The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga

by Octavia Randolph

  My eyes were held at what lay just a few paces before us, for there in the faltering, misted light lay the form of a woman, dead. She lay upon her back, her round eyes rolled open to the setting Sun, a dark smear of blood crusted on her temple. Her legs were spread apart, and her simple gown was pushed up over her hips.

  Gyric said again, “What?” and gripped my arm with such force that I awoke from my silent horror.

  “It is a woman, dead before us. She has been ravished,” I choked out.

  I tore my eyes from her and looked beyond to find another form, marked with a throwing spear thrust upright from his body, lying not far from the open doors of the huts. “There is a man, dead, with a spear in him,” I went on.

  “How long dead are they? Are the bodies swollen?” asked Gyric in an urgent voice.

  My face was covered with my hands. “No. Not long, I think,” was all I could answer.

  We heard the child cry again, and I looked across the field. A little boy of two or three years toddled out of one of the huts, grasping at the open door and wailing. He was dressed in a ragged shirt, far too large for him, a cast off perhaps, of his now-dead father’s.

  “A boy is crying at us from the door of a hut,” I told Gyric.

  “What else is there?” he wanted to know. “Do you see fresh tracks? Many horses? Find where the intruders came and left.”

  I tried to look around at the ground, but my eyes could scarce see. I slipped off my horse and walked, trembling, to the dead woman. The furrow she lay upon was broken and trampled, but I did not see the print of horse’s hooves. I came up beside her and quickly snatched at one end of her gown and pulled it down to her bare ankles. I looked at her open eyes as I did this; they were blue. Her hair was fair, and lay in a knot of yellow behind her head. Her head wrap, a mere scrap of rag, lay in the brown soil where it had fallen during the struggle.

  “Ceridwen,” said Gyric.

  I turned to him, and each word was a sob. “She - has been - killed by a blow to the head; there - are - many footprints by her, but I - cannot tell how - many - men. There - are - no hoof prints here.”

  “Come on, we are going,” he said.

  The child wailed again. “The boy,” I sobbed, looking across at him clutching at the door.

  “Leave it,” Gyric ordered. “The rest will come back soon enough.”

  I looked up at him, speechless.

  “There are six or seven huts, you said. You see only two dead; the other folk have fled, and will be back soon enough. The boy will be all right.”

  I was walking past the woman now, straight to the child, and tried to keep my eyes fixed on his ragged little shape as I passed the man. He was face down, and the light spear had caught him in the centre of his back as he had tried to run towards the woman.

  I reached the huts, and saw now where the invaders had come, for the ground there was churned up with hoof prints. I glanced at them, and went to the child and reached my arm about him and carried him off. I pulled his shirt over his head as I passed the two silent forms in the field.

  The boy was whimpering in my arms as I came to our horses. Gyric sat forward, his spear end planted in the ground, and spoke to me as I tried to place the boy on my saddle. “Ceridwen, we cannot take this child with us. Believe me, the other folk will come back.”

  “How do you know? And what if - they come back instead, the riders?”

  “Did you find prints?”

  “Yes, many of them.”

  Gyric snorted, and his lip twisted. “They never come back. But we must ourselves go, for others may be following, taking the same route.” His brow furrowed deeper, and he went on, “There are no animals, you said. They carried off the livestock for food. They came from the other side of the fields; there must be a road there.”

  “Yes.”

  The boy was really crying now, and I could not get him to hold on to my saddle so I could mount behind him. I was crying, too, and wondering if he had watched his parents be slaughtered. “Gyric, will you take hold of this child? We cannot leave him here to die.”

  “I tell you, he will not die; the cottars will return.”

  “What if they have been rounded up, to be sold as slaves?”

  He shook his head. “No. They are not slaving now, only taking supplies. The dead were worth silver; they would have taken them if they had been slaving.”

  I did not want to argue. I wanted to get away from the place of death, but I could not leave the boy behind, sobbing, and terrified. “Can we not just go somewhere safe and watch until they return?” I pleaded. The child was limp and heavy in my arms, his little legs dangling against me.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “We will go back up to the ridge and make camp. The cottars may come back by cover of dark.” He reached out one of his arms and said less grudgingly, “Let me take him.”

