Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  Sidroc was scanning the road ahead. “They never came this way, not with that number of men and horses,” he judged. Neither road nor huts were disturbed. They were not far from the croft furthest from the walls, and the cottar’s huts sprung up more thickly after that.

  “From the North,” Asberg surmised.

  “Thorfast,” answered Ashild, almost to herself. “It is Thorfast.”

  A lone figure, one of the cottars, now appeared from a milking-pen, holding a staff in his hands as if to defend his milk-ewes. He stood a long moment looking at the new riders behind him. Then he let himself out of the pen and came down the road to them.

  “Brave man,” Asberg muttered. He watched the cottar’s face, saw how it was fastened on Ashild. “He sees your horse, Ashild, and knows it to be you,” he said in satisfaction.

  The man now came at a trot to them, to say it was indeed Thorfast who had come to call, with his entire hall of warriors at his back. The cottar had been up by the gates when Thorfast had ridden around from behind. He had not liked the look of things, and had made haste for his sheep, ready, if not to defend them, to drive them to safety.

  “Well, it is a friend,” Asberg said, as they watched the cottar head back to his fold.

  Ashild said nothing.

  Sidroc spoke. “Thorfast, son of Amundi?”

  He had known a few slight boundary conflicts with Amundi in his first years of ruling Four Stones, nothing of grave import, though in one a man had been killed. He knew Thorfast was also nephew to Guthrum, and had been a boy when he left.

  “The same,” Asberg answered. “Now he wants Ashild to wife, a match that would benefit both halls. Guthrum left him Turcesig in his will.”

  Sidroc took this in, and turned to Ashild. Her face was canted down, looking into the white mane of her horse. She looked no starry-eyed maiden at the sound of her suitor’s name.

  “Is he your choice as well,” he asked. He had forfeited right to have say in such matters, but not his right to care for her happiness.

  “I told Hrald I would wed him,” is how she answered. She had not raised her face to his.

  “Your mother…?”

  Now she looked at him. “Like Hrald, she wishes me to wed Ceric of Kilton.”

  He could not be surprised. It was what his shield-maiden always desired, and no two women had ever been of one mind more than she and Ælfwyn. And he could not believe her mother and brother would wish this for Ashild if she herself were not disposed towards the young Saxon. He would risk another question.

  “But you would wed Thorfast for…your own sake?”

  She turned her chin and snapped her answer at him. “For the sake of Four Stones.”

  She did not want Thorfast, that was clear. Her eyes glinted, not with tears, but with anger. Her mouth was set almost as if she gritted her teeth.

  His eyes lifted a moment to the sky. He had not been the father to this girl he had promised to be, but he might aid her now.

  “Then let us ride to Four Stones’ door and see what he wants,” was what he said in return.

  He swung his shield around, and the others did the same.

  The mass of men they approached were mostly mounted, and a number of supply waggons at their rear were stopped upon the road. They must thin their own ranks to ride two-by-two, and Ashild and Asberg went first. As they neared they saw the army turn towards them, almost a wave of movement as their approach was spotted; and saw the two foremost riders be recognised and a parting made to admit them.

  Sidroc saw the vastness of the force assembled, as great as that of Four Stones. He was riding just behind Ashild, the raven banner springing from her saddle cantle fluttering behind her. The Sun was on its downward path, casting strong shadows from their horses and upheld spears.

  Standing there before the walls Hrald saw the white stallion canter towards him, then the figure in its cap upon its back. It was Ashild, alive and upon her great horse. He wanted to rush to her and pluck her from her saddle and into his arms. Then he saw his boyhood shield, a deep rent in its face from the blow it had taken. It made him catch his breath, thinking what it had stopped. He knew the wooden disc as no longer his own shield, but his sister’s.

  Another shield caught his eye, that fronting a warrior who was now coming up to flank Ashild.

  Thorfast had turned his horse to face the arriving troop. It took a moment for him to see the figure upon the stallion was none other than she he had given the beast to. He almost laughed, a thrill of pleasure rippling through him at her spirit.

