Then she sees Margawn. Her heart clenches, her breath catches, and her belly warms infuriatingly. The sun shines on his golden hair and his face is an unreadable stone. Bana rolls in the grass at his feet. Now and again, Margawn glances across the fields, scanning the trees. Is he being a good soldier, or is he, perhaps, searching for her? His arms are folded against his chest and he speaks to no one. Margawn will guard his truth, but he has to follow orders, and who knows what order the king, and Caelin in turn, will expect him to carry out concerning Touilt and her?
A child runs along the line, with Dunstan close behind. He sweeps the boy up into his arms and tosses him, shrieking with laughter, into the sky. It’s his little nephew, Deneheard’s boy. When the child quiets, Dunstan returns to his place next to Roswitha and some of the other villagers—Baldred the woodcutter and his family, and Aelfric the potter. Dunstan holds his nephew in one arm and puts the other around his wife, who gazes up at him in open adoration. She reaches up and brushes his unruly hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear.
Wilona’s heart flinches. How simple it would be to have nothing more to worry about than food and shelter, and not to feel the presence of restless, displeased spirits, not to be prodded by them at every turn. The tree at her back seems to shiver and shake, as though some great beast stands below, rocking the trunk, and for a moment she fears it may reject her, toss her to the ground far below as punishment for her blasphemy. Soft, silent wings brush her cheek, but she senses talons as well.
She presses her hand to the pouch at her chest and waits until the tree stills. Her eyes remain on Dunstan’s face. He looks upon the closing gap between his family and the waterlogged priests with an expression not unlike hunger. In fact, she’s surprised to see he’s trembling with longing. He believes! Can it be? She fixes her eyes on his face and sends everything she has along a silver line of power from her to him. He raises his eyes to the heavens, and closes them. He prays to this strange new sky god. He prays.
Wilona wants out of the tree. She wants to be back on solid ground where she doesn’t have to see such things. This Christ is taking hold, not merely because of politics and power, but through some strange magic of his own. There’s no other explanation for it. Dunstan’s no fool, nor can he be bought with cheap promises. She sees it in his face. His heart is taken. He believes.
She clambers down the tree and, with every branch she grasps, her resolve hardens. Let them go, then. Let them all go. She needs none of them. Until this very moment she might have harboured some hope that when the king’s party left, the world would return to sanity, but she sees now how unlikely that is. If whatever the Christians are offering is enough to lure an honourable man like Dunstan, the new faith will spread. She snaps off small branches, hoping she will wake the gods of the wood and they will do something—fire or flood or ravaging winds. Surely they cannot expect her and Touilt to guard the old ways alone.
She jumps the last few feet to the ground and sets off running through the wood, something wild and savage rising up in her. She fantasizes Touilt will wrap herself in her wolf pelt, pin her wolf clasps to her blue cloak, take up her staff and cat-skin gloves, and parade up and down the line of converts. Perhaps she’s doing that even now.
She comes upon Elba and throws herself around the pig’s neck; the coarse bristles prickle her cheek and she smells earth and decaying vegetables. Perhaps the animal senses Wilona’s distress, or perhaps she’s frightened, but whatever the cause, after a moment’s squirming she permits this intimacy. At last Wilona wipes her eyes, unties Elba from the tree, and takes up her baskets. She brushes a bit of bark from her tunic. She shakes her head and sets her shoulders back, her spine straight. She considers keeping the lead on Elba, but she doesn’t want people to see her dragging a pig along—or being dragged by one. Let them say, “How calm she is, how untroubled. Look how the seithkona stands tall in her belief and does not waiver.”
Wilona says, “You must be a good girl, Elba, and stay with me.”
Luckily, Elba seems interested in getting back to her familiar surroundings. They come to the boundary of the wood and the grassland sloping to the river. Wilona gathers her strength. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Come, Raedwyn, come. She sings his sacred song, and draws the rune of eihwaz, the yew tree, on her palms, her chest, her forehead, for protection. She feels him, and her heart strengthens, for she’s not alone.
