Odin must envy me, he had jested with her, and might send a lightning bolt to one day end my life.
Runulv told Gyda he would sail with Sidroc to Lindisse, but nothing more. He stressed that on the return they would stop at the large trading port of Aros in the Dane’s homeland, but that other than that she should expect him back within the full waning and waxing arc of a Moon.
To the men who often sailed with Runulv, he told more. Several had been those who had been on the prior sail to Lindisse, and knew the additional danger the longer journey and greater exposure posed. They knew as well the greater gain; Sidroc had given Runulv added silver to supplement what he himself paid them as their share. There would, as always, be trading chances for the men who went, and they looked forward to the opportunity to carry on board from their own farms the good Gotland fleece, chunks of amber, or quern stones, and sell them on their own account. To the ten he approached for this trip he told the threat of attack, not only at sea, which they always sailed under; but told them also that once landed the threat might be the greater. No man should join who was unwilling to fight, both for his life, and to protect the ship.
If the weather remained clear they would leave in a few days. At the warehouse by the pier sat a pair of perfectly matched grindstones, ready to be loaded. At Tyrsborg Tindr was readying crocks small and large of his good honey, sealed with wooden stoppers smeared with wax. A pile of small furs, that of fox, martin, and beaver, bought from Osku the Sámi, lay bagged. And under the floorboards of the treasure room were strands of worked yellow amber-bead necklaces, of a smoothness and hue to gladden the heart of the women around whose necks they were to be laid.
The preparation went on as it did each year, but this time with the knowledge that Sidroc himself would go. All that Ceridwen did to aid the lading or ready the goods she did with a catch in her throat. She stood at one of the kitchen yard work tables, helping Tindr and Šeará with the honey. Their boy Juoksa was running about, and Eirian was chasing after him, tickling him under the chin when she caught him with a long rooster feather. Ceridwen watched the boy, dressed in the softly napped deerskin leggings and tunic his mother had made him. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s pale hair, and large blue eyes peering out from skin of ivory whiteness. In a few months he would have a sister or brother, and the thickening of Šeará’s narrow waist told it would be before the snow came.
Ceridwen had told Šeará that Sidroc was journeying far, and hoped that the Sámi girl could tell Tindr more fully of it; Sidroc had gestured to him that he was sailing, but Ceridwen did not think he understood where, or why.
“Your man,” Šeará said to her as they stood wiping the outside of the jars. “He is sailing far? Back to his homeland, where the Sun sets?”
“Far beyond his homeland. Both lay in the West, but he is sailing to my homeland, the great island where I was born.”
“Then you are from the place where the Sun sets,” Šeará said, more than a little interest showing in her soft voice.
Ceridwen must needs smile at this. “Nai, it sets even further West than my great island. I do not think any ship has sailed so far to know where.”
Šeará nodded. Her chin turned, as if she herself looked for that distant point. “But he must go, West to your home land.”
“Já,” Ceridwen said. She did not know what more to tell her, and simply said, “He lived there for some years, has people there…”
“He will visit them, check his herds, and then return to you,” Šeará proclaimed. She said this with a confidence Ceridwen yearned to feel.
The Sámi went on, with a look that searched Ceridwen’s face. “Your own home – do you not sicken for it?”
Ceridwen paused. She had spent time in marsh-land by the River Dee, on the broad landscape of Lindisse, on strong cliffs above the crashing seas of Kilton, and travelled the breadth of the vast island through its forests. “I lived several places on the great island of Angle-land,” she told Šeará. “It is a green and rich place. But there are certain folk I miss, and not the land.”
Šeará took this in, and nodded to herself. She had not seen her own northern lands for four Winters. Her father Osku still made the trip each Fall, with the Gotlandic trader Gautvid, and traded furs for grain and cloth and silver ornaments.
Ceridwen saw Šeará’s eyes follow her little son as he darted, laughing, about the tables with Eirian giving chase. With her eyes still upon him she told Ceridwen, “Juoksa has had no ren-milk, eaten no ren-meat. He has not looked into their eyes, nor touched his nose to theirs.”
