by Joan Wolf
Niniane stood before the altar, bowed her head, and listened. Empty and deserted as it seemed, still this room was not dead. There was a presence here, a presence she could feel, a presence that listened to her, a presence that cared.
There were monks still at Glastonbury to the west; that she knew.
Dumnonia and Wales were still strongholds of faith. If the British could not conquer the Saxons in battle, perhaps they could conquer the pagans in this. The thought came to her out of the silent air, and she smiled. She felt quite at peace when she rejoined Fara on the main street of Venta.
* * * *
Three days later Niniane was sent for by the king. Sigurd's father dispatched him to fetch her from the women's hall for the marriage arrangements. Sigurd did not want to be involved in these particular plans, but he did not dare say so to Cutha. He went.
He waited on the porch of the women's hall with ill-concealed impatience. Ceawlin was being spared this scene; Sigurd did not see why he had to be part of it. His father knew well his feelings about Edwin.
Cynric had sent Ceawlin into Venta that morning to interview the participants in a dispute over a trading license. Cutha had told Sigurd that the king did not want Ceawlin present at this business of Edwin's marriage, but he did not want it to look as if Ceawlin were being deliberately excluded either. By making the arrangements today, the king had an excuse for his elder son's absence.
The women's-hall door opened and Niniane came out onto the porch. Her smoke-blue eyes looked up at him with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. "Has my ransom come?" she asked.
He could not meet those eyes. "The king wishes to discuss your future," he temporized uneasily. Then, "If you will come with me, Princess?" He opened the porch door for her.
"Are you still afraid of the dark?" he asked as they crossed the courtyard side by side.
"It is not the dark," she returned in her surprisingly husky voice. "It is being shut in. I am used to rooms with windows, you see."
"Windows are nice," he agreed. "We do not have the Roman skill of making glass."
She gave him a quick upturned look. "Neither do we, anymore."
"It is not so bad here in Winchester," he said a little awkwardly. "We may not have windows, but life is comfortable."
"Life is very comfortable, my lord," she replied quickly. He could see she was afraid she had offended him. "It is just different from what I am used to." And she gave him a tentative shy smile.
He felt anger swell in his heart. It was an outrage to think of this girl in Edwin's bed.
They had reached the king's private hall. Sigurd set his teeth and motioned for her to go in before him.
Cynric's hall differed from most of the other halls in Winchester in that the hearthplace was not in the center of the room but in a corner.
The center was reserved for a great carved wood table with eight high-backed chairs arranged behind it. Seated in the chairs today were Cynric, Guthfrid, Edwin, Cutha, and Cuthwulf, Sigurd's brother.
"My lord king," said Sigurd in Saxon, "I bring you the Princess Niniane." Then, in a lower voice to Niniane, "Go and stand before the king."
He watched her walk across the floor and come to a halt before the table. She looked very small. Sigurd then went himself and took the chair next to his brother.
It was Cutha, his father, who spoke. "The king has made a decision about your future, Princess. You will be pleased to learn that you are to marry his son, Prince Edwin."
Every drop of blood seemed to drain from her face. "Marry!" she said. Her eyes went from Cutha to the king.
"Yes, marry," Cutha replied. "The king has deemed it will be wise for Winchester to make a match with the Atrebates."
"But I thought I was to be ransomed ..."
"You yourself are more valuable to us than any ransom your father might pay," said Cutha smoothly. "You are a princess of your line. A match between you and Edwin will bring the lands of the Atrebates more easily under our control."
The color had not yet returned to her face, but Sigurd could see how her chin rose. "I cannot marry a Saxon," she said. "I am a Christian."
"That matters little. We will not interfere with your beliefs."
"Enough of these questions!" It was Guthfrid, speaking in broken British for Niniane's sake. "You are to marry my son, and that is an end to it. Marriage is not a matter girls are allowed to settle for themselves."
