Born of the Sun

by Joan Wolf

  "Then she is ... she is a concubine," said Niniane.

  "No. A concubine is a slave. A friedlehe, in Saxon law, is a freewoman." Nola began to walk once more toward the women's bower, and Niniane followed her, her brow furrowed with thought.

  "Who were all those women with the lady Fara, then?" she asked Nola in a resolute voice as they reached the door of the house Nola had called the women's bower.

  "The king's household women," Nola replied. She opened the door of the building and Niniane followed her into a long dark center hall. There was a ladder to a loft in the corner, and on either side of the hall was a series of three doors. "These are the private sleeping chambers down here," Nola said. "The rest of us sleep up there"—a gesture—"in the loft." She walked down the hall and opened a door. "This will be your chamber, Niniane."

  It was a square room with wood-planked walls and a wooden floor. It was very dark, as there was no window. Nola went to a table and lit the candle that was placed there. In the glow of light, Niniane could see a bed made up with a bright red wool rug, a plain wood table, and a chest for clothes. She walked to the bed and lifted the rug. Underneath, the bedstead was filled with fresh straw and laid on top with clean linen sheets. The wooden floor was also clean. Niniane turned back to Nola. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sure I shall be very comfortable."

  The girl, who looked to be a few years older than she, smiled. "There is to be a feast in the great hall tonight, to welcome home the king and his thanes. We are to attend. The lady Fara will send you the appropriate garments. Have a good rest, Princess." And she was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Fara sent her a complete change of clothes. There was a fine linen undergarment and a saffron-colored tunic that fell in even folds to the tops of her feet. The overgown was deep blue and to clasp it at her shoulders Fara had chosen two circular brooches with garnet inlays on gold filigree. There was also a soft leather belt with a decorated golden buckle.

  Niniane sat on the side of the bed and stared at the clothing laid out so neatly on the red wool cover. The workmanship on the brooches and buckle was exquisite; the linen and wool were expertly woven. The materials, in fact, were finer than anything Niniane had ever seen. She dressed slowly and with care. There was no ornament for her hair, so she combed it to smoothness and let it hang loose down her back. Without combs or pins, it reached to her waist.

  She had finished dressing and was sitting on the bed, hands folded in her lap, when Nola came to fetch her. The British girl was dressed in bright red and there was the warm color of anticipation in her cheeks. "This is a great occasion," Nola told her as the girls walked down the corridor of the bower toward the door. "Normally we eat in the women's hall."

  The lady Fara, with a half-dozen other women, was waiting for them on the porch. "You look lovely, my dear," she said to Niniane. Fara was looking lovely herself in a green gown with a necklace of barrel-shaped gold beads alternating with gold-mounted garnet pendants displayed on her breast. Garnets shone also in the pins that held her hair. The other women too wore fine garments and rich jewelry. All her life Niniane had been told that Saxons were savage barbarians who lived in sunken huts with their pigs and their goats. The reality of Winchester was quite a shock.

  "What are all these other buildings?" she asked Nola a little diffidently as they walked across the courtyard in the wake of Fara.

  Nola saw the direction of her eyes. "That is the king's private hall," she answered. "And the one next to it is the queen's hall." A group of men also on their way to the banquet passed them without speaking. Nola continued to identify the buildings for Niniane. "That large hall over there belongs to Cutha," she said, "and that one there houses the royal princes."

  Niniane's eyes moved from the buildings Nola had named, to the smaller halls nearer the gate. One of them had a huge wooden pillar rising from an enclosed courtyard next to it. "And what is that?" she asked, looking at the building distinguished by the pillar.

  "That is the temple," came the reply, and Niniane's smoky-blue eyes widened as she stared at the unremarkable timber building.

  "Do they offer sacrifices in there?" Her voice was hushed. Nola shrugged. "I don't know what they do. It is for the men. The women go out to a grove in the forest for their rituals."

  Niniane stared at the girl walking so unconcernedly beside her. "Are you a Christian, Nola?"

