Burginde’s knees unfolded, and creaked upright. She left her wool-ball on the wolf-skin spread covering the bed, and disappeared out the door.
Asberg was studying Thorfast’s face, looking for signs of strain. The man was notably cool considering the trial he was under, and Asberg must admit it.
Asberg’s eyes now went to his nephew. Hrald looked as uneasy as any who had ever pledged a vast treasure. Nearly a quarter of their horses would follow Ashild if she made the short journey to Turcesig. Hrald’s bold offer was almost a challenge, and in any other instance Asberg would have protested so great a dowry. But Thorfast proposed nothing less than a single defence to be formed between Four Stones and Turcesig. And the bride-price he offered was something out of the Sagas, like unto a price offered for a Goddess. There was more than a touch of magic in his naming this Ashild’s value to him. His thoughts strayed for a moment to what Wilgot the priest would say of such an offer; he would rail against it a heathen thing, he guessed.
Ælfwyn was holding the silver ewer in her hands. Its cool substance helped ground her own flitting thoughts. In a few moments her daughter’s future might be decided, and by Ashild herself. She tried to take comfort in that one fact.
Burginde returned, Ashild in tow. The nurse resumed her stool, and again took up her wool-winding, eyes cast down at her work building up the ball of thread.
Ashild neared the table, then paused. All were looking at her; the air felt charged as if lightning were about to strike. Thorfast was nearest her, and she let her eyes meet his, bowing her head for an instant in greeting. Her eyes next sought her mother, who smiled at her, with lips pressed firmly together. Next she looked at Hrald.
His arms hung at his sides, his palms turned slightly towards her and open. He stood upright, yet there was a slackness about him, an uncertainty that showed not only in his stance but in the single furrow on his young brow. If they had been arguing her bride-price it should be Thorfast who looked so. She saw Hrald’s eyes fasten on her face, and sensed the stress and pressure her brother bore for her sake.
Her uncle began to speak, just as Hrald too opened his mouth. Asberg yielded to his nephew. Despite the way her brother looked to her, Ashild could not but note the firmness in Hrald’s voice.
“Thorfast has offered a great sum as your bride-price. If you accept him fifty head of horses will follow you to his hall.”
Ashild lifted her chin higher at this news, and needed a moment to take it in. A maid’s bride-price was set by her kin. Had Thorfast offered his own sum before they had named her price? And had Hrald truly agreed to send fifty of their horses with her? How great was the treasure Thorfast offered to make Hrald answer it in this way?
She knew Hrald did not want this marriage. Yet the discussion of terms was far advanced, with sums that seemed to have been accepted by both sides.
She stood biting her lower lip, watching her brother as he looked at her.
Her mother’s soft voice now sounded. “We will leave you,” she said, with a forced but tender smile at her daughter.
Ashild came to the table, where her mother kissed her brow.
“Take this,” Ælfwyn told her, pressing her silver cup into her daughter’s hand. Ælfwyn glanced to where Burginde sat, stolidly winding her wool. “Burginde will attend you.”
The nurse settled herself more deeply on her cushion as her mistress, Hrald, and Asberg filed out. Before she lowered her eyes again Burginde gave a long and piercing look at the prospective couple as they stood, standing by the table. She had no reason to dislike Thorfast, other than the fact that Ælfwyn was intent on her daughter becoming the wife of Ceric of Kilton. And having Ashild near at hand would save them much of the heartbreak of separation. Being privy to Thorfast’s appeal would allow her to more fully judge the man. Not that Ashild, strong-headed as she was, would take much heed of her opinion.
At the closing of the door all three were aware of the silence of the treasure room.
Ashild put down the cup. Thorfast cast a single glance at Burginde’s lowered head, then spoke.
“I would like to wed you,” he told Ashild, as simply as that.
She considered his choice of words. No pretty flights of fancy to frame his statement. Not even, Will you be my wife, but: I would like to wed you. It was almost as if he said, I would like Four Stones and its men to join me.
