Over the years Cadmar the warrior-monk had sat at different places at Kilton’s high table. Since Edwin had been named Lord he sat at Edwin’s left, with Ceric on his brother’s right. Once Garrulf had finished his song, Ceric gestured to Cadmar that he would like to speak to him once the hall was broken down for the night.
He felt the urge to be alone with the warrior-monk, and to ask of him some counsel. Both Ceric and Edwin slept in the hall with the rest of the unmarried men, and he did not feel it right to ask Modwynn to unlock the treasure room so that he could speak alone with Cadmar; it was not his room, but Edwin’s, who now held the other key. And he did not want his brother there.
They lingered as the trestle tables were knocked down, the serving folk had carried off the last of the cups, and Modwynn and Edgyth had locked those of silver away. Then he and Cadmar stepped into the kitchen passageway. A few serving folk might still pass them, but no others. It was dim in the passage, lit from the hall end by the torches still burning and the low glow of the fire-pit, and lit from the other only when the door to the kitchen yard and its cooking rings was pulled open. The dimness reminded Ceric of the small room which the priest Dunnere used for the confession of sins.
They stood side by side, resting their backs against the plank wall. Standing there, Ceric bethought him that it was not much broader than was the wooded track on which the ambush had taken place. Cadmar was huge, one of the biggest men at Kilton; Ceric still felt a boy next him. He saw the monk’s curling beard out of the tail of his eye. It had once been wholly black, but now was streaked with silver. One of the monk’s eyes twinkled in the low light. It was the expression Ceric always thought of when Cadmar came to mind.
He had no need to recount the killing. Cadmar had heard it from him and Worr earlier, and likely from one or more of the other men as well. Dunnere had already blest and shriven him, and Cadmar was a monk, not a priest. But Ceric felt he must speak.
“The Danes…they never had a chance. We outnumbered them, took them by surprise. We could not even offer them quarter; Eadward had told us to kill them all.”
He heard Cadmar take a deep breath. He knew the trouble he felt sounded in his words, and the man was considering. Then came a steady, slow exhale.
“Yet one almost killed you.”
Ceric nodded, muttering assent.
“The folk at the trev who were earlier attacked – they had no chance, either,” Cadmar offered.
The monk knew this was not enough of an answer. Even though he could have died himself, he knew Ceric thought this first contest to have been an unfair one. Only in extreme cases did Ælfred not offer quarter to Danes; he would not have them slaughtered like wild dogs, and they had value as ransom, even those not of high birth. He had many times exchanged prisoners with Danish war-chiefs. But the heightening tension between the newly arrived Danes and the repeated raiding and destruction of his people made it harder to be merciful. And Eadward was not his father. He had not his father’s devoutness, nor his patience. Ceric of Kilton had been exposed to that, first hand. The folk of the injured trev had been watching; Eadward must show them the King’s justice and right would be upheld.
There was nothing, as an unlettered man of God, that Cadmar could say; that task was Dunnere’s. But he might say something that neither the priest nor Worr had said.
“The Dane you killed – he is now in Asgard. He sits in a hall finer than any he ever knew here on Earth. A shield-maiden of loveliness pours forth mead for him. He fights all day long with his fellows, and at night all wounds are healed, and he feasts. All this for price of a blade to the belly.”
Of all Cadmar could have told him, this was the last thing he expected to hear. The monk neither jested nor mocked. Ceric turned in the darkness and faced him.
Cadmar nodded his head at him. “It is true,” he assured him. “It is true, because it is what the Dane believed. It is his truth. Just as eternal favour with Jesus Christ is ours.”
The big man put his hand on Ceric’s shoulder. “You are your father’s son, and have done well. And you have done the better for being troubled at this first death.”