Her head lifted now, a head with an almost deer-shaped face, a face of high cheek-bones and slanted eyes, long yellow-white braids descending, crowned with a leathern cap worked over in thread-work of blue and red. It was a face Ceridwen had always found beautiful. “He has not seen nor walked my forests.”
The Sámi’s voice was tinged with sadness, for all its sweetness of tone. She had paused in her work to place a hand upon her hide tunic, over her coming babe. Ceridwen felt with a keenness that hurt her already-swollen heart how homesick she was.
But Šeará was talking again, smiling at her boy Juoksa, her eyes flitting too to where Tindr stood, absorbed in his work, fitting wooden stoppers on a line of pottery crocks. “All must return home, one time at least. Wolf Eyes too wishes to see my ren again.”
At this Tindr raised his eyes from his work, his eye caught by the movement of his boy. His son was laughing, a merry peal that wreathed his little face in smiles, and Tindr smiled too at the joy he felt but could not hear.
Tindr awoke next morning, not feeling called to hunt, but to go into his forest. He had set no snares for small game, and it was early Spring. The stags and boar he hunted were all deeper into the trees, and would stay there until their blood called out for the Fall rut. Deer lay asleep next him, under a coverlet she had stitched of the hides of the animals whose name she shared. Her cap with the bright red and blue thread work was near her side, and her long yellow-white braids fell freely upon the paleness of her throat and arms.
Their son, Bow, lay sleeping in his box bed in his alcove. Tindr slipped from the bed and stood a moment looking down on him, parting the wadmal curtains Bright Hair had woven. The boy lay on his back, arms and legs flung wide under his own small hide coverlet. Bow’s hair was as white as Deer’s, and his skin as milky. Tindr did not think he had seen any creature so wonderful as Deer, until he saw their son. Bow was a fitting match for his mother, and his eyes were light too, not as light as his own, but near. His mouth was partly opened, and his father watched the small chest rise and fall with each breath.
On the wooden wall above Bow’s head hung a small bone whistle. The boy had early learnt to come when he heard the two note, long-and-short call Tindr had devised for him. When he was old enough he begged his father for a whistle of his own. Tindr had carved one, from the fore-leg bone of a stag, just as he carved his own, and after drilling it out and smoothing it, sounded it for Deer. She smiled and nodded her head at its sound. He gave it to Bow, who trilled happily away on it. Tindr went about his other tasks, only to find an angry Bow butting against his legs, face red from puffing away on the slender piece of bone. Deer lifted her head from her sewing, and called to the child. Tindr watched both her lips and hands move as she tried to tell their son that while his father used a whistle to call to him, he could not hear that which Bow used. Now Bow had almost six Summers, and understood these things.
He pulled on his clothing and opened the door to the gathering day, leaving his bow and quiver on the wall. Despite the never-dulling joy of Deer and Bow, and the new child to come, he felt troubled. When he felt thus he knew to allow himself to walk.
He headed out of the circle of birches that hedged their house, and up one of the fern-lined woodland paths. As the Sun climbed he found himself on top of a hill, a place which Deer liked, and which they often climbed together. She would stand and look North, and narrow he
r blue eyes and tell him with her hands that she saw her ren-deer, far away. He thought of this now, of how this place was his home, and that Deer at times yearned for that place which had been hers. The only time he thought her sad was then.
And he thought of Scar, and Scar’s going. Scar had gestured to him that he must go, sail away, and all Tindr could do was nod. Deer had told him more, told him Scar had both kith and kine he must check on, but would be back after he did so.
Tindr did not believe this. Scar would not leave Bright Hair for the sake of his flocks of sheep or herds of cattle, or even ren-deer, if those beasts roamed the forests he was heading to. Tindr had watched Scar kill a man to keep Bright Hair safe, but now he left her. Something was wrong, wrong enough that Scar must leave her.
