The younger man had little, weapons serviceable but of no great worth, and next to no silver in his worn purse. Ceric had no need for any of this, and the act of stripping a dead body gave him no satisfaction, as it did to other men, sealing their victory over them. Nor was he likely to find something that he would wish as keepsake, or had such value that he would wear or use himself. But everything he took would be given out as reward to his remaining men, or given to benefit the poor of Kilton. It was proof of prowess on the field, yes; but it was a vital part of the circle of war. His men would offer the best of what they took to him, just as he would do so to Edwin. This Winter Ceric would at some upcoming Yule feast dole out treasure to his pledged thegns, just as Edwin would grant him some rich gift for his own service to Kilton.
He moved to the last man. Worr had gone on; Ceric knew from the number of stops he made that he had killed at least four. He would give Worr his pick of the best horses at Kilton when they returned; a stallion and mare both. Four men killed in a single short battle was a champion’s tally. Most men were glad to place a blow, maiming or killing one, and coming alive themselves from the action. Worr was indeed a fine warrior; all said it, and now Ceric had seen it. He did not himself think at this moment that he, in his first open battle, had killed three.
He turned his attention to the Dane before him. He placed the remnants of his shield into that of the dead man’s; there was a grim justice that Ceric now used it to collect his battle-gain. He forced his eyes up to the man’s throat, which he had pierced with his seax. The tunic had shifted as the man writhed in his death-agony, and a silver chain could be seen there.
He moved behind the man, lifted the head with one hand, with the other plucked at the chain and pulled it over. Something caught on the man’s chin and nose as it came. Ceric found himself holding a silver chain from which swung a hammer of Thor.
He turned his face from it. An image of Ashild filled his eyes, pulling her father’s own hammer from her gown and showing it to him and her mother in the stable yard of Four Stones.
He let his eyes drop to his hand. This hammer was smaller and less finely wrought than that of Yrling’s, and its proof against the enemy just as faulty. He knew his uncle had ripped the hammer from Yrling’s neck, but thought only of she who now wore it.
He wiped the clotted blood from the links and slipped the hammer into the pouch at his belt. Not Woden, Christ, he had told the man. He would have the hammer melted down and the silver given for the poor.
When he had finished with the Dane he walked to where a waggon loaded the wounded. He tried to lift the upper body of a groaning thegn, but the pain in his own shoulder and back made him lower him again. “I am only bruised,” he assured a thegn who questioned him. Worr was come now, dragging a quantity of battle-gain, stuffed into a leathern pack he had found.
They went to the waggons of the dead, made sure that what treasure could be taken back to Kilton was lifted from the bodies. Some of the thegns had downed the enemy before themselves being downed, and their brethren stripped those bodies for them, booty to go to widows and sons. The men themselves would end their Earthly sojourn in Witanceaster; Kilton was five days beyond that and too far to take them. There in the burial ground by Ælfred’s fine church would they greet the day of Resurrection.
They all walked further up the rise. Eadward’s horse had been brought to him, and he came last, stopping by the waggons into which the dead of Wessex were hoisted, moving his horse slowly as he looked upon the plundered and abandoned bodies of the Danish dead. The foot-men waited there at the top of the swelling hill, those who had fired the opening volleys of missiles, and whom, given the disorder of the conflict, Eadward had never used again. They had seen all from their vantage, and knew this day would not be one of which songs were made.
One of the drovers from Kilton came to Ceric, bearing a basin of cold water. The man gave a jerk of his head to the basin, and a muttered, Sir, as invitation. The water dropped down bright red as Ceric splashed it over his face; the blood drying on his face running again to liquid, nearly as bright as when it had pumped from living veins.
Bread, meat, and cheese was passed, and casks of ale tapped. Ceric dropped upon the ground with all the others and found himself shaking with hunger. He sat there on the grass, almost cramming food into his mouth, mindful of those dead who would never taste again.
