Asberg was the first to speak. “We are ready for war,” he claimed. His hand had moved to his sword-hilt, a sword he wore now even within the hall.
But Thorfast shook his head. “You do not know the strength of the forces Haesten has gathered. Over three hundred ships full; and now he has been joined by many of us who settled here after the Peace was made. Agmund has heard that Ofram in Northumbria rides to join Haesten. It will not be one battle, one siege, but wave after wave. We here in Lindisse will be at the heart of it.
“And Haesten will not deal kindly with those Danes who he feels have betrayed their own kind.”
This spurred Hrald. Thorfast’s voice had grown steadily louder, its tone more strident. They had ever been on friendly terms, but he must make reply to this last, which fell on Hrald’s ear as a threat not only from the invading Haesten, but from Thorfast too.
“I am half-Dane,” he told Thorfast. “I also am half-Saxon. And I will not war against Wessex. Not break the Peace which my father signed.”
He took a step closer to him he faced, ready with his own demand. “Would you join with me, Thorfast, knowing that? You say you do not yet know which way you will fight. But I do. To uphold the Peace your uncle made.” Hrald stressed these last few words.
Thorfast’s lips parted slightly, and his gaze dropped a moment before returning to Hrald’s face.
Ashild caught her mother’s eye. The love in that returning glance gave her courage to speak.
“I would have a word with my brother,” she began to Thorfast, ending by a look to Hrald which had him already turning to the door.
It must be this way, Ashild said to herself, as she turned from her mother and uncle. It must be Hrald and I who make decision; none other but we two.
“Hrald,” she pleaded, once they were in the hall. “I must wed. Ceric is far away, Thorfast near at hand. He is rich, and ready to join with you. To join with us,” she forced herself to say.
She knew her brother would speak now, and went on, to stay his words. “You had two spears made for me, and taught me how to use them. Hearing Thorfast speak of the war to come I thought one thing: that if I am willing to kill for Four Stones, I should be able to wed for it, as well. I will go in and tell him that if he vows to uphold the Peace, I will wed him.”
Hrald reached his hand to her, placed it on her wrist. “Ashild, wait. He told me once that you would be thrown away at Kilton.”
Her face betrayed that she had heard the same from Thorfast’s lips. Hrald’s dark blue eyes were locked on hers as he went on. “But if he does not resist Haesten with his men, if he does not observe the Peace, then you will be thrown away at Turcesig. That must be his decision, not one made because of promise of marriage with you. He must decide, first. I do not ask for Ceric’s sake – I do not. I ask for your own.”
She made a sound, a stifled groan, one of real and wrenching pain.
“Delay him,” Hrald urged. “Delay him again. We must know which way he will turn. Ask for a fortnight in which to make your decision, and promise it then. Please.”
Hrald had been deprived the presence of his father for some years, yet his instincts proved him to be Sidroc’s son. Hrald would not push Thorfast; he felt without being told that to push an undecided man was dangerous. He wanted Thorfast as an ally. He was asking him to be patient, and he would do the same; he would not press Thorfast for his own decision.
She had closed her eyes, as if against his words. When she had asked her brother to leave the room with her she had resolved they would act together. She had declared to him she would become Lady of Turcesig. Hrald now made request of his own, and she must honour it. If she must beg Thorfast to wait again, even so brief a span as fourteen days was much to ask. But she nodded, and placed her own hand over that which clasped her wrist. They went back inside.
“I am disposed towards you, Thorfast,” she began, “and say it freely before my beloved kin. But I beg a fortnight in which to make my full decision. Grant me only this, you who have been patient with Ashild.”
This was said with such earnestness that Thorfast could do nothing but incline his head in assent.
Ashild stopped her mother on the landing outside the weaving room. Soon she would travel these steps no more, save for when she came to visit. She had been watching Thorfast’s face, not her mother’s, when she had spoken. She knew her uncle was pleased, and her mother sorrowed, by what she had promised. She turned to her now.
