Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  “Your kinship to your sainted brother displays itself, in your learning and in your works,” Raedwulf told her. It was no idle praise; those in power at Witanceaster and throughout Wessex knew the achievements of the abbess.

  She smiled, moving a large and well-formed hand as if to damp down his words. As her brother’s fame grew, some claimed the miracle of healing from praying near where his body lay. She had sometimes herself spoken to him in private devotion, not in prayer, but in plea for counsel. Yet the flesh and blood memory of her older brother never left her.

  “I knew Edmund as a King, as a brother, and before that as a play-mate,” she returned.

  Ale had been brought, with cups for all. One of the shy and silent novices poured it out, foaming and brown, into the curving pottery cups. Its savour was such that the bailiff made compliment, as did Worr.

  Sigewif glanced at the ewer, then spoke into the novice’s ear before turning back. “I think perhaps you would like to meet the brewer,” she told her guests. Ælfwyn could not suppress a smile at this.

  The novice returned, bringing another with her. It was Sparrow.

  She was still small and brown, and marked with that quickness which had given her her name. The angles of the bones of her face remained sharp, but there was a new expressiveness to her, the eyes calmer, the lips more readily bowing into a smile. After dipping her head, hands clasped, to the abbess she went to Ælfwyn, curtsying deeply to the woman who had acted as her sponsor, smiling her welcome at her sister and children. Then she saw Worr.

  She beamed at him, and then without warning was wiping tears from her eyes, those of joy. Nearly five years had passed since they had sailed together on three long voyages to reach Lindisse, and Oundle. Worr had treated her as a little sister, taught her her first words of the speech of Angle-land, and surrendered her to the abbess with well-wishes. He was now smiling back at her.

  “Bova, I think you recall,” Sigewif was saying. She had long ago restored Sparrow’s given name to her, that of an early saint of Frankland.

  Having Worr before her made fresh the day he had appeared, travel-weary but good-spirited, with the child. Sigewif had watched the girl fall upon her knees before her. She had laughed and raised her to her feet, lifting the tear-streaked face by the chin. The young thegn had been telling his story the while, but the girl’s face and glittering eyes were all Sigewif needed. She smiled and gestured her to stand. The girl clung to her outstretched hand, covering it in kisses. All Sigewif could do was soothe her with a few words. Then the girl unclasped her right fist and held out something precious: a coin of pure gold. With her gestures she bid Sigewif accept it, almost forcing it into her hand, as Worr explained that the Lady Ceridwen had provided the girl’s dower-fee so that she might be well cared for in her old age.

  It was a huge dowry sum, one a King’s daughter might bring. It would, for one thing, assure her a cell of her own; she would not sleep in an alcove in the women’s hall like the poorer nuns and novices. And the abbess was soon aware that the safety of a closed door meant much to the girl. When she had learnt enough of the speech of Angle-land, Bova told her why, came to her after Lauds one morning with tear-streaked face after having ridden a fearsome night-mare. Cradled in the abbess’s arms she poured out the abuse she had suffered at the hands of many men, her sobs choking her words. She felt deep shame at what had befallen her, and utterly unworthy to take a place amongst so many women whom she already regarded as holy.

  Sigewif’s response surprised her. She listened with calm face, her eyes as mild as if hearing a small child confess some minor fault. When Bova had cried herself dry the abbess took both her small hands in her own large and firm ones. “You are as unsullied as a new-born babe,” she assured the girl. “In the eyes of God you are as pure and as loved as any infant ever was. You have only to prove worthy of that love, by the love you give to Him, and his Blessed Mother.”