Then they must move on. The extra horses, and some of those of the dead thegns, were transformed into pack animals, the supplies that would be needed on the road quickly loaded on to their backs. The waggons were all in use, to cart back the injured, and the dead. Ceric would move on with the living, under Eadward’s command.
Chapter the Twenty-third: A Landing
Four Stones
“ONE here,” Gunnulf was saying, pointing at a clump of trees and brush. “Plenty of cover, and it gives a clear view up and down the stream bed.”
Hrald, Jari, and Gunnulf were riding the full perimeter of Four Stone’s lands, looking for points at which new watch-posts could be set to advantage. The roads leading to the keep had always had watch-men. But there were places where a whole body of men could move quickly and unobserved, bringing them near enough for surprise attack. This stream and its grassy banks were one such vulnerable path.
It was the morning of their second day out, and this stream served as one of the borders with the keep to their North, Turcesig, that held now by Thorfast. The hall of Turcesig was still many hours’ ride away, and these lands uninhabited by any small trevs or hamlets from either keep. Along the way they had noted several places where new patrols could be stationed.
Hrald was glad to have Gunnulf with him. He was swift to spot and size up a possibility, his reasoning sound, and with his older, more seasoned brother Jari could argue for one or another new watch-post, pointing out advantages and disadvantages to each. And Gunnulf was good company. Jari was sometimes prone to moroseness, and Gunnulf with his quick wit kept him on a lighter footing. He was a favourite amongst the men, tossing his long yellow hair as he jested with them. Gunnulf had ever had a striking boldness about him, and cut a fine figure on the half-trained horses he favoured. Riding out with him in company with other men, Hrald began to feel the easy closeness he had once had with Gunnulf to be repaired, even if it could not be fully restored.
Besides Jari and Gunnulf, ten other warriors rode with Hrald as they circled their borders. No word of war had come to Four Stones; in fact the lack of riders bearing news had made the hall almost as anxious as if panting men on lathered horses had reined up, sounding an alarm.
Asberg thought he knew why one of Haesten’s chief men, or Haesten himself, had not ventured to Four Stones to speak to them, and had shared his concerns with Hrald and Jari. He thought it likely that word had been sent to Haesten from Thorfast, or some other neighbouring war-chief, that Hrald would not take up arms against Ælfred, would in fact honour the Peace. Haesten or his captains did not wish to force the issue, Asberg ventured. Avoiding a confrontation before the conflict began left the door open. Whether it was left open for later direct attack, or for reconciliation, they could not know.
Either way, with the coming of good weather all at Four Stones were now on alert, and new watch-posts surrounding it deemed necessary. Asberg had remained at the hall, where men drilled daily in the arts of spear and sword, shield-blocking and skeggox-wielding. But Asberg had sent his two young sons to join their cousin Hrald on this border patrol. Indeed, the lads had begged to come. For them it was a worthy adventure in itself, a chance to ride with Hrald and his best men, to camp overnight in the fair Spring nights, to view parts of their lands they had never seen. Ulf, the older of them, had just received his sword, while Abi, two years younger, was armed with a knife. Both lads also carried spears, sized for their height and strength.
“Hrald,” Ulf was petitioning now, lifting his arm to the fairness of the place. “When you send back men to take up their posts, sen
d Abi and me here.” Abi took this up at once, chiming in on the appeal to their cousin.
“There is water, places to shelter in the trees, good grass for our horses, dried wood in plenty for our cook-fires,” the younger was numbering.
Hrald laughed, as did Gunnulf. “I did not choose it as a joy-camp for you two snare-setters,” Gunnulf told them. Hrald had shown the lads how to fashion snares, and several times had taken them out, until they themselves were skillful enough to return from their runs with small game.
Hrald shook his head, but the boys were so hopeful that he could bring himself to say no more than, “We shall see.”
