. The temple is hidden, completely. Not even the totem post guarding the dead is visible.

  “You have to go now,” says the guard. “Quick.”

  “With pleasure.” Her voice is surly. “My thanks, Garth.” He doesn’t answer. Then she sees Lord Caelin and Cena, one of his closest companions, striding across the field directly toward her. Caelin’s face is a black cloud.

  “You, girl!”

  She freezes like a hare and drops her head, remembering Caelin’s hand around Touilt’s neck. Her own throat constricts. His boots sound on the planks. She glances up in time to see him backhand young Garth.

  “Did I not say no one is allowed here?” Garth mumbles something. “You’re not worthy of my trust. Go to the pigsties. Send someone else.”

  Garth runs, and Caelin takes two steps toward her. It’s all she can do not to scramble backwards. She doesn’t dare raise her eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It wasn’t Garth’s fault, my lord, I was only curious—”

  “Not his fault? Why? Did you put some charm upon him?” Caelin cracks his knuckles. It sounds like snapping bones.

  “No, Lord. I saw no harm—”

  He steps closer, so close his beard hangs in her face. She smells his yeasty breath. “Since the first day you came here, I sensed something unwholesome in you, girl. I let Touilt keep you because she’s been of value to us and, with no slave of her own, I thought you might be useful. But you hold yourself too high, too high by far. I saw you at the spring rites. You flaunt yourself.”

  Wilona’s mouth opens and, in surprise, she meets Caelin’s gaze. How could he think she acts immodestly? That look she saw on his face at the spring rites—she knows it now. Hunger, as a falcon gazes at a mouse, but more personal. His eyes spark with it. Anger. Those cracking knuckles. The desire to break bones. But why? Why does she anger him?

  “Oh, I saw you.” He takes a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger and rubs it, then quickly tugs it hard, making her head snap back. “I think you put what Touilt teaches you to your own dark purposes. I can put an end to that. I can put an end to you, if I choose.”

  “I’m your humble servant, Lord, nothing more.” Her voice is a ragged whisper.

  Cena clears his throat. “There are other options, my lord.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps she might serve us better in the hall, much better.”

  With a whoosh she senses the flash of wing and feather above her and behind. Raedwyn. Understanding flows through her in an instant. Apart from Touilt, whose years protect her from the desires of men, Wilona is the only unmarried woman in the village who is truly beyond Caelin’s reach, and for some reason he has developed a fixation with her. She cannot imagine why, not with all the pretty girls in the village, all the slaves and serving women to choose from. But he is lord, and accustomed to getting anything he wants, whenever he wants. Pride then, at least as much as passion. An image comes to her of a grass snake she had seen near the riverbed, with a weasel nearby. It played dead, flipping onto its back, its mouth open, staying limp and seemingly lifeless even when the weasel pawed at it. The weasel soon lost interest and wandered away, and the snake quickly returned to life. She’ll be the snake.

  “My lord,” she says, smiling as sweetly as she can, given the cramping fear in her belly, “I’ll gladly serve you wherever and however you desire. I only ask you allow me to serve the gods as well. You are beloved of the gods, as your good fortune evidences. Let me continue to make offerings and prayers on your behalf, as Lady Touilt instructs me.” She scratches her head, as though fleas are bothering her. Let him think she’s no challenge. She imagines Raedwyn circling his head, cooling Caelin’s ardour with his wings.

  Caelin looks at her for a moment and then sharply, painfully taps her three times in the middle of her forehead with his finger. “Mind yourself, little stranger. I’ve my eye on you.”

  “I’m honoured, my lord, and will make an offering for the success of the king’s visit.”

  Caelin has already turned away, toward the new guard running across the field. “Don’t defy me, if you value your life.”

  Cena leans toward her and says, softly, “Good advice that, my young friend. Perhaps it’s time to take a protector.”

  “The goddess protects me,” she says, “as does my lord.”

  Cena chuckles, and although Wilona wants to run as fast as she can, she knows she mustn’t let Caelin know he’s frightened her. She is seithkona. If she’s worthy of that title, she must trust the gods. She walks away with her back straight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Halfway to Ad Gefrin, Egan walks at the back of the procession with the servants and gamesmen, the lesser guards and craftsmen. There is a noisy, celebratory air to the group, and tumblers and musicians entertain the noblemen and women at the head of the line. The pace has lagged slightly and Egan has a clearer view of the bishop now. Next to his lordship rides a young monk, the newest member of his re
tinue. His back is straight as a sword, his hand rests on his thigh with the nonchalant ease of one accustomed to horseback. His eyes are blue and merry, his fine pale hair tonsured in the Roman fashion, and his robes are of dyed wool. His cheeks are wind-blushed. His white teeth flash when he smiles.

  It’s a glorious day and enormous white clouds rise overhead like towers in the robin’s egg sky. Hawks wheel in the high drafts. Purple heather carpets the hills and the breeze is heady with honey. Egan tries to concentrate on the light, which glows so brightly here, reminding him of God’s glory and putting his own insignificant concerns into perspective. Still, his eyes repeatedly drift to the bishop and the young monk. Paulinus seems at ease with his new companion, in a way he has never been with Egan. Even now they’re sharing some joke and throwing back their heads, laughing. A small thorn pricks Egan’s heart. He used to laugh with Father Bresal like that, watching the otter kits frolic and play, watching the gulls squabbling over some tidbit, watching the lambs gambol. He cannot recall Paulinus ever even smiling at him. From the first moment they met, the bishop regarded the Irish monk with distaste. Unlike the monk now at Paulinus’s side, Egan lacks the gift of elegant manners. Father Bresal said his coming here was a great opportunity, and that he would bring much honour to the community. But what plan can God possibly have for him here in this role to which he is so clearly unsuited?

  A middle-aged woman leading a donkey laden with baskets full of clanking cooking pots draws next to him. Her cheeks are stained with a network of red veins and a wen mars her forehead. Egan recognizes her as Ida, a woman with an ear for gossip.

  “Blessings on you, Sister Ida.”