He found himself reckoning backwards the years, gauging if it were possible that Edwin was in fact the natural son of Godwin. It was only his warrior’s strength of will that stopped him. He forced himself to look to Godwin’s widow, Edgyth, the gentlest and most learned of women. She revered the memory of her dead husband, and that also of her former sister-in-law, whom she had taken joy in knowing was in fact alive and safe. Edgyth, a famed healer, was of fragile health herself. A betrayal of this degree might kill her.
And who or what did such speculation serve? It could not be proved, and could only cause pain to the living. Ceric appeared to feel both pride and protection towards Edwin; accepted the fact that Edwin and not he had been given over to be heir. Ceric did not need proof of Edwin’s claim, to honour it.
Cadmar had stopped now before the King, and dropped on one knee. He passed the sword and seax into the King’s lap, and withdrew.
All eyes were upon the King, save Modwynn’s, which shone on her younger grandson. At a nod from her Edwin stepped forward.
Ælfred spoke.
“Edwin, come now and take up the arms of Godwin, Lord of Kilton, and with them his hall and men. May you bear them with honour in service to Christ, service to Wessex, and service to your King.”
Weapons were passed from King to the new Lord. Edwin bowed his head, and clutched the bright things to his breast. Modwynn’s eyes were glittering, but she raised them to look at Ceric. He nodded back at her. Of all there perhaps she knew best the stirrings within him, brotherly pride and envy mingled.
Edwin now received the King’s embrace, and that of Modwynn. Next he turned to Ceric, and it was Ceric he asked to help arm him. The thegns of the hall encircled them, cheering when Ceric stepped away and Edwin stood alone, resplendent in his war-kit.
“How like your uncle you have grown,” Ælfred told Edwin later, toasting cups of mead together, joined by Kilton’s most trusted men. “I almost feel that Godwin himself stands before me.”
Ælfred was at Kilton only two full days. Ceric had seen the King on and off through Fall and Winter, including the long but fast ride to Middeltun to meet Haesten. It was during those months that Ceric first joined in the defence of Wessex. He was gone two months, riding off with Worr and his pledged men, to serve mostly under command of Eadward, the King’s son. He had seen no action during that time, but they had twice, near the Anglian border, come upon signs of marauding Danes, come over to despoil two hamlets that lay at the edge of Wessex. As second at Kilton Ceric would continue to ride with the Prince, while Edwin would soon take his place at the side of the King with the other lords of great burhs.
On the third day at Kilton Ceric and his thegns would leave with the King, riding with him as far as Cirenceaster, and then split off to again join Eadward. While the King remained with them Ceric begged a moment of his time. With Modwynn present the three met in the treasure room, joined by Raedwulf, the bailiff of Defenas, who was traveling with the King.
“My King, I would wed Ashild of Four Stones, and ask your blessing upon that union, and permission to fetch her as soon as my tour of duty with Eadward, Prince, has ended.”
Ælfred had been prepared to hear this, through private converse with Ceric’s grandmother the night before, and had been thinking on both request and response. He was of course aware of his godson’s long connection with Four Stones. The King’s own gift of the illuminated Psalter to the girl’s mother was intended not only as response to that lady’s benefactions to the religious foundation at Oundle, but to endorse any prospective marriage between the halls. The King’s benevolent expression remained unchanged as Ceric made his petition. Both he and his grandmother were surprised by his answer.
“I will bless your union, but I cannot allow your travel across Kingdoms.”
The King had been sitting well back from the table, his long fingers steepled together, as he listened to Ceric. He now dropped his hands and leant forward towards his hosts.
“I said ‘Kingdoms,’” he went on, “but in truth there is but one Kingdom now, and that is Wessex. East Anglia has no King. No son of Guthrum has proved strong enough to take his father’s mantle, none of the many war-lords who signed the Peace have gathered allies enough to make a move to unify. Now that Haesten – whose ambitions are without bounds – has landed, his wiles and repute will likely find him leader of the great force of restless Danes ever-crowding the Eastern shores. They number those beyond even his own encampment. And despite his vow to me, his men have repeatedly ridden into Wessex, and raided our border villages.”