That was marriage of course, the joining of houses great or small, goods and treasure exchanged, pooled, and built upon. A maid was but a tool in this exchange. Yet she would have liked for him to have spoken differently.
He went on, not with ardency, but with sureness, one made seemly by his low tone of voice, and the apparent sincerity of his words.
“Your brother and uncle approve the price I have set upon you. Hrald himself told you the handsome dowry he places. Yet he insists the choice be yours.
“It is only right that that be so. You are the daughter of a great war-chief, and can command the attention of many men.” The briefest of pauses, as he looked on her. “Men who find you as pleasing as I do.”
This was handsomely said; simply, and without flattery. She felt a bit of warmth rushing to her cheek. Perhaps he did want her for herself.
Thorfast took a step closer to her. He moved enough so that when she looked at him, his torso blocked the old nurse sitting by the bed. It gave an illusion of the privacy they did not have.
It was closer than he had perhaps ever been to her, save for once having taken her hand at a Mid-Summer’s-fire dance a few years ago. He was glad now when she lifted her head and looked him fully in the face.
He had never before noticed the colour of her eyes, a deep grey-blue, like the sheen of an oiled blade caught in uncertain light. His eyes traced the line of her face, as if seeing it anew. He let his gaze drop down her person.
His first wife had been a beauty, a fragile one. Ashild looked as if she could withstand the rigours of childbearing, and more. She had a certain attraction, and he was not today immune to it. She was unaffected, handy, and seemingly without fear; her way with the stallion he had just given her proved that.
An image came to him. He recalled last Winter at a Yule feast, watching her down an ox-horn full of mead in a single draught. She thought no one watching as she stood in the shadows, echoing the action of the rowdy men at their drinking contest. When she pulled the horn away from her lips she looked quietly satisfied, and surprised both, that she could do it. Her secret action had been caught by his eye, and it had excited him.
His thoughts strayed to picturing her as bed-mate; with these qualities and her innate lustiness she could prove a willing, even eager partner. He had to force the smile from his lips, considering this.
He thought then to take her hand, and reached for it. He lifted it in his own, felt the crinkled roll of dry skin in her palm. It made him open her hand as he held it. She had had a bad burn or blister, that was clear. He was going to remark on it when she closed her fist and drew the hand away. She did not wish to speak of it.
He would return to his quest.
“In the custom of your mother’s people, all that I give to you will remain yours,” he assured her. “If we should decide to part, or I die, my gifts to you are yours. And your dowry will be returned.”
This was news indeed. Thorfast was a Dane, with no blood of Angle-land in his veins. She had assumed that if she wed a Dane here in Anglia she and her kin would abide by the traditions of Danish marriage-law. Other than no longer taking more than one wife, the men of the Danelaw had insisted on keeping the favourable terms of their homeland. Treasure sent with a bride to her new home remained in her husband’s family, save those goods marked as strictly household items. Here he offered her the same broad protections the women of Wessex enjoyed.
“And it is time Siggerith had a mother.” Ashild knew of his little daughter, a sweet slip of a girl she had seen at past gatherings. It touched her that he mentioned her now.
/> He saw this, saw her lips soften. Though she be a maid and young, he knew she was quick-witted. He felt certain she understood the breadth of his offer, the generosity of his terms.
Ashild’s eyes had dropped to the table, and her mother’s favourite silver ewer there. The gleaming ewer, the solid table, everything about her seemed more real and vivid, more demanding and worthy of her attention. She noticed, and almost wondered at, her calm. The quiet of the room, the lowness of his voice, the knowledge that Burginde was with her, yet out of sight, all must be serving her as she considered his words. Even the knowledge that the choice was hers to make gave her strength.
It was all here, at her fingertips: a chance for her to stay near Four Stones and her folk. A man known to her and her kin, and with whom she felt she could know ease. One whose liberality seemed beyond doubt, who had fashioned his offer to meet and overcome every objection she or her family might have. A man who might even be King…
She could extend her hand back to Thorfast, and he would grasp it.