“Forgive me mother. I know you wanted me for Ceric.”
Ælfwyn’s arms reached about her. “Hush, my darling. It is a sacrifice for you, either way; this I know. If you do choose Thorfast, you will be close to me, a great balm.”
“And if there is war against Haesten?”
It took all her mother’s courage to fight back her fears and answer with assurance. Perhaps Ashild could sway her new husband where her brother could not. “If there is war, it will be as Thorfast has told us: Four Stones and Turcesig united are an army of its own.”
Three days out, Runulv’s ship hit a patch of weather so foul that even he began to fear for her seaworthiness. The storm struck as they entered the straights of Dane-mark, and at one point thickened into a gale so fierce that they beat into a cove for a full two days. They hauled her ashore in blinding rain, and took what shelter they could in her lee. They huddled, soaked through and cold, able only with difficulty to finally strike and light a fire to warm their food, and thaw their numbed limbs. The goshawks and the starlings had the best of it, for the one must be kept alive to feed the other, and if any amongst that ship’s number knew comfort, it was they.
The weather had settled but slightly when they set out once more, sail furled, every man at the oars, and Runulv and Sidroc both hanging on to the steering-oar, guiding her prow so she was not swamped as they made their way through foaming seas. These two alone welcomed the weather, and as they struggled under glowering skies gave thanks to the Gods for it, for it kept the dragon-ships of the Danes on shore during this point of greatest danger. When they broke into the clear they were all much worn by their efforts, but the wind and waves had propelled them so that the two lost days in the bleak Danish cove had been more than made up.
They would not coast after rounding the northern tip of Sidroc’s native land, finding each night some deserted stretch of beach to land, and rest overnight. They would instead set course by the stars straight out in open waters across the North Sea, as Runulv had years earlier when he had returned Hrald and Ceric to Four Stones. This sea was kinder than the Baltic had been, and although staying at sea meant both chilly nights and cold food through lack of fire, Runulv’s ruddy-sailed ship skipped over the waters with the grace and speed of a great red swan. When, six days later, the coast of Angle-land appeared on the western horizon they all let loose a cry of gladness. They gaped at its dark outline. It was vast, seeming without end, filling the eyes from corner to corner, which told those men who had not made this journey before how great an island they aimed for.
Both wind and tides brought them down from the North, slipping past a green and empty coastline, the shores of which teamed with great forests to the water’s edge. It was strange for Sidroc, standing at the gunwale, to lay eyes upon it after so long an absence. There was no landmark yet to pick out, but the very shades of green, and shapes of trees, had a familiar cast about them. Then he saw a river outlet he knew, and then, with a sense of recognition that made his eyes widen, he spied the bluff upon which he and his shield-maiden had been walking when they awaited the ship which would return her to Kilton. They never saw that ship, for they had been spotted by the crew of one quite different.
“Saltfleet,” he heard Runulv call out. He himself could say nothing, only watched as they glided past the bluff, rounding into the bay that held the wooden pier he had built as Jarl of South Lindisse.
Runulv was focused on his steering-oar and the depth of water skirting an outcropping of rock,
then at last gave the order to drop sail. All the men, even those busying themselves with sail or line, had one eye fixed on the small cluster of buildings at the shore end of the reaching pier. Two men were standing there, holding both spears and shields, and as they watched they were joined by four others, coming hastily from one of the timber buildings.
When they were near enough Sidroc put his fingers to his mouth. The whistle he sent their way pierced the air with its shrillness. Three of the men had begun to make their way down the pier, then stopped when they heard it. Sidroc whistled a second time. A pause, then spears were lifted straight up overhead, lifted in greeting. He stood there, grinning across the shrinking expanse of water at those who now hurried down the pier to greet him.
“Freyr, who carried me over the seas through sea-god Njord’s dangers, I thank you. To you Freyr, and your sister Freyja, I will make rich Offering.” It was said aloud, but Sidroc meant it for the Gods he thanked. He was not alone in murmuring so; every man of Gotland gave thanks to be delivered safely after such a passage.