"No, their fathers settle it for them," Niniane shot back. "And I'm quite sure mine will not approve of this. Such a match, my lord"—and here she looked once again at Cynric, knowing that he was the one to whom she had to make her appeal—"such a match is more likely to enrage my people than to placate them. Unlike the Christians in Venta, we take our religion seriously."
Cynric turned to Cutha, who translated for him. Then Cynric looked back at the girl who was standing before him. "Come here," he said in Saxon, and gestured to the place beside him. Niniane began to walk around the table. She did not look at Sigurd as she passed in front of him. Finally she was standing next to the king. He reached out and took her chin into his hand. She looked back into his eyes, her own not flinching.
After a long minute he dropped his hand. He turned to Guthfrid and said in Saxon, "Let us wait. She may be right."
"My lord!"
He held up a hand and looked across her at his son. "We will inform her people of our intentions," he said to Edwin's unblinking brown eyes. "It might be necessary to marry her in a Christian rite. Let us wait and see."
The butter-yellow head nodded. "Yes, my lord," said Guthfrid's son.
Niniane, who had understood nothing of what was being said, stood white-faced between Cutha and the king. "Tell her," Cynric said.
"The marriage will be postponed until we have communicated with your people," Cutha said to her. "Princess, you are dismissed."
* * *
Chapter 5
“Sit still, Ceawlin! His mother gave an impatient tug on the hair she was trimming for him. "I will cut it too short if you keep wiggling about."
Ceawlin let out his breath in an impatient sigh. "It is a good thing you were not born a Frank, Mother," he said, as he had said every time she cut his hair since he was five years old. "Then you would never have an opportunity to exercise your talents with the scissors. The Franks have a law against cutting the hair of their princes."
"Well, you are not a Frank, you are a Saxon, and your hair should not be hanging below your shoulders." Fara made the same response she had been making for the last twelve years also.
"It's going down my back and it itches."
"You can change your clothes later. Now sit still!"
Ceawlin caught the eye of one of the younger bower girls who was working at the loom and winked. The girl giggled, then, as Fara looked up, turned back to her work. Ceawlin crossed his arms and tried to get comfortable.
He did not really mind having his hair cut, but he had played this game with Fara since he was a baby and he knew it gave her pleasure. She did not have much opportunity to scold him these days, not since he had moved to the princes' hall and out from under her jurisdiction.
"I want it short over my forehead," he murmured.
"I know." She picked up a comb from the table and smoothed the hair over his brow. "Close your eyes."
He closed them and then blew upward as the hair fell down and tickled his nose.
"There," his mother said with satisfaction, and he opened his eyes and saw Niniane coming in the door. She stopped a moment in surprise as she saw the unusual scene before her: Ceawlin seated in a chair with a cloth spread under it and Fara hovering over him with scissors.
Ceawlin grinned. "It's a strange Saxon rite, Princess. Called a haircut."
She came toward him with quiet dignity. "We have that ritual also, Prince. I used to cut my brother's hair. He wears it like the Romans, much shorter than yours." She stopped a few feet from him. "You will see for yourself soon enough."
Thei
r eyes met. Hers were dark and smoky and carefully expressionless.
Niniane's position in Winchester had changed considerably during the course of the last year. Instead of approving a marriage between her and Edwin, the Atrebates had rallied and reoccupied one of the old hill forts in the mountains northwest of Calleva. The leader of the newly warlike Britons was Niniane's brother, Coinmail. Her father had died three months after Sarc Water.
Since word had come to Winchester of Coinmail's action, Niniane had been waiting to find out what her future was to be. Cynric had postponed all talk of marriage and was taking a war band north in a few weeks' time to meet Coinmail's challenge. Niniane's fate would depend upon the outcome of that encounter. And for the first time, Ceawlin, who had turned seventeen over the winter, was to join his father's army.
"I am looking forward to it," he said now to the level blue eyes that were holding his so steadily.
She did not answer, nor did her expression change. He thought, all of a sudden, that he had never seen her smile.
"I see Alric finished your harp," Fara said in a pleased voice, and for the first time Ceawlin noticed what Niniane was carrying in her hand.