  Looking up from where they stood Ælfwyn and Burginde also saw Ashild. Ælfwyn’s fingers rose to her brow as she crossed herself in thanksgiving for her daughter’s return. They saw the girl try to smile down at them. Ashild always had good colour, but now her cheek was as white as her mother’s.

  It was Asberg spoke first. “Oundle was attacked, just after dawn, by newly-arrived Danes who follow Haesten. We sprang, and routed them; two only of our men have hurt. They remain there with ten others.”

  “There is battle everywhere,” Thorfast answered. “You are in time to see more. Hrald has challenged me and my chosen two men to combat, three on three. The winner claims the hall and men of the loser.”

  Asberg’s howl was loud and immediate. But the rider on the other side of Ashild now pulled his helmet from his head.

  “Hrald,” called his father. “Is this true?”

  Hrald’s mouth dropped open, and he took a step nearer Sidroc’s horse. He could scarce speak, but looking on his father’s face, made answer.

  “He wanted open battle. I would spare our men.”

  “Sidroc,” Thorfast said, squinting at the newly arrived warrior. The name was repeated again, flowing through the ranks of those within the gates. Sidroc was returned.

  “Hrald has set the terms,” Thorfast went on, still staring at Sidroc. “Swear that you will abide by them.”

  “Then I fight for you,” Sidroc said instead, eyes fixed on his son.

  “That you cannot,” Thorfast answered. “We have picked our men.”

  Sidroc gave a flick of his head, as if he could shake off this claim. His eyes returned to Hrald. “Who fights for you,” Sidroc asked.

  “Jari and Gunnulf will join me.”

  Asberg again gave voice, and from the ranks of men behind him came confused utterings and oaths, as word spread of the sudden bargain that had been struck.

  Sidroc looked to his son. The boy was tall and rangy, and had less than twenty years. Thorfast was a man, who if not battle-hardened himself, was come into his full strength. Such a combat was a champion’s role, not a youth’s. He had not known what he would find in Lindisse, but never thought to find Hrald ready to throw himself into the teeth of almost certain disaster. He felt a clenching coldness in the core of him, the numbing chill of loss and destruction.

  His voice was low and urgent, his eyes trained on those of his son. “Hrald. Let me take your place.”

  Hrald’s eyes shone back at him. He had prayed to see his father again, and now here he was. But he had made the bargain and would adhere to it.

  Thorfast, watching them, spoke his anger to Sidroc. “You have no part of this,” he said.

  Sidroc’s eyes shifted in his head; much was forfeit, and out of his control. As he had wanted it. But his young – he would not forfeit them to a Fate marking them for death or enslavement.

  Hrald turned to Thorfast. They must finish setting terms.

  “If you win, my hall and men are yours,” he vowed. He worked to keep his voice steady as he said this. “My mother and sisters, all my kin, must be free to go.”

  “They may go. All but Ashild. Ashild will be my wife.” Thorfast had turned his head to glance at her. The very horse she was riding showed him she wanted him.

  “I will not wed a man who has killed my brother,” she spat back.

  “That we shall see,” Thorfast answered, still smiling a
t her.

  “I demand same for Haward,” said Thorfast next, looking to his younger brother. Haward dwelt in the hall of their fathers.

  “Haward will not be denied his birthright,” decided Hrald. “His hall remains his. But if I win, Turcesig, that which Guthrum gave you, and the men thereof, becomes part of Four Stones.”

  Thorfast nodded.

  “Then it is settled,” Hrald ended.

  “Where?” Thorfast now asked. His horse was restless under him, and he pulled hard on his reins as it danced.

  Sidroc’s mind was whirling, but he spoke. They stood in the shadow of the stone preaching cross that the priest was so proud of. This combat must be held in a place equally suited for its purpose.

  “At the duelling place,” Sidroc said. “Around, past the beech, and the old place of Offering.” He gestured with his hand from whence Thorfast had come. “We will meet you there.”