It was further proof of the malleable quality of Danish vows. Haesten had accepted the King’s gifts of gold and silver, and offered up hostages of his own in bond. A lesser King would have sent the heads of those hostages back to Haesten now, in answer to his duplicity.
Ælfred turned from the greater dilemma to the smaller. He shifted his gaze to address Ceric alone.
“The ride to Four Stones will entail your travel with much riches from Kilton, and a large troop of men to guard it. This is travel through a land in which the Peace and its many laws are no longer honoured. Then you must return with the maid, bearing her dowry, a second treasure.”
The King looked fully at his godson. “I cannot risk it. I cannot risk you.”
Ceric was speechless. He had spoken long with Worr and Cadmar about the venture, had together considered its dangers, had determined that with precautions it could be done. He looked now to Raedwulf, who he had hoped would join him. He understood now why Raedwulf had said little last night at Edwin’s symbel when he had asked him for his company, and to stand with him as the bride-price was named.
Threat of full-scale war must be near indeed for Ælfred to so forbid a quest that would strengthen Kilton, and Wessex. The King watched Ceric’s eyes go to Raedwulf in entreaty.
The bailiff cleared his throat.
“May I propose, my Lord, an alternate. Ceric of Kilton and his men place themselves in undue risk by riding across Anglia. But Ashild of Four Stones could ride in relative safety with a troop of her own men, right to the Wessex border, where they could be met by Ceric.”
All were looking at Raedwulf now. It was his role in life to search out solutions, and he may have struck upon another.
Ceric was almost rising from his seat in his keenness to have the monarch endorse this plan. He restrained himself, looking hopefully from Raedwulf’s face to the King.
As Ælfred considered, Ceric’s mind raced ahead. He would be denied the pleasure of seeing Hrald, as he knew Hrald must stay at Four Stones, but other than that the plan seemed ideal. The men who delivered Ashild would ride back to Four Stones with her bride-price. He began to wonder who would do the bargaining on her part; her uncle, Asberg, of course…
Ælfred was ready with his answer. “Write your letter to the maid’s kin. Have it ready when we ride tomorrow. I will be heading near the border-lands myself, and know a priest who will carry it to Four Stones in Lindisse.”
A priest, thought the King, who was eager for martyrdom.
Less than a month later this same prelate, denied easy entry into Heaven, found himself and the young monk who accompanied him surrounded by the out-riders of Four Stones. They had been stopped six times by various patrols as they made their way across Anglia, but each time, having proved through rough search they carried no silver, had been allowed to progress on their way. Both were gowned in wool cassocks and bore the large crosses about their waists that proclaimed them men of Christ. If those crosses had been of silver and not wood they may have been relieved of them along their path. But the warriors who had stopped and questioned were Christian enough not to harm those in Holy Orders, at least not without hope of material gain.
It was Gunnulf and Onund and two others who spotted them, patrolling as they did the road from the West. The day was one of early Spring, of chill and grey-skies, with a fine mist in the air that almost obscured the steam from their h
orses’ breath. The two strangers were each mounted on grey asses, which despite their diminutive size moved smartly enough along the wet and lightly sticky clay road.
Once he had overcome his consternation at being once again ridden at, spears pointing, the priest, whose name was Tatwine, expressed his gratitude to the warriors who now would lead them to their destination. At the same time he heaved a sigh. His instructions were to ride with the large body of men who would be summoned by the contents of the letter he bore, and enjoy their protection on his return to Wessex. His chances of being called to Heaven while fulfilling an errand asked him by the King were dwindling.
The patrol flanked the two men and rode to the palisade gates. Gunnulf shrugged off the aid of the watch-men nearer to the hall; the strangers were unarmed, and could be of little importance. Perhaps there would not even be a greeting-ale passed once they gained the hall; he did not know. Wilgot the priest would be glad to see more like him. Perhaps the letter the elder one told him he bore in his shoulder-pack was for him.
Still, when they arrived Gunnulf and Onund would complete their duty. The stable-man Mul appeared, his face wreathed in a smile at the two visitors, and ducked his head at them as he led their still-frisking asses to the stable for a rub-down. Mul told them Hrald and Asberg were not about the yard, and had not ridden out; perchance they were within the hall.