"Yes." Her small hands stroked the wood lovingly. "It was so kind of him."
"Alric made you a harp?" he asked in amazement. The scop was not one to pay much attention to girls.
"Niniane is a very fine harpist," his mother said to him as she brushed the hair off his neck. "There. You're all finished, Ceawlin."
He stood up and brushed at his tunic, which was dusted with silvery hairs as well. "You play?" His voice was frankly incredulous.
"My father's harper taught me when I was a little girl."
It was late in the day but not yet time to sup. He sat himself down in another chair and said, "Play something for me."
Niniane looked at Fara. "Would you mind, my dear? We should all enjoy it," said the friedlehe in her lovely, kind voice.
Niniane came forward with obvious reluctance and sat down on a stool at a little distance from Ceawlin. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and waited. He did not expect much. Everyone knew women had no talent for music.
"The only songs I know are the songs of Arthur's wars against the Saxons," Niniane said. She gave him a sideways slanting look. "And you are not the heroes, my lord."
"That's all right. My feelings won't be hurt." He rested his head against the carved back of his chair.
Niniane looked at him measuringly. His evenly trimmed hair just cleared his shoulders and framed his head like a silver helmet. His half-open eyes were regarding her with lazy tolerance. Coinmail patronized her all the time; she did not know why the same treatment from this Saxon prince should annoy her so much. She decided she would give him "The Battle of Badon."
As always, all else fell away from her the moment she began to play. She woke the harp to life. "Arthur, the king ..." she began to sing in her rich, husky voice, and the room fell very still.
When, finally, the last note had died away, she raised her head. He was looking at her, a very different expression in those blue-green eyes. He said only, "Now I understand why Alric made you the harp," but for some reason her very breathing altered and she looked in some confusion at her fingers, resting still on the strings of the instrument. She did not look back at him until he rose to leave a few minutes later.
He was so tall, she thought as she watched him walking beside Fara to the door. He topped his mother by half a head, and Fara was a very tall woman. He was much taller than Cynric, and much leaner too. He was very much his mother's son. Except for the eyes.
He turned at the door and looked back at her. "Don't expect another Badon this spring, Princess. The tides of war have changed in England and it is we who are on the rise." He kindly allowed his mother to kiss his cheek, and then he was gone.
* * * *
Ceawlin came suddenly awake. His sleeping room was pitch dark, but that told him nothing about the time. The walls were so well built that there were no cracks for the light to creep between. Still, he knew it was early. He had always had a sixth sense about time.
It was early, but he knew he would not go back to sleep. He was too keyed-up with anticipation. Tomorrow his father would be marching north to fight the Britons. Ceawlin had been making ready for this, his first war band, for the last month at least. Everything was ready: his sword and spear and sax dagger sharpened, all his leather oiled, his mail byrnie polished. He and Sigurd had been practicing their sword-play for hours each day, thinking up new ways to kill their man. His horse's bay coat gleamed from all the brushing the stallion had been given recently.
And he still had one more day to get through.
He swung his feet to the floor, lit a candle, and dressed. Then he opened his sleeping room's door and went out into the main room of the princes' hall. The door to Edwin's room was closed and the young men lying on the benches along the wall did not stir. Ceawlin crossed the wooden floor on silent feet and passed out into the morning.
The stars were still out. It was very early indeed. Ceawlin looked slowly around the enclave and his eyes stopped as they encountered the queen's hall.
The bitch. She had persuaded Cynric to take Edwin as soon as she learned that Ceawlin was to join the war band this spring. Was he never to have anything in his life that wasn't spoiled by the jealous envy of his brother and the queen?
He began to walk toward the main gate of Winchester. He had put on only breeches and shirt, and the morning air was cool, but Ceawlin did not notice. He paused for a moment in front of the temple, then, after glancing about once more, walked around to the door set in the long side of the building, and went in.