  Bova lifted her head, and with eyes shining from more than her tears went on with her morning. Her vocation was clear to the abbess, and soon she professed as a novitiate. She was treated as any novice; it was best for her as she learnt the order and the place. Bova spent time working in the fields, gardens, kitchen, and barns, getting to know the sisters and serving folk. It was in the brew-house where her true talent had been revealed. Ale was drunk by all, and every day, yet brewing was such a temperamental art that the quality of the ale could vary widely week by week. The abbey’s brewster had been an elderly nun, whose failing eyesight and faltering hands had caused much waste in spoiled ale. Bova was sent to aid her mainly in the lifting and carrying of crocks and the tending of yeast-twigs. The girl’s time spent with Rannveig at the brew-house on Gotland served her well, and soon the crocks in the brewing shed were filled with ale of such savour that the old nun was content to drowse in a corner while Bova ground, measured, and stirred. No novice was perhaps more modest than she, but knowing her skill was valued gave her a deep feeling of belonging.

  Bova was looking at them all, and now seemed to recognise Ceric. She glanced at the abbess, who nodded her consent, bidding her speak.

  “You are Mistress’s son,” she said, her voice almost lisping in its softness. “It was Mistress, and Tindr, who named me for the little bird.” She was smiling at this memory, and cupped her hands, as if to indicate a nest. “Please, when you see her again tell her I am well, ever grateful to her, and that I remember them all in my prayers each night.”

  See her again, thought Ceric. I would that were not so difficult. Still, he smiled back, and nodded.

  She looked to Hrald. “Perhaps one day you and Hrald will return to the island with a monk or priest, and bring to them the Word of God.” She gazed so pointedly at first one, and then the other, that they looked to each other.

  Father is heathen, Hrald was thinking, and happy in his belief. And Ceric’s mother too. They have heard the Word of God, and turned their backs on Him. It is terrible to know I will never see him in life, and worse to know that after death we will be eternally apart…

  The two youths locked eyes for a moment, unable and unwilling to explain, sealing their shared knowledge with a simple nod between them.

  After the young brewster returned to her shed, Ælfred’s psalm book was displayed and remarked over by the abbess. A simple meal was taken by her guests, and the hour of parting for one of them neared. Raedwulf’s well-watered horse stood in the yard awaiting the bailiff; the others would remain the night at Oundle.

  They were now all within the chamber Sigewif used as writing room. Ceric had his palm flat upon the worn surface of the table at which he and Hrald and Ashild had copied out their letters, and was thinking of Ashild’s words of the morning. He thought he knew what she had meant about being in Sigewif’s presence; the abbess had a way of looking at you that made you think she almost read your thoughts.

  “Bailiff Raedwulf. A walk in our garden would refresh you before you start on your way,” Sigewif offered. She had noted the man’s expression as he had watched the Lady of Four Stones turn the pages of the Psalter, and guessed he had need to speak to her. Time was short, but she could give the place. She looked across the table to her benefactress. “Lady Ælfwyn knows its contents as well as I, and will be your guide.” Her face bore the same slight smile it often wore, but there was a subtle pointedness in her directive, which made both named rise.

  “I will see you by the gate,” Worr told his father in law.

  The two made their way through the hall and out the side door to the garden. A few nuns and novices worked there, squatting and bending amongst the beds, pulling weeds or gathering herbs for cooking or the Simples chest. But they were intent on their work, moving silently between the bordered plants. The Sun had passed its highest point, the air was still and warm, and flowers reaching from the green mass of foliage shook from the prying attentions of hovering bees.

  “I thank you for riding with me this far,” Raedwulf said. A cloud was p
assing overhead, at times muting the colours of the flowers and herbs, then moving on to restore their full and Sun-lit brilliance. “Though it is easy to see Oundle’s many attractions,” he added, tilting his head across the garden and its blossoms to the stone church.

  “You are more than welcome,” she returned. “No man should come so far without meeting a woman such as Sigewif.” She bent down to pinch a sprig of costmary where it grew at her feet. He watched as she crushed the tender leaves between her palms, releasing its sweet and minty odour.

  As she opened her hands a ray of light struck them, as if she held the Sun there.

  He could have spoken of the abbess here, adding his praise to that of hers, or made slight of his long journey by reminding her it was Ælfred’s business he rode on. But standing there and looking upon her pleasantries failed him.

  She had dropped her hands, those hands which had held the Sun.

