Born of the Sun

by Joan Wolf

  Niniane came over to the chair where Ceawlin was sitting and turned his face up so she could look at it. The cut was deep and jagged and had missed his right eye by a fraction of an inch. "You were lucky, Prince," she said.

  "I know." His sea-blue eyes were narrow with irony. "Can you really sew it up?"

  "Oh, yes. It might leave a scar, though. It is very deep."

  He shrugged. "Do the best you can. My mother says you are the most skilled of all the women."

  Niniane turned to Fara. "Have a lamp brought over here if you please, my lady. It is better than these candles."

  As the lamp was being brought, Niniane went to the basin of water that had been set on the table to wash the prince's wound and, picking up the soap, began to wash her hands. She soaped carefully and dried them on one of the cloths stacked there. Then she went over to stand behind Ceawlin. Fara moved out of the way and Nola put the threaded needle into her hand. She took the prince's chin into her other hand and gently pressed his head back against her. "It is important that you remain still," she told him

  "Yes. I know."

  He closed his eyes and rested his head against her breast. She smoothed his hair back so it would not get into the wound. His hair was very thick and clung to her fingers like silk. It was the color of moonlight, she thought. The weight of him against her was oddly pleasant. She thought, suddenly, that she would not be so frightened if it were Ceawlin she was going to marry.

  She frowned at her own thoughts and bent to look more closely at the cut. Then, holding the skin carefully together with one hand, she stitched the jagged edges of his torn flesh together.

  She could feel his body tense as the needle went in and out through the sensitive skin of his face, but he never moved. He stayed still as stone under her hand until she had finished. Finally she looked up at Fara. "That is the best I can do, my lady. There will be a scar, I fear, but at least he still has the eye."

  Ceawlin moved his gilt-fair head from her breast and looked up. His face was pale under its tan, the striking blue-green eyes heavy. "Thank you, Princess," he said. "You are a skillful needlewoman."

  The three of them were alone at the table; the rest of the women had retired into the corner or had gone outside. Niniane nodded and began to put things back into Fara's workbox.

  "How did this happen?" Fara asked her son in Saxon.

  "I told you. Bayvard came down in the woods and I was thrown. I tore my face on a root that was sticking up in the path."

  Niniane continued to put the workbox in order and listened to the conversation between mother and son. Over the course of the last year she had come to understand Saxon very well. She had concealed this knowledge, however, pretending to speak and to understand only a few common words. Her instinct had been to keep to herself any small advantage she might be able to find in this place where she was so alone and unprotected. She had not let even Fara know how fluent she had become.

  Fara was going on, "Bayvard is very surefooted. What brought him down?"

  There was a long moment's silence. Then Ceawlin sighed. "Sigurd found a vine stretched across the road. It was tied from one tree to another."

  "I knew it." Fara's voice was shaking. "I knew he was behind it."

  "There is no proof of that, Mother."

  "I don't need proof to know who tied that vine! Nor do you."

  Niniane slowly folded cloths, listening with an expressionless face. "No," said Ceawlin at last. "But what can I do about it, Mother? He has no compunction about trying to murder or maim me, but I am not so lacking in feeling for my father as he."

  "It would kill your father, to have one son slain by the other."

  "I know that. There would be no way out for him: not blood vengeance, not wergild. Only grief. That is why I must stay my hand."

  "You almost lost your eye!"

  He shrugged.

  "I have been thinking," Fara said. "Perhaps you ought to leave Winchester, Ceawlin. Perhaps your father might be persuaded to give you a grant of land by the Aildon hills."

  "Leave Winchester! You must be mad, Mother." Niniane looked up to see him staring at Fara in astonishment. "What would I do outside of Winchester? Everything I have been brought up for is here. What on earth could I find to do in the Aildon hills? Farm?"

  "But, Ceawlin, what else is there to do?" Fara sounded almost desperate. "You cannot stay here until he kills you! And that is what it will be. You know that!"

  "He won't. He is afraid of my father. So is Guthfrid."

  "Your father will not live forever."