Chapter the Eighteenth: Two Beds
THE day after their welcome feast Ceric stood in the treasure room. With him were his grandmother, brother Edwin, and Cadmar. It would take three days to reach Bryeg, and before he started he was eager to begin selecting all that he would offer as Ashild’s bride-price once she arrived. She would, he gauged, come to Kilton with at least a score of men, including her uncle, and preparation was already under way for the visitors.
Although Cadmar and Modwynn would stand at his side when the bride-price was named, Ceric insisted to both there would be no bargaining; Hrald and Asberg would have earlier agreed on what they would ask, and he had told Hrald and Ashild he would meet their demands.
Both his grandmother and Cadmar nodded their heads in assent. Between friends there were often few or no counter-offers; both families wished for the union, both knew well what the other was likely to offer or provide.
Edwin’s eyes widened at this; he did not know these Danes his brother had picked his bride from, and only knew what sharp bargainers they were as a people. But watching Cadmar and his grandmother agree, looking at the firm set of his brother’s mouth when he had quietly declared there would be no countering, he found himself nodding too. He let his mind wander to the treasure-trove of that place named Four Stones, packed as he imagined it was with Saxon booty. Whatever this maid brought with her it was likely to be great treasure. He looked at his older brother, standing in the centre of their own treasure room. Edwin did not fully understand what he himself owned, but he knew what Ceric laid claim to was considerable.
Ceric had long been thinking of his offer. He could not present land, the way he could if he were wedding a maid of Wessex. Modwynn had given him her girlhood burh of Sceaftesburh when she gave him his weapons, but he could not divide and offer that expanse of fertile farm and pasturelands; it was too far from Lindisse for the collection of rents. Portable treasure was what was needed, and not horses nor swords, as he knew himself Four Stones abounded in those.
Three thousand, three hundred and thirty three silver pieces had been set aside for him from the store of five thousand his mother had been left by the great Godwulf’s will. He had granted to his second daughter-in-law no less than that, and she had asked Ceric’s grandmother to divide this treasure between her two sons, two-thirds to Ceric, and one-third to Edwin, who would, as
Godwin’s heir, see a great fortune of his own.
Ceric thus had silver in abundance, and began building his offer with this.
“One thousand pieces of silver,” he told his grandmother and Cadmar. This was a most handsome sum, but for such a maid as the young Lady of Four Stones, it was but a start. He had something else, and he went to it now, set aside in a special gem casket.
“And these five gold coins,” he added, showing the thin but large glittering discs. They were the only gold coins he owned, and had come to him as a gift at his baptism from his Uncle Godwin.
“What more,” he asked his elders. “What else would make a fitting offering?”
They all knew Four Stones was rich in steel and horse-flesh. Kilton could tender silver and gold.
Modwynn had no daughter, and had come to the treasure room with one of her own jewel-caskets. During her long marriage to Godwulf the lord had bestowed upon her many ornaments, housed in small caskets of bronze or walrus ivory. She carried one of worked bronze now to her grandson, the box and contents thereof she offered to Four Stones. Edgyth wore no gems, only the simplest of silver pins, and Modwynn had already set aside rich store with which to adorn her new daughter-in-law.
“To secure your bride with,” she told Ceric, as she passed the small trove into his hands.
He set it on the table, swallowing at this generosity. She smiled back at him.
Four Stones had no worker in precious
metals; they needs must go North to Jorvik for that. Ceric wished to keep all that remained of his mother’s adornments for Ashild, but that which Modwynn readily surrendered made a glittering and precious display. Within were silver brooches, circular pins, bracelets and finger rings, all beautifully-wrought, and some bearing bright gems. All were fit to one day adorn Hrald’s own wife. She had even brought forth a golden bracelet for a man, something Godwulf had carried off from an old conflict. Ceric picked it up now, imagining Hrald angling it over his strong wrist, and wearing it henceforth.
Edwin’s eyes were nearly popping from his head, and even Cadmar looked his amaze at the wealth of metal now lying upon the table. And the one thousand coins of silver had not yet been counted out and added to it.
