Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  He stood up and handed the stick back to Thorfast.

  “Your horses – we will give you fresh ones,” he said.

  Thorfast nodded. “I thank you. We will not kill them in the riding; we have only two stops more before we turn for Headleage. By then all of us who rode should be back.” He and his brother were already wrapping themselves in their wet mantles. “I will send word when I can.”

  The men of Four Stones filed out into the stable yard after the two. Worr and the thegns remained in the hall, their concern creasing their brows. Ceric went with Hrald, but held back a space from him, lest Thorfast should wish to speak in private. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but the grey sky was over-clouded in scudding billows, with that tang in the damp air that foretold another drenching to come. Inside the open doors of the barn Mul and his boys were transferring the kit and trappings of Thorfast and his brother to two fresh horses.

  Ceric watched Thorfast lace the telling-stick into one of his saddle bags. Both visitors swung up, as did Gunnulf and the two Danes he had arrived with. Thorfast and his brother said something in Norse to Hrald and Asberg and Jari, a few words only. Then they were off, the messengers to the next keep, Gunnulf and his brethren back to their post. Ælfwyn stood looking after them from the side doorway, and Asberg and Jari went to her, signaling to Hrald they would wait for him in the hall.

  Ceric now joined Hrald where he stood just within the stable. The smell of horses and damp hay and wet leather hung about them. One of the many tortoiseshell barn cats slunk into view, only to vanish, scrabbling in a pile of bedding straw after a mouse. Ceric’s eyes followed the line of stalls into the gloom of the stable’s far and murky end; nothing was clear. He turned back to Hrald to find Ashild hurrying across the muddy ground to them.

  The three traded glances. Ceric could read the worry on Hrald’s face, and thought he must look the same. Ashild could not keep her brow from pinching.

  None of them spoke. Then Ceric broke the silence.

  “I should leave.”

  Ashild answered first. “Nothing has happened yet.”

  Ceric gave a shake of his head. “There are six of us. Only six.”

  Hrald’s eyes had gone from his sister to his friend. Now he spoke. “I will ride with you, take my best men. We will serve as escort to the Wessex border.”

  Ashild was quick in her reaction. “You cannot go,” she told her brother. “Send an escort, já. But you must stay here. You must.”

  Hrald let out a breath, saw the rightness in her urging. “Já,” he conceded. Four Stones must not be left without its heir. All the Jarls and smaller chieftains were vulnerable now, and would stay at their seats of power, watching and protecting. He spoke now to Ceric.

  “Four Stones has many men. But other jarls have as many. If a group of war-chiefs, or Guthrum’s sons, band together…”

  Hrald’s voice trailed off, as his thoughts had. He could not speak of this now, of Guthrum’s Kingdom dissolving, of having to fight off other Danes, or even Ælfred and his own son Edward, should they wish to try and claim all in the disorder which might follow.

  They entered the hall to see the thegns already at work packing up their kit. Worr stood with Asberg and Jari, their heads together. A look from Asberg bid the three approach.

  “The stone road-ways will have men upon them, likely as not,” Asberg was telling Worr. He spoke of the straight roads built long ago by the Caesars, the fastest way to return to Wessex. “Best to take a northerly track. It will be longer, but you will meet fewer travelling upon them.”

  Hrald stepped a little forward. “You are six,” he told Worr. “We will send six with you, as escort to the border of Anglia.” He spoke with decision; they were his men to send.

  Asberg and Jari looked at him, nodding their approval. Hrald had given his first command.

  “Ælfred will hear of your help,” Worr promised. He canted his head to the thegns working behind them, bidding Ceric do the same.

  Ashild knew her mother would be already in the kitchen yard, seeing to their provisioning. She would go and tell them that a troop of twelve would soon ride.

  Hrald turned with Ceric to where his packs were stowed. Their abandoned game sat upon the table; Hrald had been winning. He looked up to see his absent father’s shield hanging on the wall, by the raven banner embroidered by his mother.

  It was mid-afternoon when the riders set off, six men of Kilton, six of Four Stones. A cloud-burst had cleared the skies, leaving only a fine mist in the air, but the number of horses tethered by lines outside the horse barn had churned the soil into fetlock-deep mud. Hrald had forced two extra horses upon Ceric, two of his best. He had meant to give his friend a young bay stallion in thanks for the ring-shirt Ceric had given him. Now at parting he pressed the reins of a second mount into Ceric’s hands as well, a strong, arched-necked chestnut gelding loaded with food-packs. They need take as much provender as they could carry, he reasoned. It would speed their way, and keep them from having to show themselves unnecessarily.