  "Well, I won't leave while he lives, that is for certain. So stop this foolish talk about the Aildon hills." He smiled at her and then bent to kiss the top of her head. "I won't let him kill me, Mother. I promise." Next he turned to Niniane and said in British, "Thank you once again, Princess."

  Both women stood in silence and watched him walk out of the hall.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  “What is wergild?" Niniane was speaking to Hilda, one of the Saxon girls who dwelt in the bower. They were working together on the looms that hung at the end of the women's hall. Behind them was a bustle of activity as the tables were readied for supper.

  Hilda did not look surprised by the question. During the past year they had all become accustomed to Niniane's ignorance.

  "Wergild is the price of a man," she answered now in a British that had greatly improved since Niniane's introduction into Winchester. Hilda was a tall, broad-shouldered blond of easygoing temperament. Next to Nola, Niniane liked her best of all the girls in the bower.

  "The price of a man?" Niniane repeated, not understanding.

  Hilda elaborated. "The fine owed for the life of a man. It is quite clearly prescribed in law: so much for an eorl, so much for a thane, for a ceorl, and so on."

  "But by whom is this fine owed?"

  "By the man who took the life, of course. The murderer."

  "The murderer?"

  "Naturally. Who else should pay it?"

  Niniane threaded her bobbin through the shed, alternatively bringing the heddle rod back and forth, her hands working automatically, quite independent of her brain. "Let me see if I understand. If a man murders another man, then the murderer must pay a fine to the king?"

  "Not to the king, Niniane. To the victim's family." Hilda picked up the old blunt sword which they used to press the weft.

  Niniane frowned. "And is there no other punishment? All a murderer must do is pay a fine?"

  Hilda carefully pressed the weft upward to make it even. "Oh, no. Wergild is paid only if the victim's family is willing to take it. Most of the time they are not." She put down the sword and turned to Niniane. "It is looked down on a little, the acceptance of wergild in place of vengeance."

  "Vengeance? What do you mean by vengeance?"

  "Blood vengeance, what else." Then, as Niniane still looked unsure, "As soon as a murder is committed, the victim's family incurs the duty to avenge the death against either the murderer or his family. It is a religious matter, you see. It has to do with the sacredness of blood kinship."

  "You mean they must murder the murderer?"

  "Yes."

  "But that is mad!" Niniane's lands had fallen quite still. "Such a feud could go on for generations!"

  "Many have," came the placid reply. "It was because of a blood feud that Guthfrid came to Wessex to marry Cynric. The marriage was a way to end it, you see. That is one way. The other way is for one family to accept wergild. Then the killing is over."

  "And what if the victim's family does not want either vengeance or wergild?"

  "That would be unthinkable," said Hilda. "Such a person would lose all honor."

  Niniane had been among the Saxons for long enough to recognize the sacredness of honor to them. Once again she began to thread the weft through the shed. "If loyalty to kin is of such utmost importance," she said slowly, "what happens if one family member should kill another family member?"

  "
By the code of kinship, a man is forbidden to kill or to exact wergild from a kinsman."

  "Yet, by the same code, he is required to do one or the other to avenge the dead."

  "Yes." Hilda smiled, pleased that her pupil had comprehended at last. "That is why the murder of a blood relation is the most horrifying and unforgivable of crimes. It is impossible to avenge."

  "I see," said Niniane and, finally, she did.

  * * * *

  Niniane's betrothal was celebrated the following day with a splendid banquet in the great hall of Winchester. Among the Saxons the betrothal ceremony far outshone the marriage rite, which was set to follow in two weeks' time. The main features of the marriage were the giving of a ring and sexual consummation. The betrothal was less personal, more of a community occasion.

  For their betrothal feast Edwin and Niniane were given the places of honor, Edwin at the king's side and Niniane at the queen's. Out-of-doors the rain was pouring down and it was dark and damp, but in the festive atmosphere of the hall the candles blazed, the food and drink were passed around and around, and the raucous humor got more and more obscene as the banquet progressed.