  "My parents were Christians, but Venta has been under Cynric's rule since before I was born."

  "Does he persecute Christians, then?"

  "Oh, no. He is not a man to care which god you worship, so long as you recognize where your earthly allegiance lies. But there have been no priests in Venta for years. Most Britons are like me; they don't care very much about religion one way or the other."

  There had been few priests at Bryn Atha, but the Atrebates had held to their faith. With a flash of contempt, Niniane thought that the Venta Britons sounded like an indifferent lot. They seemed to have given their Saxon conqueror remarkably little trouble.

  The women had reached the steps of the great hall and Fara mounted first. There was a set of double doors leading into the hall, and the men on duty there opened them ceremoniously for Fara and her companions. They passed through the double doors and into a porch, somewhat like the porch on the women's hall. This porch was larger, however, and had been partitioned into two rooms, one on either side of a central anteroom. The doors that led into the main room were open and Fara beckoned to Niniane to come up beside her. Niniane obeyed and together the two women advanced into the great hall of Winchester.

  It was the largest room Niniane had ever seen. The hearthplace in the middle of the floor was so long that there were two fires on it, one at each end. The room was so broad that the cross-beams were borne up on carven pillars. There were benches fixed along the two long walls, and above the benches hung a magnificent display of arms: great embossed shields and shining swords. Many of the benches were already occupied, and the men ceased talking for a moment as the women entered. Niniane had the unpleasant sensation of being stared at and then the voices picked up again and she walked beside Fara toward the high seat that was set in the middle of the right wall.

  This seat, two seats actually, was distinguished from the other benches by its greater height and by the splendor of the arms that hung behind it. Long trestle tables had been set up in front of all the benches in the hall and Fara gestured Niniane to a seat to the left and at a little distance from the high seat. Niniane sat, bowed her head a little so her hair would fall forward to screen her face, and looked around.

  The floor was wood but it was polished so brightly it shone.

  The wall sconces were bronze and were blazing with torchlight. Even though it was still bright outside, the hall had no windows. The only natural light was from the doors and the smoke vents in the roof over the hearthplace.

  The pillars were beautifully carved in a design that Niniane did not recognize.

  The room had been quickly filling as Niniane looked around, the sound of male voices escalating. Then, abrupt as summer lightning, the room fell silent. Niniane looked toward the door, expecting to see the king, and saw there instead a golden-haired boy of about her own age, with a woman holding to his arm. The woman was as tall as the boy, and she glittered and shone with magnificent jewelry. Her hair was the same rich gold as the boy's and elaborately dressed with jeweled golden combs.

  "The queen," Fara said as she rose to her feet.

  "Who is that with her?" Niniane breathed, following Fara's example and standing.

  "Her son, Prince Edwin," came the reply. The hall guests all remained respectfully standing until the queen took her place on the high seat. Then they resumed their seats and the murmur of voices began again.

  Cutha came in with his wife and sons, and the rest of the eorls took their places as well. No food had as yet been served. They were all waiting, Niniane guessed, for the king.

  The woman on the ot
her side of Niniane leaned across her to ask Fara, "Where is Ceawlin?"

  "I don't know," the friedlehe replied. "I have not seen him all day."

  The door was starting to open again. "Here is the king now," the woman said, and everyone rose once more.

  The old king looked splendid tonight, Niniane thought as she watched him cross the polished floor toward the high seat. His wool tunic was a deep, brilliant purple and he carried himself with all the dignity of a Roman emperor. Beside him walked a tall, slim boy with hair so pale and pure that Niniane thought instantly: So must the angels look. "Ceawlin," said Fara. Pride sounded in her voice, and a distinct undertone of fear.

  * * * *

  "Ceawlin!" Guthfrid almost hissed the name as she too watched the boy who was Fara's son crossing the floor beside his father. Then the queen looked, compulsively, toward her own son sitting on a bench to her right. Edwin did not notice her; he was staring with unwinking concentration at the figure of his half-brother.

