Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  “Ashild,” he tried.

  It took a moment, but she turned to him. Now that she was looking at him he could not ask her if he were enough. He shifted his eyes down the road.

  “I wish I had the luck of your falcon,” he said, tilting his head toward the hall and its falcon mews. He paused, wanting to quote her exactly. “You said you have made what it wants, to be what you want. So you are both happy. That is what I wish you would give to me.”

  “To make what you want, what I want,” she repeated.

  He knew then it had been the wrong thing to say. He recalled a word his grandmother sometimes used for one with high standards: exacting. Ashild was that, and more. His words ignored what she herself would want.

  He began to speak again, but Hrald was near. He had placed the lead in the hand of Ealhswith, who grasped it like a rein, as he held the pony's head at the halter cheek piece. Both were smiling as they came to them.

  That evening before the hall gathered Ashild rounded the hedge of white-flowered bedstraw that separated her mother’s bower garden from the functions of the work yards. The Sun was lowering in a fading blue sky, and the air carried the spice of mixed mints, rosemary, and lavender. The door to the bower house was open, and Burginde was tipping out the contents of a copper basin of water at the roots of a rose. Herbs had been crushed and added to the wash-water, their dark green leaves slopping out in waves as Burginde tipped it deeper. Ashild ducked her head at her and stepped inside.

  Her mother was within, standing in her shift, combing out her long pale hair. Her comb was of nearly-white pear-wood, delicately toothed, perfectly suited for the fine hair it slipped through. That comb now paused, a rill of flaxen hair arcing in its teeth.

  How pretty she is, thought Ashild. I am a toad beside her.

  Ælfwyn smiled at her eldest. Ealhswith had shown off her new pony when they had returned from the valley, and Ælfwyn had taken pleasure in both daughters’ laughter. She was about to speak of this, but a further look at Ashild made her wait. Her daughter had not yet changed her over-gown from her day’s activities, which she need do when guests sat at meat with them. Ælfwyn hoped whatever it was would not interfere with either of them dressing. Still, she said nothing, and waited.

  Burginde re-entered the house just behind the girl, the empty basin on her hip. She closed the door and looked too at Ashild, and her eyes rolled up to the timbered ceiling; the maid was about to be on about something, that was clear. The nurse set the basin in its corner, wiped her hands, and picked up her spindle.

  Ashild had sat down on her mother’s bed.

  “Tell me of my father,” Ashild asked her. A moment passed as she drew a deep breath. “My own father, not Hrald’s.”

  Ælfwyn’s lips parted; she was used to Ashild’s sudden questions, but this one came without any warning at all. Ashild had, from childhood, been told of Yrling, but had never before asked about him. Ælfwyn lowered her comb. Ashild sat looking at her, her face open, even hopeful.

  Ælfwyn took her own steadying breath and began. She spoke slowly, and gave the question the thought it deserved.

  “He was, as you know, Sidroc’s uncle, but there was not a great number of years between them,” she began. Her eyes shifted a moment, in memory.

  “When I met him I was frightened of him; he was forbidding. I was your age, no older.” The blue eyes returned to her daughter’s face. I was the same age as you, she thought; but I was somehow younger.

  “He could be fierce and harsh at times,” Ælfwyn went on. “But he was never harsh with me. When we were alone he treated me gently. He gave me many gifts, beautiful things, the things I have given at Oundle, for his soul.”

  She thought what more she could say. “He did things that looked strange to me, he would let his men fight, almost to the death, and not stop them in their fighting.”

  She had lifted her eyes, and they met those of Burginde. Her returning gaze told Ælfwyn that her nurse recalled the night Yrling had watched Sidroc almost kill his cousin Toki, and had done nothing.

  “He was like an eagle,” Ashild said. She knew enough of birds of prey to name him thus.

  It was apt, and fit his manner too.

  “Yes,” her mother agreed. “You could say that; he had eyes, and a bearing like that. As I knew him more I understood him better. By the time of his death I had learnt to truly care for him.”

