He fell silent as they approached. The maid was of twelve or thirteen years, and in her slender and fair beauty was an almost perfect copy of her mother. She had been little more than a toddling child when he had been captured.
Ealhswith’s face was uncertain before the tall stranger, but her curtsy was unrushed and sincere. Sidroc raised his arms to his daughter, and she came to him.
Hrald came out the treasure room door to see his little sister being held by his father. He saw his father’s dark head bow over that of the flaxen-haired girl. And it brought to his mind Siggerith, half the age of Ealhswith, who was Thorfast’s daughter. She was wholly orphaned now, and would likely be taken with her serving woman to live with her young uncle Haward. She would barely understand it all, but in years to come when she saw him, she would know Hrald as her father’s killer; that would be on Hrald all the rest of his life.
He thought of the hall of Turcesig, and what lay ahead of him there. The holdings of Four Stones had in one day been doubled in size. Someone must be sent to live at Turcesig, command the men, and run the hall; his uncle, Asberg and his aunt, Æthelthryth…He shook his head, thinking on all that must be decided.
For now he must take his place at table, and address his hall. Serving folk were ready with platters of food, and stood waiting with ewers of mead in their hands, ready to be swirled in eager cups. His mother held her ewer of silver and stood behind her chair, waiting for when she would pour out for him and the rest of their table. His father would sit there, on the other side of Asberg, and Runulv too was given a place at the high table.
Within the treasure room Hrald had asked his father to be the first to address the hall. But Sidroc had shaken this off. Hrald was Jarl, the victory his, the duty and honour his.
As he was moving Ashild walked in, with shortened step, hastening to her place at the women’s table. Late as it was, the hall was lit only by fire-light; that of the oil-soaked rush torches jutting from the walls, the oil cressets on the tables, and on the table at which his family sat, long tapers of beeswax. In this light Ashild glimmered and shone, for she wore the gown of golden silk which Ceric had brought her. Her hair, the hue of Winter-dark honey, fell smoothly under a fine head-wrap of thin linen, flowing like a veil down her back. She had her skirts in her hands, fistfuls of the precious stuff gathered up to speed her to her seat. Her eyes were shining as she looked across to the table at which Hrald stood. A moment later she found her mother’s eyes also upon her, smiling as she grasped the silver vessel of mead.
The hall began to quiet. The Lady of Four Stones carried her ewer about her table. It was ever the lady’s role to determine in which order mead should be poured out, to whom should go the greatest honour. She began tonight with her son, who was ever first, save when Guthrum had dined with them. She paused then at the outstretched cup held in the hand of three-fingered Jari. Next she crossed to Sidroc. An appreciative murmur went round at this, and he smiled up at her as she dipped the silver over the cup before him. Next she served Asberg, then Byrgher, Wilgot the priest, and those remaining at her table. She poured out last for herself, and as she did so all the cups in the hall were filled by the serving folk.
All eyes were now on Hrald, finely arrayed, standing straight before the treasure room wall, the two raven banners of the hall to his left, his father’s red and black shield behind him. He took a calming breath and began.
“We have known today two victories,” Hrald said. “The price was the life of one who will be greatly missed in the hall, and in the field. I raise my cup to Gunnulf, who took my part, and the part of Four Stones; a hero’s part. Hail, and fare-well.”
He brought the cup to his lips and drank, the strong and potent sweetness of the mead filling his mouth, warming him, as it warmed all who so partook. All there echoed his fare-well. Hrald looked over to Jari, grief-stricken and proud, who had stood at his words, and Hrald tipped his cup to him.
Now Hrald must award treasure to his men. He first turned to Jari, still standing and looking to him, who had fought valiantly, and over the body of his fallen brother.
“To his brother Jari, who felled Gunnulf’s killer and his own man too, and who has been ever at my side, I award any sword, any helmet, and any knife from my store.”
Whistles and the stamping of feet arose through the hall at this, the men signalling their approval. Hrald leant to his body-guard.
“I give this as well, Jari,” he added, passing him an open circle of gold-chased silver, a broad pin for fastening his mantle. Jari clasped Hrald’s hand with his own marred one, and took the rich piece.
The young Jarl of Four Stones went on, handing out reward. To his uncle, he gave the forest lands to the East of the vale of horses, and all rights pertaining to it; it doubled what Asberg owned in his own name. He called Byrgher forward, he who had ridden next Asberg and Ashild, and offered him his choice of Hrald’s fine horses. Then in loud voice he promised a measure of silver to all who had ridden to Oundle and repelled the invaders.
He must look beyond his own table now, to that where the unmarried women sat.
“Ashild of Four Stones,” he summoned.
She rose, her gown of golden silk rustling as she moved. She passed her own table, and saw the loving eyes of Ealhswith and Burginde upon her.
She stopped before her brother. He had ever been tall, overtaking her own height when they were but children. Tonight, despite his youth, he looked almost fully a man.
And in this gown, she thought, I feel a woman, and one who is loved by my folk.
