“And on you, Brother. It’s a grand day for a mucking about in the hills and would be grander still if they’d let us stop for a bite to eat, I’m thinking.”
“Indeed, but we’ll be in Ad Gefrin shortly.”
“Aye. And then there’ll be no end of palaver before we see a morsel of bread. Fine for them.” She jabs her chin toward the front of the procession.
“Might I ask … do you happen to know who that is riding with Bishop Paulinus?”
“You don’t know?” The gleam in her eye tells Egan that now she has more gossip to spread. The monk from Ioua Insula has no knowledge …
“It was such a busy time, getting ready for the journey.”
“Right enough. Well …” She leans in. “That’s Brother James from Eoforwic, come at the express call of the bishop himself, I’m told.”
Eoforwic, where there are plans to build a fine cathedral. The king and his retinue will, after leaving Ad Gefrin, travel through the kingdom teaching the people of Christ’s message and baptizing them. The journey will end at the king’s seat in Eoforwic. For the first time, Egan wonders if he might be permitted to go back to the monastery, rather than accompany them. If it be Your will, my Lord. “Ah, I see,” he says.
“I’ll bet you do,” says Ida.
Brother Egan has the uncomfortable feeling that, once again, he knows nothing at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ad Gefrin
Strangers mill everywhere and pitch tents past the royal buildings. Stalls are hastily erected and craftsmen and women barter their wares—iron tools and fine textiles, beads of amber and of glass, drinking cups bound with silver, wine from distant lands, brooches, strange-smelling spices. Others have set up booths offering ale, bread, and cheese. There is even a man trading slaves.
The squabbling, raucous voices, speaking several languages—the tongue of the northern tribes, the dialects from the south—the lowing of the beasts, the banging of hammers and screeing of saws and pole lathes, in short, all the general hubbub of a village swollen far past its normal numbers, combine to grate against Wilona’s already exposed nerves. The wildflowers on the plain have been trampled underfoot. The smell from the midden heaps, which some have obviously chosen to use as a netty, mingles with the smell of the frightened livestock. Her dark mood must show, for a woman gestures to her, offering some pretty baubles, but when Wilona glances her way she falls immediately silent and drops her eyes.
She tries to decide if she should tell Touilt about her exchange with Lord Caelin. She needs the older woman’s protection more than ever now, but Touilt warned her against going to the amphitheatre. She may punish her for being too bold. If she could come back to Touilt with some useful information, it might lessen her disapproval. She makes a decision then and heads across the plain, toward the temple buildings, hoping to find Lord Ricbert. He is, after all, the one who interceded for her when Caelin nearly lost patience during her soul-sickness, and he has a great deal to lose if the king puts a new priest in his place. He might prove a useful ally.
As she nears his dwelling, the high priest, his hair thin as dandelion tufts on the breeze, shuffles round the side of the building, his arms full of kindling. She runs to him.
“Lord Ricbert, where’s your servant? Let me help you.” She reaches to take the bundle and he hands it over without protest.
The old man can be hard and bitter as an old hazelnut shell, but Wilona feels affection in spite, or perhaps even because, of his gruff ways. He has little patience for fools, and holds the world at bay with a sharp eye. She thinks of it as a talent.
“You’re a kind girl. Set it inside near the fire if you will.” He sits on a bench by the wall and closes his eyes. “You’d think that at my age carrying wood would no longer be required, wouldn’t you?”
“Where’s Aloc, then?”
“I sent him to cut reeds for the thatch. There’s yet another hole.” He snorts. “A single servant. And I’m Caelin’s priest.”
She carries the kindling inside and comes back, slapping splinters off her palms. “Lord Ricbert, may I speak candidly?”
He pats the seat next to him. “Sit. Unburden yourself.” He tilts his face away so she might speak her mind freely, without his gaze upon her.
“Do you know why the king visits us?”
“Because it pleases him to do so.”
“What do you make of that?” She juts her chin in the direction of the amphitheatre, which blocks their view of the royal hall.
“Quite the structure.”
“You once had a view of the royal hall, but this new amphitheatre comes between you and the king.”
Ricbert inhales deeply. “So it has.” It doesn’t sound as though he’s surprised.