  “Where…where is he buried?”

  Ashild knew her father fell outside the gates of Cirenceaster; she did not know more. Nor did her mother. When Ælfwyn returned to her destroyed home to seek her own father’s grave she gave scant thought of anything beyond this.

  He was flung into a pit, a vast grave of broken and bloodied Danes, or burnt upon a crude pyre with many others, Ælfwyn was saying to herself.

  “He was burnt, with honour, by Sidroc,” was what she said to Ashild. It was perhaps the first time she had lied to her daughter, but the truth would be terrible to hear.

  Ashild had lowered her chin.

  “Is he in Hell?” Ashild asked. Her voice was as soft as a murmur.

  Burginde’s spindle gave a whirring bump as it hit the floor. She clucked loudly as she squatted to retrieve it, her forehead creased in concern for the girl.

  “No, no,” said her mother, coming and sitting down next her on the featherbed. She had her arm around her daughter’s shoulder, and pulled her to her a moment.

  I do not know that, Ælfwyn thought; the Church teaches he is in Hell.

  “He died trying to protect your family – your father and mother, and your sisters,” Ashild said. “That should count for something in the weighing of souls.”

  “’Tis true,” chimed in Burginde, stepping nearer. “And who knows that the Dane would not have accepted the True Path if his life had not been cut short.” Through all these long years the nurse had never stopped referring to Yrling in this way. Her broad brow was now furrowed in thought. She stuck her tongue out, and to one side, as she considered this, then made her decision. “If the final Judging be a Hallmoot, and a just one, such things ought to count.”

  Ælfwyn gave Ashild a squeeze, and Burginde a grateful look. Their reasoning was perhaps faulty, but she herself had couched the matter this way to Ashild, putting the best face on Yrling’s actions.

  In truth, Ælfwyn did not know if Yrling would have killed her own father to gain Cirenceaster for himself. He felt he had claim to it, and was in a rage to beat back the competing Dane Healfdene who had arrived before him. Then Godwin of Kilton had appeared, surprising them all, racing across the field of battle calling out Yrling’s name…

  “What…what makes you think of these things?” Ælfwyn asked. She spoke almost in her daughter’s ear, her voice just above a whisper.

  But Ashild shook her head. It was something she felt within her breast, this lack, yet she could not name it. Yrling had died before her birth; she had had no man known to her as father save Sidroc. Yet she knew herself to be different from Hrald and Ealhswith, different in looks and temperament, and also in possession of something more. She had a kind of ardent vitality burning within her, making her restless and questioning. She could only name it as her true father’s blood; half of what coursed through her body was his.

  Ceric and Hrald did not return with Worr to the valley of horses next day. At table that night Ælfwyn suggested that as the bailiff was leaving on the morrow, all who wished should ride with him as far as Oundle.

  “It is a pleasant ride, almost due South, and will not take you out of your way; and I would show Ælfred’s gifts to Abbess Sigewif before you, so that you might tell him of her joy over them,” she told him.

  Ceric and Hrald were eager to go, both for the pleasure of the ride, and to join in the send-off. Worr, in his role as Ceric’s man, would of course ride with him; that and for the sake of seeing his father-in-law on his way. But Worr also wished to travel again to Oundle for its own sake. The thegns would
go as well, and Hrald would choose a few men to ride with him. The evening ended early, so that all who would make the trek could be fresh at dawn.

  Ashild slept in in the house of her aunt and uncle. Beneath her box-bed was a small wooden chest she had not opened for years. That night she lay awake in her alcove until the rest of the house had quieted, then slipped out behind her woollen curtain. She needed no lit cresset to find the chest in the gloom. She pulled it towards her and opened it, her hands sorting through the contents, mostly keepsakes from her childhood. There in one corner she found it, in the small linen pouch it had been given to her in. She drew it from the bag, feeling the silver chain run along her palm, dropping link by link almost like water, or a living thing.

