Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  “I cannot for the life of me understand why Lord Caelin is so troubled by one young woman.”

  “Indeed, it might just be for your life, if you’re not careful. That she’s just one young woman and yet still she defies him is precisely the point. Just the sort of thing that might cause tongues to wag and jokes to be made, and believe me, Caelin is not a man to be laughed at. The next time he calls for the army to be gathered—a time never far off—and some farmer doesn’t wish to fight but would prefer to sit by his warm hearth, Caelin can’t have him thinking about the girl who refused his invitation and paid no price for it, now can he?”

  “I’ll pray for her heart to open,” says Egan. He must, he thinks, go up to the hut on the hillside.

  “You do that,” says Ricbert. “I’ll talk with Margawn. If anyone has sway over her, he does.”

  The winter weather breaks. Moisture drips from the hedgerow into the thirsty earth. The streams turn to torrents as the snow melts on the high ground, and waterfalls form. Curlews, otters, and dippers appear in the river. Roe deer fawns step lightly through the woods. Wilona walks along the river path to the cave. She carries a small bundle of cold dock-pudding patties—made from onions, nettles, and oatmeal, fried in bacon fat—to fortify her when her vision work is done. The cave has become the place where she communes with the spirits undisturbed. Evergreen boughs tied with owl feathers cover the entrance. Inside, wrapped in Touilt’s wolf hide, she stores her runes and her charcoal-filled iron bowl, her chicken-feather pillow, her blue cloak, her herbs, her cat-skin hood and gloves, and her tinder and flint. Caelin has made it clear such things have no place near the village any longer, and she doesn’t dare be caught with them in her hut.

  Willow warblers and whinchats call to each other in the trees as she walks through the spring-bright wood. Daffodils, celandine, and stitchwort bejewel the undergrowth. At the spot where the river bends, although there’s nothing to see but a slight shimmer in the air, nothing to feel but a slight shift in temperature, she steps through a familiar yet invisible veil. It’s an odd sensation, as though she takes two or three steps forward only to have the path remain unchanged; she walks but goes nowhere, and then, another two steps, and the path is just a path again.

  Over the past week, an increasing sense of unfocused, but nonetheless prickling, urgency has nagged Wilona. Her dreams are restless wanderings through unfamiliar landscapes, and she’s always looking for something lost. She hears Raedwyn cry from the branches of the yew. Margawn’s conversation—too often about the merits of the new religion—sets her teeth on edge.

  Last night Margawn sat at Wilona’s table, his belly full of roast chicken. He rolled a cup of wine between his palms and talked of what Brother Egan had said about the coming Christian holy days, when Christ vanquishes death. “He told us how the Christ appeared to his loyal warriors after he was put to death, how he returned to them and shared a feast.”

  Wilona picked a bit of meat from a wing bone and shrugged. “Eostre vanquishes death every spring, by bringing life back to the earth. So far, this Christ has told me nothing new.” Margawn stared into his cup. “It’s confusing. He says the dead saints came from their tombs after his resurrection; but afterwards they returned to their tombs to await the final resurrection of all. One would think if the dead had been raised, they might stay raised.”

  “A hard god to please.” Wilona moved her stool behind him and began braiding his hair.

  “Not so strict as all that, though. Brother Egan has decorated the altar with white lilies and eggs and says at the feast afterwards we’ll eat stewed hare and crossed buns. It seems he wishes to make the people feel at home, adding the new ways to the old.”

  Clever beast! “Not quite. Eggs and hare and Eostre’s buns, all for the people and the priests, but none for the goddess. In spite of all those words about mercy, he sounds like not only a harsh god but a greedy one.”

  “You find fault with everything.” He grumbled, pulled his hair from her hands, drained his cup, and poured more.

  He was not subtle, her golden bear. He’s been tasked with her conversion. She didn’t wish to argue, especially not when rumours of war are gathering like crows in the trees. So she let him talk.