  Cynric took his place on the high seat beside Guthfrid, and Ceawlin took the bench on his father's left. Guthfrid scarcely listened to the speech her husband was making to open the banquet formally. Her whole mind was preoccupied with the fact that Cynric had chosen to make his entrance with his bastard, not his true-born son, beside him.

  What could it mean? Did he suspect anything about her and Edric? Was this his way of punishing her, through Edwin? She looked at her husband out of the side of her eyes as he resumed his seat. His granitelike profile told her nothing. It never did. Sixteen years they had been wed, and still she could not read him. Nor could she influence him. It was one of the great frustrations of her life, this lack of power over her husband. She was a beautiful woman; she had always wielded power over men. But not Cynric.

  It was that bitch of a friedlehe, of course. She had put a spell on him. And now she was trying to push her son into a position of prominence over Edwin.

  Guthfrid's long sharp nails cut into the palms of her hands and she looked once more toward her golden-haired son. It will never happen, she promised him silently. Mother will never let him supersede you. Edwin. My son.

  The first platter of meat was placed on the table before the king and queen and Cynric reached for the parts that were his favorites. Guthfrid took only a small portion.

  "You are not hungry?" her husband asked. They were the first words he had spoken to her since his return. He had not come to the queen's hall all day.

  "No." She forced herself to smile at him. "I am too excited, my lord, to have you home."

  He grunted.

  She bit her lip. "Who is the girl you captured?" she asked after a minute.

  He swallowed. "A princess of the Atrebates."

  Her arched brows rose high. "A princess?"

  "Yes. A princess from Bryn Atha."

  "So ..." Her mouth thinned. He had not seen fit to tell her, yet he had lodged the girl with his bitch of a friedlehe. She forced down the words that were hovering on her lips. It had never done her any good to show jealousy of Fara. "You took Calleva, then?"

  He shrugged. "There was not much to take. Calleva is a dead city.

  But the land up there is fertile. There will be estates enough for all my eorls, and farms for the rest."

  Guthfrid's brown eyes, so striking against her golden hair, were calculating. "Atrebates land?"

  "Atrebates land. They are farmers up there, not warriors. There is nothing left of the spirit that gave Arthur his victories."

  "It will be easy, then, for you to expand Wessex."

  Cynric reached once more for the platter. "Easy enough to conquer them, yes. But while I want to conquer the Atrebates, I also need them. There are too few of us. If Wessex is to become the equal of East Anglia and Sussex and Mercia, then I need the labor of the Britons."

  Beyond her husband's bulk she could just see Ceawlin's silvery head, turning to talk to Cutha, who was on his other side. Guthfrid's brown eyes narrowed. How had he managed that entrance with the king?

  "A good match for Ceawlin," Cynric was saying.

  "What?"

  He ripped the leg off a chicken. "I said this girl may make a good match for Ceawlin. A marriage between the West Saxon royal family and the Atrebates could be beneficial to me. As I said, I need the Britons to work for me, not against me."

  "What about Edwin?" The line of her mouth was now thin, like her narrowed eyes. "Why would not this girl be a good match for him? He is your heir, Cynric. Not Ceawlin."

  His still-strong teeth tore into the meat of the leg. "I did not think you would deem a British princess good enough for Edwin. You have talked too often of matches to other of the Anglo-Saxon royal houses."

  This was true, of course. But she had no intention of allowing Ceawlin to gain even a nominal foothold among the Britons. He would push Edwin aside if he could. She had always known that. He was a threat to her child. Over the years she had made several attempts to do away with the bastard, but she had not yet been successful. She had failed only because she had always to be so careful not to show her hand to the king. Cynric cared for Ceawlin. Guthfrid sometimes thought he loved the bastard even more than his true-born son. This, of course, only added fuel to the fire of her hatred.

  "Give her to Edwin," she heard herself saying. "It would bind the Atrebates to you for now, and if it became politic in the future, he could always put her aside and make a more advantageous match."

  His light eyes scanned her face. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged. "I'll think about it." His eyes turned to the servant who was approaching them carrying a great golden drinking horn.