She and the sow step into the open and, for a few moments, no one notices them, and then one woman does, and she nudges the man next to her. Others follow their gaze and soon the entire line is looking at her, or trying not to.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A ripple runs through the crowd as people look to the east. Egan searches for the source of the distraction. A pig steps from the edge of the wood, and behind the pig a young woman. She is tall and carries herself with a straight spine and a determined thrust of her chin. Her uncovered and unbraided copper hair, adorned with feathers and somewhat tangled, curls over her shoulders. A mark on her forehead … blue … a rune, mark of a seithkona. This must then be the one called Wilona, the orphan who came from a dead village over the moors who is said to be touched by the gods. He sees pride in her, perhaps coupled with self-consciousness. Look at the set of her mouth, the lips pressed together. She is struggling. His heart goes out to her. He wants to tell her there’s nothing here to be afraid of, and without realizing, he makes a move to step out of the river toward her.
“Brother Egan, stay where you are,” says Coifi. “We have work to do here.”
He apologizes and returns to the task at hand, but he can’t help watching her from the corner of his eye. Wilona walks along the line of villagers, her gaze resolutely ahead, catching no one’s eye. A man steps into the river, and the ritual begins again. She seems to be making an effort to walk neither too slowly nor too fast. She lifts her feet a little higher than normal, too, as though afraid of tripping. Egan admires her carriage, her resolve.
Another man, this one with a belly like a boulder and a complexion the shade of turned liver, breaks into a snaggle-toothed grin and he waves at the woman. She smiles back. How it lightens her face! A radiant smile. A group of men Egan doesn’t think come from the village snicker and whisper jokes, jabbing their thumbs in the seithkona’s direction. Wilona neither flinches nor flushes, and soon their snickers die away.
Good girl, thinks Egan.
A splash and spray of water and Egan reaches for the next Christian, a boy of no more than seven or eight winters, so small he barely weighs anything. Wilona nears one of the king’s companions and Lord Caelin’s doorkeeper, the one who always has the pony-sized dog with him. Both are enormous honey-haired men. The doorkeeper’s arms are folded over his chest and he bends his neck to the right and left, as though to ease the muscles. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he’s trying to draw the seithkona’s eye. He’s successful; for a moment the two are locked on each other. The doorkeeper’s lips move, continuing his conversation with another man, but his eyes are arrows. She is passing by him now, and either she’ll break their gaze, or she’ll have to turn her head. She nods with a tiny motion. His eyes do not waver, and she moves on.
“Brother Egan!” Paulinus’s voice is crisp with irritation. “That woman is not your concern. Your concern is the sheep entering Christ’s fold.”
Wilona struggles to deepen her breath, which she’s horrified to admit became dangerously shallow when she passed Margawn. In and out, in and out. Calm, calm. Elba trots a little quicker now, unsure of the crowds. Wilona taps her rump with the herb basket. “Go on, now. Home!”
Soon she’ll be at the well and the tree. How sheepish Dunstan looks. She focuses on him as she draws near. Sheepish or not, his face glows, and Roswitha’s too. It’s as though some brighter sun shines on them. There’s no denying they’ve been struck with something from this new god. Were it anyone else, she’d want to rub a little mud on that glow.
“Are you well, Wilona?” Dunstan calls.
>
“I’m well, as you seem to be.”
“We’ll call on you and Touilt later, if we may,” Roswitha says.
“Perhaps tomorrow. I’ve work to do today.”
Roswitha nods and looks a little hurt. Her eyes catch Dunstan’s, as though she wishes he’d do or say something, but Wilona moves past them, her eyes on Elba’s bouncing hindquarters. Once beyond the well, the awkwardness she felt lessens, and her muscles move with more of their natural liquidity. Where is Touilt? Wilona doesn’t want to turn and look behind her, for more damp new Christians follow her as they return to the village. She supposes they’ll troop past this way all day, excited as new brides. She vows to stay in the vegetable garden behind the house where she can ignore them. Where is Touilt?