The line was thrown; the straked hull of the ship pulled alongside the pier.
“Sidroc!” called one of spears-men. He and his fellows were setting down their weapons in readiness.
The man so named had vanished a moment behind the gunwale, to appear with shield and spears in hand, which he swung over the ship’s side and into the reaching hands of those waiting.
He leapt out. “Thidrick. Holmgaut.” He passed from embracing arm to arm of his men, calling their names, and looked at the two youngest standing before him, watching in puzzlement. They had been boys when he had been taken.
“You have come from Gotland,” Thidrick asked.
“Já. And to Gotland I will return, as the Gods allow.”
His men took this in, looking at Sidroc, more than ten years gone, and then at each other.
“Where is Haesten,” Sidroc asked now, surprising them with his knowledge.
“Massing somewhere down the coast. But he has got help from Ofram in Northumbria, and other jarls.”
“Ælfred?”
“He and his son have an army each, we hear; but we do not know where they are.”
“And of Four Stones?”
“Your men still number above two hundred,” Thidrick told him.
“Not mine,” Sidroc corrected. “My son’s.” His tone sealed his words.
“And Hrald has not broken the Peace?” he asked now.
Both Thidrick and Holmgaut shook their heads. “He has said many times he will not break what you and Ælfred made.”
Then Ælfred would still be friendly to Four Stones, Sidroc thought.
Runulv’s men were now climbing over the gunwale to touch the solid planks of the pier, all save the captain himself, who was ever the first man on, and the last off.
Sidroc looked to where he stood, securing the steering-oar.
“I recall your captain,” Thidrick said. “He brought Hrald home.”
Sidroc nodded. “And now Runulv and I ride to Four Stones. Give me two of your best horses, but you yourselves must stay here and help guard the ship. It holds things of worth that must be kept ready for my leaving. And there are goshawks aboard, a gift for Hrald which we will send for later. The men know how to care for them.”
Sidroc’s packs and those of Runulv were put ashore, and the captain himself leapt down upon the wooden planks. He gave a final word to his men, and he and Sidroc turned their backs on the stout ship which had borne them so many leagues.
Thorfast left Four Stones after a single night’s stay, and Hrald and Asberg had been quick to act. By the blowing of a horn from the ramparts crowning the palisade wall which circled Four Stones, they summoned all the villagers. They walked out and met them, with Wilgot the priest, at the tall stone preaching cross outside the walls, and there gave their instructions. Men and women left their plough-bats and weeding hoes, spindles and wash tubs, and gathered with their blinking children about them to listen. All beasts from far pastures must be brought close in; all food-stores packed so as to be readily transported. Rumour of war had risen and then ebbed for several seasons. Now it was made real by their young Jarl standing before them, warning that soon they might have need to herd all they owned inside the keep’s timber walls.
This accomplished, Hrald, Jari and Gunnulf rode off to resume their circuit of Four Stone’s borders, this time taking a troop of men large enough to leave well-supplied watch-men in their wake. Hrald rode over the objections of Ashild, who did not think he should be a moment away from the hall. But he forced a smile to her face when he inclined his head to the spears bristling in their iron hoops flanking the long dragon banner, and told her she and their uncle could hold the hall just as well.
Asberg again stayed behind, and this time forbade Ulf and Abi from riding with their older cousin. But the Lady of Four Stones made glad the boys’ hearts by asking her nephews to come with her and her daughters as they walked out themselves to speak to the villagers. “They are affright,” she told Ashild and Ealhswith as they readied themselves, “and if our showing our own calmness can serve them, we will do so.”