He looked at her, standing before him in Ceric’s gift. It was her finest gown, of course, but he hoped her choosing it for tonight carried greater meaning, as well. She smiled up at him. She wore no gems nor pins, but he saw about her neck the chains of two amulets, one silver, one gold, hidden beneath the bodice of her gown, those she had worn as she had ridden away a day ago.
Now Hrald looked to those who watched them both.
“To Ashild, who rode in the foremost rank at Oundle, and who made a clean kill there from true aim, I give this circlet of gold.”
It lay on the table before him. He lifted the filet in both hands and placed it over her head. It rested over the fine linen draping her head, and settled just above her eyebrows, a band of pure red gold.
All the champions had drawn acclaim from the hall. Again it erupted in cheers and whistles. Ashild lowered her eyes a moment to her brother, then raised them. She felt her cheek was aflame, but knew that such honour as this might never again come her way. She might one day be revered, as her mother was, for being the Lady of a hall, but acclaim such as this was a warrior’s portion, and she had won it. Her brother’s words, the cheers of her folk, wholly filled her. She let herself look out at all those before her. Her mother’s eyes beamed, and she held her hands clasped as if in grateful thanksgiving. Sidroc was grinning at her in open approval. Asberg was holding his silver cup to her in salute.
She returned to her table. Hrald looked as if he might gesture the serving folk forward. But the men of Four Stones wanted more.
“Sidroc! Sidroc!” they called. He rose, raising his arms to them, and they howled their welcome, stamping and cheering.
“I tell you what I told my son. I came to see that Four Stones was in certain and steady hands. All of us have proof that this is so.” He let his eye move about the place. “The men – and women – of Four Stones are like none other. I return to Gotland, secure in that knowledge.”
His eye landed on the shield behind Hrald. “I know my shield was hung upon that wall by Hrald. Now he must replace it, with his own, that he held today.”
An uproar of cheers greeted this. It was broken only by a demand from the middle of the hall.
“But you will tell your tale,” a man shouted. Others of them took it up.
“Já, já, we will hear of your adventures, of the Idrisids and all that came after!”
“You shall hear all,�
�� Sidroc grinned. “We will eat and drink, and you shall hear all.”
They had eaten beef boiled with dried plums and cherries, and thickened with chunks of toasted oaten bread. There were ripened ewe’s cheeses, and great baked custards of beaten eggs and new milk, sprinkled with ground walnuts, a rich and tender delicacy of Spring’s bounty. Much mead had been drunk. Sidroc had told his tale, one which was met with calls and hoots when he described the dragon-ship of the Danes bearing down on that of his captors, and enslaving them in turn. All leant towards him as he recounted this, his words holding them in a kind of spell. Likewise his listeners were riveted by the tale of the second sea battle, in which Sidroc had but an instant to decide which group of Danish raiders to fight for. Cups were raised to him, and more than once, during the telling.
After this dice and counters were brought forth, and the men and women of the hall ranged from table to table, gaming and watching those who did. The cressets were renewed, and as it was a day of such high note, the wax tapers on the high table replaced with others, that all might bask in generous light.
The night thinned. Ælfwyn’s day had seemed without end, and she was weary. She must stay a while longer, but looked forward to kneeling by her bed in her bower-house, holding her Psalter in her hand as she said her grateful prayers.
One by one folk began to take themselves off. Wilgot the priest was amongst the first to leave, to keep vigil with Onund beside the body of the fallen Gunnulf, who must be buried in the morning.
Ashild too felt that soon she must know sleep. Sidroc was at this time standing at a table not far from her, ready to take up the dice in his fist. He saw her rise, then laid down his dice, and followed her to the door which led to the stable yard. He wanted a moment alone with her. They paused there, inside the hall, but out of the height of its noise.
The flickering candles and cressets and the sheen of her silken gown cast all in dimly gleaming light. The newly placed band of gold about her brow also caught this warm, uncertain glow. He considered her now; the two, so long apart, facing the other. She had made clear her anger at him on the ride back from Oundle. And in her later embrace, when he held both her and Hrald in his arms, he felt that anger be replaced with as much affection as his absence could allow. Nothing could return the lost years, but he would have her know that he esteemed her courage, and wanted her happiness.
He regarded her a long while, while she held her face, looking back on him. She did not have her mother’s beauty, but had instead allure of her own, a kind of fetching attraction about her. She took after her father, had his colouring and stature. And, he knew now, she had Yrling’s firmness of purpose. But studying her in the little light, he began speaking of what she wore.
“Your gown…” he began. This gown of golden silk was known to him.
“Ceric brought it to me,” she said, looking down at the gorgeousness of the stuff it had been sewn from.
“She who is his mother – and my wife – wore it, years ago, at the hall of Kilton. I saw it when I went there with Guthrum. She wore it a second time, when she visited here; you and Hrald were children.”
She almost laughed; the history of this gown encircled three women.
“And before that, it was mother’s,” she told him.
He had recalled Ælfwyn’s gown of red silk, which she had worn for her hand-fast day with Yrling, but not her wearing this one of yellow.
“And now it is yours.”
He wondered if she too would one day wear it at Kilton. He spent another moment looking at her.