Standing on the hilltop, he wondered if it had to do with the boys, Scar and Bright Hair’s sons, who had spent a Winter with them. They had left by ship, just as Scar told him he must.
He thought of his own son. He would do much, anything, to aid Bow if he was in danger. It must be this that drove Scar away from all he had here.
Ceridwen was sweeping out the hall with Helga, the serving-woman, each aiming for the doors opened to a fine and dry morning. Ash from the fire-pit always blew over the floor boards, even with the larger rocks Sidroc and Tindr had rolled in to hold the fire. And bits of straw, clods of soil, stems and stalks were carried in on all their clothing. The action of sweeping was one that comforted Ceridwen, and gave her birch twig broom a purpose beyond that of mere cleansing.
She stopped at the alcove in which Yrling slept, leant her broom against the wall, and plumped up the feather bed with a shake, then tidied the blankets. When they were tiny he and Eirian had slept in a single alcove, but for the past few years they had had each their own. His was also that in which Ceric had slept, for those months he had lived at Tyrsborg. That which Hrald had used was next his, and the boys had slept head-to head, sometimes tapping out signals to each other through the wooden wall that divided them.
She sank down on the box bed, and placed her hand on that wall. Of a sudden she was overcome with sadness, thinking on the homely pleasures of those days, and of the dangers facing Hrald and Ceric now.
She rose and found Sidroc, out in the paddock with the horses. Her dun mare was nosing along the withers and back of her dark son, whose front hoof Sidroc let drop. He straightened and moved free of the horses.
“Ceric,” she said, as simply as that. She thought how to ask the next, but he answered before she had need to speak.
“He will fight with Ælfred,” he said, in way of assurance, “or with the King’s son.”
“The way his father did,” she murmured.
He went on, telling her things she already knew, as a way to give her comfort. “He will be surrounded by the most skilled warriors in Wessex. He will have a fine war-kit, weapons of the best.
“And – I think he will have that thegn, Worr, at his side. Worr is a good man. I would want him at my own.”
This held meaning to her, and she looked gratefully at him for it.
“And of Edwin?” she went on.
He ran his hand through his hair. He had never seen the boy, Ceric’s half-brother, but he knew he would never get the face of Edwin’s father out of his mind.
“He will have a sword now,” she went on.
“Then he is old enough to fight.” He looked at the paleness of her face, the colour drained from it through worry.
He thought now of Cadmar, the warrior-monk who years ago had bested him at arm-wrestling at Kilton’s high table. Ceric had received his earliest training in arms from that monk, and while the boy was here at Tyrsborg let it be known Cadmar was also trusted advisor to the Lady of Kilton. The man was more than capable, and having, as it were, one foot in both worlds seemed imbued with special power.
Sidroc knew Christians had their own magic, a potent one. Danes who had lived amongst them knew this; they used bells and chants and smoking scents to raise spirits and offer prayers. A man like Cadmar knew the ways of the warrior as well as the secret ways of the holy men and women who wore the cross. Both youths would have the benefit of that knowledge.
“I have been twice to Kilton,” he reminded her. “I have seen its men. Haesten will have to fight through them to get to Ælfred, or your sons.”
He could say nothing beyond this, give no further reassurance. Young and old, good warriors and poor, all will fall on the field of battle if the shield-maidens point their way. This she knew.
She stood looking up in his face.
All of you, she was saying within her heart. I fear for all of you. You who I love beyond counting, beyond measure, you who believed I would love again. Our sons, far from us, and mayhap soon forced to fight, to save their lands and home. Your daughters. And Ælfwyn – she who is the sister I never knew, whose life is bound to mine in every way…
She did not trust herself to speak. She swallowed down the knot in her throat, and forced a smile. She gestured he should go on with his work, turned to go back to hers.
Once in the hall she did not return to her broom. Helga had finished the sweeping and taken it away. The doors to the hall were closed to keep the green pollen from wafting in on the breeze.
