He could not, at first, answer this. In the past few weeks he had already begun to think of how he would tell her, in Spring, that he was leaving to fetch his bride, and after that he would never again visit.
But the heat of jealousy was on his brow.
“We have now,” he countered. “And for now, you are my woman. No other man is to touch you.”
He meant it as an order, but as she stood watching his face she saw water come into his eyes. He was in pain, just as she had known pain.
After they had finished in their love-making, Ceric again lay awake at her side as she slept. He found himself placing his hand across her flat belly, spanning the narrow distance between the points of her hip bones. With his hand there, his thoughts strayed to Ashild’s more generous hips, and the children they would bring.
The cressets had burnt low, and he was grateful for the dark. He blinked his eyes and a tear rolled from one. Everything was tumbling in his breast. He felt his desire for Ashild, burning like a torch whose oil was never consumed, and yearned for the coming day he would bring her as wife to Kilton.
He felt his desire for a woman, and how he had acted upon that desire, and felt shame. The woman had a name, Begu, she who lay before him now, who had given him much for the trifles he had carried to her.
He had wanted the one to make him a better man for the other. He knew for the first time the sinfulness of his dealings with this village woman. Before he left for Four Stones he would kneel before Dunnere and confess it all, be shriven of his sin.
He lifted his hand from where it lay, and took up the gold cross about his neck hanging against his bare chest. He closed his fist around it, hard.
Ashild will be the making of me, he thought.
Chapter the Eleventh: Disturbance
THERE was still a full month or more of Summer when Ceric rode away from Four Stones. A fortnight after he left, another visitor arrived. Thorfast came to see Hrald, spending two days at Four Stones. He brought back with him the horses he had been lent, but their return was but a pretence for his visit. By the will of his uncle, Guthrum, Thorfast had been granted the keep directly North of Four Stones. The name of hall and lands was Turcesig. His younger brother Haward would take charge of the hall to the East of this, in which they had been raised by their now-dead father. Joined with their smaller lands, it made a considerable holding. Thorfast was four-and-twenty, and he and his brother now in charge of almost two hundred men.
Thorfast rode with forty warriors at his back, an impressive display of his new estate. This would have been but idle show if the lines of succession in East Anglia were clear. They were not. Thorfast had reason for caution. He was one of several direct heirs, and there were five or more war-chiefs with no blood-claim, but powerful enough to plot seizure of large tracts of the land. Beyond the borders of Anglia was the wily Ælfred, who had proven in the past impossible to kill. The King of Wessex had a son, Eadward, now close to Thorfast’s age, one said to have the prowess of his father. Considering these threats before he rode, forty men behind him did not seem unwarranted.
Thorfast, and his own father before him, had ever been friendly to Four Stones, the elder to Yrling and then Sidroc, the younger to Hrald and his kin. This short stay was meant to reaffirm the friendship. It would allow Thorfast to speak of the uncertain state of things with Hrald and his uncle, and gauge the sway of their leaning if sudden action might be required to assert and maintain control. It also allowed Thorfast to be again near Ashild.
He had wed once, and early, but his wife had sickened and died shortly after rising from child-bed. He was left with a daughter, now five years of age. After this he had been in no rush to wed again. Time could greatly improve his prospects, allowing him to command a daughter of the richest halls in Anglia – or even Wessex, should he chose to deal with the Saxons for a wife. Ashild of Four Stones was one maid he would be glad to have.
He would not speak to Asberg of this, though as her uncle the man would have much to say in bargaining her bride-price. Instead he asked Hrald, when the two sat at meat on the second night.
“Ashild,” he began, naming her abruptly enough that Hrald snapped to attention. Thorfast had turned his eyes from where she sat at the woman’s table, chatting while she ate with her little sister and the old nurse. Hrald’s guest was looking directly at him now.
“As my wife she would be but a day’s ride from Four Stones.”