  I lifted the boy up to Gyric’s saddle, and he closed his arm about him, which occasioned fresh screams from the boy. I made haste to mount, and then reached back and took the child onto my own saddle, trying to calm it and myself at the same time.

  We picked our way up one side of the ridge, and I found a spot where we could spend the long night ahead of us. I did not make a fire for fear of being seen, but only tried my best to comfort the child and keep him quiet. At last he fell asleep on my sheepskin, sucking his thumb and still breathing tiny hiccoughing cries.

  Gyric sat beside me in the dark as I waited for any sign of life moving about the huts below us. The Moon rose up, casting his soft glow upon the fields, and I was grateful his light was too dim for me to see the dead who lay there.

  “What if they do not come?” I asked, troubled that I was now putting us in extra danger on the hope of their return.

  “They will come,” Gyric answered, and his voice was kind, tho’ tired. “If they do not, we will carry the boy with us until we reach the next trev, and can give it to the cottars there.” He seemed to read my thoughts, for his next words were, “They cannot all have suffered like this.”

  Tears began flowing from my eyes, and I tried to stop them.

  “I am sorry for what you have seen,” he went on, quietly.

  Images of the dead woman, of the dead man, of the riders bearing down on them flooded into my mind. I could almost feel the terror of the woman as she fled; the men pursuing her, catching her up; her struggle; the man, perhaps her husband, running to her, only to meet his own death. I pressed my hands over my face, but could not stop seeing her staring eyes, bloodied head, her open and exposed thighs.

  “It is part of war,” he said, gravely.

  Something like anger now mixed with my tears, and I stammered out, “That is the excuse we always hear.”

  I took a breath, and my anger came to the forefront. “If they wanted and needed food, that is one thing. But to ravish and murder her -”

  I felt him shrug in the darkness. “It happens a lot. Not just the Danes, either.” His voice grew low. “Even good men sometimes do it, in war.”

  “Ravish women? Murder them?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes,” he answered slowly. “Something happens in battle; when you are going into battle. Something inside of you. I cannot explain it to you. Sometimes even good men do it.”

  “Do you do it?” I asked, in my anger.

  “No. I have never done it,” he said firmly. “I would not do such a thing; at least, I cannot ever imagine doing it.”

  I felt helpless to say anything. His voice was pained, and honest; he was being truthful to me about something lesser men would boast of doing. In peace-time the penalty for ravishing women was exacted in silver; but in war-time all men went unpunished, and I knew well that no one brings charges against the victor of a battle.

  My eyes ached from crying, and I felt weak and sick. “I do not mean to be angry at you,” I whispered. “I am just angry at it all.”

  He nodded his head, and made a small sound of assent. The
Moon was high; it would start to set soon. I looked down at the sleeping child by my side, and drew a coverlet up over him.

  “We should rest now,” offered Gyric. “Whether the cottars return or not, we must ride tomorrow.”

  Chapter the Fifty-ninth: The Gifts of the House

  I was wakened at dawn by the wailing of a woman, and thought for a moment it was part of my own troubled sleep. But Gyric was touching my arm, and I sat up and blinked in the grey light as I heard the wail again. “They are come,” he said in a low voice.

  I stood and peered down on the trev below. Four or five people were there. One stood over the body of the man, and I watched as he pulled the spear from it. In the foreground the wailing figure knelt by the form of the dead woman.

  “Should I go down?” I asked Gyric. “I do not want them to think the boy is lost, too.”

  “We will all go,” he answered, and so we gathered up our kit.

  We started through the scrub, the boy on my saddle before me. I stopped our horses at the edge of the field. The folk were now by the huts, laying out the bodies; and then one of them turned and saw us. I raised my arm, and tried to make strong my voice. I spoke no word of greeting, but only called, “The boy is here, and safe.”