  Gunnulf and Onund had asked to be part of the escort, but with Asberg and Jari’s help Hrald named only older and experienced fighters, chosen for their knowledge of the terrain and of the men they might come across. The safe passage of the godson of the King of Wessex must be assured; Four Stones must not fail in that, even beyond the borderlands of South Lindisse.

  They left in the same haste in which they prepared. Hrald knew Ceric had asked to see Wilgot, and after that short visit to the priest’s small house Ceric had placed a slip of parchment in Hrald’s hand. “Give this to Ashild after I leave,” he bid Hrald.

  Back in the treasure room Hrald helped his friend roll and stuff things into his packs. They were emptier now.

  “The ring-shirt,” began Hrald, wishing to say something fitting in thanks for such a gift. It was laid carefully by in the chest next the store of fine swords.

  “Do not get it dented,” Ceric answered.

  Hrald’s dark lashes fell over his blue eyes. “Yours, either,” he returned.

  He would have liked to say something more, felt he must at least speak about Ashild. One day she would journey to Kilton; Hrald felt certain of that. After that he might never see her again. He would need to be happy in the knowledge she was there, protected and rich, the wife of Ceric of Kilton.

  “Kilton,” Hrald said instead. Ceric looked up at him over the saddle bag he was stuffing.

  Hrald shook his head. “Nothing. I will never see it, that is all.”

  He could not imagine how he could travel thence, not when his father had killed the Lord of the place. His father’s act would shadow him, always, at Kilton and perhaps throughout Wessex.

  Ceric’s hand had stopped in mid-air, the tunic he was holding hovering for a moment before being thrust into the leathern pack. He would not be Lord of Kilton; he could not make Hrald welcome.

  He gave his head a shake, spoke with firmness.

  “I will be back, for Ashild. And to see you.”

  Hrald helped him with his sword-baldric; their healing arms still pained them in the lifting.

  “The sword of Godwulf,” Hrald repeated, watching Ceric position the scabbard, the brilliant gold of the blade’s hilt gleaming against the darkness of his clothing.

  “One day it will be called the sword of Ceric,” his friend predicted.

  Ceric nodded, then grinned.

  Once back in the body of the hall, ale was passed. Wilgot moved amongst the departing men, blessing each of them. The Lady of Four Stones did not try to hide her tears as she embraced Ceric. Ashild stood at her side, grave-faced, trying to smile. She gave Ceric her hand; in the crowded hall he could hope for no more than this.

  “Be well,” she bid him.

  He gave her hand a squeeze, studying her face. He felt the warmth of her fingers in his own, those fingers which had pushed the steel needle through his flesh as her tears fell.

  As they
rode off, both Ceric and Worr turned in their saddles to look back. Worr waved his thanks once more, hand raised in the air. Ceric only stared, eyes fixed at Ashild and her mother and on Hrald, standing so much taller than both.

  Hrald did not wait to give his sister the parchment. He gestured her into the treasure room. “A letter from Ceric,” he said, lifting his hand to the single small square lying upon the sword chest. He moved to the door to leave her alone with it.

  “Stay,” she said. “He is friend to both of us. You shall hear what he says.” Her eyes fell on the blank back of the creamy parchment. She made another decision. “Mother too. I will keep no secrets from her.”

  Hrald drew a deep breath. The damp warmth of the rains made the room feel airless. He was not sure he wanted to hear what Ceric had written. He wished at that moment to walk alone through the wet grass along the stream bed, or even wander off into the cool and dripping woods. But Ashild had left the room, to return a moment later with their mother. Ælfwyn took up her place next Hrald.

  Ashild held the parchment square and began reading it aloud. Ceric’s lettering was small and even, strongly-formed, that of a man of learning.

  “MY ASHILD

  I will return for you in two years, bringing great treasure with me. Your bride-price will be met. Modwynn is old; she will welcome you and give you the keys to Kilton. You shall be Lady there. It will be years before Edwin is wed; you will hold the keys until he does.

  You must say Yes.

  CERIC OF KILTON”

  She lowered the square of parchment, but kept her eyes upon it. My Ashild, he had named her.

  “You will say yes,“ Hrald echoed, all his hope in his words. His face felt damp and hot, and he feared her answer.