Hrald scarce knew what to say; it seemed not a proposal, rather a statement of fact. And his guest did not seem to jest. Hrald had not ever considered Thorfast in this way. Thorfast was one of several young men of his own standing who had filled the hall at Four Stones at Yule feasts or Mid-Summer celebrations, just as Hrald had filled theirs. Hrald knew he was older, and had been wed. He had long known Thorfast’s family was of the best; his mother had been sister to Guthrum.
He was silent long enough that Thorfast was forced to speak again.
“If I made offer, would you accept,” he wanted to know.
“I – I cannot say,” Hrald answered. Even before Ceric’s visit he thought of his sister as destined for his best friend, and Kilton. Yet her voice had caught, that day Ceric left, when she asked her mother and him if they truly wished her as far away as the coast of Wessex.
Thorfast searched Hrald’s uncertain face. He had known Ashild and Hrald since they were babes, and been seen often enough by them to be a constant in their lives.
Hrald watched as Thorfast turned his head and again looked on Ashild.
“Together, we would have our own army,” Thorfast said.
It was stunning, as a thought, but it was true. Four Stones paired with the two halls that Thorfast and Haward now commanded would yield a vast army of warriors, almost four hundreds of men.
Hrald looked to his Uncle Asberg, deep in converse with Thorfast’s chief man.
Hrald’s throat felt tight and he feared his attempt to speak. Hrald was taller than Thorfast, but a full nine years his junior. The great Guthrum’s nephew was speaking to him as an equal, as more than an equal, as one who had the power to grant what Thorfast wanted. Hrald feared a misstep, and wished his uncle was hearing what he was. Then he checked the thought. Ashild would not easily be wed to any chosen for her; she must have her own pick, or at least be made to feel she had say about whose bed she would find herself in. Asberg might seize upon the chance to strengthen Four Stones through such a match. It was good that Thorfast had told him this alone.
“I will take Ashild,” Thorfast went on with a smile, inclining his head to where she sat, unaware of what they spoke. “And later Haward will wed Ealhswith. We will be doubly bound.” He raised his cup to his lips. “I only wish I had a sister to give to you.”
Hrald’s fingers curled around the base of his own cup. He had no answer for any of this.
“I will not speak to her yet,” his guest was ending. “But do not wed her to anyone else. On a fast horse I am even less than a day away, should you need to send to me.”
Jari’s older cousin, a warrior of Yrling’s, lived now at the edge of the forest growing up on either side of the stream than ran behind Four Stones. He had married a woman of Lindisse, a member of three families, all kin, who were the charcoal-burners of that place. He had lived amongst them practicing that craft since peace had come to Four Stones under Sidroc. He was thus kin to Gunnulf, and Gunnulf went with Hrald when he rode out to their mounds to provide part-payment for the charcoal smoking thereunder. It was a few days after Thorfast left, a hot and bright afternoon.
Firewood was used in vast amounts at the hall and its kitchen yard and workshops, but charcoal was prized. It was smoked long, and carefully charred in deep ricks, sealed under cut turves of sod laid above and around the stacks of wood. The blackened result was hard and long-burning, perfect to smoke meats and warm braziers. The charcoal burners of necessity need dwell at the forest’s edge. Living so far from Four Stones they did not strict
ly enjoy the protection of the hall, but were a vital part of it. Hrald rode with a bag plump with silver to pay them for their efforts.
They arrived to find the men of the place labouring all at one mound. The strips of sod enveloping the smoking mass beneath were oftentimes checked for dryness, and water cast upon them so they remained pliable. Likewise the air holes at the base of the mounds would be tested to ascertain that the fire smouldering at its heart still burned. This fire had faltered for lack of air. One of the ricks had shifted, blocking the flow, and Hrald and Gunnulf found themselves standing in a billow of dark grey smoke as the men pushed and prodded the ricks back into line.
The fire was re-lighted by an oil-soaked torch flung into its base. The sod covering was replaced, and Gunnulf’s cousin and the others now could pause and take ale with their young guests.
Payment delivered, Hrald and Gunnulf remounted their horses to head back. The smoke from the faulty fire had been intense, and both had been glad for the throat-clearing ale that had followed.