  The shadows are lengthening as she arrives at the cave. She pushes the boughs aside and lights a fire in the entrance. She unwraps her sacred objects, swathes herself in Touilt’s wolf hide, and waits for darkness to fall. When it does she lights the charcoal and burns the herbs, washing in the smoke. She sings and she waits, and then, on owl wings … she flies …

  Touilt’s face first, as it was when first she knew her. Neither smiling nor weeping, but half hidden beneath a blue mantle. A great drum sounds, boom, boom, boom. Smoke, the smell of burning. Hands grasping. Shine and glint of axe and blade. Hands outstretched, hands clawing in the dirt. A terrible smell, damp and decay and death. There have been screams, but they are done now and silence settles like carrion crows. Shapes, dark and swift and slinking … The vision clarifies … The ground is strewn with the dead, bloated, gnawed by wolves, eyes pecked by ravens, hacked like butchered meat; hair matted with dried blood. Faces destroyed, but she knows them all. Neighbours, her onetime friends. The royal compound, a smoking, collapsed shell; the marvellous carvings now charred; the tapestries, the benches, Lord Caelin’s ornate chair, nothing but greasy black skeletons beneath the caved-in rafters.

  The owl cries, a deep moaning. It perches in the yew, high up, the long ear-tufts making it look fierce and angry. It lifts and sails, higher and higher, circling the field of the dead, and she is the owl, looking down, and all around and everywhere there is nothing but the silent dead, the burned, stench rising like a fog. Wait, something moves, there away by the river, something moves, crawling, alive, a woman. She turns on her back upon a great stone, battered, bloody, her eyes searching …

  Wilona shudders and gasps, and opens her eyes. The fire has died down to sparking ash, and beyond the cave entrance the night is black, with only slivers of silver slicing through the trees from a thin, setting moon. She feels woozy and her belly cramps. She lurches outside to the river and vomits. When the convulsions are done she lies with her cheek on the rocks and weeps. She feels sure the vision has come from Touilt, which is a consolation, for even in the Christian heaven, if that’s where she is, it seems she can reach Wilona still. But, such horror!

  There is no doubting it. War is coming. And they will lose. There are no gods to protect the village any longer.

  Two days and nights pass, until at last, as the sun sets below heavy rain-bearing clouds, Margawn appears at her door, his face grim. At his side, Bana looks as though he’s been caught trying to steal a roast chicken off the table.

  “What is it?” Wilona asks.

  “I’ve come from the council.”

  They sit on furs near the hearth. Wilona ladles mutton stew into bowls. They eat in silence. Judging from the far-off cast of Margawn’s eyes, she suspects he tastes the food no more than she does.

  Since returning from the cave, she’s been in a sort of half-dream, smelling death on every breeze, seeing signs of destruction in every cloud formation, every pebble pattern on the path. Yesterday, she noted seven swallows flying low over the grazing cattle, and a bat swooping three times around the hut. This morning the fire flared in the hearth and then burned hollow. A white weasel crossed her path as she drew water. If she thought she could argue herself out of the terror of her vision, the omens do not permit it.

  A branch pops in the fire and Wilona squeals. Margawn laughs at her. “You’re jumpy as a flea.”

  “I have reason, don’t I? You and I both know war will come, and soon.”

  She puts his bowl along with hers in the bucket of washing water. He looks as harried as a treed bear. She comes back and sits on his lap, nestling against him. “I spent the night in the cave.”

  “And what did your spirits tell you?” His arms tighten around her.

  “Things too terrib
le to believe.”

  He sucks in his breath. “I doubt that. There’s little I haven’t seen on the battlefield.” He pauses. “And will see again before long.”

  Wilona looks into his eyes. “You think you’re going to war, but war’s coming here.”

  “Here? What do you mean?”

  “I saw it. Rivers of blood, the village burned, all dead, the compound in ruins. You must hear me, and you must take the message to Caelin. This war will be lost. Death will overtake Northumbria like a red flood.”

  He blinks, his eyes wide.

  “We’ll all be slaughtered. Right here.”

  “I can’t tell Caelin that.”

  “The king must be warned.”

  “And where shall I say I heard this prophecy? From the woman forbidden to prophesize?”

  “Can you speak to Lady Elfhild?”