  I urged our horses ahead at a walk, and one of the men pushed out of the knot they formed and came straight to us. The woman, who I now saw was old, recognised the shabby little shape before me and came almost at a run. I passed the boy, who was crying again, down to the thin arms of the old woman, who clutched him and kissed the little head without ceasing.

  The men, of all ages, and all of a cottar’s estate, stood speechless looking at us. I did not know what to say to them, and wished Gyric would speak. I turned to Gyric, but now a group of folk, clustered around a single rider, were approaching the huts from the other side. The men left us at once and went to them, and I said to Gyric, “Here is a new group of folk; woman mostly, and many children; and in the middle of them is a rider carrying a spear.”

  “The bailiff, or a reeve,” answered Gyric.

  “He is coming right to us,” I had time to say.

  The group of folk were in tumult. Women and children were crying over the dead, and rejoicing too, as they saw each other and the lost child; and the mounted man drew his horse away from them and continued to us. He was stoutly built, not yet of middle age, and riding a horse, who like himself, had seen brighter days. He wore no sword, only a plain-hilted seax in a worn leathern sheath across his belly, and the spear he carried had a crude point forged by a black-smith, and no weapon-smith.

  As he drew nearer his eyes travelled from me to Gyric and back again. He stopped his horse before us, and bobbed his head in greeting. “Sir,” he said, and took his eyes from Gyric’s face and said to me, “Lady.”

  Gyric spoke now, in a way and tone I had never heard. “I am Gyric, son of Godwulf of Kilton in Wessex. We came here yesterday and found the boy, and stayed in hopes his folk would appear. The Danes, I think, had not been gone long when we came. Tell me the name of this shire, and who you yourself are.”

  Through this speech the rider had never taken his eyes from Gyric, and they scanned his green mantle and the silver pin that held it, rested on the hilt of his fine seax, gauged the worth of the big black horse he rode. Each time his eyes returned to the slender wrap of white linen tied around Gyric’s eyes.

  Gyric sat straight on his horse, his voice and manner full of command, and waited for the man’s answer.

  The man bobbed his head again and said, “Sir, I am Wilfric, and I am bailiff of this place, Hreopadun by name. If you have been on the road you know the Danes have engaged our King Burgred; they have forded the Trent and ride freely now, tho’ we are mustering a force against them.” He stopped, and glanced at me, and then went on, “You are right, Sir, that your paths nearly crossed. These folk who fetched me tell that the Danes were here just yesterday morn.” He kept looking at Gyric, but now his tone changed. “You are truly the son of Godwulf?”

  “I am,” answered Gyric in a low voice. “I was captured in battle. I ride now from Lindisse.”

  “Lindisse?” asked the bailiff, his voice full of amaze. “No Saxon comes live from Lindisse.”

  “We did,” responded Gyric quietly. “This Lady is a country-woman of yours. Her dead father was ealdorman by the river Dee.”

  The bailiff faced me, wonder in his eyes, but he again bobbed his head. “Lady,” he said once more.

  “I am Ceridwen, daughter of Cerd,” I told him.

  He took this in, and then looked back at us both. “You travel then to the Dee?”

  “No,” answered Gyric. “We go to Kilton.”

  He shook his head. “A long way to go, Sir, even in peace.”

  Gyric was quick with his reply. “There is war then, through Wessex?”

  “Aye,” nodded the bailiff. “There was a great battle at Lundenwic, and another last week at Bedanford. The Danes are everywhere now; they come from all sides. Ælfred has all he can do to raise the muster.”

  “The King is well?” asked Gyric. “Ælfred is well?”

  “Aye, Sir, from what little we hear, he still rules.”

  We were all quiet, and the sounds of the cottars behind us became the louder to us for our own silence. I looked over to them, and the bailiff’s eyes followed me.

  Gyric was the one who spoke, and his voice was hard. “The Danes who came, do you know who they were?”

  “We know nothing but that they are abroad. The folk were too frighted to recall aught but they were Danes.” The bailiff shrugged and ended, “To such as these, the Danes are all alike.”