Halfway back to the keep they stopped to water their horses. The stream deepened and broadened in several places; here was one of them. The Sun was hot overhead and they could rinse their faces and refill their water skins. They dropped off their mounts and as the animals lowered their necks to the water, Hrald and Gunnulf went to it as well.
Hrald unbuckled his knife belt and stripped off his tunic so he could splash face and chest.
“I stink of smoke,” he told Gunnulf, flinging his tunic on a bush.
“You stink anyway,” grinned Gunnulf, pulling off his own.
Hrald’s dark hair was not held in plaits that day, but loose upon his shoulders. He knelt in the springy grass at the pool’s edge and flung handfuls of the cool water upon his heated body.
After they had drunk Hrald fell back into the grasses, his wet hair cool and clinging. A few clouds swam in the sky, and he could hear the chirping of insects, but it was too late in the Summer for much bird song. He was staring into the void of the blue sky, thinking about the stars hidden in that light.
He flinched slightly at a touch. It was Gunnulf’s finger, tracing the line of the scar on Hrald’s upper arm. He had been aware that his friend had laid down next him. He turned his head back to the sky.
“He hurt you,” Gunnulf said in quiet discovery, his finger still upon the scar.
Hrald was looking up, but his lids had slightly lowered over his eyes. His friend’s finger ran slowly back the length of the scar.
Gunnulf spoke again, his voice soft, softer than Hrald had ever heard him use.
“I would not have been so careless.”
Hrald closed his eyes. They felt dazzled by the Sun, and he was bewildered by the way Gunnulf sounded. Like all except his sister, Gunnulf thought his wound to have been caused by Ceric. But it was his tone, rather than his words, that discomfited him.
He felt Gunnulf’s hand move, come to rest flat upon his chest. It lay almost over his heart, the fingers curling slightly over the muscle of his breast. Hrald’s eyes were closed tight now, and he felt his heart beneath Gunnulf’s hand begin to race.
Gunnulf moved his hand, gently stroking down Hrald’s chest. He had never been caressed before. Though he felt his breath catch in his throat, he could not move. Gunnulf had brought his face closer to Hrald’s head, was now murmuring softly, and wordlessly, near his ear. The hand which stroked him had all the strength and firmness of a warrior’s, but moved across his chest with calm assurance. He felt that hand, felt his own body respond in its growing hardness, felt his confusion. He felt his fear.
He sat up, his action driving Gunnulf a hand’s length away. A wind-storm was forming in Hrald’s brain; he could barely form words.
“You – you are my friend.” It was almost an accusation, a troubled one.
Gunnulf looked up at him, his face open, his eyes fixed on Hrald’s face, but soft. He laid his hand over Hrald’s wrist, closed his fingers slightly about it.
“I could be more than that.”
A kind of panic filled Hrald’s chest. He drew his hand away, and so roughly than Gunnulf was repelled back.
“What…what…” he stammered, not able to manage more. Then a thought came to him. “You and Onund…”
Gunnulf and Onund. They were much together, choosing to ride patrol in tandem, sharing food and drink, their arms draped about the other; nothing that he had not done himself with Gunnulf or others. But he knew the difference, now. He stared at his friend.
This – this was taboo. The Holy Book of Rome declared it an abomination. It was forbidden as well, he had been told, amongst warriors honouring the Old Gods. Men were killed for such things.
Hrald jumped to his feet. He was almost panting in his eagerness to get away.
Fear was now in Gunnulf’s blue eyes. He rose as well, took a step near him. His chest heaved, as if he too found it hard to breathe just now. He reached out his hand, but did not try to touch him. Gunnulf’s fear sounded in his voice, his words an urgent command.
“Hrald. Do not betray me.”
Hrald could do no more than nod his head: I will not betray you. He grabbed his tunic and belt, made for his horse. He kicked the beast so hard it leapt into the air before charging for the palisade walls.
