He thought of the watery green silk gown, which he would bring out at dawn as Ashild’s morgen-gyfu, her morning-gift. He smiled to himself, picturing Ashild’s face, when Begu spoke again.
“I am happy for you.”
She always spoke softly; he did not notice the catch in her voice.
“Thank you. I – I will ride to meet her soon; she is a maid of Lindisse. After that – “
“I know. After that we can never meet.”
Since Godwin’s death, no one had slept in the treasure room. His widow Edgyth and young Edwin had moved to a newly-built bower house, fast by the stone chapel, and she lived there still. When Edwin received his sword he began to sleep in the hall with the rest of the men. When he wed, the treasure room would be his sleeping place once again.
The bower house where both Godwin and Gyric had taken their brides had sat empty since Ceridwen and Ceric had left for their visit to Four Stones. It was now to be given over to him, as the place he would bring Ashild, and being readied to accept him and his new wife.
Ceric had not often been within the bower house since he had left it with his mother. At length her valuables had been taken up and brought to the treasure room, awaiting the day of her return, a day which never arrived. There had been scant reason for him to enter the little round house. Now it was being cleansed from rafters to floor boards, the walls swept and washed, the wooden furniture scrubbed and waxed. Fresh linens were heaped upon a newly sewn featherbed, and pillows piled upon the frame of the big dragon bed.
He still had memory of his screams as a small boy, emerging from his alcove and seeing the blood upon his mother’s gown as she stood in the open doorway during the Danes’ first attack on Kilton. Pausing now at the threshold, he could see the slight depression in the wooden floor boards, where the planks had been sanded over and over to remove the traces of blood from the dead serving-man.
He put this out of his mind, and instead looked at the room like the soon-to-wed man he was. It was a fine space, and he could almost imagine Ashild’s laughter ringing out, filling the little house with some jest they shared. There were two alcoves for coming children, the one he used to sleep in, and another, which his little sister Ninnoc had not lived long enough to use. The cradle they had both slept in had been made for him, and was still as unmarred as if it had been a year old. The cradle lay beneath one of the two casement windows, not far from the bed. He approached that bed now, the dragon bed that both his uncle and father had taken their brides to. Now he would do the same.
He neared the four posts which rose at the corners of the bed, each bearing at its summit the gaping mouth of a dragon. Each head was slightly different, but each had a painted, carved wooden tongue which flared forth from the opened mouth, like flames shooting above those who lay beneath.
On the wall by the bed were several pegs, pounded in to be handy to hang things at the ready. He looked at the pegs, then found himself unbuckling his seax belt, and hanging it and the shining weapon upon one. His father must have done that at day’s end with this very seax. He spent a moment looking at it as lay against the plank wall.
“Some bed,” Edwin said behind him. The door was open, and he had not heard his brother enter. Ceric turned to him with a grin. Over the years Edwin had even less reason to enter the bower house, and had in fact almost never been within. Now that it was being readied for his older brother he stopped in. He joined Ceric at the bed rail, and too lifted his eyes at the dragon heads towering above the feather mattresses. The old carved bed in the treasure room was a fine piece, massive and broad, and when Edwin wed it would be his. But this dragon bed Godwin had ordered made had a strength and power his own lacked. As he stood looking at it, his right hand rested on the hilt of Godwin’s seax, strapped to his waist as it ever was.
“What – what is this,” Edwin asked, reaching forward to one of the bedposts.
Ceric saw for the first time that one of the tall posts bore a knife-cut. It lay on the throat of the dragon at the head of the bed, that side nearest the door. He watched Edwin’s fingers go to the cut, saw him run his finger down it. It was deep enough to be deliberate, a single hard thrust, into the throat of the dragon. It was not new, but slightly darkened with age. And it had not been touched; no one had tried to sand or smooth it.