They moved on in their route, Ulf and Abi riding behind Gunnulf, and calling out to him, pleading their case that he should put in a good word for them when Hrald assigned the new patrols.
In truth, there was no chance that Asberg’s sons would be exposed to this danger. Their father knew this, as did Hrald. Watch-men were easily overwhelmed by invaders, and if caught, the first to be killed. If Hrald should die, his closest male kin was his uncle, Asberg; and after Asberg, his own two sons. Ulf and Abi did not yet grasp their importance to the future of Four Stones.
Hrald’s small troop rode on. They were cresting the northern-most border of their lands when two strange riders came into view, travelling at an unrushed canter. The men whistled out to them, a three-part whistle that Thorfast used. Hrald whistled back, gesturing with his arm that they approach.
Thorfast was near, they told him, and on his way to Four Stones to see him. They followed his advance riders North, into the edges of Turcesig’s southern borders. They soon found Thorfast, riding with six of his own men.
“You are wise to fortify yourself in this way,” Thorfast said to Hrald, after he had told him of his current mission. Jari had made way for Thorfast, dropping back to ride with Gunnulf, so that he and Hrald now rode side by side. “Fore-warned is fore-armed. Even an hour’s warning can make the difference in an attack.”
Hrald nodded. He had not seen Thorfast since Yule, when he had come to spend a feast-night with him at Four Stones. “Haward and I do the same, extend our watch-posts,” Thorfast went on, speaking of his younger brother who lived at the old family hall to the East of Turcesig.
They had left the stream banks and were now at the edge of a mere. The only border markings were dolmens of stone, the height of a man and so widely spaced as to be out of sight of each other. Thorfast had come specially to see him, Hrald knew; they must head back to the hall, and finish their circuit another day.
As they rode Hrald wondered as to the nature of his neighbour’s visit. At Yule they had refrained from war-talk, as much as was possible given the uncertain times. Thorfast had not asked to speak privately with Ashild, but had greeted her with good humour, dipped his head respectfully when she filled his cup, and made handsome compliment to the gown she wore. As the newly large party approached the palisade Hrald knew she would be surprised by his early arrival, and by who he brought with him.
Ashild was up in the weaving room with her little sister, standing at a loom. She was beating up the woof of a growing length of wool, when Ælfwyn walked in.
“Thorfast is here,” is what she said to them.
It was Ealhswith who spoke first. “Did he bring you another horse,” she asked her sister, blue eyes brighter than usual.
Ashild gave her a half-smile, pressing her finger to her own lips to bid the girl’s silence.
“I was in the kitchen yard when he rode in, with Hrald,” her mother went on. She was still standing in the doorway, making no move to spindle or loom; she must of course attend to her guest.
“Hrald is back early,” Ashild considered, watching her mother’s face. “Is there then trouble?”
“Not from how they greeted me.” She spent a moment taking in her two girls, the elder still holding her weaving-sword. Left unspoken was the word But, upon which all might hinge.
Ashild slid the tool between the warp strings and stepped nearer her mother. Other than the single letter from Ceric, and that she and Hrald had sent in answer, they had had no communication with Kilton, or indeed, all of Wessex. They knew as much as Asberg and Hrald did, that a vast army of Danes had landed, driven out of Frankland from lack of gain, and was now massed to attack here in Angle-land. Whether their plan was to march West to Wessex or North through Anglia remained to be known. What was known is that certain Danes from as far North as Northumbria were aiding the newly arrived; had in fact thrown in with Haesten. It placed halls like Four Stones between two hostile forces.
Ælfwyn was watching her daughter’s face. The stresses of the past year had touched her; the girl had grown more serious, even grave. What she said next surprised her mother.
“I want to live my life here, at Four Stones. And die here, too,” she proclaimed, as a small child might. Ashild had lifted her hands slightly before her, spreading the fingers as if she warded off her future. But there was little insolence in her pensive manner.