  Ashild lifted her face to him. Her eyes moved to her mother and saw the tears, now freely flowing down her face. Ashild knew they were rooted in joy, not sorrow.

  “The farthest coast of Wessex,” Ashild said to both of them. “Do you truly wish me as far away as that?” Her voice sounded as if it already came from a distance.

  Ælfwyn was nodding her head. “If you can know love with Ceric, I would happily see you there,” she whispered.

  A circle, one thought broken forever, would somehow close if that should happen, Ælfwyn thought. Gyric could not bring her home to Kilton, but his son Ceric could do so with Ashild.

  Ashild looked at them as they watched her, Hrald strong and tall and yet so tenderly young, her mother with all her beauty and goodness. They desired this for her, these two who loved her more than any other. She dropped her hand, but did not surrender what it grasped. She felt her own breath, felt the hammer of Thor resting between her breasts, reminding her of who she was. A woman. A Dane. Her father’s daughter. And her mother’s.

  “Two years,” she began. In a life as short as hers it was a vast span. “I will promise you this,” she vowed, gazing on their searching faces. “I will wed no one else in these two years.”

  Chapter the Ninth: Firelight

  Island of Gotland

  MID-SUMMER and its fire and feast always saw the folk of Tyrsborg travelling to the horse farm of Tindr’s cousin, Ragnfast. He and his wife Estrid had taken over the farm from Rapp, Ragnfast’s father. Rapp had had the good fortune to long ago wed a maid whose father owned a number of horses, and who had inherited both beasts and land when her father died. Rapp was the older brother of Tindr’s mother Rannveig, the brewster from the trading road, so the bonds ran deep and long.

  Each high Summer, to celebrate the longest day in the wheel of the year, Sidroc and Ceridwen and their household had walked or ridden or jostled along in an ox-cart to reach Ragnfast’s farm. The day began before noon, with the men and boys laying wood and charcoal for the huge fire to come. The gathered women busied themselves about the trestle tables which had been carried out under the pear trees, unpacking the baskets they had carried from their own farms or town-homes. These bore loaves of bread, trays of oaten cakes, crocks of sweet butter, meat pasties, salted fish paste, boiled eggs, pickled walnuts, and jugs of homemade mead. Early beans and fresh greens enlivened their offerings, as did small baskets of carefully plucked wild strawberries, and jam made from the dusky blue clusters of salmbär, those prized berries found only on the island, springing on slender vines from the limestone rocks.

  Rapp’s wife, Ragnfast’s mother, still lived, but was now bed-fast, suffering from a wasting illness, so that her daughter-in-law Estrid acted as hostess to all. She and Ragnfast laid a fine table, carrying on the tradition set by his parents. There was, as always, a whole roasted lamb. As the numbers of friends grew, and the trestle tables stretched longer under the trees, a whole goat was added to this, as well as a hearty stew of fresh herring made up from a brimming bushel of fat and shining fish.

  Coming from Tyrsborg on horseback were Ceridwen on her odd-coloured dun mare, and Sidroc on his black stallion. Their twinned children Eirian and Yrling rode alongside, each on their short-legged ponies. They rode on the forest path, while a different group took the meadow-way. An ox-cart, borrowed for the day, bore Rannveig and two deep brown crocks of her famed ale, and one of the last remaining deer haunches from her smokehouse. The driver of the cart was her son, Tindr, he whose skill at bow and arrow kept both Rannveig and the folk of Tyrsborg in deer meat. Also in the waggon were the sister-cooks, Gunnvor from Tyrsborg and Gudfrid from the brew-house, and Helga, Tyrsborg’s serving woman.

  Another woman was there, one dressed unlike any of the women-folk of Gotland. She was of the Sámi, and like her people, attired herself in the carefully dressed skins of deer. Šeará still had the tunic and leggings of ren-deer she had come to Gotland wearing four years ago. These were laid away, as precious things, in the small forest house she shared with her husband Tindr.

  She wore today one of the tunics and leggings she had made herself from the hides of the red deer Tindr felled to feed them. His young wife had herself scraped the hides free of fat and flesh, slowly and by her own hand, using a bone scraper she had fashioned from a deer shoulder-bone. The hides she so treated were softer and more supple than any Tindr had ever seen or felt.