  “She spends a great deal of time with Brother Egan. She’s become devout.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think she’d approve.”

  “I’m more frightened than I’ve ever been and feel no shame saying so.” She looks up into Margawn’s worried eyes. “If you go off to Edwin’s war, I fear I’ll never see you again.”

  He puts his hands on her shoulders and his fingers almost meet in the middle of her back. “Not all of Gwynedd’s armies combined would keep me from coming back to you. I swear it, Wilona.”

  “No man can swear such a thing. Your wyrd is in the weaving of the gods.”

  “Brother Egan says there’s no greater power in the world than love. He says it’s the thread that stitches the world together.” He shakes her gently and grins at her. “Marry me, Wilona. Become my wife.”

  She slaps his arm. “I cannot! The goddess has no objection to our love, but the life of the village and children and the weaving house are forbidden for a seithkona. Love is something else, I think, but …”

  “Touilt married and had children.”

  “They died and then the gods claimed her. After that she could not marry and could have no more children.”

  “So am I to understand”—he frowns—”that there are to be no children?”

  “Surely you knew that.”

  “And did Touilt teach you how to keep a child from this world?” He untangles himself from her and pours himself wine from the earthen jug.

  “Margawn,” she says softly, “do you want me to stop being seithkona? If I could, perhaps I would, but the choice isn’t mine. You don’t know what you’re asking. You have no idea of the price for betraying the gods.”

  “By your standard, everyone in Ad Gefrin’s betrayed the gods, and yet I see no price being paid. If anything they’re more content. This new god of redemption suits them.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ve told you before, one god is as good as another to me. I’m my lord’s man.”

  “Not mine, then.” She stands and faces him.

  His eyes flash. “And you’re not mine, either, it seems. You belong to Eostre, is it? Or is it the horned one?” He drains his cup and pours another.

  Oh, he can be clever with words. He insinuates she’s put the horns on him with her wild god. He calls her a whore to the gods. Let her silence condemn his cruelty.

  And he must feel guilty, for after a moment he says, “I have no objection to you living here still, Wilona, after we’re married. It can be our home.”

  “It’s our home now.”

  “It is NOT!” He hammers his hand on the table and the crockery jumps. “I can’t properly protect you unless you’re my wife.”

  “You won’t be here whether I’m your wife or not.”

  “But you’ll be known as my wife.”

  “What? Your sign will be upon me?”

  Margawn glares at her. “Wilona. Think. You must know Lord Caelin will not permit you to remain here unless you convert.”

  “I’d hoped he’d leave me be, since I’m harming no one and since Touilt trained me as a healer.” She sits on the bed, not wanting to ask him to join her, but hoping he will.

  “You’re a thorn in his shoe. You must convert.”

  “I will not. You’ve always known this, Margawn. I don’t expect you to incur Caelin’s wrath for my sake.”

  “Don’t speak like an idiot.”

  She chooses to ignore this. “You must do what you think is right.” He sits next to her. “Right or not, I must do what Caelin orders, as long as he’s my lord.” He hangs his head, his hands over his eyes. When he looks up again his mouth is twisted. “You have until Eostre’s moon to accept Christ, maybe a little longer, since Caelin’s mind is occupied with war. The army’s leaving for Bebbanburgh when the moon begins to wax. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. It might be a year.”

  “So long as that!”

  He nods, and presses his lips together as though he doesn’t quite trust his voice. There’s a bleakness to him she hasn’t seen since he spoke of King Cerdic’s blood-eagling. While she waits, he’ll be at war, in the midst of horror and death. She knows he grows weary of that game all men are supposed to crave. She wants to protest, to beg him to stay, but that’s nonsense. Duty and honour bind them both like leg irons. The least cruel thing is to be as brave as he is. “We shouldn’t argue, then,” she says. “We’ve little time.”

  “We have less even than that. Tomorrow I’m riding with Cena to the villages across the estates. We’re to call all able men to service. After that, I’m to ride directly to Bebbanburgh. We have only tonight, my love.” He puts his arms around her. “What will you do?”

