“And if you’d known, would you have defied your lord for our sake? Would you have placed your sword between us and our tormentors?”
“You ask me if I would break my vow of loyalty.”
Wilona snorts. “There’s no need to answer.”
“I’d have spoken for you!”
She waves her hand. “I thought you already had. I’m a debt cleared, wasn’t that it?”
“Where’s Lady Touilt?”
Wilona stiffens. “She’s out using the netty.”
“No, she’s not. A boy saw her on the path this morning.”
“She came back.”
Margawn runs his hand over his jaw. “Shall we begin with lies?”
Wilona blushes. “Fine then. She’s away, briefly. But where is no business of yours.”
He draws a great breath. “All right then. She’s her own woman. If she’s well enough to travel, then she must be …” His voice trails off. “I needed to know you were unharmed.”
“I am as you see me.”
Elba comes up to sniff him. Bana scrambles to his feet. For a moment Wilona fears the dog will attack, or that Elba will.
“Bana,” Margawn growls. “Still. He won’t hurt the pig. He does what I tell him. But I would prefer … Do you not think …”
“Come, Elba. Come.” Wilona plucks a shrivelled turnip from a basket on the table and guides Elba into a corner where there is a pile of straw for her to sleep upon. Margawn throws a log on the fire, and the hound returns to a spot beneath the table. When Elba chews happily on her treat, Wilona ties her with a rope to a post. She’s painfully aware of every movement she makes and how Margawn watches her.
When she turns back he’s removed his cloak and hung it on the hook by the door. He sits on the stool and leans back with his elbows on the table, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. The light makes his beard gleam.
“You make yourself at home.”
He sits up straight, his hands on his knees. He reaches in the pouch at his belt and holds out a spoon, intricately carved. “I’ve brought you a token.”
“I don’t need gifts.”
She sees he’s thinking. She feels like a vixen under the gaze of a man considering the best way to tame her. Her colour rises. Does he think he can snare her with pretty gewgaws?
He looks toward three baskets piled on the floor, the ones that had held the anonymously deposited supplies, and suddenly it makes sense to her.
“You left the food, didn’t you?” Caelin’s doorkeeper, packing baskets? The unlikely image of his big scarred hands wrapping bread and chicken legs in cloth and saving the cheese from his own plate to set aside for her is unsettling. Hardened warriors do not behave like that.
“The food?”
“That’s been left at our door. It was you! Don’t deny it.”
He hesitates, long enough for her to think she’s mistaken, then shrugs. “Fine, I won’t. But it was a gift, not a baited hook. There’s no trap and no obligation.”
“I meant no insult. I appreciate the kindness.”
“Come here. There’s no need to be afraid.”
Why does she feel this resistance? Why must she bite down on her words? She won’t tell him she’s unafraid; too strong a denial will reveal that she is a little afraid. She won’t blurt out she’s no virgin, for surely he must know this. Men talk, worse than women in the weaving house, their tongues and judgment loosened by ale and a love of boasting. She has no doubt what happened between her and Godfred at the spring festival has passed round the hall. She knows, too, that Margawn has knowledge of women, as a travelled and experienced warrior, whereas her own experience of love is woefully limited. It’s the one area where, apart from a knowledge of the herbs to prevent pregnancy, Touilt taught her nothing. She won’t say that if he wants her he must come to her, for that’s a coy game she’s no stomach for. He’s already come to her. She let him in. Now all there is to do is cross the floor and touch him. Margawn holds out his hand and smiles.
The smile transforms everything. It’s a smile wrapped in hope and sorrow and even humility. Yet, it’s not the beauty of the smile nor the beauty of the face that finally decides the issue in her heart; it’s not the promise of pleasure, even. It is the kindness there in the tawny river-water eyes. This man of war, guardian of Caelin’s hall, battle-scarred, hard as old oak, with muscles and gristle and tendon, who has run more than one man through with a sword, a spear, a dagger, who has snapped necks with one quick twist of those enormous hands, is weary, heart-sore from all he has seen and all he has done, and craves as much comfort as he offers. She sees it’s not mere flesh he desires, but more, and something no one has ever asked of her, something she never knew she possessed. And she sees that what he offers is a thing that she has not, until this moment, known she also craved. The room fills with the offering.
