“That King is long dead, and Northumbria taken by the Danes, and no man or woman walks in peace now.”
I did not answer this truth; there was no need to. I looked about for a stone to add to the pile. All the near ones had already been gathered up, and I had to walk down the track a long way to find one. When I added it it made a little clinking sound.
“What are you doing?” asked Gyric, turning toward me and the sound.
“Thanking the well-spirit,” I answered without shyness.
I thought he might laugh, but he did not. “Is there a pile for Offering?”
“Yes, and it is old and very tall.” I hoped I did not sound a fool. He said nothing more.
We sat for a while longer, and our horses browsed amongst the tender growth fringing the track. Gyric was always the first to rise whenever we rested; it was always he who said it was time we should move on. Today he did not speak of going onward, but only sat quietly, leaning against the cool stones of the well-head. The Sun was shining full upon us, and I thought I could almost see the May roses unfurl as I gazed upon them.
I too was content to sit in the peace and solitude of the place, and only my mare straying too far down the track made me rise. “I am going to fetch my mare. She is wandering,” I told Gyric.
He took his spear in his hand at once, and stood up.
“We do not have to go,” I said, returning with my mare.
“It is late, and we have stayed long. We must ride.” There was no strength in his words, and it was easy to see he did not wish to leave.
“Are you weary? We can stop now and camp the night, and make a fresh start after a good long rest,” I offered.
“I am not weary.” His gelding had stayed close to him, and now Gyric was fumbling with the horse’s saddle ties, lashing his spear against the animal’s flank. He stopped what he was doing, and lowered his head. “I was thinking of my return home,” he said at last.
All our speech was of the Danes and their destruction; the threat of coming war must weigh heavy on his mind. Perhaps he feared that Kilton would be soon attacked.
“Because of... what you may find?”
“Because of how they will find me.”
We had spoke thus once before, when he was hot with rage over what had been done to him. Today there was no anger in his voice, only sorrow; and I knew it to be the foreshadow of the sorrow his people would know when they found him alive but so maimed.
I thought carefully before I spoke. “They think you are dead by now.”
He nodded. “They must. It has been too long without word, or call for ransom.”
“Then they are grieving your death. When you return, they will rejoice in your life.”
He shook his head, and lifted one hand toward his face. “Rejoice? When they see...this? All that I was, I am no more.”
“You are still what you were,” I began weakly. I heard Gwenyth’s caustic words in my ears, ‘He will kill no more.’
“I will be worse than dead to them. I am fit for nothing; not even the Church. I am nothing but a loathsome cripple, and a burden to all.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I made steady my voice. “You are not a cripple, and you will never be loathsome. Even in times of war more is needed than just another sword. I know this; how much more should you know it, who are older and have lived so much? I sat at your side in Wilfric’s hall and heard him ask your counsel, and watched him regard well all you told him, for you have wisdom and cunning with or without your sight. All that you have told me of your family says that they are brave, generous-hearted, and wise. They will greet you with love and honour.”
I thought of one more thing. “And what of the robber you slashed upon the road? You saved us from theft and worse with your seax, even as you are; and it was your courage and craft that did it.”
He was listening to all I said, but tho’ his lips were parted, he did not speak. I felt the warmth in my cheeks and felt ashamed of my words. “Please to forgive my boldness; I am too hot. But please never speak of yourself like this. It is too hard for me to hear.”
This was even bolder of me, and I surprised myself by saying it. Why should he care how I felt about his words? There was no reason he should try to please me with them. To hide my boldness, I set to work with my mare, checking her packs and getting ready to ride.
Gyric stood by his gelding, and lifted his hand as if he wished me to take it. I did at once, and hoped it was steady in his own.
“Forgive me, Ceridwen. It is hard not to think of myself. All that is left to me is to think.”
He folded his fingers over my hand for a moment.
To find my voice I said, “Thought is our greatest gift. That is what the Prior said.”
He nodded and made ready to mount. “Yes. The Church gives harbour to even such as I.”
A little racing fear shot through me, and I asked, “Have you then ever thought of the Church?”
He shook his head. “I never thought of it, no. I never felt the calling. Now...”
He did not go on, and I did not want him to.
“Gyric, Kilton will be safe?”
He drew a long breath, as tho’ he had given much thought to this question. “I think all will be well there, at least for now. The Danes strike at the least defended places first, not at the strongholds. The hall at Kilton has its back to the sea, and tho’ the Danes be expert with their boats the channel is treacherous to all who know not its tides. The plains before the hall drop down, so that all the land about can be seen for many rods. No troops could advance without warning. Our storehouse and granaries are great, and a siege would take many months before we lacked for grain or meat.”
“Then we have no need to fear for your people.”
“No. All we must do is to get to them.”
Chapter the Sixty-second: The Soil of Wessex
WE followed the trackway all the next day, and met no one. The weather continued fine, and we made good time at a fast walk. The next morning we came upon a posting, for we found a tall stone dolmen that marked the crossing of a second, larger road.