  Thorfast nodded. Sidroc looked at the army behind him. “Ten men to witness, for each side. No more.”

  “Ten,” agreed Thorfast.

  Ten would be witness enough to swear the fight had been an honest one.

  “Leave the rest of your men here,” Sidroc ended. Thorfast again nodded.

  Those who had come from Oundle began to pass inside their own gates. When all were inside, the doors were swung shut. The horsemen climbed down from their mounts. Those who would fight or witness must soon leave for the appointed place, but now the yard was filled with questioning murmurs. Stablemen appeared, holding the heads of the horses. Hrald had walked at the head of Ashild’s horse, and now helped brace her as she dropped from the saddle.

  Sidroc was next her, but stayed on his horse a moment, watching the two. Asberg, already on foot, had come up to his niece and nephew, and now raised his voice so all nearby could hear.

  “She killed a man, with a thrown spear, right in the chest. We watched him fall, Sidroc and I.”

  “Thrown truly, and well,” Sidroc added, with grave respect.

  All near them were looking at her. She kept her eyes on her brother.

  “Your shield told me something had happened,” Hrald said. He looked at it, now hanging from her saddle, and the deep puncture in its face near the iron boss. It added to the unreality of the day, hearing of her act. Except for slashing Ceric in their sword play, he had never done more than bruise his opponent. Ashild had killed a man.

  “It was a spear you had made for me, Hrald,” she told him, holding it slightly towards him.

  Wilgot the priest was one of those near them, and his eyes had fastened on Ashild.

  Asberg could but raise his voice again. “To protect the women and treasure of Oundle,” he asserted, looking at the priest. Wilgot, flustered, lifted his hands as if in benediction.

  Ashild turned to one of her saddle bags, from which a sheathed sword protruded. “This is yours, Hrald.”

  “Your battle-gain?”

  “You are my Jarl; it is rightly yours.”

  A smile forced itself to his lips. “You shall have rich reward at the mead bench, Ashild.”

  Now her mother and Burginde had come to her, and she was taken up in their arms. Ælfwyn had love of scented oils, and Ashild had always found being in her mother’s embrace akin to holding a bouquet. Her smell was one of the things she loved about her, and the familiar sweetness of her was never more welcome than it was at this moment. Ashild was unwashed, her hair tangled, her clothes slept in. But more than that, her mother’s scent told of home.

  Ælfwyn was now holding Ashild’s hands to her face and kissing them. These rein-roughened hands had thrown a spear that had found home in a marauding Dane’s breast; her girl had killed a man. Ælfwyn felt startle, but not the shock she might expect. Ashild had fought for the defence of those defenceless; that and to protect the treasure dedicated to God’s works. Ælfwyn knew she herself, if cornered, would take up weapon and try to kill to protect her own; but Ashild, with so little training, had stood with the warriors and done so.

  “My dear, dear girl,” her mother told her. “How grateful Sigewif must have been at your coming!”

  Tired as she was Ashild managed a smile. “She likened me to Judith,” she told her, and both her mother and Burginde could hear the note of pride in her voice.

  Hrald had neared Sidroc’s horse. His father swung down, and they stood staring at each other.

  Hrald felt he could not move. More than seven years had passed since he had seen him. Sidroc took the final stride to his son, bridging the last distance of the leagues he had travelled to be at his side. He opened his arms to a young man now his own height. Those strong arms closed around Hrald.

  Hrald felt the strength in those arms, and the power and prowess in the body of his father. He felt a stripling next an oak; one that could never have the stature and skill of this man that held him.

  His eyes were squeezed shut, thinking of what he had done, and that now his father was here to witness what might be his first and final battle.

  He forced his eyes open. There was Ashild. He summoned her with his eyes, bidding her to come to where he stood in his father’s embrace.

  She could not, for Hrald’s sake, stand apart; such pain was in his face. In a single movement she cast herself at them, to find herself in their joint embrace. Their arms moved to take her in. She felt the strength of both of them surround her. Yet what little she had left she wished to give to Hrald, to help him in his coming conflict.

