The stallion caught and held the eye; men would kill to capture such a prize. But the stallion was akin to a landmark, easy for the men of Four Stones to see. And on him she was so tall; she felt safe. With his power he could cut a swath through the enemy, she was sure. Thus it was the white stallion she asked Mul to ready for her. He looked at her, gripping the two spears in her hand, and gravely nodded his head at her order.
Then she was up to the weaving room. All she needed could be found there; she had no need to go to her aunt’s house, where she spent her nights. She always had a change of clothes at the ready, and something else she had made herself. Once inside she took an old gown of hers, laid it on the table, and with the sharp weaving shears cut it off at the waist. The skirt dropped off the table, leaving her with something very much like a man’s tunic. She untied her head-wrap. Then she tugged off her shoes, and then her own gown, and her linen shift. The hammer of Thor about her neck came up about her chin as she did so, before falling back against her naked skin. She pulled on the remnants of the gown she had cut down. Then, from one of the storage chests, she drew on a pair of dark leggings she had sewn. She put her shoes back on, then tucked her tunic into the laced waistband. She ran her fingers through her mussed hair, then plaited it in one thick braid down her back. She drew a breath, and picked up a silver disc mirror of her mother’s. She held it before her, looking at herself, thus dressed as a man would be. She had made the leggings months ago, and sometimes wore them, her skirts tied up around her waist, at the elm trees when practicing alone with her spear-work. No one, not even Hrald, had seen her thus attired.
She took her mantle of blue wool from the peg on the wall. She could think of nothing else to bring. She would be at Oundle, surrounded by women, they would have a comb and other necessaries she could use. And the kitchen yard would pack food and drink for her saddle bags. Her eyes swept the room, stopping at the wooden crucifix mounted on the wall by her mother’s loom. When Ashild did not wear her small golden cross, she often times left it at the base of this carving, for safe-keeping, resting by a strange small silver coin always there. Now she went to the carving and took up the cross her mother had given her in girlhood, and slipped it over her head, dropping it inside her tunic next to the silver hammer.
Sound arose from outside the window: horses whinnying and men calling, barrels being rolled, folk scurrying about. She had heard no general alarm, no call to the villagers to come and seek shelter, and felt that Hrald was wise to delay until the troop for Oundle had ridden forth. The congestion in the work yards was great enough.
She went back down into the hall. Jari was there, pulling spears from the holders, passing them into the hands of a cluster of Four Stones’ men. The men were rushed, yet oddly quiet, and she wondered if they were amongst those readying to ride to Oundle. The door to the treasure room was open, and she stepped through it.
Her mother and Hrald were still within. Hrald was laying out his full war-kit, and had his helmet in his hand. He pulled the sheepskin wrapping from it, and placed the shining metal dome on the table, atop the new ring-shirt which had been the gift of Ceric. Ashild knew that other than to try it on, Hrald had never yet worn the heavy shirt.
Her mother was speaking as she walked in but fell silent as Ashild stood before them, now ready to depart. Ælfwyn’s pale face paled further, and she let herself drop down into a chair.
Her uncle came in behind her, wearing his ring-shirt, his helmet upon his head. Seeing her thus, attired as a man ready for war, spears in hand, forced Asberg to speak. She was little bigger than his younger son. Despite his earlier leanings he felt the foolishness of her act, and, he feared, the foolish wastefulness of it.
He looked from Ashild to her mother, and then to her brother. “Forbid her to go,” he said.
Ashild did not wait. “I am safer dressed like this; I do not look a woman.”
Hrald took her in, and nodded his head.
“I will not stop her,” he told his uncle. He turned to his mother. “And you must not stop her. She will find a way to be there, one way or the other.” He spoke again to Asberg. “She is safer riding in the thick, with you, than creeping through the woods to try to join you at Oundle.”
He faced his sister. “Only make me a promise. If you find real danger on the road, or before the gates of Oundle, swear to ride back to us, so we may join you if we can.” He could not keep a smile from cracking his lips. “I know you are a better rider than any of us. I want you to come yourself with the news. Will you swear this, Ashild?”