She brought her palms together instead, then let the fingers of her right hand fold over that healing skin in her palm, reminder of the deep and painful blister she had caused herself flinging a spear. Her need to be able to defend herself rose anew in her breast.
He had spent these few moments studying her face. She had, as yet, said nothing, and was, he knew, weighing all in her mind as she listened.
He dropped his voice still lower. “What…what keeps you from accepting my offer? Your kin and I have come to terms.”
She seemed moved to speak, but stayed herself. He filled the silence with another question.
“Seeing you handle the stallion while we hawked makes me think we are well suited. Do you not agree?”
This opened her mouth. She had in fact not thanked him for the gift. She had had no choice but to accept it; to have refused such treasure in public view would have been an insult. But she was fully aware of how her acceptance of the horse implicated her.
“The stallion is magnificent. But I wish you had not brought him to me.”
Having said this she did not know what more she could say. She saw his surprise, and did not wish to voice aloud her fear that his gift had been chosen almost to ensnare her.
She thought of Hrald’s face and stance when she had walked in, Hrald who loved her, Hrald who also loved Ceric. Both Hrald and her mother desired her for Ceric, even though it meant her perhaps never seeing them again.
As unseemly as it was, she must tell him he was not alone in pursuing her.
“There is another who seeks my hand.”
Thorfast was ready. “Ceric of Kilton. He whom I saw when I rode here with news of Guthrum’s death.”
So Hrald, or her mother, had told him. She nodded, gave herself time to take a breath. “We do not yet know what his terms will be. But he has told Hrald it will be great treasure. For Hrald’s sake, and the sake of Four Stones, I must wait for that. I must wait, before I decide.”
He saw his advantage, and would press it.
“For Hrald’s sake,” he repeated. “If you love your brother and your home, you will wed me. There is no better way to aid Hrald.”
Her chin had lifted at his words, but he saw the acknowledgement flash in her eyes.
He met her look with new urgency in his voice.
“You are no common woman, Ashild. You seek to strengthen Hrald, protect Four Stones. Your heart is here. Would you allow yourself to be thrown away in Wessex? And why? A boyhood bond between your brother and a man who will not even be Lord of Kilton. As my wife you will be Lady of Turcesig, from the first day you come to me.
“Think you who I am, Ashild. Kingship runs in my blood. My uncle, Guthrum, conquered half this great land, became King. Guthrum was nephew to King Horic, King of all Dane-mark. Fate works in threes. If Turcesig and Four Stones join as one, little can stop us. We can meet any threat from Haesten. Even defeat Ælfred, if it comes to that.”
She recoiled. He had spoken in some haste, and could not now recall those last words.
She drew herself up, stiffened before him. “We have a Peace with Ælfred, with Wessex. He has been too great a warrior to defeat, all Danes have seen this. My mother is of his land.” She recollected herself, then went on. “I have my mother’s blood, am of Wessex too…”
“Do not think on Ælfred,” he urged, silently cursing himself for having named the King in the first place. “Think of Haesten, biding his time in the South, plotting how he will carve up Anglia, so much to those who join him. And death or slavery to those who oppose him.”
Ashild heard a small sound behind him, Burginde stifling herself. It helped quell the fear rising in her breast, one that had closed her throat. She forced a breath out between lips that were nearly clenched. And he put so much on her head; it was not fair. She let her anger rise, beating back her fear.
“We must wait for Ceric to return,” she found herself saying. “I must wait for that.”
He had lost. His eyes darted into the darker corners of the room. He shrugged his shoulders with a discernable sigh. He would salvage what he could; they must part friends so that her mind stayed open.
“I will wait for you, Ashild,” he conceded. “And I will tell Hrald and Asberg that in addition to what I have already offered, all that Ceric of Kilton brings to win you, I will match.”
He saw her lip tremble then, whether through fear or strain he could not tell.
“For Hrald’s sake, as well as your own, I will wait for your answer,” he repeated.
She stood clutching her hands before her, her shoulders pinched. He saw the tremour in her lip extend to her entire body.
He could not leave her like this. He gestured to the table, and the ale cup her mother had pressed into her hand.