It’s strange, suddenly, in an instant so fierce and quick it surely must be an unearned gift from the gods, to understand a thing for the first time. Had she been asked the day before, she’d have laughed at such a silly question, but she sees now that up until this very night, what she named as trust was not trust at all, only a conviction her defences would hold. She smiles back and no longer cares that her hair is unkempt, or her nails ragged, or that the smell of her body may not be as sweet as it might be if she’d known he was coming, and washed and scented herself with rose and lavender. None of that matters. She trusts him.
The room is silent apart from the whispering hush of her bare feet on the reed-covered planks as she moves to him. She places her hand in his and, gently, he closes his fingers over hers. He pulls her onto his knee, puts his palms on either side of her face, and under the mass of his hands, her skull feels as fragile as an eggshell. He brings her mouth to his and kisses her, soft as swan down. A part of her mind watches from outside herself, and wonders at his gentleness, at the restraint in him. His breath and hers mingle, and his hands curl round her, her neck, her back. She is aware of every spot he touches, of the spreading warmth. She expected this to be as it was with Godfred, full of urgency and startled pleasure. But this is different. Her arms go round his neck and she melts into him, flows toward him, surrenders to him, without haste, liquid. He slides his arm under her legs and stands, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a lamb. She nestles on his shoulder as he carries her to her bed. It’s much too short for him and his feet dangle, and they laugh as they undress each other and begin the exploration of skin, mapping sensitive spots, charting curves and warm hollows and the boundaries between hair and flesh, tender spots and callused ones. Their fingers trace scars and freckles and moles. She makes him lie still, first on his stomach and then his back, while she runs her fingers and her hair and her lips over every part of him, separating even his toes, parting his hair, lifting his great muscle-gnarled arms, spreading his legs. She licks salt from beneath his arm and from the concave landscape near his sharp hip, samples the yeasty musk from the root of him. When she is satisfied there is no undiscovered place on his body, he lays her down, kisses her from ear to instep, buries his face between her legs, tastes her, and breathes in her tangy, river-weed scent, and she cannot tell what is lip or tongue or finger. And then the urgency does rise, and need, quick and sweet, is upon them both, and they cling to their passion and each other, and for a moment they are nowhere and nothing matters but that they are skin against skin, and all around the glow of the fire plays on their bodies like ruby honey.
They wake up before the dawn, curled into each other, hardly aware of where one ends and the other begins. When they are sticky and satisfied, he suggests they go together to the river to pull water to warm for washing.
“It’ll be quick,” she says, shivering, slipping into her tunic. “It’s a cold morning.” She watches him struggle into his under tunic, his hair standing up every which way. The dog rises and bangs his great head on the underside of the table. He shakes and stretches, and yawns hugely, revealing a great many teeth. Elba
barely rolls over.
“Ready?” Margawn says.
“Outside, in the open? It’s truly settled with Lord Caelin then.”
“It’s settled.”
She searches his face. Some things are settled, she sees, but perhaps not all. She fears Caelin’s mind is more subtle than Margawn’s. If the lord wants to destroy her for … for what, exactly? From the first moment she arrived, it was clear he didn’t trust her, and these years have apparently turned distrust into the need to break, dominate, or cull. She cannot help but wonder if her refusal to convert is merely the excuse Caelin needs to crush her. She wouldn’t want Margawn caught in that. “You’re not afraid to be seen with me, the woman who will not convert?” she says.
He shrugs. “King Edwin was clear. The people make their own choices. He himself didn’t submit to baptism until ten months after he gave his daughter Eanflaed over to the priests. He kept his promise but took his time and considered it. Why shouldn’t you do the same?”
“But I’m not considering. And what about you, my bear?”
“What about me?” He works his way into his shoes and ties the lacing on his calf.
