As we were laughing over this, we heard a loud, shrill whistle coming from the yard below. We stood up and went to the windows, and could see several Danes hurrying through the yard towards the hall. We heard more whistling, and loud calling, and men calling back.
We three women looked at each other, and then out to where the Danes hurried below. “What is it?” I asked.
“Could it be?” asked Ælfwyn. “Is Yrling come?”
“We needs must find out, and cannot do so here,” answered Burginde.
So we put down our work and went down the stair and into the hall. It was empty, but the outside door was open, and we saw Sidroc standing on the steps, looking across the yard.
Through the gate a lone rider, a Dane, came galloping up, on a horse so lathered and spent that it heaved as it drew breath. The Dane leapt from the saddle and stood, barely able to hold himself up, before Sidroc. His face was covered with grime and he looked as spent as his mount.
He spoke rapidly to Sidroc, and one of the Danes who had gathered to listen handed him a dipper of water, which he gulped down in one swallow. He went on, more slowly, and Sidroc spoke back to him, and the Dane answered. Then Sidroc uttered a cry like one of great anger, and with his booted foot kicked a barrel that stood at the base of the steps so that it toppled and rolled away. He called out, but it all seemed to be words of wrath. The Dane moved off, his message delivered, but Sidroc stood on the step in a rage. It was awful to see him thus, and more than awful as we did not know the cause of it.
“What is it?” cried Ælfwyn, coming up to him and speaking the alarm we all felt.
He ignored her plea, and she grasped his arm with both her hands. “Sidroc, tell me, what is wrong?” she cried, pulling on his arm and trying to look into his face.
Still he would not answer. “Is it Yrling?” she begged. “Has something befallen him?”
At last he spoke, but his voice was full of wrath. “No. Nothing has befallen him. But they have failed in what they had meant to do, and now things are worse than before.”
He breathed out a long and angry breath. “I must ride, now, and go to them.” He looked at Ælfwyn and me and said, “Do not ride out, or leave the yard, when I am gone.”
“When will you be back?” asked Ælfwyn.
“Soon,” he said.
“And Yrling is well?” she asked again.
“Yes,” he said, but the impatience grew in his voice.
“And may we not go even to the village?” she asked.
“If you take one of Yrling’s men with you, you may go.”
“But who will command when you are gone?”
“I will tell you before I go. I have much to do.” And he strode off to the great stable and left us there.
There was nothing for us to do but to go up to our room.
Ælfwyn and I sat at the table, our spindles quiet before us. Burginde took hers up and stood by the window. We watched the rhythmic spinning of the spindle whorl as it dropped slowly towards the floor.
I looked at Ælfwyn, but she remained quiet. “You must be glad that Yrling is well,” I offered, after many minutes had passed.
Her brows knit together. “In truth,” she said slowly, “I do not know. I was aware as I asked Sidroc about him, that if he told me that Yrling was dead, I could go home.”
My mouth opened, but I said nothing, and she lowered her face in her hands. I looked at Burginde, but her eyes followed the movement of her yarn, and her face held no expression.
Ælfwyn raised her head and looked at me. “I am afraid there will be war,” she said.
“There be already war, and plenty of it,” replied Burginde.
“I mean at home, in Cirenceaster. Sidroc has told us that many more Danes will be coming this Summer. They cannot all stay here, in the North. And if there is war throughout Wessex, and even at Cirenceaster, what will be the good of the Peace my father made? The tribute would have been paid for nothing.”
I thought of the lands of her home, how rich and verdant they must be; and thought of them laid waste by the Danes the way Lindisse was. I thought too of the Fate of the women of Lindisse, and of Merewala’s daughter.
“At least you live, and are well,” I answered.
She turned on me. “What of my mother, and two young sisters? What of my father, and grandsire, and all the lands they have held for time out of mind? What of his thegns, and their wives and children, and all the cottars and all the slaves?”