“What does Woden tell you?” she asks.
Ricbert chuckles softly. “What makes you think old Slouch Hat tells me anything?”
Wilona’s head snaps round. The old priest’s expression is slightly amused, his eyes crinkling, but there’s sorrow in his countenance as well.
“But he must speak to you. You’re the priest.”
“So I am. And yet.” He bends down and picks up a small pebble, tosses it into the grass, where it falls silently. “And yet.”
“Forgive me if I’m impudent, but surely I misunderstand you. You cannot mean that Woden … that he doesn’t … You are faithful …”
“Wilona, listen to me. Just now I’m very tired, for the faithful service I give the gods demands more energy than this old body has today. In short, you’ve caught me at a moment when I’m not inclined to dissemble. And so, since it seems important to you, I shall, this once, speak without a veil on my words, for I haven’t the strength to hold up even the flimsiest of cloths. Ask me again tomorrow and I’ll deny it. Is that clear? So. You want to know what Woden, the Ancient Father of Men, tells me about the future, what guidance he gives me. I tell you this: I’ve spent my whole life in His service, and never, not once, have I heard His voice, nor have I felt His hand upon me. My whole life, do you understand? Why have I neither heard a word nor felt His touch? Because there is nothing to hear, nothing to feel. If ever He lived, He lives no more.” He closes his eyes and recites from the ancient poem of prophecy, “Brothers will fight and kill each other, sisters’ children will defile kinship. It is harsh in the world, whoredom rife—an axe age, a sword age—shields are riven—a wind age, a wolf age—before the world goes headlong.” He opens his eyes. “Ragnarok, Wilona, the Twilight of the Gods. Surely we’ve lived through it, or are in the midst of it, or are entering into it. What does it matter, when Woden’s silent as the icy depths of Hel.”
She feels as though all the air has rushed out of her lungs. How can he believe such things? And then, there in the back of his eyes, simmering on a low flame, Wilona senses an old loneliness, an old soul-grief, both the burning and the cold embers. Shadows flit about him. He frightens her, yet her instinct is to soothe him, to tell him he’s wrong, the world is not dying, the gods are still powerful.
“The power of the gods is all around us, Lord. Look to the sky, the wind, the earth, the beasts, the spirits of the woods—”
“Don’t presume to lecture me on the sacred, Wilona.”
“No. I didn’t mean … forgive me.”
His eyes flash beneath the bushy white brows. “You think power comes from unseen forces?” He raises an eyebrow and then chuckles. “You look like an otter kit caught in a trap. Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you. You don’t have a subtle mind. I’d hoped for better.”
On the inside of her wrist her heartbeat flutters like the wing of a panicked moth.
He presses his bloodless lips together. “There’s no power other than what we forge for ourselves. There’s no charm except for intellect and cunning.”
“You deny the power of wyrd?” She makes the sign of Thunor.
“Fate and time, fate and time. All nonsense. Utter nonsense.” His voice is a little louder, a little more strident than Wilona
expects, almost as though he’s protesting so strongly in order to cover up some other emotion—fear, disappointment? “I put my faith in a strong alliance, in a debt owed, a favour recalled.” He shakes his head. “Wilona, you should not put your faith in the gods so strongly. Be a willow, not an oak. Bend. Don’t break. Beware of unshakeable faith, especially if it puts you in the path of a powerful man’s displeasure.”
Wilona’s face burns. “Why is Lord Caelin so displeased with me?”
“Lucky for you, Caelin’s eye rarely settles on anything very long, but be careful, Wilona, you don’t cause it to linger by any sign of defiance. That has a way of intensifying passion.” He looks at her thoughtfully. “It would be better if you had another friend. Remember, be a willow, Wilona.”
She wants to ask more, but Aloc appears along the path, a basket full of reeds on his back. “I’ve taken too much of your time, Lord.” She stands and brushes off her tunic. “I’m grateful for your counsel and in your debt.”
“There’s no debt, since I’m sure my counsel is seed spread on fallow ground. Still, my conscience is clear. I tried.” Ricbert stands as well and rubs his knees. “Good day to you, Wilona, and give my regards to your mistress.” With that he disappears into the dark temple.
