Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  It had been Worr who Godwin had chosen to take with him on the trip that would seal his Fate, Worr and Ceric both, and the boy had been raised seeing almost as much of the former as the latter. At Ceric’s sword-bearing the Lady Modwynn had presented Worr with a parcel of fertile land to honour his oath to her grandson.

  Raedwulf’s love for his only child was such that he would have gone to almost any length to secure her happiness. Wilgyfu eased his path by confiding that the raw-boned but good-looking Worr had made it clear in a few words exchanged at feast times in the hall of Kilton that he would like leave to speak to her father.

  For all this Raedwulf did not know his son-in-law well; it was only now after two weeks on the road with Worr that he could truly claim a knowledge of the man. What he had seen confirmed his view of the young man’s worth, and that of his young daughter’s judgement. The few times Wilgyfu and Worr had seen each other prior to their betrothal – and never, to his knowledge alone – could scarcely have been enough to instill the confidence they shared from the beginning that their match would be a good one. Yet so it had proved. He recalled the wintery day at Kilton Wilgyfu had come to him, the very morning of their setting off to return to Defenas, and surprised him with her declaration that she had met the man she would wed.

  He was taken aback, not so much by her shining eyes, but by the determination in her low and quiet voice. He had needed a moment to gather himself. Love could strike like this; he had seen it once.

  A wood-cock, flushed by their nearness to the road, took flight from the tall wild grasses they now passed, causing his horse to toss his head and snort. Raedwulf glanced over to Ceric at his right. The lad seemed lost in his own thoughts, and the hand closed around his sword hilt suggested they might be of unsettled nature. Raedwulf’s role as bailiff of Defenas brought him at regular intervals to Kilton on the King’s business. He had seen Ceric almost from birth, having made the journey to mourn that infant’s grandsire, but only now could take the measure of the young man who represented half of the entire issue which remained of the great Godwulf.

  The bailiff, concerned as he was with matters of justice and the law, was not alone in his concern for the future of so vital a stronghold, so vast a fortune, as Kilton. Only two males of Kilton remained, and one was still a boy. But consider Æthelwulf, Ælfred’s own father: four sons to his name, yet the first three would die in rapid succession after bearing the crown of Wessex. It had been left to the youngest, once destined for the Church, to rally all the forces he could scrape and save the final Kingdom from falling to the Danes. It was not the number of heirs but their quality that mattered. Ælfred had proved that.

  Of Edwin, Raedwulf had yet to form an opinion; he was but thirteen. Raedwulf had been present at the symbel at which Ceric had been given arms, including that famed sword which hung from the black baldric Ceric now wore. The bailiff remembered Edwin looking on with awe at his older brother, all that night through. When he returned to Kilton to join this party travelling to Lindisse he noted the younger’s pride in, and admiration of, Ceric. Up to the age of ten Edwin had been much kept with women. The boy knew himself to be, like his brother, the child of the Lady Ceridwen, but had, as was just, always named Edgyth, Mother. Godwin’s widow was learned, and had begun early to school him, as had the priest, in letters and sums, all things needful to a man who would someday rule. Even then his training-in-arms had started, though, first as an outgrowth of the blunted wooden sword and spear he was given as play-things as a child, and now under the tutelage of Worr and Cadmar. But when war came, as Raedwulf was certain it would, it would be his son-in-law’s role to fight next to Ceric, not Edwin, and he felt the older boy favoured at least in this.

  A horn sounded, almost as if they stood on the field of battle Raedwulf was thinking of. In the warm and still air it startled. So they had been spotted. All reined to a halt, awaiting the coming of he who had blown it. The open country they had just passed through now had a thicket of trees flanking the dusty road, a perfect place for a watch-man to wait.

  The horn-blower showed himself, not entirely willingly, for he was alone, his pale ox horn now hanging from his neck, his spear in both hands. He stayed on the side, not stepping before the horses. He was an older, but wiry man, active-looking enough, and Raedwulf guessed he had dropped down from the tree he had settled himself in to confront them. Other than the spear he was unarmed, save for the knife at his side; but the long and double note he had blown would have been enough to alert the next man down the road. The man’s eyes took them in at a glance, paused at the bright yellow of the pennon rising from the saddle of the horse at the rear, and returned, apparently counting, to the three who rode at the head.

  Worr, having given the man time enough to assess them, now turned in his saddle and spoke. He was looking almost straight down the shaft of the spear pointed at him.

  “We ride in peace to Four Stones. Ælfred, King of the Anglo-Saxons, sends greeting to the Lady Ælfwyn and her kin.” He spoke slowly and clearly, and now made a slight gesture to Ceric to display the letter of safe-conduct.

  As soon as Ceric reached for his near-side saddle bag the man jerked the spear towards him, thrusting it perilously close to his shoulder.

  Worr returned his eyes to the watch-man. “Steady,” Worr told him in a low tone, as if he were calming a horse.

  Ceric’s green eyes were round in his head, but after an initial pause he did not flinch. He pulled the lacing through the bag flap, and holding it open with one hand, slowly withdrew the leathern tube within.

  He did not slide the parchment forth, only held its casing in his hand. The watch-man’s eyes shifted to it.