  The care she gave to her work meant no thin places flawed the hide, where impatience or steel scraper had dug too deep. He had watched her many times as she worked, the smooth bone tool grasped in her white hand, the hide stretched before her in a frame she wove of willow withies. Deer, he called his wife, and gestured it with his hands, for Tindr, being deaf, had no spoken speech. He knew her by the great deer she had arrived at Tyrsborg driving, and by that running forest beast who she, with her narrow, fine-boned face, resembled.

  Tindr smiled over at Deer as she walked by the oxen. Their little son had grown restless sitting within, and she had taken him out to walk alongside her for a stretch. The boy too was dressed all in deer-skin, a small set of soft napped hide leggings and tunic made by his mother.

  The boy was lagging behind now, his legs tiring in the tall grasses. Šeará scooped him up in her arms and braced him against her hip, but he was too big to carry for long. Tindr halted the waggon, gestured to her that she take the reins, and he carry the boy.

  As Šeará settled herself next to her mother-in-law on the waggon-board she watched Tindr swing their boy up over his head and upon his shoulders. She heard Juoksa’s crowing laugh, and knew that his father felt it, for he laughed back with his short braying honk, like that of a goose.

  Rannveig laughed as well. The Sámi woman nodded, smiling at her, and gave the oxen rein a little shake. Before Juoksa was born, Rannveig had helped her welcome the Sámi Goddesses into her forest home. Šeará asked Máttaráhkká, the mother-Goddess, that the babe might come hale and strong into the world, and if that was not to be, that the spirit of the dead child be taken into the care of Juksáhká and Sáráhkká, the daughter-Goddesses who protected unborn boys and girls.

  Together with Rannveig and Ceridwen Šeará poured out offerings of honey and milk ben
eath the floor boards of the round forest house she and Tindr had built. The Sámi woman had made offering the first night she and Tindr slept there, inviting the Goddesses to abide with her, so far from her Northland home. Now with the coming babe the offerings must be renewed, and protection sought, especially from Sáráhkká, who guided child-birth. The three women had gone about the small house, pulling up floor boards so that the liquids would dribble directly on the welcoming Earth beneath, listening attentively as Šeará sang, in a tongue so unlike their own, her fluting invitation to the Goddesses.

  One late Spring dawn she awoke with the pangs that told her the coming of her child was near. Tindr ran through the still-dark forest path to Tyrsborg. He was back at her side as quickly as he could come, finding Deer standing in the middle of their house, clinging to the rafter-pole which held up the roof. Her face was already damp with pain, but she smiled as he came to her, placing his arm about her thin shoulders. He watched her shudder with each pang, him feeling a fear that she did not let herself show.

  Tindr had not been privy to the many tales of young wives who suffered and died in child-bed, but he had stood and watched when the body of his friend Ring’s wife was laid upon the pyre at the place of burial. She had not been able to bring forth their child, and died trying to do so. As Tindr held his trembling wife by the shoulders he would not allow himself to dwell on that image. Deer would not be taken from him; the Lady, the Goddess Freyja, had given her to him.

  Bright Hair and Scar, whom he had awakened, came soon after, and gestured to him that his Nenna was on her way. Bright Hair came to Deer and kissed her, and then began to shift the bedding and deer hides upon the floor, and unfold lengths of linen she had carried in a deep basket. Deer was still holding to the rafter pole, and as he watched her slender form buckle with each pang he knew some sound escaped her lips.

  Then his Nenna was there, with Good Food, the woman who cooked for her, and Scar was leading him out of the house.

  The Sun came up, lighting the glade in which his house sat, ringed by white-barked birches in nearly full leaf. Good Food was busy at the cook-fire, warming water, boiling broth, and forcing loaves and cheese upon him and Scar. Nenna had earlier brought a crock of ale, and both he and Scar drank from it, dipping pottery cups into the frothing brown depths. Then Scar signaled that they work at Tindr’s wood pile, splitting cut lengths with spike and axe. It was good work to do, demanding attention and aim, and they stood opposite each other, setting up and striking with firm blows the seasoned wood. Soon they both were sweating, beads of it forming on their foreheads and upper lips, and darkening the linen of their tunics at chest and underarm. Even given the work Tindr sometimes saw Scar’s eyes shift over to the house. He wondered if Deer was crying out, but as often as he paused in his swing, watching Scar’s face, Scar would shake his head, urge him to go on, and himself deliver another blow to the oak or ash awaiting him on the splitting-stump.