“It was driven, hard,” said Edwin. “A seax, I think.” He looked to Ceric. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I do not know,” Ceric admitted. He lifted his hand and touched the wounded wood himself. He did not know what it meant, but felt it somehow had a tale to tell, which it did by its very presence on the bed.
They heard their grandmother coming up behind them, and Ceric dropped his hand from the cut. He did not think Modwynn knew of this mark, and felt certain if she did she might order it sanded smooth, so all might be as flawless as could be for his wedding night.
“It must remain,” he told Edwin, not knowing why. “Do not tell Modwynn of it.”
But Modwynn had her arms full of linens, as she often had, and placed them on the table. She went next not to her grandsons, but to the cradle, bending to lay her long hand upon it, and giving it a gentle rock. Ceric turned and went to her, but Edwin remained gazing on the slash in the dragon’s throat.
“It is empty,” she said, looking down at the bare wooden interior, “and we will leave it so, until Ashild’s first babe is born. In the meantime I will sew the plushest feather bed that ever child was laid upon.”
As they stood there a serving woman poked her head in the door.
“My Lady, a rider has come, with a letter for Master Ceric.”
At once Ceric felt concern. Letters were rare and often times of grave nature. The three left the bower house, following the serving woman past the pleasure garden and into the stable yard. A man strange to Kilton stood there, holding a shoulder pack. He was grimy from the road, and Ceric could see the man’s horse was already within the stable, being attended to.
The rider was not a thegn, and he was not a churchman. He was of middle age, wiry, and looking between Ceric and Edwin.
“I am Ceric of Kilton,” the older of the two said.
The rider bobbed his chin. “I am Wullaf, Sir, of the household of Tatwine the priest, he who Ælfred bid carry your letter to Lindisse. I have answer, from Hrald of Four Stones.”
Answer, thought Ceric. He expected no answer; he was readying to leave for Bryeg to meet his bride and bring her here.
Wullaf was digging in his pack, pulling forth something pressed between two thin boards of wood, which had been bound with cord. He extended it to Ceric, who took it. “I thank you,” he managed.
He went to his purse, pulled forth silver for the man. He heard Modwynn speak.
“The kitchen yard will give you food and drink, and refill your packs,” she invited, gesturing to the serving woman to attend to the rider.
The man was led away, but Ceric stood with the letter-protector in his hand. Whatever lay within was of import to all of them; he could not take it alone. He led his grandmother and brother away from the noise of the yard, back to the pleasure garden. He laid the letter on the table of the pavilion, hearing the roar of the pounding ocean echoing his own beating heart.
They stood there as he unfastened the cords, took up the single small piece of parchment.
His eyes dropped down on Hrald’s words, his friend’s large, looping hand recalling the openness of Hrald’s face. Then he read the few lines from Ashild.
I cannot leave Four Stones…The danger is too great to all I love. I cannot now leave.
She is not coming, was all he knew.
He could not read it aloud. He found himself turning the sheet over. There was nothing on the back, nothing but the front face bearing Hrald’s brief message, and that even briefer, from Ashild. He stared at the blank side as if dumbstruck.
He looked back to the waiting Modwynn and Edwin.
“She says she cannot leave
now. The danger to Four Stones is too great. She invokes Ælfred, and the unsettled nature of Anglia. She does not say when she will come.”
“Hrald?” asked his grandmother.
“He writes as well, sorry for the news. Offering hope for better to come,” he finished.
He could not say more, and could not stay there, with them looking at him; Edwin was gaping. He took the parchment and folded it in half, hard, something never done with the precious material. He slipped the folded letter into his tunic.
He nodded to them, and left. His waist was bare of his seax and he went back for it, entering the bower house. There it hung, next to the dragon bed. He snatched it from the wall, buckled it on. When he left he shut the door with a slam behind him.
He took his horse from the paddock, saddled him, rode out through the palisade gate. He rode almost slack-reined down the pounded clay road, not seeing nor caring where his horse took him. Only when he realised the beast was making the turning to the hamlet where lived Begu did he stop him. He awoke from his stupor then, turned his horse away. He did not want to see Begu now.