  He would say one thing more, and did so, quietly. It was to merely, and once again, call her by her name.

  “Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster,” he said.

  He would allow himself no more than this. Greeting her in her hall upon his arrival, all he could do was bow his head and utter these words, when he had wanted to go down on one knee before her. This, despite the heat, the dust in his throat, the sudden and pressing need he felt to present the King’s gift; to be not he himself standing before her, but an unknown messenger on an impersonal errand.

  Her steps had slowed, and now she stopped. She could not move, and only felt the dryness of her mouth.

  “Nothing can recall those early days to us,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

  Now he must say it.

  “You are wrong, my lady.” He turned to her, his steady eyes fixed upon her pale blue ones. “Your very face recalls it. I have only to look at you and be two and twenty once again.”

  He let out the breath he had almost been holding, releasing it with his words.

  She turned her face now, away from his mild eyes which searched her own.

  She thought of the afternoon in her garden, of how after he had left her she had gone within her bower house and beheld her face in her disc of polished silver. She had seen Ælfwyn as she was now. Today, in another garden, she felt he held a disc of magic in his hand, one that showed her herself, and him, too, but as they were.

  To be desired for her own sake, not because she brought treasure to a conquering Dane, or because later another Danish war chief had needed her to run his hall…

  It was hard to compass. She thought on the day she had first seen Gyric. Her eye had fallen on one fair-haired, and he had returned her look. Another set of eyes, under darker hair, also looked her way; these she had not seen. If Raedwulf’s eye had found hers first…He survived that battle unscathed, and many more after that, it seemed. He was of good family.

  She stopped herself. It mattered not. Her father and grandsire too had made up their minds. She would go to Yrling. She would never have been given the chance to know happiness with Raedwulf.

  She forced herself into the present day, looked at him. “Why – why tell me this now?” It was barely a question, more a wonderment.

  “Perhaps to be free of it.” He shook his head at himself in correction. “No. Something the wise say: A shared sorrow is a lessened sorrow. Perhaps that.” He laughed the slightest bit at his own words.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “It all has been a great sorrow.” She lifted her head, but away from him. “Not that good has not come from it. My children. This place, Oundle. The blessings of peace. And I know I had my own share in drawing good from the evil of our times. I cannot gainsay that.”

  He was quick to answer her, though his voice was low and kind. “Once more you underestimate your role. Yours has been the steadying hand here in Lindisse, through all manner of upheaval, through war and then the long process of rebuilding during the Peace. Through the two Danes you wed. Through the time you have been alone, holding Four Stones for your son.”

  He was looking at those hands as he spoke, long-fingered, slender, unadorned by any rings. His words slowed, and his tone fell even gentler in her ears.

  “Let me end by saying, I admire you. And to repeat what I have before told you: how glad I have been to look upon your face once more.”

  She turned back to him at this, and her lips parted, but she could not speak. She felt rooted to the spot. He took one long look.

  He left her then. She remained in the garden, did not wave to him as he rode off.

  She stayed upon the graveled paths, pacing as slowly as if she were at prayer. This is but a fresh sorrow, she thought. Learning now that my life could have been with you, in Defenas…

  A shared sorrow is not lessened; not for me. It is deepened.

  Chapter the Seventh: A Tale Written by Two

  RAEDWULF was four days out when he was stopped. He had hewn to the same roads and pathways he had travelled with the men of Kilton, picking up the track shortly after he headed West from Oundle. Travelling alone and with a fast horse beneath him he had made good time.

  He heard the whistle before he saw the men. Its shrillness turned his head across the dry grassland. He saw three horses and three men, resting near the bank of the meandering stream he and his horse had stopped to drink at not long ago at an earlier bend. Two of the men were already pulling themselves back into their saddles; the third still had his fingers to his mouth. Raedwulf reined his horse in and waited.

  Three Danes, all young. They bore their long knives at their sides, and each carried a spear, but none had swords. They had come of age in a time of peace, giving them neither the opportunity to pick one up off the battlefield, nor to win enough silver to trade to a weapon-smith to forge one. No matter, thought Raedwulf. One can die just as swiftly from a spear-thrust.