The inside of the Saxon temple at Winchester was small but complete. The pit for making the offering was next to the door on the long wall opposite where Ceawlin was presently standing. The table for the ritual banquet was on the short wall to his right, while the altar and the images of the gods were in the set-apart area to his left. Ceawlin did not pause indoors, however, but passed through the room and out the door on the other side.
This door led into a fenced-in area which was dominated by a massive wooden pillar. Ceawlin went to stand before it.
Woden, he thought, gazing up at the huge carved image towering above him. Woden, father of battles, fill me with your spirit that I may prove myself worthy to be your descendant. He stood there for quite a long time, until the growing light blotted out the stars; then he returned to the princes' hall to find something to do to pass the day.
* * * *
Edwin arose after Ceawlin had gone down to the stables. The two boys were forced by custom to share the same hall, but they had so arranged their schedules that they seldom met. Edwin breakfasted by himself and then went to see his mother.
Guthfrid was in her sleeping room in the queen's hall, having her hair done. She caught a glimpse of her son in the hand mirror she was holding, part of the booty from last year's war band and Cynric's gift to her. She smiled at him in the mirror and held her position as the handmaid fastened the last jeweled clasp in her hair.
"You are beautiful as always, Mother," Edwin said as he crossed the floor toward her.
"Oh, Edwin." Guthfrid put the mirror down and motioned to her handmaid to leave. She held her face up and Edwin bent to kiss her on the mouth.
"How are you, my love?" the queen murmured as her hand caressed his cheek.
"Well." He pulled a stool over and sat at Guthfrid's knee. "Mother, I want to make sure that Ceawlin does not win any fame for himself on this war band."
Her plucked brows drew a little together. "The king will not leave him behind. You know that, Edwin. I tried, but I made no headway with your father. He was ready to leave you behind, because you are not yet seventeen, but he insisted that Ceawlin must go."
"I know that the king has too great a regard for this bastard," said Edwin coldly. "I want to remedy that."
"But how, my love?"
Her brown eyes widened. "Edwin, you know I would have taken care of your brother that way years ago if I thought I could do so safely."
"I don't mean to kill him, Mother. Just make him too sick to fight. He will look a fool, whereas I , . ."
"Ah," said Guthfrid. Her brow smoothed out. "I see."
"You gave me something once before. He was sick for two days."
She smiled. "All right, my love. But you must be careful. Should anyone see you put it into his cup ..."
His brown eyes were cold and flat. "No one will see me."
"Oh, my darling ..." and she put her hand on his golden head. "Please be careful. If ever I should lose you ..."
He took her other hand and pressed it to his lips. Then he stood up. "Never fear, Mother. I am far too clever to get myself killed."
She stared up at him, her own hair glimmering in the light from the lamp on her table. "Give the poison directly into my hands," he said. "I will trust no one else with this. Tomorrow, just before we leave."
"All right," she said, and watched with a mixture of pride and fear as he walked out the door of her room.
* * * *
This year's war band was larger than last year's. This year they knew they were going out to fight. The Atrebates had refortified one of Britain's most ancient hill forts, called Beranbyrg by the Saxons and Barbury by the British, and if Cynric wanted to claim land in their territory, he was going to have to win it by force of arms.
Three hundred thanes were lined up four abreast on the main road of Winchester the morning of April 22. It was a week after the Saxon spring feast of Eostre. Ceawlin and Sigurd, mounting their horses near the stables, exchanged grins of mutual delight and felt sorry for anyone who was not lucky enough to be riding out on this beautiful morning to his first battle.
The two boys settled themselves into their saddles, received their weapons from the slave who was holding them, and began to walk their horses toward the mass of men in the courtyard. As he reached the line of thanes, Ceawlin saw his mother come out the door of the women's hall. For a moment he hesitated. Then, with a word to Sigurd, he guided his bay stallion across the yard toward her. She came down the steps and stood beside him, her hand on his knee, her eyes searching his face as if to memorize it. He smiled down at her, his eyes very bright. "I will bring honor home to you, Mother," he said.
