Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  They had brushed under some low hanging apple boughs, palming the firm globes in their hands, and now stood by sturdy plum trees. The fruit on several was already dusky with ripeness. Ceric plucked one, and then another, offering the first to her.

  “One day we will eat from a shared plate,” he declared, after they had licked the sweet juices running from their fingers. The tart yielding of the plums’ flesh seemed a happy harbinger just then, spurring him on. “And Modwynn gave me two silver cups. One shall be yours.”

  “A shared plate. A silver cup. I am not so easily bought.” But she was smiling as she said it.

  “You may name your price, Ashild. It will be met. I have told Hrald that.”

  His voice was light, but he was far from jesting. They had paused in their walking, their shoulders almost touching. Eating the fruit with her, standing this close, and alone with her, sparked his desire. He would kiss her if he could, hold her against his body, if even for a moment.

  But she had resumed her walking, passing on the other side of the plum tree from him. “So to you it is as simple as that?”

  “Why should it not be?” he wanted to know, all honesty in his voice. “That morning at the valley of horses you said I did not know you. But all my life I have known you.” He had joined up with her again, and lifted his hand in question. “Our folk have been connected a long time, since before we were born.”

  She stopped, turned to him. The sweetness in her mouth felt of a sudden cloying. “Connected how? Through shed blood and forced marriage, the way all such bonds are made. Look at my own mother. And my real father – my blood-father – died even before I was born, warring in Wessex. He never saw me, nor me him. He did not even know about me. He was killed before he could.”

  Her voice had risen in the telling, though she kept her eyes steady.

  “I know this,” Ceric answered, his tone low.

  She looked at him now, seeing more in his face than his simple words expressed.

  “Cursed be he who took him from me, from mother, from all he had won here,” she ended.

  “He is beyond your curses,” was all Ceric could say.

  Now she stopped. “You know his murderer is dead?”

  Ceric nodded, just once. Too much had been spoken for silence now.

  “It was my uncle, Godwin, who killed him.”

  Her face looked blank, her lips parted as if stilled while trying to speak.

  “Godwin of Kilton killed Yrling,” she repeated. “My father.”

  “Yes. Godwin did it because of my father, his brother Gyric. It was in vengeance for what had happened to him.”

  She was blinking, taking it in. She had been told but half the tale. Her hand had lifted, and she pulled the silver hammer out of her shift.

  “Mother said he died fighting at her home, trying to win it from other Danes who had lessor claim to it.”

  He nodded assent. “Yrling was there at Cirenceaster, fighting, just as she told you. But Godwin was looking for all involved in the blinding of my father. He found him fighting outside the walls of Cirenceaster, and killed him.”

  She swung around to face him. He saw her knuckles had gone white, clasping the hammer of Thor.

  “Then you have brought disaster to me!”

  “It was not me, Ashild,” he said, stung at her words. He would have reached to take her other hand, was not the gulf between them growing wider by the moment. She was leaning back from him, as if he were a serpent or some odious thing. But he must go on, try to make her understand.

  “My uncle sought vengeance against those who had hurt my father. He knew my father had been brought here to Four Stones; my mother told him these things when she and my father arrived at Kilton. Godwin found and killed the Dane Hingvar who burnt out my father’s eyes. Then he learned Yrling was in Wessex, at your mother’s home…”

  “His Thor’s hammer,” she said, still holding it. “Godwin took it as proof of his death…”

  He only nodded. He did not know what more he could say.

  She let the hammer drop upon her breast, obscuring the much smaller cross of gold that hung there. Her hands dropped to her sides, and he saw her fingers curl, almost into fists.

  “Your mother. Your uncle. How much have we suffered here at Four Stones because of them?”

  Now he reached across the void, grasped her forearm, and pulled her close.

  “Ashild. Stop. Godwin was avenging his pledged man. His brother. And my mother – despite how she lives now, Lady Ælfwyn loves her as a sister, and that love is fully returned.

  “Hrald and I – we are as brothers. He means as much to me as Edwin. More, maybe. And you – I do not think I need to tell you what you mean.”

  Her face and voice both challenged him, but not harshly.

  “What do I mean?”

  His grandmother’s words came back to him as he stood there in her bower house, the yellow gown in his hands.

  “You are my choice.”

  The quietness of her voice did not deflect the power of her answer.

  “You are not mine.”

  It felt a hard and deadening blow between his breastbone. He let go her arm. She stepped back from him.

  She had made herself almost gasp by saying it. She wished to twist his words, fling them back at him, and she did. But staring at him she felt her heart turn. It was not Ceric she did not want. It was Kilton, and all Kilton meant.

  “Was I ever your choice?” he asked. He was shaking his head as if trying to make sense of it. “You taunted me, out by the valley of horses, but did not say No. Was it what I told you here, about your father’s death, that makes you say it now?”

  Anger at herself, at him, at deeds done long ago and finally understood welled up within her. Her chin thrust into the air. Rebellion rang in her answer.

  “Our mothers saw us playing as babes and assumed we would one day love each other. Hrald was born a boy. It is assumed he will rule South Lindisse as Jarl. You bring me that gown, rich enough to serve as a queen’s morning-gift. You assume I will be honoured to leave my home for Kilton, be the perfect Peace-weaver between us. You are all making plans based on what you have assumed.