  He looked back at the huts, and turned to us and said, “Sir, if you will wait but a moment, I will take you and your Lady to my home. We will be there by noon, and our house would be honoured by your presence.” My face must have shown my gratitude, for he added, “You can rest there, Lady. My wife and daughters will care well for you.”

  Gyric nodded his head in agreement. “We have travelled far, and without shelter. We thank you for your offer.”

  I dug into my black pouch as we neared the huts, and held three silver coins tight in my hand. I searched the faces of the cottars until I saw the old woman who had been weeping. A small movement of my hand drew her close to me, and I stopped my mare for one moment to thrust the coins into her shrivelled fist. She did not speak, and I was glad of it, for her tears said enough. A few of the others raised their hands in silent Fare-well, and I nodded to them and moved my mare forward across the fields.

  We gained the road on the other side of the field. I saw at once the marks of many horses in the soil, but saw no other trace of the violence that had been wrought by those who rode them. The morning was again misty, and lightly damp, but for once I had no need to always check the Sun in its course overhead, for we were now with one friendly to us, who led us with confidence over his native shire. Perhaps because of this, or because too of the weary and sorrowful nature of the night, I felt great relief to be led, and especially to be led away from the little trev.

  Wilfric’s house, when we came to it, was a whole collection of buildings, large and small, and edged about with a wooden palisade taller than a man. All the household seemed to be out in front of this fence, from Wilfric’s wife and young sons and daughters to his slaves.

  A pleasant-faced woman in a good blue gown came forward and bowed to us, her hands clasped before her. “I am Hildfleda, wife to Wilfric,” she greeted us, and the kindness of her smile and good sense upon her brow filled me with a lightness I had not known in many days.

  Wilfric gestured at the open door of his hall, and I touched Gyric’s hand, which he placed on my arm, and we went first through the door. The hall was snug and stout, the timber walls white-washed and pocketed all around with small alcoves. The sunken firepit, full ablaze, was in the very centre. It was not a large hall, and there was no grandness about it, but to me it looked like eve
ry comfort we had missed now lay at our feet.

  “Sit you by the fire, Sir and Lady, and take ale,” Hildfleda invited.

  A bench stood ready by the firepit, and at once a man bearing a tray crowded with brass cups was before us. A second man carried a bronze ewer, which Hildfleda took up. She herself poured out the ale for us, and placed the cups in our hands, as a sign of honour.

  Wilfric offered, “Bide here as long as you wish. Our roof is honoured by your stay.”

  Gyric nodded his head and answered, “Tomorrow we will take our leave, but today we accept the gifts of this house.”

  I felt glad at this, and touched the arm of Gyric that he might know it. We lifted the cups and drank of the sweet, nutty brew.

  The savour was exquisite, and for the peace and comfort and safety of it all I think I nearly laughed, a laughter close to tears.

  Hildfleda watched me, and said gently, “Lady, you are travel-weary. Will you not come with me, before we sit at meat?”

  “Gladly, good woman,” I answered. I turned to Gyric and said softly, “I will not be long.”

  He sat on a bench for the first time in weeks, drinking good ale, safe amongst those who could be counted as friends. When he answered me his voice showed all of this. “I will drink another cup of this fine ale,” he returned.

  Hildfleda led me from the hall to a squat timber washing hut. Outside burned a fire over which hung an iron cauldron, ready simmering. I bathed, and washed my hair, and Hildfleda treated me with every kindness. I combed my wet hair until it dried somewhat, and wrapped it in a clean head-wrap, and so arrayed I went back to the hall with her.

  Gyric was there, sitting in silence with Wilfric. I came up beside him and touched his hand to let him know I was returned. Hildfleda filled our cups again, and excused herself to her kitchen yard, leaving the three of us alone by the fire. It was quiet, and the speech of the crackling logs was the only sound in the white-washed timber hall. I sipped my ale, and wondered what if anything the two men had spoken of while I jested with Hildfleda. Perhaps without me there Wilfric had found it more difficult to speak; he looked upon Gyric with some unease.