  Edwin listened to the bawdy comment being made by the eorl who sat beside him and gave an appreciative laugh. Left to himself, he would have preferred a marriage with one of the great Anglo-Saxon royal families, but he knew Guthfrid was right to wish to prevent Ceawlin from marrying this princess of the Atrebates. It was smarter to marry her himself and thus keep the bastard from gaining a position that might prove dangerous in the future. She could always be got rid of once his father died.

  In the meantime, it might not be unpleasant to have a wife. True, Niniane was not the kind of woman who normally attracted him. She was pretty enough, but too reserved. She had known for over a year that she would be his wife, yet she had never done anything to attract or to please him. Much too reserved. Well, once he had her in his bed he would teach her soon enough what kind of a wife he wanted her to be.

  Beside him Cynric was signaling for silence. Then, as a relative quiet fell on the hall, the king called, "Bring in the gifts."

  The hall door opened and a line of slaves came in bearing the traditional gifts of the bridegroom to his bride. There was clothing, jewelry, a strongbox, linens and blankets, and a list of the domestic animals that were to become her property. The gifts were placed ceremoniously on the floor before the high seat. Then Cynric called forth three of his eorls to witness that these gifts had indeed been conveyed by Prince Edwin to the Princess Niniane.

  The three Eorls duly swore their legal witness to the transaction and returned to their places. Then Cynric signaled for Edwin and Niniane to come and stand before him. The betrothal ceremony was always concluded by a kiss on the mouth, symbol of the union of bodies that would be consummated in the marriage.

  Edwin looked down into the princess's expressionless face. She was looking at his father, not at him. Stupid cow, he thought. She had been one year in Winchester and still she did not know Saxon. "We are supposed to kiss each other," he said to her in British.

  At that she looked at him. His dark eyes narrowed, he put his hands on her shoulders, and pulling her against him, he kissed her mouth with brutal thoroughness. The hall of half-drunk thanes roared its approval.

  Niniane was trembling when finally he let her go. She kept her eyes down as she returned to her place beside Guthfrid and clasped her cold fingers in her lap to keep them from shaking too visibly. She tasted blood. Edwin's teeth had cut her lip.

  Dear Blessed Jesus, she prayed. Help me. The noise in the hall was deafening. Please, please, dear Lord. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her short nails cut into her palms.

  "Try to look happy, you little fool," said the queen beside her. "Remember you are to be a bride."

  * * * *

  Three days before the wedding of Niniane and Edwin was to take place, Cynric took a bodyguard and rode into Venta to give justice. Cutha went with him, to interpret and to advise. They were not gone two hours before Edwin challenged Ceawlin to a duel.

  Duels were not uncommon among the Saxons. In Winchester, dueling was a prestigious way of ending rivalries and quarrels. It was considered both a recreation and a sport. The rules were strictly formulated to avoid serious injury although injury did occasionally occur. A duel was fought until the judge ruled that one of the participants had been officially disarmed. Then everyone usually retired to the great hall to get drunk.

  There was no one in Winchester, however, who expected that a duel between the two princes would be at all usual. The bad blood between Edwin and Ceawlin went far beyond the kind of quarrel that was normally settled on the dueling ground. Both Guthfrid and Fara made attempts to dissuade their sons from an action that both mothers perceived as far too dangerous.

  "Why did you challenge him?" Guthfrid asked her son as soon as she closed the door of her sleeping room behind him to give them privacy. "You know how good Ceawlin is with a sword, Edwin! Are you mad?"

  Edwin was pale with fury, his brown eyes so lightless they looked almost black in the pallor of his face. "I can bear him no more." His voice was flat, cold, and absolutely final.

  "But what did he do?"

  "What he always does. Tried to take what was mine."

  "What did he try to take?"

  "He knows Hilda sleeps in my bed. He tried to take her away from me. I saw him smiling at her."

  "Smiling at her!" Guthfrid almost screamed the words. "What do you care about Hilda?"

  "I don't care about Hilda. But she is mine." The set, white look on his face had not changed.

  Guthfrid put her hand on his arm. "Edwin, my son, listen to me. This duel ... he could hurt you."