“Hush,” said Burginde, stopping in her spinning. “Will you be raving at us, when we be all as one in this life with you? The Lady is right: you live, and are well, and are wed to a powerful Lord, and through him can perchance stay the hand of the Danes against your father. At home you could do nothing; nothing but weave the burial sheets that will wrap the men.”
The thought of this grim task made us all quiet. Ælfwyn leaned back in her chair and looked limp. “Forgive me my sharp words,” she said. “My work is here, to provide for my new people. And if I should please Yrling, it may fall that I may protect and serve my family in Cirenceaster as well.”
“But do not put all that on your brow,” warned Burginde. “Things may not be as bleak as our speech. King Æthelred will in no wise give up. Think first of the tasks at hand, of the care of your husband and household, and the getting of a babe.”
Ælfwyn seemed not to hear this, and went on with her thinking. “But how can I care for Yrling, or ever please him, if the Danes make war at my home? If he does not honour the Peace, I could never honour him.”
Here I spoke. “Sidroc told us that Yrling would honour it, and try to see that other Danes did as well.”
But saying this, I thought again: Far better to have war at Cirenceaster with Yrling than some strange Dane. At least then Ælfwyn’s family might be spared.
We heard movement beneath us in the hall, and then a man’s tread on the lowest of our wooden steps. We did not need to be told that it was Sidroc, and rose at once and went down to meet him.
His anger still shown on his face. He was dressed as if for battle, and it was an awesome sight. Beneath his wool mantle he wore his ring tunic, covered all over with iron rings so close upon the next that no spear could pierce it. His legs were wrapped in leathern wrappings, and his red baldric slung across his chest held his sword, and his belt, his long knife. He pulled on his gloves as he began to speak.
“Do not ride out when I am gone,” he repeated. He spoke to us as if we were children.
“We will not,” answered Ælfwyn, and she could not hide the sulkiness in her voice.
“Do not look for us in less than a week. Until we return, Jari will command.”
“Jari,” said Ælfwyn, in a way that made it clear that the name held no meaning for her.
“Red hair. Three fingers on his sword hand,” replied Sidroc. He began moving away, down the steps leading to the yard.
“Yes, I know him now,” answered Ælfwyn, and tried the name out again. “Jari.”
Before the steps a Dane held the bridle of Sidroc’s bay stallion. Across the saddle front was lashed a spear, and Sidroc’s helmet was tied next to his bedroll and pack at the back of the saddle. The horse danced and pawed the ground. He too seemed eager to be off.
Sidroc swung up in the saddle and took the reins. He looked down at us, and Ælfwyn said in a quiet voice, “Be well.”
He nodded, and said, “And you, Lady.”
Then he looked at me and spoke again, perhaps words of parting; but it was of his own tongue, so I knew not. I raised my hand, but could not smile. He kicked his horse and was gone.
Then followed the hardest week we had ever known, for we were like unto prisoners in our own home. We could not ride out, and so were deprived the pleasure of the warming Spring weather. We did not go down to the hall at night, but took all our meals in our chamber, for we would not sit alone at table with all the Danes gawking at us, or worse, by sitting by ours
elves seem to invite the brutish Jari to join us. We could not walk to the village, for Ælfwyn would not take one of the Danes with us, and who could blame her? - for to take one of them into the midst of the village women was too cruel. Besides all this, we did not know what went wrong with Yrling, or why they failed, or how things were now worse. All we knew was that Sidroc was very angry, angry enough to go himself to join them, leaving us and the rest of Four Stones to the command of another.
When the week had passed, we began to look for return of the men, and to expect them by the hour. But another day passed, and another, and then a third, and Burginde grew so weary of our expectation that she teased us about our eagerness.
Chapter the Thirty-fifth: The Return
ANOTHER day came; eleven had passed since the message from the lone horseman. The morning had been a dull one, not good for fine work, so we sat or stood with our spindles until we took our meat at noon. Burginde went back to spinning, standing by the open windows, and Ælfwyn and I sat and worked over the alphabet in my wax tablet.