  Attached to that chain was an amulet, her father Yrling’s hammer of Thor. Squatting on her heels in the dark she slipped the braided chain, cool and heavy, over her neck. Her right hand closed around the hammer. As a gesture it seemed natural, and the thick silver talisman in her hand felt welcoming. She pushed the wooden chest back, and rose and climbed into her bed. She lay there, the hammer on her breast, her hand over it.

  Ashild was everyday surrounded by what Yrling had won: Four Stones itself. It was the only home she had known, and she loved with ardent fervour its stone-floored hall, clustered village, and broad and leafy landscapes. This was what Yrling had left to her.

  At the same time she had almost nothing of his. His body was burnt in another Kingdom. His weapons had not come back. Her mother had given every jewel from his hand to Oundle. This one thing remained, the amulet he had worn each day. Her mother had somehow claimed it, and had given it to her while she was yet a small girl, for a remembrance of the father whose face she had never seen.

  Lying there she felt something from the warming metal. She knew from Sidroc, him she had called her father, of the guiding spirit that each family shared: the fylgja. The fylgja was a single woman-spirit, dedicated to each member of the same family, and served to guide, to guard, and to advise in time of danger and uncertainty. Heeding one’s fylgja could mean the difference between a wise choice or a foolish one, even between life or death. The fylgja was outside us, following closely behind, whispering advice, pointing the way if one would but turn and look. Holding the warm hammer in her hand she felt that if such a spirit could take residence in anything, it would be in that which was precious, and worn over the heart.

  She pressed her hand tighter over the talisman, and tried to summon her father’s face before her. She knew she shared her true father’s fylgja, and was therefore singled out by her. That made all the difference.

  “Mjolnir,” she whispered, naming the hammer of the God Thor. Mjolnir meant ‘miller, crusher’, and that dreaded weapon, once flung, always returned to the God’s hand. Just as her father’s hammer returned to her.

  Chapter the Sixth: A Shared Sorrow

  IN the morning Ceric stood with Hrald outside the big stable. Hrald had had a few horses brought down from the valley herd, and had persuaded his friend to ride one on the journey to the abbey. The grey morning light was being warmed by the broadening streaks of what promised to be a hot Sun overhead, though the air was still cool enough that the snorted breath of the horses milling in the paddock showed as steam. Ceric picked out a well-fleshed red chestnut with a tapering dark muzzle, and tried him in the turn-out paddock at the stable’s side. Hrald too chose a new mount, setting aside his usual bay for another. They jumped down, satisfied with both horses, and began walking back to the hall to collect the packs they would take.

  Ashild was standing with Gunnulf not far from the iron-strapped door to the hall. As he neared them Ceric heard they spoke in Norse. Gunnulf was smiling, his blue eyes glinting at her. When he tossed his head it sent his yellow hair back upon his shoulders. He had dropped his saddle bags at his feet as he spoke; Ceric knew Hrald had invited him to join the ride. The Norse Ceric had learnt in Gotland had somewhat receded from his brain, but it was Gunnulf’s easy tone and manner with Ashild that made him fix his eyes upon him.

  “Hej,” Ceric greeted them both. Gunnulf cocked his head at him, but grinned.

  Ceric let his eyes drop a moment down to the young Dane’s waiting saddle bags, as if to suggest he might now take them up again, but Gunnulf did not.

  Ashild was looking at Ceric, a sort of amused half-smile. She had not a horse near her, nor did he see any packs.

  “Will you ride in the waggon with your mother and Burginde?” he asked. It surprised him that she would choose this; he well knew that as a girl she had hated the confinement and jolting of any wheeled cart. But then Hrald had told him Ealhswith and Eanflad were going as well; she would have company aplenty.

  He glanced past Hrald’s shoulder, to where the readied waggon stood. Its team was being harnessed, which to better keep time with the riders, and for the lightness of its human cargo, would be that of two horses.

  “I am staying here,” she told him, with a slight shake of her head.

  Now Hrald touched the shoulder of Gunnulf, leading him off to where their horses stood tied at the paddock rail. Ashild and Ceric watched them as they went, then turned to the other.