Wilona’s head spins and her heart drags as she makes her way through the throng toward the village. She sidesteps a flock of sheep driven by a young boy with the high topknot and small bones of the northern people. The sheep bleat and protest the stick at their back.
She doesn’t know what to think. Even Ricbert’s noticed Caelin’s antagonism toward her, if it can be called that. But that’s not nearly as distressing as Ricbert’s apparent lack of faith. If Ricbert had exposed his private parts to her, she could not have been more shocked. Surely he’s merely exhausted and worried, and has convinced himself of the worst so, should he be disappointed yet again, the pain won’t be so great. To devote your entire life to the gods and receive nothing in return? Unthinkable. Either Ricbert has angered the gods in some way, so that they’ve removed their favour, or he’s lying. But what would be the point? Does he want to shake her own faith in order to undermine her power? If so, he’s wasting his time. No one can take her experience from her. She has felt what she has felt, heard what she has heard, seen what she has seen. She has Raedwyn. He comes to her. That’s a fact. She’s ridden the visions. This, too, is a fact.
But as Ricbert spoke it didn’t seem as though he were trying to weaken her. Wilona senses no lies in him, and as someone with owl-sight, she trusts her intuition. No, if he’s lying, it’s not for her sake. He appeared, if anything, petulant, disappointed, and hurt, as though he wanted to punish the gods for their silence. Or perhaps he’s afraid of what the king is bringing with him. This seems the most plausible. If he’s to be replaced, if he’s to be cast out, then it makes some perverse sense that he’s tried to convince himself there’s nothing to lose. She chews her lip. It’s alarming to see a man with power and position be so frightened that, like a child, he’d sulk and pout and turn away from a beloved object for fear it will be snatched away by another.
“Wilona! Wilona!” Dunstan comes toward her, carrying a stack of wooden trays.
“Be hale, Dunstan. You look happy, but forgive me; I’m not in the mood for chatter.”
“What? Grumpy as an old bear on such a fine day, with all of Northumbria come to see the king and feast? Need a tonic, do you? Perhaps a purgative?” He winks. “Well, you’re in luck. I know a woman makes such remedies …”
“Truly, I’ve no patience for joking.”
Dunstan, his wild hair floating in the breeze, and one of his socks drooping over his shoes, turns serious. “So I see. What’s the trouble?” He puts the trays on the ground, kneels, and looks up at her while tucking his stocking into a leg-binding.
It won’t do to talk about Lord Ricbert, or Lord Caelin. Although she’s hollow and confused, she can’t drag Dunstan into a conflict with Caelin—he’s not strong enough to be an ally—and Ricbert’s words were meant for her ears only. “I’m worried, Dunstan. Why is the king coming out of season? What’s this strange thing he’s built? I hear it’s in the Roman fashion. Doesn’t it seem our king is over-fond of all things Roman?”
“Hush, Wilona.” His eyes dart to the people near them, but he keeps a pleasant smile on his face. In a low tone he says, “Will you never learn to practise discretion?” And then, more loudly, “Yes, we’re greatly honoured to have the king visit us.”
They walk along the path near the great enclosure where Lord Caelin’s companions are rounding up the livestock into pens for slaughter. Everyone who’s travelled from the vast corners of the estate, and beyond, has brought tribute with them, grain, precious metal, or livestock. The number of mouths to feed is staggering.
“If the king comes again in Blood-Month and asks for his annual tithe, we’ll have a hungry winter,” says Wilona. The path is steep and she steps sideways to keep her footing.
“Is this what’s bothering you?”
“That, and certain rumours on the wind.”
“Why pay attention to gossip? The world’s full of things to fret about, and most never come to pass.”
It is quieter in the village, especially since most of the men and women are in the workshops, in the fields, or up at the compound with the rest. Wilona can breathe deeply here, away from the tumult. “I can’t help it, Dunstan. I fear the demands of the king.”
“It’s our duty to serve our lord. Northumbria’s a great nation now. Who else but Edwin could have brought together the two kingdoms of Deira and Bernicia?”
“Kingdoms don’t stay stitched together though, do they.” She pats his arm. “You are loyal.”