  She cannot help it. She clings to him, trying to embed his smell in her senses. And so it has come; she has no choice but to surrender or retreat. She had not, until right now, decided whether to tell him, but considering both her vision and his imminent departure … “I won’t stay here.”

  He makes an impatient sound. “Really? And where will you go? Don’t say you’ll live in the wild alone. That would be madness.”

  She holds his gaze now. “I’ll go to our cave.”

  “Our cave?”

  “Don’t laugh, Margawn. I’ll leave word with Roswitha where I’m to be found. Although she hasn’t forgiven me completely for the baby’s death, she may already be with child again, and that will go a long way to helping her and Dunstan forget. I suspect there are some in the village who might be more inclined to seek out my services if they can do so in secret.”

  “Tell me this is a jest.” He holds her at arm’s length.

  “Why? We made it comfortable. I don’t recall you complaining. It’s spacious enough. I might even move the bed and table. Besides, it’s not so unusual. It’s not like I live inside the village walls now. It’s just a few miles more.”

  “Things have changed, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  She shrugs off his hands and tucks her arm through his, pulling him close. “All the more reason. They’ve taken the well from me, and they come here now almost daily, making their ablutions and prayers. As long as I refuse to convert, I’m a piece of bark in their eye—a thorn in Caelin’s shoe, as you said—but if I go away, I’ll trouble those who are troubled less, and those who secretly keep to the old ways can seek me out away from prying eyes.”

  “You want to live in a cave like an animal, like some mad hermit? Where’s the dignity in that?”

  “Dignity’s not dependent on the grandeur of your hall but on the steadfastness of your heart.” She smiles and shakes her head. “There’s no point arguing. My mind’s made up.”

  “And what if Caelin’s not satisfied? What if he sends his men for you?”

  “Then I’ll deal with that as I must.” She will tie rocks to her belt and throw herself in the river before she’ll convert. She doesn’t say so, but the look in his eyes tells her she doesn’t have to.

  They go round and round this way for some time, until she stops his mouth with hers and uses her tongue and lips and fingers and thighs to distract him. Yet even when he enters her and they ride pleasure to the place wh
ere they are more one than two, a small part of her stays apart, watching, as though he has wandered far ahead of her and she already aches for his return.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next day Wilona rises early, tries not to think of Margawn’s departure, and begins packing. She pulls the small wagon from the byre and sets it in front of the door. She’ll hitch Elba to it. She’s barely begun to sort through her meagre belongings when a familiar bark startles her. Bana. She stumbles in her rush to the door. When she opens it, instead of Margawn, she finds Egan lurching along the path, yanked by Bana at the end of a hide leash. The monk has a pack on his back and resembles a bundle of rag-tied twigs about to come undone. When the dog bolts for her, Egan staggers and must let go the lead or be dragged to the ground.

  “Bana! Stop. Sit. Sit!” She holds her hands up against the dog’s affection. He wriggles and wags his tail, at last collapsing like a rug at her feet. “What are you doing here?” she asks Egan. “What’s Margawn’s hound doing here? Where’s Margawn?”

  Egan eyes the dog. “Brother Margawn asked me to bring you the dog.”

  “Bana’s his battle-hound. He must go with him!”

  “He was quite clear. He had me lock Bana in the church until he’d left, in fear the dog would follow him. He wanted me to bring the dog to you, for your protection and company while he’s away.”

  So Margawn forced her into the Christian’s company after all. “My protection! What nonsense. I need no protection. The gods protect me.” Bana’s attention moves from her to the far hills, and Wilona senses the dog may dash off to find his master. She wonders if she should let him.

  As though reading her mind, Egan steps forward, gingerly picks up the end of the leash and ties it to the wagon wheel. “Brother Margawn also bid me tell you he’ll be at peace if he knows the dog is with you, and that you do him a great favour caring for him in his absence.”

  “Indeed, since the beast must eat his weight daily.”

  Egan smiles. “It seems he thought of that as well.” He slips the pack from his back and leans it by the door. “There is a cured joint inside, and others will come to you regularly. Brother Margawn has arranged it with young Fugol. It should,” he says with a wink, “be more than enough for the dog.”