Gyric considered this. “We must always be wary about meeting others, but in a day or two we must find folk to speak to. We will be nearing the border of Wessex, and I will want to learn the shire we are in, so I can fix where we are. Also, how is our provander?”
“We have some beans and barley, and a few eggs, and some dried cherries and pears. Enough for... O, for two days,” I gauged, reviewing in my mind what remained of good Hildfleda’s generosity. The first few days with all her bounty we had feasted, eating up quickly all that would not keep.
“Then let us hope that tomorrow or the next we will come upon those who can reprovision us and give us the news.”
Remembering the comforts of Wilfric’s hall made me hope for more to come. Perhaps once in Wessex we would meet a bailiff or reeve, or even be taken to an ealdorman’s hall, and Gyric would once again be honoured as was his due. I looked forward very much to seeing that. But even the humblest hut would welcome us, I knew, for we had silver in plenty.
“We have spent little of our silver since we started, and have all of our jewels save the ring I gave Hildfleda.”
“The silver and jewellery is yours. I want you to have it all, so it is good we have spent little.” He touched the bracelet he wore, and then lowered his voice. “This, and the rings I wear, I would like to keep, as they are gifts from you.”
My heart sunk at this, for it seemed he spoke of our soon parting, and that the silver cuff and gold rings would serve as a reminder of my little service to him. “They were Ælfwyn’s things,” I managed to say. “Take them to recall us both.”
Now I knew I said the wrong thing, for his face fell. “We should be on our way,” he answered, and I moved our horses out of the road and into the trees before us.
In the night owls hooted and awakened me, and I sat up on my bedroll and poked at the emb
ers of our fire. Across from me Gyric lay on his back, asleep. I thought of the first night I had seen him, filthy and near death, and of the night I had held his hand and whispered that I wanted him to live. I stood up, clutching my mantle about me, and knelt down at his side. His right hand was on his chest, and the blue stones were like black holes on the wide band of silver he wore on his wrist. I wondered what keepsake of his he would give me when it was time for me to leave Kilton. The tears began to come into my eyes at this thought, but I would not let them, and I stood and went back to my sheepskin.
At noon the land began to rise a bit, and the larches gave way to shrubby things like elders. We went up and over a rise, and I looked out upon a plain, with three high mounds green with grass before us. Between two of the mounds was a huge wooden pole, rising from the Earth and taller than any of the mounds.
“This is a place of burial, Gyric. The chieftains who lie in these barrows must be great, for the mounds are huge. Woden is carved upon a tree trunk, and looks down upon them.”
“Are there three mounds?”
“Yes, three.”
“And the carving lies between two of them?”
“Yes. Do you know this place?”
“I know it well. We are in Wessex! This shire is ruled by Ceolfrith, who is known to my father. I have been here three or four times. We are farther South than I thought, and a little East. We will be at Kilton in four or five days.”
We approached the burial mounds. They were identical in size and length, and carpeted over with the growth of fresh grass looked like the hulls of three huge green overturned boats.
I stopped our horses before the image of Woden. It was old, and no longer cared for, for the paint had worn away from the shaft, and a part of the God’s arm had been eaten away by insects or dry rot. No one left Offering here, for the pit beneath the figure was choked with years of old growth of grass and weeds. The bottom of the shaft was marred with the names of many men who had stopped to carve their names into it before they continued on their travels.
“Why do we stop?” asked Gyric, and I moved my mare hurriedly onward.
“I was looking at the image of the God.”
“Of Woden?”
“Yes, of Woden.”
“I am surprised it still stands. It would have been pulled down long ago, but for the mounds.”
To destroy an image of the Gods protecting a burial site was to evoke the wrath not only of the God, but of the dead entombed there. I knew few in Wessex would fear Woden, but the haunting of the ghost of an ancient chieftain would be something no man would tempt.
“Is it like those you recall as a child?” he asked. He did not seem to be teasing me. “All images of Woden look alike to me.”
“Yes. They are all much alike, in the way that images of the hung Christ are.”
“In the chapel at Kilton there are many carvings, both of Christ and of the Saints. We have no images of Woden, tho’ he is still sung of in the hall.” He thought of this, and ended, “We sing of Woden and Thunor, but never pray to them, and pray to Christ but never sing of him.”
“He is not glorious, not in the same way the Gods were,” I found myself saying.
He did not seem shocked at my words; for answer he only nodded his head. I thought of how few people I would have said such a thing to, for fear of being misunderstood; and felt again the freedom and ease that his presence gave me.
Chapter the Sixty-third: I Know Love
THE next morning was warm, with a golden mist in the air. Birds flitted overhead, calling as they darted, and on the rolling grasslands I saw fat brown hares hopping away, startled by our coming.
Then the pasturage grew rougher, and there was naught but trees before us. This wood was a great one, full of oaks of mighty stature, so great that nothing grew in their shadow. The forest floor was still brown with their lately fallen leaves, and the reaching boughs so full of their new growth that the very air seemed green above our heads.
