Wilgot had greeted the arrival of the Psalter with nearly as much joy as she. Raedwulf had been with her when she displayed it to the priest, before they sat at meat. It was clear by the prelate’s tone of voice that the volume represented an answered prayer: his. But Raedwulf had taken no little pains in pointing out the book and its precious æstal were a gift from the King to Ælfwyn, and not the priest of Four Stones.
She felt a surge of gratitude towards the bailiff for this, and for the way he had done it, making it seem that the greater glory was due the priest, for the capacity with reading the Lady of Four Stones had acquired since his arrival there. The gift, he assured them both, was almost a personal commendation of Wilgot’s merit by the Abbot of Athelney, under whose care it had been created.
When the meal was over Ælfwyn asked Ashild to join her in her bower garden. Ælfwyn must return later to the kitchen-passage to number and lock up the silver, but a few minutes away in the quiet of her garden would delay no one. They walked together past the white-blossomed bracts of bedstraw; in the dimming light the froth of tiny flowers seemed almost to glow. The light in the sky was now paling as dusk deepened, draining the other flowers of their highest colour within the enclosing hedge.
“Raedwulf will leave, day after tomorrow,” she told her daughter.
“O.” Ashild blinked, then pulled at the green husk beneath a faded rose, snapping it off. “And Ceric?…I thought he would stay a month…”
“I think he will stay, at least that,” Ælfwyn answered. “I know Hrald wants him to.”
Ashild nodded. She was now stripping off the wilted petals, which fell limply from her fingertips to the gravel walk. Their perfume had decayed to an almost musky scent.
“And you?” her mother asked. “Do you wish Ceric to stay?”
She did not respond at once. Then, “He is good to hawk with.”
Ælfwyn let out a sigh. Ashild’s chin snapped up.
“It is the bailiff, is it not?” she claimed. “He has asked you if Ceric and I – he wants to know about us. So he can tell all Kilton.”
“Not so, Ashild. He asked nothing of the kind. It was in fact I, who asked him.”
“You asked him…?”
“How could I not? You were alarmed at the richness of Ceric’s gift. And the gift of the King to me seemed to signal some special favour, beyond any I have earned from my benefactions at Oundle. So I asked Raedwulf.”
“And…?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “Ceric, it seems, has said nothing to him, or to anyone, of his intentions.” She slowed now. “What the bailiff made clear was Lady Modwynn’s welcoming of such a union.”
Ashild was shaking her head in rapid movement. All her mother could do was go on.
“I know he has been here only two days. But do you…feel that you…would accept him, should he ask?”
It was a question her own parents had never asked her, a choice she had never been allowed to make. She knew Ashild could not understand how Fate had favoured her, in being granted what had been denied her mother. It was not only the difference of coming of age during a time of peace, instead of war. Ælfwyn had vowed that all her children would be given as much freedom as was possible when it came to time to wed.
Her daughter pondered just a moment. Ceric was blessed with high good looks, was of a house unequalled in Wessex save only by that of its King, and had ever been a warm and good friend to Hrald. His actions and words suggested he felt he had claim upon her, as if Fate had already decreed their union.
She loved her mother, loved Hrald, and knew they wanted this for her. Yet to leave Four Stones, leave Lindisse, leave all she loved behind…
There was affection in her breast for Ceric, and if she stilled herself enough to feel it, attraction too. Yet it was not enough.
She flung the bare rose stem onto the darkening gravel walk, and gave a laugh. “Let his grandmother ask me, for him.”
Hrald and Ceric had ridden out the pounded clay road to the valley of horses. It was known as well as the valley of flax, and as they neared it Ceric remembered this, for it was here, at the entrance to the natural plain set between wooded hills, that the tall blue-flowered plant thrived. The morning was bright and dry, and men were at work with scythes, sweeping the sharp arcs of bright metal against the slender plants, just brushing the surface of the dark soil with them, leaving the fibre encased in the green stalks as long as possible. The scythers waded into the centre of the blue-crowned patches, and swept round in circles as they worked outward to the borders. Late nesting ground birds had time to flee to the safety of the margins, and as Hrald and Ceric rode by several nightjars emerged, chirping their complaint.