“Have you truly lost all respect, all loyalty, to the old gods, or do you wear your new religion like a shield, to be worn when needed in battle, and afterward set aside?”
“I’m a simple man, Wilona. What do I know of gods? I’ve never seen one or spoken to one, and so whether I don’t see this one or that, what I name the god I never see, what gift I bring to his altar, makes little difference. This new god seems good enough, if that’s Lord Caelin’s will.”
“Where’s your own mind? Your own opinion? Your own faith?”
“I’ve vowed to follow my lord, Caelin, and so I do. He believes through this god we’ll be stronger, victorious in battle, part of a larger, more powerful tribe. Caelin’s been a fine chieftain. It’s good enough for me.”
“Just like you’ve pledged loyalty to Caelin, I’ve pledged loyalty to the gods and goddesses.”
“You must do what your honour dictates, and so must I.” He stands and puts his arms around her. “When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen—the terror in men’s eyes as they lie with their guts spilled out in the mud, and never a shadow of the Valkyries come to sweep them to Woden’s hall; or babies on the end of spears, and pregnant women with their bellies ripped open; or the heads of good men on spikes, with no more life in them than a squashed beetle—it’s hard to believe any of the gods care much for us, new or old. Ricbert says life is like a chieftain’s hall. Inside it’s light and fire and warmth and feasting, but outside it’s cold and dark. A sparrow flies in through a window at one end, flies the length of the hall, and flies out through a window at the other end. That’s life. At birth we emerge from the unknown, and for a brief time we’re on this earth with a fair amount of comfort and happiness, if we’re fortunate to have as generous a chief as King Edwin, but then we fly out the window at the other end, into the cold and dark and unknown future. If the new religion can lighten that darkness, then maybe we should follow it.”
Wilona smiles. So, that’s what it boils down to—not salvation from suffering here in Middangeard, but a promised feasting hall in the afterlife, open to all, not just the warriors taken to Woden’s side. But why go to this new heaven-hall if none of one’s ancestors are there? It seems selfish, but she doesn’t want to spoil what they have right here, right now, with arguing. She pushes him away. “Come, the sun will rise soon and we should get to the river.” She unties Elba. “She’ll want to follow. Do you mind?”
Bana greets the sow, his tail wagging. “It seems they’ve made friends. Let her join us if she wants to.”
Elba moves off into the nearby stand of trees, looking for mushrooms. Wilona’s glad to see it, for it means the pig feels safe after the assault on the hut. She doesn’t relish being followed everywhere by a sow. Wilona looks up toward the sacred mountain, a black behemoth, still wreathed in shadow.
“Ah, so that’s where Touilt has gone, is it?” says Margawn, following her gaze.
It seems pointless to lie, and she doesn’t want mistrust between them. She nods.
“Did she say when to expect her back?”
“When the spirits are done with her.”
“Well, if they’re not done by this time tomorrow, I’ll go up after her.”
Tears unexpectedly sting Wilona’s eyes. They walk by the well and the yew. Wilona bathes her face in the sacred water, offering up a prayer to the goddess, refraining from gazing on the likeness of Mary. When finished she says, “And what about this life after death? When all is said and done, will you be happy in the Christian heaven, without your ancestors?” She doesn’t presume by saying without me. Even with the bond between them, it’s her nature to doubt the longevity of love.
He looks over the rolling landscape. The dawn chorus trills and a haze of pinkish light tinges the horizon. “Looks like bad weather on the way,” he says, and points to the mackerel clouds in the brightening sky. “Let’s hope Touilt returns quickly.”
“I didn’t think you were the sort of man who avoids hard questions.”
“What is there to say? The dead are buried, spirits haunt the woods and mounds, and some say they hear their cries on the wind; others see ghosts on the high moors—the dead don’t seem like a happy bunch. Maybe the Christian heaven will be better, or maybe it’ll be no more than the grey, cold underworld my mother frightened me with, wanting me to grow up and be a warrior, admitted to Woden’s hall and his unending battles. I’ll tell you the truth, Wilona, since that’s what I want between us. And the truth is this: I’ll be happy enough, I think, when my time comes, to simply sleep and not dream. But who knows, I may scream and writhe and beg like other men I’ve known.”