Inside the yard he rode his winded horse right inside the dimness of the great doubled stable doors. He threw himself off, letting one of Mul’s boys take and cool the beast. The boy had never seen Hrald treat a horse thus, and slipped out with the young stallion into the paddock with no more than a duck of his chin.
Hrald found himself at one of the drawing wells, that closest to the buildings of the kitchen yard. He pulled the wooden bucket up, sloshed out most of what it held, then tipped the rest back towards his opened mouth. He let the bucket fall back in, hearing the loud splash, even seeing a few droplets rise up against the grey stone walls of the shaft.
He raised his eyes from the hole. Not far away stood Milburga, the serving woman who had bared her bottom to him months earlier. She had a rung-neck capon in each hand, having just cornered them in the fowl house and brought them out and killed them. She gripped them by their scaly legs, their brown wings falling down from their lifeless bodies.
He was not looking at her, but at some point through and beyond the serving woman. She saw his face and shook her hands free of the capons’ feet, dropping them upon a small table top made from a single round of a tree trunk.
She was before him in an instant.
“Come with me, Master Hrald. There is something I must show you.”
She led him to one of the grain sheds; the very shed in which his wound, and that of Ceric’s, had been dressed. No one was about just then, but the door was wide open.
Once they were both within she turned to him. She smiled as with both hands she pulled up her gown, far above her round hips, almost to her breasts, showing off her naked body.
He shut the door, and fell upon her.
It was dark, and rushed, and utterly without tenderness. The stink of the fowl house rising off her body filled his nostrils, and that of his own sweat. They lay upon the rough and grain-dusty planks, his knees between her spread legs, his frantic and confused desire driving him there. It was over, almost as quickly as it began, in an explosion of sensation. He drew back from her, angry and depleted. She tried to hang on his neck, cooing nonsense at him. He pushed away, ordered his clothing. In the dark he found his belt and the tiny pouch hid within, plucked out a piece of silver and thrust it at her. Then he pulled open the door and was gone.
Burginde came walking through the yard past the fowl houses, carrying a salver heavy with broth and bread up to Ælfwyn in their weaving room. She saw the abandoned fowl carcasses and scowled. That hussy Milburga oftentimes did such things; she would ask at the cooking rings who had been sent to fetch the capons.
As she entered the side door of the hall she saw Hrald at the door of the treasure room. She p
aused, seeing with what force he turned the key in the lock. She caught but a glimpse of his face before he vanished within.
She took the bread and broth up. Ælfwyn stood at her loom, a length of creamy linen growing under her weaving-sword. Ashild and her Aunt Eanflad stood together at another, working jointly as a broad piece of heavy wool built up beneath their fingers, Ashild smartening up the selvedges as her aunt swept the shuttle through the tautness of the warp. Ealhswith was gazing out the window, drop spindle in hand.
“Back in one moment,” she promised, though only Ælfwyn noted she spoke through gritted teeth.
Burginde asked of the two head cooks, and learned they were in fact waiting for Milburga and the capons. The nurse clucked to herself, then turned back to the fowl houses. There was the woman now, standing by the little round table, her back to the prostrate birds and the approaching Burginde. She was looking down at something in her hand.
She startled when Burginde appeared.
“What have you in your hand?” she demanded, as Milburga had closed it in a fast fist as soon as she became aware of her.
“Show me,” Burginde ordered.
She opened her fingers, showing the whole piece of silver in her palm.
Burginde took a great gulp of air. She looked at the woman’s face, recalled Hrald’s haste.
She snatched the coin from Milburga’s hand, and gave her a smack across the cheek. Then she pulled her around to the back of the fowl house, out of view of those crossing the kitchen yard.
Once alone with Milburga, the nurse’s fury knew no bounds.
“You filthy tart! He may look a man in body, but he is a boy at heart. Have you no shame?”
“He – he…” sputtered the serving woman.
“He nothing!” howled Burginde. “You threw yourself at Master, as sure as day is day he would never waste his seed on one such as you.”
Milburga stood there, eyes bugging from her head, rocking back and forth on her heels.
“Give me my silver back,” she pleaded.
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