  "He won't. He is afraid to hurt me. But I am going to hurt him." The lightless eyes fixed themselves on Guthfrid's frantic face. "Don't worry, Mother." He sounded irritated, impatient. "I will be safe. And I promise you that today will see the end of the bastard and all his ambition." He pulled his arm out of her grasp. "Now I must go and collect my weapons. Come to the dueling grounds with me, if you like, and see what I mean."

  For the first time in the history of their relationship, Guthfrid and Fara were in agreement about something. Fara was so concerned about the proposed duel that she sent a man into Venta to bring back Cynric, even though she knew it would not be possible for the king to return to Winchester in time.

  "I hoped that just the threat of the king's return would force them to wait. It seems I was wrong," Fara said to Sigurd shortly after her messenger had ridden out of Winchester for Venta.

  "I am sorry, my lady." Sigurd's voice was gentle. He had come to the women's hall in answer to Ceawlin's mother's summons and he had come reluctantly. "Ceawlin cannot in honor draw back. Edwin was the one to challenge him."

  "But it is so foolish! All because Ceawlin smiled at one of the bower girls!"

  "Edwin was just looking for an excuse, my lady. Everyone knows that."

  "Sigurd"—Fara's white face was piteous—"cannot you persuade Ceawlin to wait for his father?"

  "If he would not listen to you, my lady, be sure that he will not listen to me."

  "I could not move him."

  "I'm not surprised," Sigurd said frankly. "I saw his face. Nor do I blame him." He smiled at Fara reassuringly. "There is no cause for such concern, my lady. Edwin cannot best Ceawlin in a duel. This past year I doubt there is anyone in Winchester who could best Ceawlin in a duel. Stop worrying."

  Fara's voice was bitter. "And do you really think Edwin is planning to fight fair?"

  "He has to," Sigurd answered in surprise. "The rules must be followed. And all of Winchester will be watching him. He will have to fight fair."

  "That is what Ceawlin said." Fara's voice was even more deeply bitter. "And you are both fools for thinking so."

  Sigurd drew himself up. "It is something a woman would not understand," he said with dignity.

  "I am sorry I bothered you, Sigurd," Fara said. He th
ought, suddenly, that she looked as old as Cynric. "I'm sure you wish to go to Ceawlin."

  He patted her on the shoulder, a clumsy gesture of comfort, and left the hall with obvious relief.

  * * * *

  Niniane had seen duels before in Winchester but, like everyone else, she knew this particular duel would be different. She had seen Ceawlin as he left the women's hall after talking with his mother. His face had been hard as iron. She was not surprised to learn that Fara had been unable to persuade him to wait for Cynric.

  Niniane found herself hoping, with an intensity that almost frightened her, that he would kill Edwin or at least injure him badly enough to incapacitate him. She felt sorry for Fara, but in her heart Niniane wanted the duel to go forward. She saw in it her only hope of escape from this terrifying marriage.

  Everyone who could walk in Winchester went to see the duel. Niniane accompanied Fara and the rest of the household women to the flat dueling field near the stables. The squares of pegged-out cloaks had already been set in the ground by the time the women arrived, and Ceawlin was there as well, standing by his cloak and talking to Cuthwulf.

  The rules of a Saxon duel were clear. Each man had to keep his feet on his own cloak. If you were forced off your cloak, you were considered disarmed. The first man to be forced off his cloak two times lost. These were rules calculated to produce few serious injuries and thus allow dueling to continue as a major recreation for otherwise inactive warriors.

  Niniane followed Fara to the place that had been set aside for the women and looked around slowly. Ceawlin, she saw, was wearing a long-sleeved mail tunic with a leather vest over it. He carried the sword Cynric had presented him with after Beranbyrg. He looked grim.

  On the other hand, the thanes who ringed the dueling ground looked distinctly cheerful. Today's sport promised to be more exciting than the usual contest they saw in Winchester. Niniane knew from Fara that Cuthwulf had refused her plea to stop the duel until the return of his father and the king. Dueling was a privilege accorded all Saxon warriors, he had said. Cuthwulf was to be the judge today, and his obvious exhilaration was in distinct contrast to Ceawlin's somber mien.