“These aren’t the great tales of battle told in the hall.” Is it possible other warriors feel this way? That they’re not the fearless boasters they seem to be around the fire? She knows so little of men.
“I’m not one to give advice, but you should hear this. I’ve no fear of being seen with you, or of the companions, indeed of the entire village, knowing I claim you as my own.”
He stops walking and so she stops as well. Claimed? She has been claimed?
He puts his hand over hers. “Everyone will know not to trouble you unless they want to trouble me too. My protection only goes so far, though, Wilona, so be loyal to your gods, if that’s what your honour dictates, but make sure you give Caelin no cause to think you chose them, or any god, over loyalty to him.” He begins walking again. “Some laws cannot be broken by anyone.”
He’s right. Touilt and she stand on a rickety bridge. It brings bile to her throat to think she might have to toady to those who failed the gods and misused her and Touilt. But it’s wise to be clever as well as faithful. “I’ll race you,” she says, and runs down the path toward the burbling, sparkling river.
She has been claimed.
Wilona spends the rest of the day working on the herbs and tinctures, making note of what herbs she must gather before the weather turns, and salvaging crockery jars. She must fire more pots; so many have been shattered. Now and then she goes outside to see if she can catch sight of Touilt on the path. Hour after hour passes with no sign either of the seithkona or anyone else. If it weren’t for the occasional sound of distant hammers from the village when the wind shifts, she might think she was completely alone on the plateau. Everything seems so quiet now the king and all the strangers have moved on. Her nerves are jangly, as if the skin has been rubbed off her fingertips. Her thoughts keep returning to Touilt and she loses her concentration, finds herself staring at a bunch of dried leaves without understanding why.
And then, at last, as the afternoon sun lengthens and the sky thickens with bad weather, a speck on the long path slowly becomes larger. Touilt. Wilona runs to her, takes her bundle from her. “Are you all right?”
Touilt’s face is serene under the bruises, and it takes Wilona aback. What is ther
e to be calm about? “The spirits came to me, Wilona.”
“And what did they tell you?”
“The gods have spoken. We will stay. Kings come and go. The gods of the wood and sky and sea and earth and wind will last as long as there is wood, sky, sea, earth, and wind.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A.D. 627, Before Yule Month, Ad Gefrin
The snow falls, not thickly, but enough to fur the trees and soften the outline of the rocks. The air is sharp and the sun dazzling, making the snow sparkle and hurt the eyes. Robins and fieldfares land on the juniper, dislodging small clumps of snow into the whisking wind. Late one night, Dunstan sends word to Touilt and Wilona that Roswitha’s time is upon her. They prepare their pouches of runes and a basket of herbs with gratitude. Recently, babies have been born without them.
“This should be an easy birth,” says Wilona as they walk through the snow-softened, winter-muffled village. “Roswitha’s hips are made for babies.”
The next day, however, the air inside Dunstan and Roswitha’s dwelling is so thick with the smell of blood and excrement, fear and smoke, mugwort and sweat, one could climb it like a ladder. Wilona and Touilt work with determination and many prayers. They’ve seen the look in each other’s eyes, and watched hope fade. Touilt sits at Roswitha’s head, whispering in her ear. Wilona feels inside Roswitha’s body, her arms and tunic stained with blood. Roswitha closes her eyes in pain, and Wilona makes a sign to Touilt, spreading her fingers next to her throat and ear. Touilt understands and blanches. The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck, in itself not so dangerous—the baby is not yet breathing through its lungs and so there’s no fear of strangulation—but Wilona suspects Roswitha’s pelvis is pinching the cord. With every contraction it compresses, and the danger to the child increases.
Touilt soothes Roswitha’s brow and comes round to Wilona. “If Roswitha dies, we must cut the child from her body and try to save it,” she whispers.
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