“Will you drink with me, Ashild, to seal that promise?”
She reached for it, a thing of wrought silver studded with garnets below the smooth rim, the stones as red and round as drops of blood. She passed it to him, watched as he took a sip.
He handed her the cup. “In friendship,” he promised.
She nodded, held the cup to her lip. The ale was Four Stones’ best, rich and almost creamy. She let it fill her mouth before she swallowed.
“In friendship,” she answered, her voice hovering above a whisper. Their eyes met a moment, and she felt the water come into her own as she looked at him. This was a man whose tie to Four Stones could indeed mean more than anything, or anyone, else.
When he left the room Burginde was still rising to her feet when Ashild flung herself into her arms, weeping.
Chapter the Fifteenth: The Summons
Kilton and Four Stones
EDWIN OF KILTON stood before his King. He was a Winter’s child, and it fell his fifteenth birthday. Ælfred sat before him in the great carved oak chair that had been Godwulf’s, the grandsire Edwin had never known. Next him, in her own chair, sat the aged Modwynn, Godwulf’s widow, Lady of Kilton.
Ceric stood off to one side, his aunt, Edgyth at his left, Worr at his right. Their heads turned now at the approach of the warrior-monk Cadmar, walking with measured step from the treasure room, bearing in his arms the weapons that the King of Wessex would now bestow upon Edwin.
It was almost five years since Ceric had received his own weapons. Though Ælfred was Ceric’s godfather he had not been there to watch Ceric receive them, but away riding from burh to burh, as he almost always was. It was meet and right that the King be here today, and he had, all knew, taken pains to be so. Edwin was not his god-child, but Edwin would be Lord of Kilton. Ælfred presenting him with a sword, and naming him such, would make it so.
Ceric found his hand rising to his sword-hilt, recalling Modwynn passing the precious thing to him. Godwulf’s sword was his, and he was Godwulf’s heir through it, as well as through his blood. The fact that the sword had been given long ago by Ælfred’s father to Godwulf tightened the bond between swo
rd, monarch, and he who now wore it.
As Cadmar moved closer Ceric looked to his younger brother, eyes fixed on the massive form approaching him. He felt pride for Edwin’s sake, and if he searched his heart, also a touch of envy. But Edwin was so good and true a brother that that baser emotion could be brushed aside. Ceric knew Edwin admired him, patterned himself after him. As a boy Edwin had watched with eager eyes all Ceric did, a sometimes onerous burden to the older brother. And in fact just a short time ago Edwin had seemed a child to him. Now he looked almost a man. He was already nearly as tall as Ceric, and the breadth of his shoulders foretold that once he filled out, he would be bigger. His hair was the same coppery-gold, his eyes a similar green. But the face differed. Folk had always told Ceric he favoured his mother. He had little memory of their maimed father’s looks, but felt Edwin must favour him.
Worr, standing at Ceric’s side, also considered Edwin. His eyes travelled to what Cadmar bore in his arms, the seax and sword of Godwin of Kilton. It had been Worr who had received the dead lord’s weapons first, far away on a Baltic island, and it was his sacred trust to carry them back to Kilton, awaiting this very day.
“He has a son,” the scarred Dane had told Worr, as he surrendered the treasure of steel to him.
The words were sounding again in Worr’s ear as he looked back to Edwin. A son by adoption, all knew; the son of the Lady Ceridwen and Gyric, Godwin’s younger brother.
Yet studying Edwin’s young face, Worr saw how he resembled his uncle Godwin, as if the Lord of Kilton had been his true father. This sudden thought jolted him, so much that he found himself trying to dismiss it before it could take hold in his mind.
It was no good. Once again he was back at the Dane’s hall, sitting in the hot sunlight, looking into a barn at a bloodied pile of straw on which his Lord’s body lay. He had heard that which forced him to ask the widow of Gyric a question he dreaded the answer to. Yes, she had told him. Godwin had entered her bed. For four nights, during the most dire part of the struggle to contain the Danes.
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