  “Now I hear it was your uncle who killed my blood-father, just as I have known that it is your mother who has kept Sidroc from returning to my mother.”

  And to Hrald and me, she wanted to cry out; but she bit her lip to keep that pain from pouring forth.

  She stared at him, eyes like clouds pushed to the point of storm.

  “Our folk are bound together, you said. They are, but in sorrow and loss.”

  She turned away now; she could not stand before him looking at his open and pained face and tousled hair. Her brow felt hot and her hands as cold as if they lay in spring-water.

  She must order her thoughts, narrow them to one thing only: How could he believe she could go to the hall where her father’s killer once ruled as lord? True, this had been the fate of other maids; it was, she knew, almost the fate of the daughter of Merewala, who ended her own life here at Four Stones rather than be the captive bride of the conqueror. That he had been Yrling, her own father, only muddied everything in her mind.

  Her cool and numb hands had lifted to her face. She held them pressed to her flushed temples. The pounding of the blood beneath her fingertips filled her head.

  Ceric did not know what more to say. The waters had closed over his head, and quickly; he was out of his depth, and felt her swimming strongly, and away, from him. He knew she must learn the truth one day, and wagered it was best coming from him. And she had turned away.

  “Ashild,” he pleaded. “Say you will be my wife.”

  It took a moment, but she turned to him. He saw that water glittered in her eyes, though no tears had yet stained her face.

  “What are you asking?” she said, a question with no answer. “It will never work. Godwin, the Lord of Kilton killed Yrling. Sidroc, the Lord of Fo
ur Stones, killed Godwin. An alliance between enemies – yes. The healing of those wounds – never.”

  He swallowed the rising lump in his throat, and found himself nodding, despite his desire to disprove her. “Only if – only if you will not allow it to,” he promised.

  But she was shaking her head at him.

  “Is there anyone else,” he wanted to know. Perhaps her reluctance ran even deeper; perhaps Hrald did not know all. “Some other man who you would choose?”

  It took courage to ask, and he saw her acknowledgement of that in her face.

  “No other, Ceric.” Her voice had softened, as had her eyes.

  “Já,” she corrected herself now, pointed in her use of the Norse. “Hrald. He needs me.”

  She brushed her hands against her brimming eyes, straightened herself.

  Hrald, he thought. Hrald would have his uncle and all their men around him. Guthrum had approved him; as long as he lived that would stand as well. There were only two women who could be of importance in Hrald’s future: his mother, to guide him until he became a man, and the woman he would wed, in the treasure she would bring him, and in how well she would run his hall. This was Ashild thinking too highly of herself.

  They looked at the other a long moment, distrait defiance in her face, hurt wonder in his. Then she began walking.

  He fell in beside her, recounting in his mind what each of them had said. He would not give her up as easily as this. Her pride was something he would learn to work around; it was part of her, and he could value it for the courage she drew from it. And she knew the truth now, both about her father, and about his desiring of her.

  He felt a way stood open for him. Ashild’s role was to make the best marriage she could for her brother’s sake, and her folk. Why should it not be him? Once her anger had cooled she would come round to seeing the rightness of his choice. And he felt his suit would be upheld by all Ashild cared for and trusted here, just as he had felt his grandmother’s unspoken approval. He would not worry about the hammer around her neck; that would come right too.

  They walked for some time before she glanced over at him. She was surprised to see a slight smile on his lips, as if he were recalling some special jest.

  “Why do you smile?” she found herself asking. She felt far from any mirth.

  He shook his head, but answered. “I was thinking of when you cursed me.”

  Her mouth opened, and she gave a small laugh. She nodded.

  “You had followed Hrald and me out along the stream bed,” he remembered. “We were throwing rocks, looking for frogs, building dams in the water. Then you were there, wanting to join us. We took off, running as fast as we could. You ran after. I recall your skirts were wet and you tied them up about your knees so you could run the better.”

  He watched her nose wrinkle at this unseemly detail.

  “Still, we could not free ourselves of you. We took to the woods, dodging through trees, following a deer-track. Still you came, but we were too fast. Hrald with his long legs was in front. I heard you call out, turned to see you had fallen in a tangle of brambles.”

  Her eyes were steady on his face now.

  “I watched you stand. You wiped your face – you were fighting tears. It was the only time I saw you cry.

  “You stood there, your two fists outthrust towards me, thumbs pointed straight at me.

  ‘I curse you, Ceric, I curse you,’ you called. Then you spoke again.”

  A moment passed, of shared remembrance. It was all fresh again. Her hot tears, Ceric and her brother running deeper into the dark woods, away from her. She broke the silence with her question.

  “Do you recall my curse?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know; you spoke that part of it in Norse.”

  “I will tell you. My curse was: That you should lose your way.”

  Their eyes had locked. It was he who looked down.

  “Well,” Ceric said, to lighten the mood, “I may never be as good at tracking as Worr, but I have always returned home.”

  “And so you shall,” she said, trying to join his effort. “And home is Kilton.”