The afternoon was far gone when we heard the first of the whistles from the men posted on the palisade. We all peered out our windows, straining to see and hear, and just waited. There were more whistles, and shouts, and calls of all kinds, and as we left the windows and hurried down the wooden stair we heard the sounds of many horses trampling outside the hall. So they were come.
The door of the hall was open. We stood well inside, near to our stair, for we did not want to be in the way of the men as they came in. We could see outside several of the horses, dusty with travel, and some men moving about them, and hear above the jangling of the horse’s trappings and stamping of their feet much talk in the speech of the Danes, calls of welcome and such, no doubt.
And then the men began to come in, and Ælfwyn stepped forward, clasping her white hands together and twisting one of her rings as she waited.
The first to come in was Yrling himself, and Ælfwyn cried out a little gasp when she saw him, for tho’ he was talking and even laughing to the man next to him, his left arm was wrapped up close to his body as if it were broken, and the left side of his face was covered with a bloody scab from his forehead to his chin, and the eye swollen shut.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. Ælfwyn ran to him, and he looked at her and grinned and called out to her, but when he tried to put his good arm about her he grimaced in pain. Burginde went to her, and I saw them question him, but could not hear his answer, for the room was now filling with the rest of the party. But since he was on his feet, and talking, his hurt was not a bad one. It was not clear what had befallen, accident or battle.
The men were all very grimy, and their weariness shown in their filthy faces. Still they laughed and called to each other at the joy of returning home, and chaffed one another in loud voices. I saw Toki, his yellow hair streaming back loose over his shoulders. His swagger was not so great as I had recalled, and he was almost quiet and scarcely joined in the noise of the men about him. Some of the men carried or dragged hide sacks with them, and then laughing held up the contents to show them off. This I knew at once to be battle-gain, and that they had in fact joined in warfare on their trip, for the fact that some brandished newly captured swords and seaxs told me this.
Then I saw Sidroc come in, walking slowly, and dragging a pack behind him. He was not wearing his sword, and I saw the red leather of his baldric stuffed into the top of the pack he dragged. He looked at me, and his face was white.
Burginde came by, rushing on her way upstairs. “The Dane be not bad; ‘tis his shoulder. ‘Twas put out of joint when his horse stumbled.”
That explained the scab on his face as well; he must have scraped it badly when he fell.
Ælfwyn ran to me and said, “Burginde is going to get the Simples and some clean linen. He is not badly hurt, thank God, and only laughs about it.” In her voice was some agitation, but also true relief.
“They have been at battle?” I asked.
“They were ambushed, from what I can understand. Yrling says Sidroc saved his life.”
Sidroc stood a few feet away from us, and lifted his pack with effort to one of the tables the other men were setting up.
Ælfwyn and I looked at each other, and together crossed over to him.
He smiled at us, but his face was so pale that the scar which he had borne for many years upon his cheek looked fresh again.
Ælfwyn lifted her hand to his face and lay it on his forehead. “Sidroc, you are not well; you burn with fever,” she said, drawing back her hand.
“I am all right,” he said, but it was clear from the slowness of his speech that this was not true.
Finally I spoke. “What is wrong? Was there fever where you were?”
“No,” he said, and his voice was dull. “I took a spear cut, under my arm, and it is hot now.” He leaned back on the table, as if for support.
Ælfwyn said, “It must have festered. It should be searched and dressed. It is too easy to die from such wounds.”
She began to say more, but Burginde came back, and she looked across the hall to where Yrling now leaned against the wall. His face looked pinched and very tired.
“Burginde,” she said, “come and help me get Yrling to the treasure room, and then come back with more linen so that Sidroc’s wound might be washed.”
She turned to me and said, “You must search it carefully, and wash it well. It must have started to seal up with the fester inside, or he would not have so great a fever.” She spoke with firmness, but with calmness as well, despite the noise about her and the hurt to Yrling. “I will come and help you when I can.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling real alarm as I watched her hurry off with Burginde. I had never searched a wound, but only seen it done. Sidroc was sick with fever, and if I did not do well, he could die of it.