He stood his horse in the middle of the road, then turned him back towards the hall and the main road leading from it. He passed the palisade, went on to the orchard of fruit trees, now coming into green leaf, and showing flower buds where fruit would be. He stopped at the final grove, that of the pear trees, and got off his horse. He stood beneath the open-work branches of a pear, and pulled out the parchment from his tunic. The warmth from his chest vanished in a moment as he held it.
CERIC OF KILTON
All at Four Stones are grateful for your esteem, and the beneficence of Ælfred, great King of Wessex.
I cannot leave Four Stones. Your King himself knows the unsettled nature of our Kingdoms.
The danger is too great to all I love. I cannot now leave.
Please forgive
ASHILD OF FOUR STONES
He read it again and again. There had been nothing hopeful about it, on first reading. But she had said, I cannot now. And he kept returning to her closing. She asked, Please forgive Ashild. Not, Please forget Ashild. He stared at her name, written with a broad and free hand, one that pressed hard upon the quill point.
One of the pear blossoms, dropping before a bee could visit it, did so now, falling on his opened letter, a flower which would never yield fruit.
That night Ceric drank many cups of ale at table. He had eaten little, and the noise of the hall angered him. He knew by the way his Aunt Edgyth and Cadmar looked at him that Modwynn had told them of the letter. There was warm concern in both their eyes, but he kept himself from doing more than nodding at them.
He lay down in his alcove desiring sleep, which would not come. He rose at last and saddled his horse, riding on a Moonless night to Begu.
He rapped hard on her door, not caring which of the neighbours heard him. She came almost at once to let him in, the surprise in her voice clear. He nearly pushed past her, coming into her small house. She fastened the door and bent, as she ever did, to pick fire and light her cressets.
“No,” he said.
She rose, the unlit straws still in her hand.
“I can scarcely see you,” she said, trying to be playful. He answered not.
“Why do you always wear dark colours?” she asked now. She could just make him out.
He was standing there unmoving, but gave a shake of his head. “I do not know…because my uncle did.”
“I did not know your uncle,” she said.
It startled him, the thought of the deeper meaning of her words. He let it pass.
“Is there mead?’ he asked. There should be, with all the silver he had given her.
“Yes, of course,” she assured him. She always kept a supply. He had once teasingly told her that each night with her was a feast, and they should only drink mead.
She felt her way to the cupboard chest, pulled out the crock, found the two well-wrought cups of bronze he had given her. “Here,” she said, pressing one into his hand. He sat on the edge of her bed and drank it, almost in one draught.
He had another. The action of her pouring out for him made him think of Ashild, that only when she had sewn his wound had he taken a cup of ale or mead from her hands. Begu sat next him, sipping at the mead, feeling his trouble must stem from his coming bride, but being unable to ask about her.
He was still fully dressed, and she had put on her shift before she opened her door. She had draped a shawl over her shoulders for warmth; he had made no move to take her in his arms. At last he pulled off his boots and swung his legs up on her feather bed.
“Will you not undress, so I might hold you,” she finally whispered. She felt him give a shake of his head for answer.
She lay next him, pulling the soft wool blankets up around them both as best as she could.
She heard his breathing soften, thought he slept.
“Are you lonely?” he asked of a sudden. It was a question almost to the dark.
She took a moment before she made answer.
“Yes. I am lonely.”
He said no more, but after a time she was prompted to speak again.
“Why do you ask me this? Do you care for me? Or is it just that you care for what is your own?”
There was no harshness in her questions, only pain. She waited a long time for him to speak.
“The maid I will wed…she cannot come now.” His voice sounded far away, and when he heard it, he must add to his words, change the meaning. “I must wait longer for her to come,” he ended.
He felt her hand upon his shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said.