  There followed two days of rain, most welcome in the Summer dryness, rain which refreshed the limp stalks of barley in the village fields, and the drooping flowers of the bower garden. On the third morning of it Hrald and Ceric sat facing each other at a trestle table in the hall. The game of tæfl was set up on a scored wooden board between them, and they moved the smooth stone pieces across the squares, capturing the other’s men. Worr and the thegns were ranged about this and a second table, playing as well, both at tæfl and at dice. Asberg and Jari joined them, winning their share of the silver the men played for. The others in the hall were mainly women, driven indoors by the rain. Most stood spinning wool, pulling the combed fleece from out of a mass of fluffy roving on their shoulders or caught in wood distaffs. Others sat winding up the spun thread into balls of cream, grey or black. A few young ones dodged about in play of their own, chasing each other around the timber uprights holding the roof beams, and playing jumping games upon the red and white stone floor.

  Despite the rain the three hall doors were open to admit light. Hrald and Ceric sat next that opposite the great horse barn. They heard a man’s sharp whistle and a moment later the jangling of horse-hardware, then the churning of hooves in muddy ground. Their heads turned to see several horseman, two on horses so badly lathered that the rain left streaks on their necks and chests. Mul the stableman and his two sons were already out from the barn, reaching for the horses’ heads. The riders jumped off their mounts and made for the open door.

  All the men within the hall were on their feet to meet them, and the women, though their fingers did not slow, looked over to the door. Two young men, not of Four Stones, came first, followed by Gunnulf and two others also serving as watch-guards that day. Both of the visitors were armed in the way of warriors, and both were tall and well-knit. The elder was not more than five-and-twenty, the second perhaps a little over Hrald’s age.

  All five men were drenched, and shook off their dripping mantles as they came. An attentive serving women untied her apron and handed it to them so they might wipe their hands and faces, while another vanished down the passage to the kitchen yard.

  “Thorfast,” said Hrald, coming to greet the young man in the lead.

  Thorfast held a smoothed stick in his hand, and did not put it down as he embraced Hrald. Asberg and Jari were just behind Hrald, their eyes wide as they waited.

  “I have news from Headleage,” the visitor said, nodding at Hrald, and at his uncle. Ceric was now standing at Hrald’s right arm.

  Thorfast glanced at Ceric, questioning, uncertain if he could speak.

  “This is Ceric of Kilton. My friend. You may speak before him.”

  The young man looked to the second he had ridden with, then spoke. “Our uncle, Guthrum, is dead.”

  Guthrum, King of the Danes, was dead. There was silence. Heads turned, eyes meeting for a moment before shifting to the next man. Worr and Gunnulf, Asberg and Jari, the thegns and Ceric.

  Hrald raised his right hand to his forehead, and crossed himself, a twinge of hidden pain in every movement of his arm. He reopened his eyes.

  “Go and fetch my mother,” he told the serving woman who had returned with ale.

  The men stood there hearing the creaking of the side stairs leading from the weaving room. The Lady of Four Stones soon crossed to them, Burginde at her side, and Ashild also.

  Ælfwyn took in the group of men, her face paling as she approached.

  “Thorfast. We bid you welcome,” she said. She could not keep the tremor from her voice, but her hands were gently clasped before her.

  “My uncle is dead, Lady,” he answered.

  Her lips parted.

  Thorfast saw who she stood with. “Ashild,” he said. Their friendship was made clear to Ceric by Thorfast’s look.

  Ashild’s b
row was creased. “I grieve for you,” she told him. She made a gesture of comfort with her hands, the slightest motion towards him. Ceric felt it, a rush of jealous warmth swelling in his breast.

  “Where was he buried,” Asberg asked now, and all turned to him.

  “At Headleage, two days ago.” Thorfast again looked to his younger brother. “We were there,” he avowed, his tone signifying that Guthrum truly was dead.

  Buried and not burnt, thought Ceric; Guthrum took his Christian vows with more gravity than we assumed. Or was it example to Ælfred, that he should honour the Peace, as Guthrum honoured his adopted faith? He looked to Worr, but the thegn’s eyes were locked upon Thorfast.

  Hrald asked that which all were thinking. “What will happen now?”

  “I cannot say,” Thorfast said. “The lands Guthrum held in his own right have been divided as he asked, between his sons and nephews. The Kingdom…it is not known who will come forward to claim it.”

  The spectre of war between the dead Dane’s sons, and nephews, and the many chieftains Guthrum had unified, could be as close as Thorfast was to them.

  Ælfwyn spoke. “Let us get you dry clothing while your food bags are being filled.”

  “I thank you, Lady. But we cannot stay.” Thorfast held up the stick gripped in his fist. Though darkened with wet, those closest to him could see the knife-marks it bore.

  “You must make your mark, Hrald, to show you and Four Stones have heard this news.”

  Hrald took it, moved to the table, drew his knife. The stick already bore the carvings of three war-chiefs, men or the sons of men who had wrested this corner of Anglia from the Saxons. Now, scarcely more than a lad, he would add his own. He cut in the rune Hagel , and then with the point, his name in the letters of the speech of Angle-land: HRALD.