He stood before me, leaning against the table. His eyes were closed, and I lifted my hand to his face and touched it. “You are so hot,” I breathed aloud. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
“When did this happen?” I asked, and reached across his chest to unpin his mantle.
“Four days past. No, five,” he answered slowly. I drew the mantle off and dropped it on his pack. As I did I saw beneath his left arm a dark stain, the colour of rust, which showed even through the leathern tunic he wore, and clotted around the linked iron of his ring shirt.
“We have to take off your ring shirt, and I will try to do it as gently as I can,” I began, and my fingers fumbled at the leathern lacings that ran up the front. He moved his right hand up to help, and together we pulled the lacings through. With each pull I saw him fight off a wince.
“You must drink much water and ale,” I said, knowing that this would help stave off the fever. “I will go and get you some.”
I ran to the kitchen yard, and brought back an ewer filled with weak ale and a bronze cup. “Drink this now,” I said.
He lifted the cup to his lips and laughed a little. “You command well, shield-maiden,” he said. “I will leave you, and not Jari, in my place next time.”
I was glad to hear him tease me, hoping that it meant that he was in not too great danger. “I am going to pull off your ring shirt now,” I said, and took hold of it and pulled it back off his shoulders.
Luckily the leather beneath did not stick where the blood stain was, but moved off easily. As I pulled the shirt I saw something drop out of the front of it. It was small and silver and Sidroc caught it quickly in his right hand as it fell. Some talisman, I thought, since it fell from his breast.
The linen tunic he wore beneath was begrimed and streaked with dirt. It would not be easy to take it off, for the wound had bled into it, and a jagged circle of dried blood, as large around as two man’s hand-spans, marked where the spear had hit. It was on the curve of the back by the ribs, just beneath the armpit. The spear must have been driven so that it ran in the arm opening of the ring tunic.
> As I was considering all this two Danes were watching us with interest. They were talking and laughing, and sometimes spoke to Sidroc, so that he opened his eyes for a moment and spoke back to them. I turned to face them, and they silently regarded me. I surprised myself by saying, “Go away,” in a loud voice to them.
This made Sidroc laugh, and he spoke to the men, and they laughed, but they did move away.
Burginde came up to me, carrying a small copper basin and an ewer. Behind her was Susa, who held a wad of linen sheeting and one of the sewing kits from our room. They put this down on the table by me, and Burginde peered closely into Sidroc’s face. She touched his forehead, and said, “Ach!”, and then touched his cheek. He tossed his head a bit; I think he grew weary of us measuring his fever. She ignored this and turned her attention to the bloody spot on his tunic.
She picked at it a bit, and Sidroc flinched, and she said, “‘Twill have to be cut off. I hate to cut such a tunic, but I can sew it up as well as cut it off.”
She opened the sewing kit and took out a pair of shears, and made a cut up the very front to the neck so that the shirt came off the right side of him. Upon his bare chest was a design pricked in blue, such as I had seen on Yrling’s arms. It was a dragon, or a bird of some sort. Wrapped around his chest was a narrow band of cloth, and Burginde cut through it too, tho’ it was stuck fast over the wound. “Field dressing,” she said.
“Now soak it off with warm water,” she said, gesturing to the bloody linen. “I will come back in a while to see how you do.”
She moved off, with Susa, towards the treasure room. The door of it was open, and I caught a glimpse of Ælfwyn moving within.
I looked back at Sidroc and said, “I think you had better lie down so I can work better.”
I moved the packs along the table to make a space where he could lie. I took his mantle and spread it on the rough wood surface, and with some difficulty he stretched out upon it, face down.
I poured out warm water into the basin and dipped some onto the stained tunic. At once the water released the dried blood, and the bloodied water began to run all over. I had to catch up the cleaner ends of the linen tunic to catch it all. Soon the whole piece was stained red.
The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Page 24