They were indeed in the treasure room. The door was closed, as it ever was, but the women about the hall standing at looms or spinning told Gunnulf so. Gunnulf knocked, calling out his own name.
Asberg opened. Gunnulf had the other two from the patrol wait outside, and with Onund and the men of God entered. Within that room of treasure they saw a long trestle table that had been carried inside, now laden with weaponry. Hrald turned from where he stood at the table, a sword in one hand, and gestured the four enter. Both he and Asberg were surprised at who Gunnulf escorted.
“Ælfred, King of Wessex sends you God’s greeting, and his own,” the priest began. “I am Tatwine, humble priest and servant of Christ. At Ælfred’s bidding I bear a letter from his godson, Ceric of Kilton, for Hrald of Four Stones.”
“I am Hrald,” answered he. Tatwine was already fumbling in his pack. He withdrew a hardened tube of leather and passed into Hrald’s hand.
“I thank you, Father,” Hrald said. The round case was a new one, smooth and uncracked, the leather dyed madder-red.
Hrald looked to Gunnulf, who stood eyeing the wealth of swords and knives on the trestle. Onund, slightly behind Gunnulf, was craning his neck at the display.
Hrald nodded his dismissal at them. Despite their long friendship it was sometimes hard to look at Gunnulf, and seeing him with Onund was even harder. Here they stood next to two in Holy Orders. Hrald found himself glancing down at the floorboards for their sake.
A short time later Hrald sat with his mother, his older sister, and with Asberg at the small table in the treasure room. Their cassocked guests were having ale and loaves in the house of Wilgot, resting on cushions which had been brought for their further comfort.
Ashild had been called from the depths of the great stable, where she watched over one of her favourite mares, who was restlessly close to giving birth. It was the horse’s first foaling, and though Mul kept assuring her all was progressing as it should, the mare’s pacing and occasional snorting breaths kept her on edge. Now was come a missive from Ceric. Letters only came with great news, either good or ill.
Hrald pulled the furled parchment from the leathern tube. He straightened it in his hands, letting his eye drop upon it a moment. Then he began to read aloud.
“TO HRALD OF FOUR STONES
My brother. Know that my King forbids my coming to Lindisse to claim your sister. Ælfred in his graciousness allows and endorses my union with Ashild, but judges the risks of travelling to Four Stones to be too great. Know that the Bailiff of Defenas, in aiding the union of our two halls, has proposed that Ashild travel to the Wessex border. There, at Bryeg, I will meet her and her party on St Elgiva’s Day. Under the friendship and protection of Kilton and the King they will come to Kilton, where any terms you set for your sister’s bride-price will be met. I know you cannot ride to bring her yourself, and this is a sorrow to me. Yet I rejoice in the thought of soon making Ashild my wife. She will be received with all honour by Modwynn, Lady of Kilton, and by Ælfred himself.
I await Asberg and your party at Bryeg, on St Elgiva’s Day. I convey my warm wishes and true friendship to your gracious mother, Lady Ælfwyn of Four Stones, and to little Ealhswith.
Know I will see you again, Hrald.
CERIC OF KILTON”
Hrald lowered the letter, laid it down upon the table. Ceric had written it himself; he would know his friend’s hand anywhere. The letters were small, round, thickly black with well-made ink. The hand was sure, the letters well-formed, but without artifice. He had lined the parchment but lightly, faint scratches showing on the creamy surface, and kept the many lines of his message straight and true upon them. If a man could be known from his letter, this told the truth of Ceric.
He cannot come, Hrald was thinking. He looked to Ashild, sitting opposite him. Her hair was mussed, and the apron she had covered her gown with was soiled with dark splotches. She carried the smell of the stable and her beloved horses with her. Her head was lowered, and he saw her eyebrows, a shade darker than her hair, knit together.