  They dropped their arms to see trays of ale being passed. Men drank deep around them, thirsty from long riding, and the strain of what must soon be faced. Then Ashild’s mother was there before them, with a small silver tray holding silver and gilt cups.

  She offered the cups without speaking, and Hrald and Ashild each took one up and moved away. She was left facing Sidroc, the salver between them.

  “You have come.” Her tone was as soft as it was grateful.

  “I heard there was danger. The children. You. I could not but come.”

  “Ceridwen?”

  “She is well. I carry her letter to you.”

  They fell silent. “You have scarce changed, Lady,” he told her.

  Warmth rose, not to her cheek, but the warmth of memory, remembering when Sidroc had leant over the table and addressed her during her first nights at Four Stones. “You are beautiful, Lady,” he had told her then, after she became Yrling’s wife.

  She sat that night with Ceridwen, in a hall filled with strange men, who one by one became less fearsome to them. This had been the best of those men, he who had kept her from destroying her own life, had redeemed her enslaved mother and sisters, and had given her two of the three children she cherished.

  “Nor have you,” she returned, in simple honesty. The strand of grey at his left temple was the brighter, the eyes showing a few more lines about them, but in form he was as lean and forceful as he had ever been; there was no creeping softness about him. And when he smiled, as he did now, the long and pale scar on the left side of his face folded in, as it had always done.

  Chapter the Twenty-eighth: The Duel

  SIDROC would not go within the treasure room; it was Asberg who went with Hrald, Jari, and Gunnulf to help arm them. What lay within that stronghold belonged to Hrald, and he would have his son be armed amidst the treasure he owned, without the distraction of his lately returned father.

  When the three stepped out into the hall those waiting fell silent. Hrald, the tallest yet the leanest of them, wore for the first time the shining ring-shirt Ceric had brought him. He knew the weight of doing so, had sparred several times wearing another, but had saved Ceric’s gift for that time when actual battle was demanded. As his uncle helped him into it and the weight settled over his shoulders, he recalled what Ceric had told him on the day he left, when he had tried to thank him for it. Do not get it dented, his friend had said. For one moment he allowed himself to think on Ceric, and what his own ring-tunic had kno
wn since their parting.

  Upon Hrald’s head was his helmet, a striking piece with long-legged creatures like wolves etched into the sides of it; and over the eye-holes and extending down the nose-guard a design like the gaping head of a raptor. His long knife and sword completed his kit, that and his red and black shield.

  Jari and Gunnulf were equally protected, with ring-shirts over their leathern tunics, knives, and swords. Gunnulf had no helmet of his own, but now wore one from the store of weapon-treasure owned by Hrald. His long yellow hair fell down from beneath it, and his bright eyes flashed from the slanted eye holes. Jari, with his sword on his right hip, wore a helmet he had won long ago fighting with Sidroc, one of blued steel that looked almost black upon his reddish hair. All three so arrayed looked formidable, and awe-ful in acts yet unexpressed.

  Sidroc had been sitting with Runulv on a bench not far from the treasure room door, awaiting them with the rest. His old shield of red and black swirls hung upon the wall, to the left of the long raven banner Ælfwyn and Burginde had worked years ago. When his son stepped out holding a shield coloured like his own, his throat caught.

  It was, in a way, like seeing himself as a young man, and all which this sensation drew forth, of hope dashed or realised. When he had embraced his son in the yard he had wondered at the boy’s beauty, a face far more good looking than his had ever been, even before the knife cut to his cheek. But then Hrald’s mother had beauty, and had been generous in passing a manly measure on to her son.

  Those men who would witness were Hrald’s father and uncle, and eight of the warriors who sat each night at table with their Jarl. Three women were there as well, insistent on their right to be present: Hrald’s mother, older sister, and Burginde, never to be parted from the side of her mistress.

  “If Thorfast objects we will stand apart and away, but we will be there,” said Ælfwyn. Asberg had looked to Hrald, expecting him to reject this claim, but he nodded.