Just then Touilt rounds the corner of the hut, a scarf tied round her head, with a basket full of chard and cabbage. She waves and smiles to Wilona as though nothing whatsoever is wrong, and it isn’t until Wilona secures Elba in her pen and follows Touilt into the dwelling that she’s close enough to sense the fury sparking from her.
“Tell me!” Wilona cries.
Touilt rinses the leafy greens in a bucket of water. “Tell you what?”
“Did they harm you? Say anything to you?”
“Who?”
“Touilt!”
Touilt keeps tearing the leaves into pieces and tosses them into the pot simmering in the fire. “I pay no attention to ants passing before my door. I don’t even see them.”
“We can’t just ignore what’s happening! We can’t.”
Touilt stops what she’s doing and hangs her head. “But I will do that for today, while it’s possible, Wilona, as should you. In a very short while, I fear there will be great changes, and we can do nothing to stop it.” She looks up and her eyes sparkle with tears. “Let’s be easy for a few hours yet.”
Later, when the final convert of the day is baptized, Coifi rushes to report their accomplishments to the king. Paulinus, James, and Egan trudge up the hill to their quarters. Their sandalled feet are muddy and their robes wet and heavy.
“I shall want a good cup of wine and a dry robe as soon as possible,” says the bishop. “Still, we’ve had a good start. At this rate we should be done in a few weeks. Word will spread. I’m pleased.”
“As well you should be, my lordship,” says James. “The Lord has blessed you with a silver tongue. Who could resist the eloquence of your teaching?”
“The words are God’s, Brother; I am but a humble conduit.”
“Ah, but it’s a reflection of my lordship’s pure soul,” says the blond monk.
They reach the great yew tree, and the holy well beyond which lies the seithkona’s hut. A thin trail of smoke rises from the vent in the thatch, and the pig is in the sty, but there is no sign of the women.
Bishop Paulinus turns to Egan. “You were mesmerized today by the sight of that woman. It doesn’t bode well for the state of your soul, my son.”
Egan starts. “I’m distressed if I gave the impression of any impropriety. I don’t know which woman you refer to, in truth, Lordship, there were so many,” he stammers, trying to cover his discomfort.
“Not the women in the river, Brother. No one would accuse you of lechery!”
James chuckles and rubs his nose to hide it.
The twitch of mirth on Paulinus’s mouth evaporates in a flash. “I meant the young witch.”
“Witch? The holy woman? The one who walked from the forest this afternoon? I don’t believe she and the other are witches, are they? They’re handmaids to the old gods, yes, but there are no charges of sorcery.” He thinks it best not to remind the bishop that Brother Coifi, until recently, also served the old gods.
“The issue isn’t whether they’re witches or not. The issue is your interest.”
“I only sensed her discomfort. It touched me, Bishop. We must seem threatening to her and her guardian. Perhaps you would let me give them instruction.”
“They were invited to the teachings and refused, from my information. Am I wrong, Brother James?”
“I’m told the old one spit on the ground at the mention of Christ’s name,” says James. “God forgive her.”
Paulinus tsk-tsks. “You see? You cannot coddle such blasphemy, Brother. It must be dealt with firmly and decisively.”
“I’ve found—”
A sharp wave of Paulinus’s hand cuts him off. “I’m not interested in your findings, Brother, only your obedience. I fear your faith isn’t muscular enough to do what must be done.”
Egan wants very much to know just what that might be, but they’ve reached the edge of the village and Paulinus dismisses him. He’s left standing on the pathway, watching the two men saunter away. He looks at the hut, isolated by the yew tree. The door opens and the young seithkona comes out, carrying a pail. She catches sight of him and stops. He smiles and raises his hand. He feels he’s wronged her somehow, feels there’s something he should do or say, but he’s all hollow inside, just a cave of foggy uselessness. “Greetings, Sister,” he calls at last, praying she’ll offer him a way to approach her.