  “A letter from our King,” Ceric said, with enough firmness so that the man nodded.

  “You will wait,” the watch-man said at last, enough for them to hear the lilting twang of the speech of the Danes in his answer.

  Wait they did. It was not an easy task for any of the seven men to do so. Stopped as they were, reins slack, helmets in their saddle bags, weapons sheathed, mindful of their need for cool-headedness while a single Dane – an old one at that – pointed his spear in threat at the horse thegn of Kilton, riding as body-guard to Ceric of Kilton himself. Yet they had been trained to abide in such circumstances, much in the same way they had been trained to forfeit their lives in fighting to the death for their pledged lord.

  They had been stopped in the shade of the trees; Raedwulf was grateful for that. Their horses swished their tails and shook their heads, wanting to crop the grasses just out of reach. They held them from doing so, just as Worr held the eyes of the watch-man. The man had shifted the point of his spear from Ceric back to Worr, and stood beneath him, feet braced. A spear held in offensive position for any length of time grows heavy, and the men could see this older Dane tire. Worr would have invited him to set the butt end of it down on the ground, but did not want to give offence by suggesting he had detected any weakness in he who held it.

  At length they saw those who had been summoned. Four horsemen came riding at a canter towards them down the road, kicking up enough dust for twenty. They quickened the pace when they saw the number of men stopped on the road before them, then slackened when they saw they were held by a single spear-man.

  Their horses were as good as he had remembered, Worr thought to himself. The four men upon those good mounts bore shields upon their backs and swords at their sides. They rode one-handed, a spear held upright in their right hands, ready at any time to level or launch them.

  The Danes pulled up, faces searching the men stopped before them. One of them, with long yellow hair, squinted at the youth in the middle.

  “Ceric,” he called. He smiled through the grime on his face.

  “Gunnulf,” answered Ceric.

  The watch-man let his spear butt hit the hard ground.

  Ceric raised his hand in greeting to the mounted Dane. It was Jari’s younger brother, only a year or two older than
Ceric himself. Jari was Hrald’s chief body-guard. Gunnulf was not as big as his older brother, but was just as well-knit, the legs that gripped his horse’s barrel long and powerful.

  “You are here at last,” Gunnulf answered. His horse was wheeling beneath him, and he kept grinning as he turned. “Hrald will be glad. Follow me.”

  Ceric also recalled another young man, Onund, who rode just behind Gunnulf. Onund had dark brown hair over his shoulders, a broad face, and high colour in his cheeks. Ceric remembered a grappling match Onund had taunted Hrald to when they were boys; Hrald had handily pinned the chubby-faced boy to the ground. That face was more angular now, but the eyes which swept over Ceric did so appraisingly.

  They left the watch-man to his trees and went on at a walk, Gunnulf and Onund falling in beside Ceric. Gunnulf had given Worr a nod; he recalled him as well, but had not seen the older man on Ceric’s other side before.

  Raedwulf was aware of the Dane Gunnulf prattling away at Ceric, and relieved at it; the tightness between his shoulder blades had relaxed, and the hand that had wished to touch his own sword hilt in reassurance did so. But his thoughts were turning to what lay ahead of him. They had gained the furthest reaches of the village fronting the fortress, and its palisade wall stood up at the end of the road. The bailiff had never ventured to Lindisse before, nor known the lands of the dead Merewala as anything more than an entry on a long list of Saxon, Mercian, or Anglian keeps which had been taken by the invaders. It had been so distant from his duties to the King as law-giver that it could be little else. It was only when Ælfred called him to Witanceaster that he learnt his mission here, what he would deliver. And to whom.

  By the time Ceric rode through the open gates of the palisade, Gunnulf and the three riders with him had been joined by three more, picked up at another check-point just beyond the sheep folds of the village; all those guarding the approaches to Four Stones seemed ready to follow them in. His own party had dropped back a little, letting the men of his host surround him, as if to share some credit for bringing one long-looked for in. None had ridden ahead to give Hrald warning, and indeed any such would have been slight. But Gunnulf had told him Hrald was about Four Stones that day, and within a moment or two of entering the yard Ceric spotted his friend.

  A horse had been tied outside the lead-roofed stable, and two men were bending over the upraised front hoof one of them held in his hand. The bigger of the two turned his head at the clatter of hooves behind him, then let fall the one he held. Hrald straightened up, and the stable man Mul beside him.

  “Hrald,” called Ceric. His face was wreathed in a smile, deepening as he watched Hrald’s blue eyes open, and his own grin form. Ceric jumped from his horse and shrugged off his shield.

  His friend strode closer.

  “I should have stayed up there,” Ceric told him, seeing how much taller Hrald had grown.

  The long arms closed about him a moment, slapping his back, then Hrald stood back as Ceric took him in. His dark brown hair was now just long enough to be held in two plaits, one on either side of his face. His chin and cheeks displayed the beginnings of a dusky beard, one he had begun to shave every week. A few wisps of dark chest hair showed at the top of his split-neck collar. His green tunic and brown leggings were unadorned, but of cloth finely woven and carefully sewn; his leg wrappings tooled with spiraling designs stamped into their chestnut brown leather.