They wanted to visit the valley for the sheer pleasure of seeing so many fine animals at once; riding and horses had always been a chief enjoyment for them both. And Hrald was hoping he could induce his friend to choose any horse he wanted for the duration of his stay, arguing that as fine as Ceric’s black gelding was, it deserved a rest after the long trek eastwards to Four Stones.
A cluster of small crofts had sprung up to one side of the road at the mouth of the valley. They were those of the warrior Danes of the place, now wed and settled to either the women of the village of Four Stones, or their sweethearts that had come across the sea to join them years earlier. The houses were small, but well-made of timber and wattle and daub. Their low roofs bristled with yellowed thatch, and the gable-peaks here and there were crowned with strutting and ruddy-feathered roosters who stretched their necks to call out as the friends passed. Rough-hewn railings penned in the fattening pig that every croft boasted, encircling too the varied fowl houses, and the tended rows of cabbages and turnips and leeks. Past these, and set to one side, was the long house, at which a number of men lived, and whose charge it was to tend and guard the horses. The plain on which they grazed was ringed with woods thick enough to deter their wandering, but the broad area fronted by the flax fields was fenced across, parcelled out into a number of large paddocks.
They reined up first before that which held mares and their this-year’s foals. Ceric gave a whistle of admiration. “We should have brought Worr,” he said, turning in his saddle as he looked out over the multitude of glossy dams standing cropping the grasses on which their young gambolled and kicked, or lay stretched out, sleeping. The horse-thegn of Kilton would fully appreciate the sight.
Their horses were a great source of wealth to Four Stones, and Hrald had always known this. Apart from their inherent value, they had meant that its warriors could move quickly, either on raids, or to the pitched battles which they had fought. It had been years since those men had thus ridden out, but the herd had steadily been increased.
“We will bring him, tomorrow,” Hrald agreed, “and all choose horses and race.” He canted his head to the clay road they had ridden on, long and flat, one ideal for giving a good horse his head.
They went at a walk, passing before the horses, at times letting themselves in to one pasture or another to view the animals up close. A few stallions were set apart in single paddocks.
“The bay?” Ceric asked. His eyes were moving from horse to horse, but he need say no more than that to Hrald.
It was Sidroc’s great bay stallion Ceric asked after. “He died, at last,” Hrald answered. “A year ago. He must have had more than twenty years.”
He had sired many of the best horses in the herd. Now Hrald led Ceric to where a group of almost-grown colts grazed. Several of them were dark bays, as was Sidroc’s. Hrald pointed to one with a rippling black mane falling over its arched neck. “That is his last colt; I will take him for my own.”
Ceric took in the beast, who shook his head with a snort. “He would be my choice, too,” he said. “You are training him yourself?”
“Yes, with Gunnulf; he is good with horses, if a little reckless.”
Ceric had seen Gunnulf watch them ride away together that morning, and wondered if the young
Dane had felt slighted not to have been asked to join the outing. Onund too had been lingering near Gunnulf, and Ceric had seen them talking as they saddled their own horses and left.
“Gunnulf is your friend,” Ceric said.
“Yes, of course,” Hrald said. “Not – not like you. But a friend.”
Ceric nodded. “I know. Not like us,” he answered. No other friend could be like Hrald, just as Hrald could have no friend like him.
“Onund has not challenged you to wrestle lately,” Ceric now guessed. Hrald was so much bigger that such a match would likely be one-sided from the start.
Hrald laughed. “No. He and Gunnulf wrestle; they are always together.”
As they turned their horses’ heads they saw a lone rider at the furthest end of the joined paddocks. The horses kept there were not those Hrald and Ceric had stopped before, being a mix of heavy draught and cart-horses, ponies, and any lame or injured who were set to heal amongst them. The rider now dropped from the saddle, and reached up to help a second figure down.
“Ashild,” Ceric said, looking to Hrald.