Dunstan chuckles. “And yet somehow that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“I don’t deny the kingdom’s well ruled, for the moment. And King Edwin is deserving of our fealty and tribute, but I don’t like this talk of new religion.”
They take the hard-packed path to Touilt’s hut, the great yew tree a beacon, the sound of the river audible now that the wind has shifted.
“It’s only the chatter of gossips.”
“I’m not persuaded.”
“Then I suppose you must worry.” He shrugs. “And I must leave you to it. I have to get these trays to Caelin’s cooks and have already taken too long. I’m sorry you’re unsettled.” He gestures at the roof. “Your thatch is wearing thin on the north side. Why don’t I fix that?” Dunstan likes easily fixable problems.
Two days later, Wilona is sitting on the bench in the yard, plucking a hen. Touilt is inside, grinding dried herbs for her potions. Wilona thinks she’ll have to mix more daub in the next few weeks and patch the chinks. She rubs her back against the wall, scratching a flea bite. She must change the bedding as well, and make sure the lavender and tansy are fresh to keep the little monsters at bay.
When Wilona told Touilt what had passed between her and Lord Caelin, the seithkona had gone dead still for a moment and then her hand had flashed out and caught Wilona across the jaw. Wilona still bears the bruise. It wasn’t the first time Touilt had struck her, and Wilona took it as a sign of how serious the matter is. Later that day, Touilt came to her with an amulet carved on one side with water flowing around a rock, and on the other certain words in the old tongue. She told Wilona to wear it next to her skin, to tell no one, and to be sure she does nothing to draw Caelin’s attention. “You must be as a wisp of smoke in the corner, invisible, of no consequence.”
Now, a noise catches Wilona’s attention. A young boy lollops down the path. He’s one of Maccus the bone-worker’s brood, whose names she never can keep straight. This one is eight or nine perhaps, small-boned like his mother but with his father’s broad nose and mouth. He skids and his feet go out from under him, his palms slipping along the dirt and pebbles behind him, but he bounces up, laughing. It can only mean one thing. She shades her eyes and stares into the east toward a telltale dust cloud. Touilt appe
ars in the doorway, blinking in the bright light. Wilona points at the approaching boy.
“And so,” Touilt says, brushing the dust from her palm. “The king has arrived.”
The boy slides to a halt in front of the women, his arms wheeling, his chest heaving. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees, his mouth open. “The king,” he pants.
It would be unkind to deprive him of his moment and so Touilt and Wilona wait, their faces feigning curiosity.
“The king,” he starts again, straightening. “Ladies.” He bows, remembering his manners at last. “Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild send me to announce the coming of the king and his court. As honoured seeresses and healers, beloved of the lord and lady, you are invited to the greeting ceremony, which will take place at the approach to the royal compound.”
“Tell Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild they honour us and we will, of course, attend,” Touilt says. “You’ve done your duty well, boy.”
The child’s face breaks into a wide grin, and he turns to dash off, but then stops, shakes his head, and blushing, bows to them. “You’re gracious, Ladies. Now, by your leave.”
“Off you go,” says Wilona, frowning, so that he doesn’t see her mirth.
He scrambles up the path, feet kicking pebbles.
Lord Caelin. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” says Wilona.
“You’ll displease Caelin more with your absence. It’s not wise to refuse an invitation from one’s lord. Put your faith in the gods, Wilona. Come, it’s too warm for the cape, but I’ll wear the blue tunic and you’ll draw a bind-rune on my forehead.”
Wilona arranges a single braid down Touilt’s back and two alongside her face, then sets small bronze amulets and two tufts of fur from the tail of a wolf into the hair. She helps her into the blue tunic and the wolf-figure shoulder clasps. Around her guardian’s neck she places a silver necklace with Eostre’s symbol on it—a full-moon disc, and half-moons on either side. The necklace is heavy but Touilt carries her head high. Wilona picks up a charcoal stick to draw the bind-rune on Touilt’s forehead and as she does, she sees again the terrible devastation of her vision, hears the screeching of the owl and the crack of the axe against the sacred oaks.
Against a Darkening Sky Page 9