She breathed out a sigh. He would not answer her questions, she knew; he was not even thinking of them. She went on, as gently as she could. “I will be your woman until she comes.”
He turned his face further away, into the softness of the feather pillow. Tears pricked his eyes, which he held tightly closed. His head was spinning, and he felt he was drowning.
Begu wrapped her slender arm about him, and sang a murmuring song to lull him to sleep.
Chapter the Nineteenth: What I Already Know
Island of Gotland
CERIDWEN had not known true peace since Rannveig had walked up her hill to tell them she had Danes at the brew-house.
Each day thereafter might have seemed to an onlooker like any day at Tyrsborg. The small stone and timber hall was as rich with fine stuffs as it had been; those working about it as well- treated and content. The laughter of its twinned children still rang out. Bright Fall had gone down to dark Winter, and that Winter darkness had flared green and red with Northern Lights. Snow shrouded all, the crests of it glinting like flakes of sparkling gems in the short and brilliant days. The firewood piled to the roof eaves under the boughs of the spruces shrank tier by tier, keeping warm all within the snug hall. Spring rains softened the snow, allowing the green shoots of new growth to emerge by the roots of water-darkened rocks. The days lengthened.
All was as any new year for the Mistress of Tyrsborg, save this: the steady, and growing, knowledge that Sidroc would leave.
She knew it from the moment he had returned from the brew-house, and she had come upon him, standing in the middle of the treasure room, staring at the wall, and not, she knew, seeing it. Guthrum is dead, Danes had landed in Angle-land, a vast new army of them, he had told her. Most chilling was his certainty that those Danes long-settled there would be forced to fight either with or against the invaders. War could soon sweep over the broad face of that distant island, war that would be fought by their sons. War that could destroy those they had left behind.
Sidroc had not spoken again of what he had learned from the visiting Danes, and she did not ask him to repeat it. The way he had looked when he recounted to her the few facts stuck in her mind, that and his final words on the matter: War allows few choices.
He did not speak more on it, but the thought was with him, always.
She saw it in his distraction. Many times when he gazed up into the star-filled sky, or stared into the flames of the fire-pit, she saw it. He was not only considering the goods he was gathering for the new trading season, those things their captain Runulv would carry off to the trading posts along the southern Baltic coast.
More than once she had come into the treasure room and seen him standing before the Wheel of the Year she had drawn there, that calendar to help her mark the days. He had one finger on Jul, those days of feasting surrounding the Winter Solstice, and another counting off the tick marks to the start of welcome Spring. The first time she had asked what he counted, and he had said the days until Runulv might sail. She had not believed him then, but said no more of it.
As the days warmed and lengthened Sidroc’s distraction grew. It did not make him restless, rather more sober and alert, more grave. He had never given up his spear-practice, and each year hammered up new target boards that he flung at. This year snow was still upon the ground when he did so. He had pride in his spear-work, in the power and accuracy with which he could throw, but she thought he wore a different expression on his face this year, pushed himself the harder.
He showed his preoccupation when around the children as well. They had now almost nine years, both as healthy and as busy as ever mother could hope. Around Eirian Sidroc took on a new watchfulness, a fresh interest in what she said and did. She was slender-limbed, and would be tall. When she complained to her father that her pony was too small for her he took her next day to Ragnfast’s farm and selected a new. Ceridwen might have claimed that he indulged her, but the girl was sweetly grateful, and surprised her father had taken her wish so seriously.
She saw it too with their son. Sidroc was teaching Yrling to throw a light spear himself, and one day as she watched them she saw him drop down behind the boy, arms about him, helping him to sight along the spear shaft for a truer strike. Yrling’s head now bent over his shoulder, and he grinned at his father as he asked if he held the shaft properly. She watched Sidroc nod in approval, then saw his face change. He closed his arms about his son, and lowered his head. Ceridwen felt that he had seen the boy Hrald too between his arms, hoisting the spear he had made specially for him.
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