“Picking out a pony for Ealhswith,” Hrald agreed.
They moved along outside the wooden fences until they gained the last paddock. Ashild and Ealhswith were standing by the gate together, Ashild pointing out various animals to her little sister. Ceric’s eyes fell upon the small herd, then rested on a near-white pony.
“Is that the dappled grey you gave me?” he asked Hrald, seeing in the whitened coat of that little beast the pony that Hrald had brought to Ceric to ride back to Four Stones when they had first met.
Hrald grinned. “It is. And that is my black,” he said, pointing out an even fatter pony, now sprinkled with a few white hairs on muzzle and rump.
Ealhswith was the age now that Ceric had been then; it made sense Ashild would choose from the same mounts they had all ridden.
The two had turned to greet the approaching riders. Ashild gave a smile as she lifted her hand. Little Ealhswith seemed more uncertain.
“The grey pony was mine, for a Summer,” Ceric told her after they had swung down. Ealhswith was almost a minikin version of her mother, with straight hair of the palest yellow, a narrow face, and rich blue eyes. Those eyes took Ceric in as he spoke to her, looking gravely up at him.
They were all standing together at the gate, watching the nibbling beasts within move with lowered heads across the grasses. Ceric went on. “He was steady, and never bolted, even when we both got stung by a bee.” He laughed at the memory of that.
There was also the black, and two chestnut ponies as well, and the three stood talking over their differing points, asking Ealhswith which she found most pleasing.
“The chestnut, with the blaze,” Ealhswith finally said.
Ashild was rummaging through her saddle bag, and produced both an apple and a pony halter from its depths. She handed her sister the halter and lead, but held on to the apple. “Then we will go in, and get acquainted,” she said, taking the knife at her side and deftly cutting the fruit into half.
Ceric and Hrald stayed behind as the two sisters entered the paddock. Both the grey and the black pony, guessing a treat might be forthcoming, began ambling towards them. Ealhswith shrank back slightly towards her older sister, but they kept making for the chestnut, Ashild brushing off the two beggars with a pat on the neck. They watched Ashild extend her hand, palm flat before the muzzle of the chestnut, saw the whiskery lips retract and long teeth close around the half apple laying there. Ealhswith’s back was to them, but they saw her give a little start. They could just hear the murmur of Ashild’s voice, soothing both pony and child. They saw Ashild place the remaining apple half on the stretched and open palm of her sister, and the nodding head of the pony lower over it. The reddish head moved away with another nod. Ealhswith pulled back her hand then, wiping it on her skirts.
Ashild slipped the halter over the chestnut’s head, then handed the lead to her sister. They led the pony between them back to where Ceric and Hrald waited.
Once outside the reclosed gate, the two praised Ealhswith for her choice.
“Mul’s boys will ride her for a few days, they are your size and age,” Ashild was telling her. “Then you and I will ride out together, to gather flowers along the stream banks,” she promised.
Hrald had taken the lead from Ealhswith. “I recall this one; she is good and gentle,” he was telling her. To prove his point he took the smallest of hops, swinging one leg over the broad back and pulling himself up. His hanging toes nearly brushed the grass they stood upon. Ealhswith could not help but laugh.
He squeezed his knees about the round barrel of the mare, and she moved forward. Hrald checked her and slid off the pony's back. “Now you,” he offered to his little sister. Ealhswith let herself be swung up on the ruddy back, and Hrald led her about.
Ceric and Ashild stood watching by the fence.
“She seems fearful,” Ceric said, his eyes upon Ealhswith’s fists, which were twisted in the golden mane.
Ashild nodded. “She was bitten, not long ago, by one of my own horses. Ealhswith was standing by his head. Her hair was lying on her shoulder, and he reached out and closed his teeth over it. Not a hard bite; it was fear more than pain. I will help her get over it.”
Ceric was thinking on this, that it was sometimes difficult for those spooked by animals to lose their fear, when she spoke again.
“Mother says Raedwulf will leave tomorrow.”
“Yes, he told me last night.”
Her tone had changed enough that he looked at her closely. She said no more, and he did not know what to follow with.