  His own weapons were on full display, bright-hilted sword in its brown leather baldric; a seax with a blue lapis-stone in its pommel-tip spanning his belly; light throwing spear lashed to his saddle; round, blue-and-white painted shield hung on his back. His helmet was in his far-side saddle bag. He trusted he would not need it.

  He raised his hand to them as they neared. He had the chance to set the tone of their discourse by speaking first, and took it.

  “I greet you in the name of Ælfred, King of Wessex, and ride here by consent of Guthrum, King of East Anglia.”

  His tone was firm and even, the safe-conduct already in his hand.

  The three eyed him. He had spoken slowly, and as clearly as he could. Up close he saw that one was no more than Ceric’s age, the other two closer to Worr’s. The two elder might be brothers, with the same light brown hair and deep blue eyes. The younger had short-cropped yellow hair, and was leaning forward over his saddle bow. The youngest shot a look at the others before returning his eyes to the bailiff.

  Raedwulf’s own eyes told him much. Their clothing was worn, their horses a notch better than nags. Raedwulf knew they were even then gauging the worth of his own. He found himself squeezing his knees the smallest amount, felt the firm leather under the wool of his leggings. His horse responded by lifting his head, and Raedwulf stilled him with his rein. His mount could out-run those of the Danes, but could not outrun a thrown spear.

  “Whose men are you?” he tried next, giving them the courtesy of considering them trained warriors.

  They looked at each other, and one of the brown-haired brothers spoke. “We are Hord’s men,” he said. “And you are on Hord’s land.”

  “Of that I am aware,” Raedwulf answered. He had never heard of Hord, one of many petty war-lords who had claimed tracts of Anglia. He extended the tube of hardened leather. “I bear a letter from Ælfred,” he said again, “and travel by leave of your King, Guthrum.”

  He was pulling out the parchment when the young yellow-haired one spoke.

  “Guthrum is dead.”

  Raedwulf saw the heads of the two older snap round to look at the speak
er. He glanced at the young one’s face, noted the flashing eyes, but saw too a quiver at the upper lip. He was bluffing.

  “Dead,” the bailiff scoffed. “Who told you that? I have seen him, not two days ago. We sat at meat and he drank half a cask of mead. He was as hale as I.”

  All three were watching him. “You could not have come from Headleage in two days,” one of the brothers pointed out.

  “Nor did I,” Raedwulf agreed. “Guthrum was at Snotingaham, on his way back from Jorvik.”

  He was close to having them, he felt. “I carried Ælfred’s news to Guthrum, of the laws concerning trade between our Kingdoms.”

  Trade between Kingdoms was onerous, demanding witnesses to every transaction, and the requisite that all merchants be prepared to offer up hostages as surety of honest conduct. Laws concerning trade could be of little concern to these three, and the banal nature of his proclaimed mission might shift their interest away from thoughts of mischief.

  He had the parchment open now, and nudged his horse closer to those of the brothers.

  “This is Guthrum’s mark, signed after his demand that I be left unmolested in his Kingdom.” He was pointing to a single dark letter, simply the word ‘and’, suspended in the several lines penned on the creamy parchment. He knew by their squinting faces none of the three could read. They did not spend long looking.

  “You go from King to King, and yet alone?” posed the other brother.

  “For speed’s sake, I do.” He re-rolled the safe-conduct, but kept it in hand. “And in every chieftain’s land I have been unimpeded. But if you must, take me to Hord. It will delay your King’s message to Ælfred, but I think Hord will accept Guthrum’s anger.”

  The two brothers glanced at each other, unwilling to take that upon their heads.

  “What if instead we kill you now,” the yellow-haired youngster asked.

  The rolled lambskin flexed slightly in Raedwulf’s fist.

  He dropped his eyes a moment to the darkness of his horse’s mane, then raised them to face the grin on the youngster’s face.