The going was not easy at times, but I was glad to be in the forest again, and could not help but feel cheerful as we went. A creek we followed opened up to a little clearing, with grass and Sun; and tho’ there was still an hour or more of good light we stopped and pitched our camp, for here was even ground, grass for our horses, and water for us all.
I gave some thought as to which gown I might wear as we approached Kilton, for both my green and russet were travel worn, and as through Ælfwyn’s great kindness I had the choice, I would appear before Gyric’s people in clothing that suited his own high estate. I went over all of Gyric’s things, and gave thanks again for the ancient oak chest that held the dead Merewala’s clothing, for beyond the magnificent green mantle he had fine linen tunics, woollen leggings, and leathern leg wrappings. Only Gyric’s shoes were odd, for they were the rough deer skin pair made by Gwenyth’s son Holt in their camp. Yet they fitted Gyric well, and he never complained of them, tho’ he felt the deer hair still upon them each morning as he fitted them on his feet.
“What are you doing?” asked Gyric. He was sitting cross-legged upon his sheepskin, not too close to the fire which I had already started.
“Just sorting through our clothing, to make certain that all is in order for our arrival in Kilton.”
He turned his head a little away, so I thought it best not to dwell on this.
“Tomorrow or the next day I hope we come to a good place for laundry, as I need to wash some things,” I went on.
He did not say anything, and I once again felt that I was chattering away. But he seemed to brood more when I was quiet, so even when I myself was unhappy I tried to keep speaking to him, and to sound cheerful.
It was a wonderfully mild evening, and I kept the fire small, just enough to warm our food and to give light to my movements around our camp. The outlines of our browsing horses grew dim in the gathering night. The beautiful Moon rose, a tender young sliver in the darkening sky. As I lay on my sheepskin, welcoming sleep, I uttered a silent prayer of thanks for his company.
We awoke to a dawn that was like unto a Summer’s morning, for the stillness and mildness of the night gave way to a pink sky and the gentlest of breezes. When the Sun was overhead we stopped to eat, but went on our way almost at once, for it was quite warm and there was no water for our horses. The woods began to thicken and so it made spotting any creek or spring more difficult. Most of the time I had to walk, and lead our horses. After we had gone on for awhile I thought it seemed to be growing brighter, and hoped this meant that ahead of us the trees were thinning and we would find a clearing. My hope was rewarded beyond measure, for of a sudden the trees began to fall away to shrubby growth, and the blue sky appeared over our heads in all its fullness, and we stepped out on a greensward bright with new grass.
“Gyric, here is a lake before us, beautiful and blue, with grass running down to it.”
I could hardly contain my pleasure at seeing it. Here was water, and washing, and gladness to the eye as well. On our travels we had come to few water courses other than the streams we depended on or the rivers we had crossed. Now before us lay this small lake, as blue as the stones in the bracelet Gyric wore.
I stilled my gladness for a moment as I carefully scanned the edges of the lake.
“There is no hut or sign of folk here,” I began, wanting to describe everything with care to Gyric. “The grass runs down to the edge of the water before us, and around the opposite edge there is some marshy growth and willows. The lake is small, perhaps at its widest thrice as broad as the Trent, and nearly round.”
As I finished saying this my mare tossed her head and whinnied as if impatient to drink.
“Shall we stop here, Gyric? The horses could drink their full, and I could do our washing, and... and... it is just so beautiful,” I ended, feeling eager and hopeful that he might agree. There were still many hours left to the day, but as he himself was no longer urging us to hurry, I hoped he might consent to our stopp
ing.
He nodded as his gelding too, began to toss its head. “Yes, we should not turn away from a good thing,” he answered, patting the animal’s neck.
So we went out upon the bright greensward, and near to the circling trees we pulled off our horses’ trapps and set our campsite. We hobbled the horses, and they browsed along the grassy bank, drinking freely from the lake water. I started a fire, and began hotting water, and pulled out all our soiled clothes, and made ready to wash them. As I was doing this Gyric went walking cautiously up and down along the edges of the lake, carrying his spear as his walking staff. After a while he came back and sat down near to where I was hanging our wet things. He stroked his face in a thoughtful way. His beard had begun to grow back, and he fingered it for awhile.
“I think I will try to shave,” he said at last.
I turned from the shrub I was hanging a wet tunic on. “O,” was all I could think to say. I did not want to show my concern. Wilfric’s leech had given him a razor, which of course would be very sharp.
Gyric turned and began feeling around for his hide pack. I pulled it to him and sat down before him, watching his hands run over the contents within. “Is this it?” he asked, pulling out a small wood box tightly wrapped with a leathern cord.
“Yes, I think so.”
His fingers pulled at the cord and untied it, and he carefully separated the two halves of the box. Inside was the razor, a slender piece of glinting steel as long as my little finger. A handle of bone ran the length of it on one side. The edge of the blade was so fine and sharp that it made me wince to look at it.
He put his fingers cautiously into the box, and touched the bone handle, and picked the razor up. He held it for a moment as if deciding something. “Is there oil?’
The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Page 47