Ceric considered it all soberly, even anxiously. “It is enough,” he finally judged. He looked into Modwynn’s face, and then to Cadmar. “If it is not, I will add more coinage to it.”
Edwin almost laughed. “You could wed a queen with this,” he said. “What will she bring you in return?”
Ceric had thought much on this as well. He could not know for sure, but named that which he thought most likely. “Enough swords to win any war,” he answered, thinking of the store in Hrald’s treasure room. His eyes went to his own sword, that golden-hilted one of Godwulf’s which lay upon a wooden chest by the door.
Cadmar’s eyes had followed his. Now the warrior-monk spoke. “Swords do not win wars, my boy. Men do. It is not the sword, but he who wields it, that matters.”
A hint of a smile could be seen through the monk’s dark beard, and in his twinkling eyes. All they had spoken of last night was still fresh in Ceric’s mind.
Cadmar was right, of course. The Dane he had slain nearly slayed him first, and with a weapon no thegn of Kilton would carry.
“Yet,” conceded the monk, “in a fight steel is more precious than gold. Let us hope your bride brings much good metal with her, that which will take and keep an edge.”
Later that night Ceric recounted in his mind all that he wished to give directly to Ashild. He was standing out in the little pavilion in the pleasure garden, hearing the steady booming roar of the waves as they hit the cliffs far below. The hall was readying for sleep, and soon he must go in, if only as a pretence.
Thinking on those things he would give her brought him pleasure, one deepened by picturing her response as he presented them, one after the next. He had a second silk gown, left behind by his mother, of a watery green that he thought would become her almost as much as the gown of golden silk had, perhaps even more.
His father had a casket of gemstones, now his. Within were loose stones of lapis and garnet, rich in hue and well-cut; lustrous pearls the size of peas, waiting to be drilled and strung into a necklace; and the golden circlet which his mother had worn at table when she was at Kilton; he wore that which had been his father’s. He would ask Modwynn to lay that circlet on Ashild’s brow the first night she sat at table with them. And the second silver goblet Modwynn had given him would be set before Ashild as she took her place next him. His own already bore his name, incised on the lip, and he would have the silver-worker cut her name into hers. He had wished to have it ready for her, but Modwynn insisted he wait until she herself drank from it; after that he might take the cup to the silver-worker. His lids dropped over his eyes and he smiled, seeing her lift that cup for the first time to her mouth.
In his mother’s jewel casket lay all the silver she had arrived at Kilton with, and all the silver and gold she had been given by her husband and his family thereafter. Only one prize was lacking from that casket, the great pearl which she had been given by her new in-laws when they heard she was with child. That pearl was now in the keeping of the Lady of Four Stones. He thought of the second piece of jewellery Hrald’s mother now wore, the circle pin of gold he had selected for her when he brought the silk gown to her daughter. He recalled the skillful working of the intertwined beasts upon that brooch, and the delight it had given Ælfwyn, knowing it had been worn by his mother.
His mother. She could not know he had in fact grown to love Ashild. She was not here to welcome her, to make easy her way at Kilton as Ashild moved into her new role. He stopped himself there. Ashild was not one to be spoiled and petted; nor did he think his mother would do so if she were here.
He thought again of the word that applied best to the maid he loved: exacting. She expected, even demanded, much of herself, and of others. She was active and ready and as fit and strong as any of the fillies and colts she loved, and head-strong too, like the most spirited of them. He would be second here at Kilton, but Ashild would help him to always be his best. Maids were moulded to fit their husband’s lives; with her it would be different. She would help him find his balance.
A new thought passed through his mind, creasing his brow. The silver hammer of Thor. Did she wear it still? Would she remove it once she came to live with him here? She must know that Modwynn and Edgyth could never see it, and women were much about each other when they bathed and dressed; she could not keep it hid. And Dunnere…
He roused himself. The final torches were being snuffed out at the cooking rings; the men within the hall would be upon their pallets. He must go in to his alcove, act as if he slept. After a while he would rise and dress, saddle his horse and walk him quietly away. He had spent part of the day counting out that treasure he would offer to win Ashild’s hand, and this last Moon-lit hour musing on what he would present to Ashild herself. But now he wanted to see Begu. He had something special to ask her.