In truth, Ælfwyn’s words were far steadier than her thoughts. As a maid she had come to a devastated village and a ruined hall, and had shared in that suffering, even as she worked to rebuild what had been thrust upon her. Four Stones and its folk had known such peace since then that the threat of nearing war might now have choked her with fear. But she arrayed herself, and went out with her two daughters and Burginde. Four women, two of them but maids, thus showed themselves to the anxious villagers. For escort Ælfwyn chose her two nephews, one only old enough to bear a sword, and proud to be asked to accompany their aunt. She walked amongst her people as they made preparation, beginning at the hut of Meryth, the stable-man Mul’s mother, a woman who had been one of Ælfwyn’s first allies in her early days at the keep. Her folk had ever loved her, but the act of walking amongst them as a woman, vulnerable and brave, lent more courage to those she greeted than if all of the warriors of Four Stones poured forth from its gates to defend them.
That night as Ælfwyn knelt to say her prayers, she drew, as she often had, her Psalter from its hardened box, and held it. She had no need to turn the pages, knowing every psalm as she did by heart. She merely held it as she whispered her prayers, deriving comfort from the saying of them, the rhythmic rise and fall of well-loved verses. Then she prayed for the health and safety of those she cherished. Eyes lowered on the silver cover of the precious book, she prayed as well for the King who had given her this rich gift; and prayed also for him who had delivered it.
Ashild was riding back from the stand of elm trees where hung her target-shield. She had her two spears in her right hand, guiding her mare with her left. Her practice had been solitary; Hrald was not yet returned from his circuit about their lands, but was soon expected. As she neared the old place of Offering, a movement glimpsed through the trees stopped her eye. Some man vanished through the shrubs, alerted perhaps to her nearness. Gaining the place fully she saw why.
Before the rotted carving of Odin an old hay-fork had been thrust up, tines to the sky. Caught in those tines was the sacrificed body of a fowl.
She stopped her horse. Her breath came in a long and quiet sough from her opened lips. All of the men at Four Stones had received the Cross, all of them. The back-sliders who had made Offering when the great long-tailed star had appeared in the sky had been roundly scolded then by Wilgot. Once the beaming light had faded from view, this trench and its mute figure had been once again ignored.
The late afternoon breeze ruffled the fowl’s speckled brown feathers as if it still lived, but the bird’s broken neck hung limply between the iron tines. Ashild’s eye travelled down to the pit from which rose the hay-fork. Another bird lay there, and one not long ago sacrificed.
“Odin,” she said aloud. Her naming the God almost startled her. She was in fact not alone here at F
our Stones; there were others who again gave thought to their old Gods. All-Father he was named, just as the Christian God was. Odin who knew all, who traded an eye for a sip of well-water to grant him that sight…
Her father’s hammer of Thor rested between her breasts, its silver weight ever-present. Thor was fearless in his courage, and had magic of his own. But he lacked fore-sight of what was to come. No mind, she told herself, nudging her mare forward. It is courage that is most needed, now.
Chapter the Twenty-fourth: Another Offering
Gotland
CERIDWEN sat with Rannveig in the brew-house. It was not yet open for the day, but the weather was mild enough that Rannveig had rolled up the heavy canvas awnings from the low wooden walls, and she and her guest sat looking out upon a placid Baltic. Eirian sat between them, as slender as a willow sapling, her thin fingers flying at her work, her dark head bent slightly down. All three were braiding waxed linen thread, to serve as wicks for Rannveig’s beeswax tapers. It was a pleasant task, done in the strong and good light of mid-day, and in welcome and loving company.
A ship came into view, one of Gotland’s broad-beamed fishing fleet, and they all looked at it a moment as it headed with its catch towards the wooden pier. Eirian did not return to her work, and after studying the ship she wondered aloud.
“Why does father’s ship not come back?”
The Mistress of Tyrsborg paused a moment before making answer. Eirian’s rich blue eyes went from the sea to her mother’s face. “Runulv is taking him further than he generally sails, all the way West to the great island of Angle-land.”
Eirian nodded, a quick bob of her chin, and went back to her finger-work. She had asked this question before, as had her brother Yrling, and had before been satisfied with the reminder of the distance to be travelled.
The brewster was still thinking on it, though. “It has been –” Rannveig thought aloud.
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