  Hrald smiled now, his teeth white and strong.

  “You are come,” he said. His voice was quiet and Ceric could see a glistening in his eyes. “I had one letter from you, at Lady Day, three Summers ago. Did you ever receive mine?”

  “Only one?” Ceric returned. “I gave two, one just after the first Hlafmasse to a priest coming to Oundle, then another last year before Yule, telling you I would try to come this Summer.”

  Hrald was shaking his head, in listening and also in wonder.

  “I had no letter back from you,” Ceric was saying now. The carrying of any such was fraught with uncertainty, even with the Peace holding as it had.

  “Well, you are here now, that is all that matters,” Hrald was saying.

  He now saw Worr, who had dismounted, and went to him and gave him his arm in welcome. Ceric had gone on to greet Mul and a few others he remembered.

  “Your Lady Mother?” Ceric now asked, tilting his head to the hall itself.

  “I think she is within,” Hrald guessed, “numbering cups and salvers or some such. We dent them so; there are always new ones she must order to be made.”

  They laughed together at this, for no reason than the other’s nearness. They walked to the door, closed against the dust of the dry yard. All the men were off their horses now, and had formed up behind Ceric. The yard was busy with folk working, with many children too; and he nodded or called out to lads or maids he recalled who now were grown to young men and women.

  Hrald pulled on the twisted iron bar of the door, and a shaft of light followed them in. At the far end of the hall, near the broad raven banner hanging on the wall, stood Hrald’s mother and a few other women, looking down on an array of metal on a table. The side door was open, giving them light, and the women’s faces turned and looked at those who approached. Ælfwyn’s tallness and slenderness marked her at once, as did the bulky form of Burginde, who had served her since her birth. Hrald’s aunt, Æthelthryth, was there, holding a ewer in her hands. Ceric’s eye skipped from face to face of the women standing over the pile of metal on the table. Ashild was not amongst them.

  Hrald’s mother came around the end of the table she had been standing at.

  “Is it – Ceric,” she asked, and then answered herself with a laugh. She came at him, arms open, the fine linen of her head wrap trailing from her shoulders in her haste.

  “My Lady Ælfwyn,” Ceric was beginning, only to be smothered in her arms.

  She kissed his brow, and both cheeks, all as he was trying to make his bow to her. She was laughing and crying both, and he of a sudden felt close to tears himself, thinking on his own mother.

  Ælfwyn pulled back, sniffling, her smile broad in her thin face. She had his hands, warm and strong, in both of her own, and gave them a squeeze. She saw his mother in his green eyes.

  He now found himself in the arms of Burginde, who hugged him with surprising strength.

  “And quite a man you are,” she appraised, with that deep and hearty laugh he remembered. She straightened her head-wrap, which had gone crooked as she pushed herself upon him. Her hair was wholly grey now beneath it, but her cheeks had almost the freshness of a maid’s. She now had to look up at him, he had grown so.

  Ælfwyn saw Worr, liked and remembered him well, and smiled on him as he came forward to her with his simple greeting.

  The third man Ælfwyn did not know. She had never seen him before. He was her age, or above so; there were a few strands of grey in his brown hair, which fell tousled but evenly trimmed to the collar of his dark travelling tunic. The hair itself was striking, with enough wave in it to separate into individual locks; as a boy he must have been curly-headed. He was well but not richly dressed, with a sword and seax which she knew had been a royal gift, or the battle-gain taken from some war-chief of wealth; she had learnt to judge such things over the years. His mouth and chin were firm, so much so that they might run to grimness; his eyes a blue mild enough to belie that sternness. He stood erect, alert, his person the match of the younger men about him, a man of discipline, and action, still.

  There was no arrogance in his bearing, and she had seen much of that in men of his estate, be they Saxon or Dane. There was rather the stance of one confident in the pursuit of his objective, but mindful of the needs of others. She wondered if he might attend upon the King.

  The stranger stepped forward now, inclined his head to her.

  “Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster,” she heard him say.

  His words stopped her where she stood, recalling her as they did to her girlhood s
elf. She had not heard this name for over half a lifetime.

  She felt her face change; she did not know how.

  He then added, “Lady of Four Stones,” placing her firmly in the present moment.

  The slightest pause before he spoke again, the fine head inclined to her a second time.

  “I am Raedwulf, bailiff of Defenas, in service to Ælfred, King of Wessex. I bring you his greeting, and also his gift.”

  He had it in his hands, carefully wrapped from dust and the jostle of the road, and had taken it from his saddle bag upon dismounting, so that the King’s gift might be presented first.

  His eyes dropped to what he held out to her, then lifted again to her face. He held them there long enough so that she herself must look away.

  She let her eyes fix on the small package he held out.

  “The King has my gratitude, as does Raedwulf of Defenas, for bearing his gift to me.”

  He took a step closer so she might take it, then stepped back. All, even Ceric and Worr who had seen what was within, watched closely as her white hand rose. Beneath the linen was a small box, one of hardened leather.

  She almost dare not hope. She laid the linen on the table behind her, lifted the cover of the box, set it too down upon the dark surface of the scarred table. She gazed downward into what she held.