Ælfwyn was not sure how to take it. “Ashild,” she chided, in her gentlest tone. “Do not ask for that which can never be.” Her eyebrows lifted in question, and she gave a light laugh. “Whom would you wed?”
She cast about in her mind, looking for an example to make her daughter also laugh. “Gunnulf? He likes horses as well as you…”
Ashild was shaking her head, but her mother had forced a smile to her lips. “Gunnulf is a friend, like kin…” She lifted her head, straightening her shoulders as she did so. “And I know I cannot wed any from the keep. I must bring treasure, an alliance…”
It pained her mother to hear Ashild outline her greatest role, her most pressing duty, as true as it was. “The alliance formed, the treasure exchanged, is between halls. It is not on your head alone, my sweet.”
Ashild seemed to waver. Even her body rocked slightly forward and back, and her brow was scrunched in thought. She knew her mother must go back down, play the hostess, order the meal. She could stay up here, safe with Ealhswith, beating up the soft wool with her weaving-sword…
“I will come down with you,” she decided.
They found Hrald and Thorfast by the wall on which hung the long dragon banner, standing with Asberg. Jari and the rest of the returning men were seeing to the horses and kit. Hrald’s own packs lay by the edge of the fire-pit, where he had dropped them. Ale had been brought, but only Asberg now held a cup in his hand. As the two women approached they saw the men were eyeing each other, and not speaking.
“Ashild,” said Thorfast. It was clear he did not expect to see her so quickly after his arrival. Yet he lifted his hand to her, and the smile which spread upon his lips seemed genuine.
No one spoke. Whatever was next said might cast all which came after on a path which could not be retraced.
The Lady of Four Stones took a quiet breath. Her lovely hands, which she held clasped before her at her waist, barely moved from the gentleness of the air she drew.
“Thorfast of Turcesig,” she began. All eyes were upon her, but the formality of her address made those before her fix her in their gaze.
Ashild stepped forward, shifting the eyes of the others from her mother to herself. She gestured to the treasure room door, slightly ajar. Whatever would be said now would require the privacy of that inner stronghold. They went to it.
Burginde was within, with Ælfwyn’s sister Eanflad at her side, refilling the oil cressets from pottery jugs, making the careful pours of the costly oil that both women were known for. Burginde had heard the voice of Thorfast in the hall, and had suspected he and his hosts might be heading for the treasure room, away from the passing serving folk of the main hall, and the women who stood spinning by the opened doors. She moved to the stool by the broad bed, ready to plump down on the cushion there as soon as Ælfwyn gave the sign, and summoned Eanflad to stand at her side. But perhaps because of her sister’s presence, Ælfwyn gestured they should both leave. Burginde cast a linge
ring look at Ashild as she did so, and from the tension on the maid’s face it was all she could do to refrain from clucking her teeth in sympathy as she passed her.
Now that all were inside at her invitation, Ashild did not know what to say. The five of them stood just within the closed door. Ashild’s eye flitted to the battle flag she had made for Hrald, threaded upon a staff, and resting in a corner. Thorfast had been watching Ashild’s face as well, and smoothed the way for her.
“I am glad you join us, Ashild, for what I am here to say concerns all of us, and you perhaps most of all.” He turned his head now, so that his eyes met in turn those of Hrald, Asberg, and lastly, Ashild’s mother.
“There will be war,” he announced, “within weeks, or perhaps days.”
The heads of those before him lifted the higher at his words. “My cousin, Agmund, Guthrum’s son, has told me this. He is joining with Haesten.”
He let this hang in the air before going on. All were staring at him.
“I am here because I myself am undecided. But I would face whatever is to come with a greater force, and not a lesser.” He looked to Hrald. “A single arrow is snapped like a reed in the hands of a man, but a bundle of them, held together, cannot be broken by the strongest fists.
“Will you Hrald, join with me, so that we are both the stronger? Let me wed Ashild, now, to bind our halls together.”
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 41