“I swear it, Hrald,” she murmured.
“You have your spears,” he went on, in way of agreement.
“Your spears?” her mother asked in a faint voice.
Ashild raised her fist slightly. “They are mine, Mother. And Hrald and Asberg both taught me how to use them.”
As Ælfwyn was taking this in, Hrald was looking about the treasure room. “You need a real knife,” he told her, going to one of chests. Ashild had tied at her waist the small women’s knife she wore every day; he would have her carry more than that. He sorted through half-a-score of good Danish knives. One different caught his eye, and he brought it forth.
“A Saxon seax,” he said, holding the leathern scabbard and belt before her. She saw red copper wire beaten into the grip of it. He pulled the gleaming blade out to show her. “Worn across your belly. It will be easier to grasp, on horseback.”
She knew the advantages of the Saxon weapon such as Ceric wore. Indeed, he almost seemed to be in the room with them, between the ring-shirt he had given, and the seax of his people her brother wished her to wear.
She set down her spears and buckled the seax on. Hrald had spotted something else, his boyhood shield, hanging on the wall, that which his father had made for him on Gotland.
“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Its size is perfect for you. Sling it on your back for now. If you are threatened when you are mounted, pull it across to protect your chest. With your reins in your left hand, and your spear in your right, you can clear a path before you.”
“I will be at her side, each moment,” her uncle assured him. He said it with some little force, making clear he had reconciled himself to the risk to her, and the responsibility for him.
Asberg now bent over a large woven basket, and turned back to the young people. In his hand was a cap of hardened leather, strapped over with thin iron bars. “A helmet is heavy,” he told her. “But wear this. It gives protection, and you will look less a maid.”
She placed it on her head, stiff, but well-fitting enough that she felt it would not slide off.
The three of them were looking at her, mother, uncle and brother. Save for the roundness of her hips she almost did look a man of small stature, and once she was upon her horse no one need know otherwise.
Hrald thought of what else he could tell her. He had urged his mother and uncle of her right to go, and now the truth of her riding into danger was made real, and awe-ful. “If you are engaged on the way, stay on your horse at all cost. And stay at the edges of any fight,” he ordered. “With your horse and spear you can harry the men, scatter them, knock some of them down.”
She nodded, tried to smile. Behind him in the corner was the raven battle-flag she had made him. “The banner,” she asked now. “May I take it, so that all may see the coming of the raven.”
He turned and seized it. “I will have Mul fix it to your saddle,” he said, pulling the square of fabric from the long staff.
Then they were out, walking through the crowded hall, and into the stable yard where the warriors who would ride were gathering.
Most of them were still at their horses’ sides, looping saddle bags through tie rings, checking girths, bidding fare-well to wives and children. Asberg had himself picked the chosen for Oundle, and they fully expected to see him and Hrald appear now; their young Jarl to send them off, Asberg to rally them with fitting boasts of glory to be won. B
ut a seeming youth stood between them, one they did not know, a shield on his back, spears in his hand. Asberg’s sons waited to one side, and themselves stared at the newcomer. It was only when he pulled off the leathern cap and spoke that they knew.
There were sounds from those before her; her name being spoken aloud and in wonder, and a few snickers of surprise, uttered under the breath of the crowd.
“I am Yrling’s daughter,” Ashild told the waiting men. She paused a moment as they considered this, letting her eyes travel amongst them, beginning with Jari on her right, across the body of the troop, and ending with Gunnulf on her left.
“Most of you recall him, and served as his brothers in the battles he fought to make Four Stones your home. I am his blood. His own.
“Oundle is a place he never knew, yet much of his treasure lies there. We go to protect it, to protect our lands. Just as those who stay with my brother protect our hall.”
She raised the hand that held her spears to her uncle. “No warrior is more stalwart than Asberg. He fought at my father’s side, and at the side of Hrald’s father. Today he fights at my side, to defend Oundle. But what I ask of you is not for me, but for my father. Those of you who ride now, recall Yrling who won this place for you.”