  “I wish you would come,” Ceric answered, his disappointment in his voice. The day promised to be another fine one; he had imagined Ashild riding alongside Hrald and him in the bright Sun. “It would be just as it was that Summer I spent with you, when we rode several times to visit the abbess.” Those rides, coupled with the adventure of sleeping in the great monk’s hall at Oundle, had been some of Ceric’s favourite times of that long stay.

  “With Hrald and Mother both away, it is best if I remain,” she said.

  Her tone was serious enough that he looked at her carefully, to see if any jest lay behind her words. The land was at peace; even given the rumour that Guthrum might be ailing. She could not truly believe that Four Stones lay open to danger, or that her Uncle Asberg could not meet any threat which could, of a sudden, arise. Her blue-grey eyes were placid, but her mouth, set in its slight smile, was firm.

  She seemed to read his thought, and revealed this in her answer. “Uncle is a good warrior, or he would not have been named second here,” she recounted. “I could wish for no one better at my side in a scrape. But action is one thing. Reasoning is another. Men like Uncle are best when challenged by reason, when someone is near at hand to question their choices.”

  He was silent, taking both her, and her words, in. At his age Ceric was not used to judging his elders. Ashild knew no such restriction, and had not kept herself from sharing it with him. And he knew, as soon as she had summed him, that she had judged her uncle rightly. Her judgement of herself also gave him pause. He had for an instant to fight back the smile he felt forming at the corners of his mouth, part of him wanting to tease her for holding herself in such esteem. Looking at her face the mirth faded as quickly as it arose. For some reason an image of the Lady of Kilton flashed before him, his grandmother, Modwynn. Perhaps the kernel of her wisdom took root far back, when she was no older than Ashild.

  They had held the other’s eyes for a long moment. When he nodded, it was enough. He understood, and said just that.

  “But I still wish you might be there,” he went on. He was smiling now, not at her words, but at a shared memory. “I remember that long table where we sat, copying out our letters, smearing ink.”

  She let out a little sigh. “The table of many frustrated tears,” she said, and gave a low laugh. “Some good it did Sigewif, for all her efforts.”

  Again he found himself surprised by her words. “But you read,” he prompted.

  “I read,” she allowed. “But I am not good at writing. Hrald is much the better at that. And somehow I always feel reminded of this when I see the good abbess.”

  There was the sound of voices coming from around the corner of the hall, and they looked to see Ashild’s mother approach, a handled wicker basket in each hand. She smiled at them both. Burginde was just
behind her, arms laden, heading to the waiting waggon.

  “There you are,” Ælfwyn said to Ashild. “We are nearly off. Your aunt could have used your help in the kitchen yard, packing up the food gifts,” she chided, but gently. Æthelthryth too was staying behind, and between provisioning the party and bringing food to contribute to the abbey’s larder it had been a busy morning.

  Mother and daughter were loving, and close, Ceric knew this; but now he thought to try to ascertain how fully the elder understood the younger. He did it with a single question.

  “Ashild tells me she will not join us to Oundle.” He was smiling as he said it, but allowing his disappointment to sound, as well.

  Ashild’s eyes had narrowed slightly at his words, watching him.

  “It is her pleasure to stay, or come,” her mother answered, and so lightly that Ceric saw the Lady of Four Stones did not grasp her daughter’s concern for the keep’s security.

  He nodded. He knew something of the maid her own mother did not, and felt the slightest thrill of warmth within him, as if this knowledge somehow brought him closer to Ashild.

  “What – what is that necklace you wear,” Ælfwyn now asked her daughter, still smiling. The maids of the hall were known to sometimes share their jewellery, just as Ælfwyn had with her own sisters when she was young. “Something new?”

  Ceric saw the chain for the first time, one of braided silver. It was tucked inside Ashild’s linen shift, but a line of the chain shown at the collar of the white fabric. Over her shift, laying just above where her blue over-gown rose, sat the small golden cross Ashild had ever worn, suspended from its delicately-wrought golden chain.