Ashild felt as if her heart was slowing in her breast. She had told Thorfast that she must wait for Ceric’s return. Now he could not come, and instead sent for her. St Elgiva’s Day was two months from now. Ceric could not know another had made active suit for her hand. He could not know how important his presence was, nor how Thorfast had challenged his bride-price offer by declaring his would always exceed it. She was forced to choose between one far, and one near. Going to Kilton meant giving deep joy to Hrald and to her mother. It also meant such a vast distance between her and her kin that she might never see them, and all she loved about Four Stones, again.
Thorfast was near, rich, and wanted her. She could not forget his insistence that the best way to aid Hrald was to make alliance through marriage with Turcesig. Yet if it was hard to see herself at Kilton, it was easier to see herself with Ceric. He had of old loved her, she knew, or at least had always assumed they would wed; it was part of the way he saw the world. She knew this. And her wedding him would forever bind the families, in a way that she knew both Hrald and her mother yearned for. They could not have Ceric and Kilton, but she could.
She felt utterly lost. If she could but see Ceric again, she felt she could decide. Seeing him would make all the difference. Now she was denied that.
Ælfwyn too was looking at her daughter. The letter seemed almost Heaven-sent. In it Ceric could declare the King’s blessing on Ashild’s entering into the hall of Kilton, as well as his own clear and public offer to meet any bride-price. His assurance that Modwynn, the revered Lady of Four Stones would welcome Ashild touched her more deeply than any could know. If the Fates had been kinder Modwynn would have been her own mother-in-law. Ælfwyn had been denied that, but thinking on how that great lady would receive, aid, and foster Ashild was like a balm smoothed over a raw wound.
Something else about the letter had moved her, had caused a small spark to flare in her breast. He – Raedwulf of Defenas – wanted this, had posed the solution. He was her ally. Ceric had named him, specially, because of this; Raedwulf was his ally too. The bailiff’s first loyalty was to King, of course, but then to Kilton. And somehow, by extension, to her.
Asberg was not looking at Ashild’s lowered head, but instead into the face of his nephew. After speaking alone with Ashild, Thorfast had stressed to her brother and uncle that he would extend his bride-price offer to meet anything the hall of Kilton would pay. What the girl had said to him to make him offer such was beyond her uncle’s ken, but he had said it. Pride drove men to extremes, he had seen that many times. But more than t
reasure was at stake here.
They had heard enough from various riders to know Haesten was poised to strike. He had Wintered his army on the inlets of Apulder and Middeltun, and had been largely undeterred by the King of Wessex’s near presence. It was not one that Ælfred could maintain for any length of time with real continuity; every three months brought a change of men, as those who had served were sent back to care for kin and cattle.
Asberg had ridden out himself a few times to seek news, speaking with the Danes who ruled to the South and West, speaking also to a younger son of Guthrum’s. Nothing he had seen or heard gave him confidence the Peace with Wessex would last. Few trusted Haesten, but joining with him might prove the wisest choice, either that or banding together to repel him entirely. None of the war-chiefs would commit, one way or the other, just as Four Stones had stayed, watchful, but waiting.
Asberg’s eyes now shifted back to his niece, head downcast. He shared with her her discomfort about the prior contact between Kilton and Four Stones. There was something almost uncanny in the bonds, and the bloodshed, between the two, bloodshed that extended back many years. War ever made strange bedfellows, but he himself felt it would be hard for the daughter of Four Stones to take up a new life amongst a hall in which the man who had killed her father was so honoured. And she had been raised by Sidroc – would not the folk there look at her and recall this, and recall also it was Sidroc’s hand that felled Godwin?
Thorfast was young and bold, with the blood of Danish kings running through him. And Thorfast was right: together Turcesig and Four Stones made an army. If asked in private, he would counsel the maid to stay in Lindisse, wed Thorfast.
It was Ælfwyn who broke their silence.
“What will you have, my daughter,” she asked, leaning forward to lay her hand over Ashild’s. “How shall you answer Ceric’s letter?”
Ashild’s head lifted. “I will not go,” she proclaimed, though her mouth was trembling. She looked into her mother’s face, into that of Hrald, and then at her uncle. “I will not leave you, not yet. Thorfast too must wait.” Her mind was whirling, yet she found words.
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 28