She put the cap back on her head, moving once more from maid to warrior.
The men were staring at her, some of them open-mouthed. But she was not done. Her left hand rose to the neck of her tunic. She pulled the silver hammer of Thor out, and lifted it by its chain so all could see it swinging before them. Then she let it drop upon her tunic, uncovered, where it would lie. “It is Yrling’s hammer of Thor,” was what she said.
“For Yrling. For Oundle.”
There was a restless shuffling from men and horses, though Ashild’s cry still rung in the air. From the edge of the crowd Mul was coming, leading her white stallion by the bridle. A few whistles arose from the men, whistles of admiration for the showy mount she would ride into danger. Hrald had the banner in his hands and stepped to Mul, bidding him bring it back with a staff to fix to her saddle cantle.
Burginde had appeared. She had taken both Eanflad and Ealhswith to the weaving room, but Ealhswith would not stay there, and had scampered down the stairs after her. Now nurse and daughter stood on either side of Ælfwyn, and each took one of her hands in their own, looking on Ashild with astonished eyes.
Gunnulf had been watching with the others. Now he stepped forward, a broad smile on his face, and gave Ashild the boost up she needed to gain the saddle. It was a slight action, but one in which he showed to all his approval of her riding with the troop. Then he spoke to her, privately.
“If Hrald had not asked me to stay here with him, I would flank your other side,” he told her. There was no mockery in his voice, rather esteem, tinged with only the slightest note of surprise.
Gunnulf turned and spoke in a loud voice to all the men. “Is she not like white-limbed Freyja, in her guise as the angry sow?” he prompted. “Let men who do not value their lives throw themselves in the way of a female boar.”
He looked up at her, seated on the great beast, a maid of just over twenty years who had transformed herself into a warrior. If the boar-spirit could enter any earthly woman, it would be Ashild, and it would be now. He was almost grinning at her, seeing her for who and what she could be. She found herself mouthing his name, so grateful was she for how he commended her.
The men, hearing Gunnulf speak thus, began nodding their heads. Then Mul returned with the pennon, which Hrald affixed to her saddle. The first-born of the hall of Four Stones was now armed, rode a noble horse, and bore a battle standard.
Hrald must seal it. He stepped back from Ashild’s horse, and spoke to all.
“The battle-flag you ride under is one Ashild herself wove. You know the flag which the great Ragnar Lodbrok carried was made by his daughters. There was power and force in its threads. A battle flag woven by a maid carries magic within it. Follow the raven. Be of the raven. Protect Oundle and its riches, and the holy folk therein.”
Now a cheer arose from those mounted, and from those watching, even from throats tightened by worry.
Hrald gestured the gates be opened. Asberg rode a dun stallion, almost yellow with a dark mane and tail, and brought his horse alongside Ashild’s. She looked down at her brother, his arm still lifted, having given her a sendoff any tried warrior would covet. It was only the firmness of Hrald’s mouth that told her of his inner fears. She wrenched her eyes from him, to her mother, who now was clutched in the arms of Burginde, though her gaze was set upon her eldest daughter. She had never seen her mother look as stricken as she looked now, not even the day that Hrald’s father had vanished. Over the pang in her own heart she forced herself to smile down at her. Then she turned her head, and put her heels to her stallion’s flank.
The villagers, aware that the earlier rider had brought tidings, now stood staring from their crofts and fields as the answering warriors cantered by. She and Asberg fronted the two files, and she turned her head to see the raven banner fluttering out behind her. A mad joy filled her breast. She was part of it, though she be neither trained nor tried. She was of this troop of warriors, had won the right through the blood in her veins and her own demand, to ride with them. The gleaming weapons, the power of the great stallion beneath her, those whom she loved she rode to protect; it was all made hers in a way she could never have owned without being of it, as fully as she now was.