She went to the treasure room door, unlocked it, and let herself inside. There against the wall was the chest that Hrald had sent his father, bearing within his abandoned war-kit, his ring-shirt and helmet. She went to the chest, and found herself reaching her arms over it, lowering her head to it, wanting what lay within to protect Sidroc, protect all of them.
She heard a sound, the door closing behind her. Sidroc bent over her, pulled her from the wooden chest. He turned her in his arms.
“Come and be mine,” he told her. “It is the only way I can forget I leave.”
He lifted her from her feet and laid her upon their bed.
Later that day Ceridwen took a precious sheet of lambskin parchment from a box in the treasure room. She scratched her guidelines in with the sharp point of a steel needle, so that her words would not drift up or down upon the sheet. Then she mixed her ink. By the time she had cut a fresh point on her goose quill words were welling in her heart.
MY DEAREST SISTER ÆLFWYN
When you hold this letter, may it be as if I am slipping my own hand into yours. For that is the nearness I feel with you, through these words. My fears for you and your loved ones is great, but will be as nothing compared to those you have suffered yourself. The greatest of these has been our boys finding themselves not the brothers they feel themselves to be, but the enemies that others tell them they must be.
Danes landed here last Summer at the end of the sailing season, bearing news of war to come in Angle-land. Sidroc had not a moment of ease after that, nor had I. That he has sailed now to help defend Four Stones may surprise some, but not, I think, you.
Our lives are in the hands of our Gods. This both you and I believe. Until I have your letter back, know that each day I invoke and bless your name.
YOUR LOVING CERIDWEN
The letter was short, and the sheet of parchment small. She quelled the lump rising in her throat by turning to its protection until it should find its way into the hands of the Lady of Four Stones. Two thin panels of wood were found in the stable, and she slipped the letter within them. She melted beeswax and waxed a piece of densely woven linen, proof against wet. This she sewed tightly over the boards. When she had done she thought of Ælfwyn with her fine sewing shears, nipping away at the lacing she had sewn, and found a smile rising to her lips.
A day later Ceridwen stood alone in the treasure room, combing out her hair. It was as thick as it had ever been, and had continued to grow, reaching now past her waist and to her hips. She thought it her chief beauty, and in the caring for it had always taken pleasure.
Tindr knew her by her hair, had named her for it, a touch of his hand to his own hair, then fingers flung wide, which Sidroc had to
ld her stood for what he had oftentimes termed her tresses: bright hair.
She stood with her comb in her hand, that same comb of veined ox-horn that Sidroc had bought for her their first full day on the trading road. The teeth were widely spaced, the horn smooth and expertly sawn, the work of the mother and daughter comb-makers of the place. Now as she held her hair in one hand and combed through the tips of it she had a thought. Her hair was of her body, yet somehow apart from it as well. A strand cut from her head looked the same as that which still grew; it did not fade nor corrupt. There was power in hair.
She went to her work basket, drew forth the sharp bird-shaped shears of the Idrisid women, had them at the ready. She reached under her hair, deep within by the scalp, and fingered a section, pulling it free. Then she began to braid that strand.
The day before he was to sail Ceridwen and Sidroc told the children he was going. They were untroubled; their father sometimes had need to leave for several days to ride the rough way to the southern-most tip of the island to order or check on mill stones or querns, or to head across the broad body of Gotland to see silver or amber workers on its western shores. Only when they saw the glistening of their mother’s eyes did they pause. A quick swipe of her knuckle swept the forming tear from growing, and she smiled at them. Their father said he would sail with Runulv. Well, Runulv always returned, and with bags of silver and sometimes pieces of gold that made their father grin. Now he would come back with the gold himself, they thought.
Runulv’s ship lay tied at the wooden pier by the brew-house. The heavy mill stones had been loaded, as had the barrels of water and chests of food stores. All the rest would be carried aboard just as Runulv’s men themselves were boarding, laden with packs and the goods they hoped would bring a profit in Aros.
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