  Guthfrid saw the servant too and rose to her feet. She accepted the horn from the servant and stepped to the floor of the hall. The queen waited a moment until silence had fallen and all eyes were upon her. Then she raised the cup and turned to the king to make the banquet pledge: "Take this cup, my lord and king. Be glad, gold-friend of warriors, in your victory. Enjoy while you may many rewards, and be generous to these your followers who have risked themselves at your side."

  Cynric nodded to her gravely and she offered him the horn. He drank and she took the vessel next to Edwin. Looking down into her son's face, the mirror image of her own, she knew again the fierce stab of hot maternal love she always felt for this, her only child. His dark eyes looked into hers for a brief, wordless minute, then he gave her back the horn.

  With great dignity Guthfrid completed the rest of the ceremony, bearing the drinking horn from one man to the next all around the great hall. The women she passed by, not sparing them a glance. When she reached Edric her heart skipped a beat, but her outward semblance showed no more emotion than she had displayed for any other of the thanes. His pale blue eyes looked back at her with the same cool distance that hers showed to him. Watching them, no one would ever know that they had been lovers for more than a year.

  She passed by Fara and her women with arrogant disdain. Let the friedlehe sit there, in her lesser seat, and watch the queen bestow the cup honors, Guthfrid thought viciously. Her eyes flicked to the side only once, to catch a glimpse of the British princess.

  A little thing, she thought. Edwin would soon break her to his will.

  Finally she had reached the last of the tables, where sat Cutha and his family. First she gave the horn to the eldest son, Cuthwulf, who drank more deeply than he should before he returned the horn to her. Then Sigurd, the second son, whom she disliked intensely because he was Ceawlin's friend. Then Cutha himself: so close to her husband, so enigmatic to her. And then Ceawlin.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second before handing him the horn. I wish it was poison, she thought.

  His eyes, an even more brilliant blue-green than Cynric's, returned her look. He had always hated her fully as much as she hated him. He took the cup, being careful not to touch her fingers, drank, and gave it back to her. With head held high, Guthfrid returned to her place. Once she was seated, Cynric rose.

  It w
as the time for the king to reward his men. The hall thanes stirred eagerly. The silence was intense. "Warriors of Wessex," Cynric began. His voice was perhaps not as strong as it had once been, but it filled the hall nevertheless. "You have upheld the glory of your nation. From this time forward, the borders of Wessex will stretch as far as the Aildon hills. The British have been defeated." A cheer went up from the hall and Cynric waited for silence to descend once again. "There is little in the way of treasure of gold among the Britons, but there is richness of land. Henceforth the West Saxon eorls will be no less than the great eorls of the Franks. This I, Cynric, your king, promise. Lands for my eorls, and lands too for the thanes who have followed me so bravely into battle. From this day forth, the name of the West Saxons will be great in this land."

  A roar of approval burst from the hall men and Cynric sat down. After a minute he gestured to the scop, who was supping at the table next to Edwin's. The scop picked up his wooden harp and advanced to the hearthplace. As soon as he plucked a string, silence fell.

  He gave them the song he had written for Cynric when the West Saxon army had taken Venta and they had seen for the first time a city of the Romans:

  Firmly the builder set the foundations,

  Cleverly bound them with iron bands;

  Stately the palaces, splendid the baths,

  Towers and pinnacles pointing on high;

  Many a mead-hall rang with their revelry,

  Many a court with the clang of their arms,

  Till Fate the all-leveling laid them low.

  I too have a reverence for harpers. The words of the Saxon king sounded once again in Niniane's brain. She could not understand what the harper was singing, but she was spellbound by the sound of his voice. It was not singing, precisely, she thought; it was more like chanting. It was also profoundly moving. Every note was plangent with sorrow. She looked around and saw that the hallful of pagan barbarians was listening with riveted attention.

  The voice died away and a great sigh ran through the hall, as if everyone listening had been holding his breath and had just discovered he could breathe again. "That was beautiful," Niniane said. "I wish I could understand him."