At Four Stones Ælfwyn returned to the weaving room, Burginde and Ealhswith at her side. Eanflad stood at her loom, working with swift fingers, and Ælfwyn knew it gave her quiet sister comfort to be so absorbed. Burginde walked to the floor near the table, and picked up what remained of Ashild’s cut-down gown. The nurse began to cluck her teeth in censure, but instead, still shaking her head, she clutched the fabric to her breast. She plumped down on one of the beds and began to sob, lifting the scrunched cloth to her face. Ealhswith went to her, worming her way into Burginde’s arms, which made the nurse stop in her tears. They held each other, and looked to Ælfwyn.
“Let us say a prayer,” Ælfwyn offered. She could not show her fear to her young daughter, nor to her sister, who had suffered so cruelly at the hands of those who had destroyed their own hall. All she could do now was to offer her love, and her fear, to God.
She turned to the crucifix mounted on the wall. She was crossing herself before it when she noticed the empty base. This morning Ashild’s small cross had glimmered there. She went to the wall. Only the tiny silver coin of the Idrisids lay there. The cross was gone. Ashild had slipped it on, at least taken it with her.
“She wears her cross,” she said aloud, finding the first comfort of the troubled day. If her daughter should fall, she would do so wearing the cross of Christ, and not only the heathen amulet of Thor.
Chapter the Twenty-sixth: The Fight for Oundle
THE troop headed to Oundle cantered and walked, walked and cantered. They stopped twice at stream and lake-side to water and rest their horses, but otherwise drove them as hard as they safely could, hastening the hour when they should reach the abbey. The bright flare of joy Ashild had felt when leaving her own gates damped into a flicker. Resting her horse, she felt a target, one of a group which could be easily hit. The fear of meeting an oncoming enemy force, one which might boast it had already despoiled Oundle, haunted her mind each moment they were not driving forward.
But they met no one. They rode into noon, past noon, and saw nary a shepherd nor goatherd. Then came a final stand of ash and elm trees which crowded the road on both sides, a place of sudden dimness and seeming menace until they were out into the open once more. When the abbey’s brown palisade walls rose up from the fresh fields of oats and rye fronting it, the land lay quiet. Oundle had no village of its own, all was enclosed within its stout walls, with only a few huts, now seemingly empty of folk, which served as shelter for those who watched over the grain. Off to one side, betw
een margin of forest and field, lay the abbey burial grounds, a small plot enclosed with densely-branched yew trees, symbol of immortality. The gates in the palisade hemming the abbey were shut, as they never were during day. Soon they heard a clanging alarm issue from within those walls; a watchman on the ramparts must have spotted their approach.
Asberg had a horn hanging from his saddle and held it now to his lips, blowing out the four notes that signaled a rider from Four Stones. As they neared they made out figures on the ramparts, men clambering up to look upon the visitors. At a distance behind the timber walls the squat stone tower of the church could be seen, crowned with its cross of iron. Ashild found her eyes caught by the skeletal framework of that wrought metal. It recalled her to the hammer of Thor around her neck. Her hand rose to that amulet, and she dropped it beneath her tunic collar.
Those up on the ramparts, knowing both the sounded notes and the look of their horses, began calling out to them. The doubled gates were swung back, and one-and-fifty riders from Four Stones cantered in.
Sigewif stood there before the door of the woman’s hall, with Mildgyth, the prioress of the place, at her side. Oundle’s two priests made haste to join those gathering to meet the arrivals. Ashild watched Sigewif raise her hands in welcome to the horsemen, and saw too the relieved concern on the abbess’ face.
They crowded in, filling the space between halls and barn with the swirling vigour of stamping horses. Ashild looked about her, and guided her horse to the mounting block at the wall of the barn. There she could dismount unseen; the numbers of riders about her in the forecourt would shield her from view. She knew her garb was a gross breach of womanly modesty, showing as it did the contours of her female form, unswathed by yards of flowing fabric. It had been one thing at Four Stones, a hall created by and for warriors, to appear thus. It was quite another at Oundle, a realm of women, raised out of nothing by the noblewoman who stood before the hall’s door. Here Ashild had entered a realm of consecrated, devout, and self-effacing females who numbered far more than their male counterparts on the monk’s side. And now she herself was dressed as a man.
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