He had not visited her small house since the night before he had ridden off with Worr to join Eadward; three whole months. She had known of course he was going, had even confided to him during that long and cold last night that she would pray for his safe return. The way she had half-turned her face from him as she admitted this told him that she worried her prayers might be unworthy. Instead he had been moved by it, and had found himself taking her small hands in his and kissing them.
He had been back at Kilton for two nights; by now word would have come to her that he had returned. As he neared the end of the lane that led to her door he felt how much had changed. He had taken part in an ambush, under the command of the Prince of Wessex, and had killed a man, his first. Just as Begu would always be his first woman, the nameless Dane would remain his first kill. He shook his head in the dark, wanting to drive this from his mind. He reined in his horse; he was there.
She was asleep, but came swiftly to his tap and muffled call. He heard the fastening board be drawn back, and then she stood in the open door, her white shift glowing in the little light of the waning Moonlight. She gave a cry, like unto gladness, as he caught her lithe form up in his arms. When he released her she shut out the chill air, and dropped to her knees to kindle straws at her fire-pit to light the cressets.
He said almost nothing, but kissed her long and forcefully, pausing only as he pulled off his clothes. He drew her linen shift up and over her head, revealing the delicate paleness of her body. Her bed, piled high as it ever was with cushions, was still warm, and once in its soft depths he enfolded her in his arms, allowing himself to think of nothing, only to feel and act upon his need.
When they lay still he let out a long and slow breath. The cressets were bright upon the low roof-rafters, giving good light. He watched the flickering shapes the burning oil wicks cast over their heads, content in the silence, the warmth, the release of his desire.
Begu rarely spoke much, and asked no questions. Yet as they lay there, shoulder to shoulder, he thought she must wish to hear of his time away. He did not want to talk of it, and was glad she would not ask.
She turned on her belly next him. He felt her finger trace the scar upon his right arm, at the shoulder. The first time she had touched that scar, she had wondered aloud who had sewn it for him, “A man, I think, to judge the stitching…” It was not a question, but a quiet and tender musing, uttered with no expectation
of being answered.
“No,” he had found himself saying. “It was sewn by a woman. But she is young, and the light not good where she was forced to work.” There was a huskiness in his voice as he told her this, one that surprised him, and soon after he found himself rising and dressing to leave.
Now Begu again traced the length of the scar. His body flooded with the memory of how it had felt to have Ashild hold the arm, how despite the searing pain of the sword cut he had told himself she was touching him as a wife would touch him.
He closed his eyes a moment. Begu withdrew her fingers, and after a while he turned on his side to face her.
“Begu,” he breathed. “With a maid…?”
He wore a small half-smile of entreaty, and looked at this moment younger than he ever had.
Her eyelashes fell over her lids. The maid who had sewn his wound was there in the room with him, still present. She remembered how he had said, “But she is young…” not, “But she was young…”
She smiled back at him from the depth of her generous being.
“For a maid, whether she be shy or bold, you must take the time to make her eager, with your kisses and caresses to excite her.” She paused, dropping her eyes a moment, before looking at him again. “These things you know well how to do,” she assured him.
“She may be fearful; most maids are, but if through stroking her and kissing her you make her eager, the pain she will feel will be as nought.
“Go slowly, watch her face. Do not fear if she winces or cries out; it is the maidenhead breaking. If her arms are about your neck, if she is holding you, she wants you too.
“Then, later, she may be sore the second time. Kiss and stroke her, make her want you.”
She ended now, and once more her pale lashes dropped over her eyes.
“You are speaking of your bride,” she guessed softly.
“Yes,” he confessed.
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 32