The hatred in her glare, the ice streaming from those chill grey eyes strikes him like a wind-slap. Without a word she turns on her heel and disappears once more into the hut, slamming the door behind her.
“May Christ bless and protect you,” says Egan, his heart a lump of clay in his chest. He turns and walks away from the village. He cannot bear the thought of the crowds and feasting in the royal compound. He’ll spend the night standing in river water, purifying himself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A.D. 627, Holy-Month, Ad Gefrin
People file past their door every second day. One day Paulinus preaches from the amphitheatre, the next he leads converts to the river. A few come on the teaching days, but Ricbert and Egan baptize these smaller groups of five or six or seven. Busy days or slow days, Wilona and Touilt recognize almost no one among the new converts. Some of the faces wear that same hopeful glow Wilona first noticed on Dunstan, but others look merely curious, nervous. One elderly cripple, who had to be carried down on a bench, looked somewhat stunned. Certainly, thought Wilona, he’s more in need of a good poultice than a dunking in the river.
The effort of pretending the converts are invisible proves to be too much for Touilt. After the third night, as they sit eating their stew, she says it’s as if every Christian is a cut to her skin. She won’t hide, but she can’t stand to be gawked at. Thus, once they’ve noted the pattern, Touilt and Wilona take advantage of it. On baptismal days, if the weather’s fine, they tend the garden or move the loom to the back of the house, any task that shields them from prying eyes. Touilt stands in her doorway, spinning, only in the early morning and evening, when Paulinus, Coifi, Ricbert, and the two younger monks come and go. She wants them to see her.
“I suspect it annoys them,” she says, although they typically nod to her solemnly, as careful to be polite as she. She wants them to know she’s staying and they don’t frighten her. She wants them to understand the gods still have a place here, where the fox bids goodnight to the hare, in the liminal space between the village and the wild wood. She wants them to see the wolf head over the lintel, and the freshly carved runes.
At night, Touilt seeks guidance in bowls of dark water, in the pattern in the hearth-embers, and in the cast of the runes, but the messages are obscure. This worries the women, who fear the Christians are working spells to impede the spirits. They carefully, secretly, place charms and amulets along the path and by the riverbank, but every day there are more Christians. At night, Touilt and Wilona fall into bed exhausted.
The elf-eyed monk is particularly vexing. He hangs back from the other men, smiling and blushing. Wilona decides he must be half-cracked. She’s followed him to the river at night and watched him stand in the water for hours, hands outstretched to the night sky. What she sees unsettles her. The animals—the badger and the mink and the deer—come to drink and seem unafraid. Animals a
re often spies for the gods, she tells herself.
There’s a terrible sense of anticipation in the air, and the spirits fly about the rafters at night and crackle the thatch. Someone—Wilona suspects Dunstan and Roswitha—has been leaving baskets of bread and meat for her and Touilt. Three times she’s heard something in the night that she assumes is an animal, but in the morning, there, hanging from the yew bow, is a basket of food. And it’s welcome. Since hunting is men’s craft and the crowds have scared off the small game near the river, the women have no meat. Touilt doesn’t want to kill the chickens until she must. Eel and the occasional trout, porridge, and turnips are fine as far as they go, but hare and venison give strength. Dunstan and Roswitha are good friends, Touilt says, even if they’re Christians.
It is a grey day; the low sky drizzles chilly rain. There is no mistaking the turn of season, no resisting autumn’s charms or the snap of winter’s hungry jaws close behind. Touilt works inside, storing dried herbs in jars and clean cloth packets. They must be ready to prescribe if anyone should come to ask, although since the upheaval, no one has. This worries them both, since it’s their livelihood. The weeks have passed as though under a sort of caul. No one is speaking to them, so they get no news. In one swift slash of the cross, they’ve been excised. Touilt’s face as she bends over the herbs says it all; she has the bitter air of a woman betrayed.
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