“He is a good man,” he offered. “Worr is wed to his daughter, and though they came to Kilton only at feast-times, they were always welcome company.”
Worr had told her this when they were hawking, of the close connection between him and the bailiff. Well, she thought, the portion of the trip concerning Raedwulf had proved a success. He had delivered the King's gift, and now was readying himself to return to Wessex, even without news of their guest's marriage prospects. She remembered her mother's prodding of the night before, and thinking on this caused a sudden spark of ire to flare in her breast. She turned on him with her demand.
“The gown…was it chosen by the Lady Modwynn as a wooing gift?”
His face was a blank, looking at her. He shook his head, a sharp, single gesture. He seemed to hear the first part of her question, but not the closing words.
“No, no. I chose it. I wanted to give you the most precious thing I had, to give to a maid.”
He thought of what more he could say, to explain his gift. “It was my mother’s, as I told you.” Then, a moment later, “There was no one like her. And you are like that, too. Different from her, but like no one else.”
The spark of heat she felt ebbed away in the mildness of his response. She waited a moment before she answered.
Ashild had a clear, if girlish memory of Ceridwen, liking her then because her mother loved her, recalling her sadness over the loss of her husband and babe. She remembered too her warmth, something felt even despite the sadness.
“You speak of her as if she were dead.” The stiffness had left her shoulders, and her words were calm, unquestioning.
Ceric again shook his head at her words, but gently. “Not dead,” he answered, in soft voice. “Not by the grace of God. Just…far away.”
Far away, she thought, on an island in the Baltic, with father. And he will not come back. Yet mother does not hate her.
She could not help her next question, any more than she could help her first.
“Did you come here to wed me?”
He was so stunned that he could not at first answer.
“I mean, come to take me away, so that I would be wed to you at Kilton. Bring the bailiff to bargain with Mother and my uncle, set the terms.”
Her tone was not one of disdain, despite her words. It seemed a
simple, if pointed question.
He opened his mouth, but she went on.
“Did you?”
“I – I do not know. No. I did not,” he said, feeling flustered and clumsy.
“So you do not wish to wed me.”
“No. I do,” he countered, feeling desperate at what she was making him say.
Her look was cool, and her words equally so.
“So you wish to wed a Dane.”
He would have laughed if he could; what she was saying sounded almost unreal.
“You are not a Dane,” he answered, skirting her charge.
Her head jerked as if he had slapped her.
“I am a Dane. As is my brother. He will be Jarl here, Jarl of a Danish keep in a Danish Kingdom.”
“You – you are half Dane. As is Hrald.”
“No. I am a Dane. As was my father.”
She was watching his unbelieving face.
“Your mother – she was of Mercia, but half-Welsh,” she told him. “I know this. Do you then call yourself one quarter part Mercian, one quarter part Welsh, one half of – ”
But he had cut her off, and too soon, so eager he was with his answer.
“No,” he insisted, with some little vehemence. “I am Saxon. I am of Kilton, a man of Wessex.”
“And so I am a Dane,” she returned. “And I love this place – Four Stones. More than any of you know. I would not trade it for Kilton, or the richest burh in Angle-land.”
“Ashild –” he began.
“You do not know me. Or us.” Again, it was not a challenge, though as a statement it was definite.
She had turned away, her eyes on her brother as he led the chestnut pony on which Ealhswith sat. Hrald raised his arm to them, all unknowing.
Ceric stood looking at her back, focusing on the ribband she had knotted at the tail of her braid. He had no ready answer to her charge.
Modwynn told him he was too young to wed, anyway. This thought prompted another. When they had ridden back from hawking she had been proud of her bird taking the biggest prize. Now he wondered: Am I not good enough for her, does she seek a bigger prize? All knew he would be but second at Kilton; in a few short years he would pledge himself to Edwin. There would be war-lords of the Danes she could wed; perhaps even kin to King Guthrum. Ashild knew she could not live her life at Four Stones; it was her duty to wed and go to her husband’s hall.
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 9