“I do not know that you will find any man to be your match, Ashild.” It sounded praise, but he meant it as fact. “Has Ceric grown into such a one?”
She let a long breath escape her lips, not quite a sigh, but a sound of deep thoughtfulness. “He was my first choice, though it was hard to admit it. I do not want to leave Four Stones. But if I must, I will go to Ceric.”
“That will gladden your mother.”
“And Hrald as well. Ceric is dear to him as any brother could be.”
He would not, in respect for her, spare her his next thought; and he felt that she was thinking it as well.
“Then his greatest fear will be to face him in battle.”
She nodded in grave agreement. “I would do much to prevent that,” she murmured.
Sidroc awoke just before dawn. He lay there on a straw pallet on the floor of Four Stones, amongst a score or more of its unmarried men, just as he had when his uncle, Yrling, had ruled here. A few cressets left burning on the stones of the fire-pit lit his way as he rose.
There was someplace he must go, and he headed there now. He made his way through a kitchen yard waking to a new day. A few kitchen staff, the bakers and the boys that stoked the bread ovens, were already bending over the hot baking pans, or trundling more wood. Soon the torches they had lit to aid their work could be rubbed out; dawn was nigh.
He let himself out through the palisade door there, and walked, slowly given the low light, along the path. His goal was the place of Offering. He passed the dank growth of the marshy area, and went on. To the left the path would take him to the duelling ground, where yesterday the Fate of Four Stones had been held in the hands of his son. This morning he went straight on. The Sun was risen enough so that the tall wooden carving of Odin was clear before him. It stood where it had always been by the trench in which men had made sacrifice of both animals and weapons. The night he had killed his sword was fresh in his mind, walking here burning with fever to bend back and snap with a steel hammer the blade which had failed him.
He stopped a moment before the visage of Odin. The carving was rotting away, any Summer storm to come might topple it. But before it he saw that a hay-fork had been driven into the ground, and that its tines held a fowl. At the base of the carving there were other animal remains, fresh ones. He would be back, to make Offering of his own, but did not expect the evidence that others were as well.
Where he headed was the great beech tree, off to one side of the place. The smooth trunk was such that two men could not clasp hands about it, and the canopy of new purple-green leaves spread dense and broad above it. He stepped under that leafy roof, and lifted his face to it, looking. Far over his head he saw something slender dangling from a bough, the silver chain he had hung for his shield-maiden so long ago. It was beyond his reach; the branch he hung it on had grown and uplifted, holding it closer to the Gods.
Years had tarnished the silver black, but beneath lay pure metal. He extended his arm towards it, driven by his yearning.
“Shield-maiden,” he said aloud. Water was in his eyes.
“I live.”
Here ends Book Six of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga
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The Circle of Ceridwen Saga:
The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One
Ceridwen of Kilton: Book Two
The Claiming: Book Three
The Hall of Tyr: Book Four
Tindr: Book Five
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross: Book Six
Also by Octavia Randolph:
Light, Descending
The Tale of Melkorka: A Novella
Ride: A Novella: The Story of Lady Godiva
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Ten easy, delicious, and authentic recipes from the Saga, including Barley Browis, Roast Fowl, Baked Apples, Oat Griddle Cakes, Lavender- scented Pudding, and of course - Honey Cakes. Charmingly illustrated with medieval woodcuts and packed with fascinating facts about Anglo-Saxon and Viking cookery. Free when you join the Circle, my mailing list. Be the first to know of new novels, have the opportunity to become a First Reader, and more. Get your Cookery
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The Glossary of Terms and other background information follow.
The Wheel of the Year
Candlemas - 2 February
St Gregory’s Day - 12 March
St Cuthbert’s Day – The Spring Equinox, about 21 March
St Elgiva’s Day - 18 May
High Summer or Mid-Summer Day- 24 June
Sts Peter and Paul - 29 June
Hlafmesse (Lammas)- 1 August
St Mary’s Day -15 August
St Matthews’ Day – The Fall Equinox, about 21 September
All Saints -1 November
The month of Blót – November; the time of Offering
Martinmas (St Martin’s) -11 November
Yuletide - 25 December to Twelfthnight - 6 January
Winter’s Nights – the Norse end of the year rituals, ruled by women, marked by feasting and ceremony
Anglo-Saxon Place Names, with Modern Equivalents
Æscesdun = Ashdown
Æthelinga = Athelney
Apulder = Appledore
Basingas = Basing
Bryeg= Bridgenorth
Caeginesham = Keynsham
Cippenham = Chippenham
Cirenceaster = Cirencester
Defenas = Devon
Englafeld = Englefield
Ethandun = Edington
Exanceaster = Exeter
Fearnhamme = Farnham
Glastunburh = Glastonbury
Hamtunscir = Hampshire
Hreopedun = Repton
Jorvik (Danish name for Eoforwic) = York
Legaceaster = Chester
Limenemutha = Lymington in Hampshire
Lindisse = Lindsey
Lundenwic = London
Meredune = Marton
Middeltun = Milton
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 51
