by Joan Wolf
"Perhaps. I don't know."
"He is shamed to face his people, knowing he can no longer lead them in war. I do not think he will return soon."
"Is that how you would feel, Ceawlin?" she asked. "Shamed?"
"I?" He looked over his shoulder at her. He seemed surprised. "I would have died before I swore such a thing," he said. And looking down into his austere face, Niniane knew that he spoke the truth.
* * *
Chapter 13
Niniane put in her garden and talked Naille into giving her back most of the villa's livestock. She also managed to arrange with Naille for three men to come and help sow Bryn Atha's fields with wheat and rye and barley. It was all very well for Ceawlin to talk of buying what they would need; Niniane knew they would have to grow their own food. It simply would not be possible to feed a group of men over the winter unless they had their own food stored. Come the winter, there would be no food at the market for them to buy. So she got the crops into the ground and thought she would bide her time before telling Ceawlin he and his men were going to have to harvest them.
Ceawlin divided his time between hunting and fixing up the slave quarters. Niniane was surprised at how competent a carpenter he was. "I used to watch the carpenters in Winchester," he confessed a little shamefacedly when she commented on his proficiency. "When I was a child, of course."
"Of course," she agreed gravely.
"My father was still building Winchester, you see. Sigurd and I spent a lot of time making nuisances of ourselves. You know how boys are." He was putting a wooden floor over the dirt floor of the slave quarters and was down on his knees nailing in the boards. Niniane was sitting on the part of the floor that he had already finished.
She hid a smile. "I know."
"Anyway"—he aimed the hammer at a nail—"it has come in useful. We must have quarters for my thanes, and I don't think you would want them in the house with you."
"Decidedly not."
He grunted. "The house is too small. And we will need the reception rooms that have been closed up for the women."
She stared at him. He had finished hammering the nail and was choosing another. "What women?" she asked.
"You will need women to help with the cooking and the weaving, obviously."
"Oh." She looked at his lean strong hand setting the new nail. "Where are these women to come from?"
"I haven't thought about that yet. Do you think we could get some of the local girls?"
"With a houseful of Saxon thanes? No."
He looked up from the board he was hammering into the wooden studs he had already constructed. "No?" His brows were cocked in the way she loved, the way that made him look like a little boy begging for honey.
"No, Ceawlin. Too many families lost a son or a husband at Beranbyrg."
He nodded slowly and began to hammer once again. "Do you know whom I think we ought to bring to Bryn Atha?" she asked after a minute.
"Who?" he said around the sound of the hammer.
"Your mother."
He sat back on his heels and pushed his hair off his cheek. "My mother? But why?"
"Because I do not think she is safe in Winchester."
His eyes widened. "Not safe? But ... do you think Guthfrid would try to do her a mischief?"
"I think she very well might."
He frowned. "Nonsense. My mother is no threat to her now. Cynric is dead."
"The queen hates you, Ceawlin. You didn't hear her when she was speaking about you to Edric." Niniane shivered. "She hates you and would do anything she could to hurt you. And Fara is your mother."
"She wouldn't dare," he said abruptly. But she could see that he had gone a little pale. "Cutha is there ..."
"Poison is easy enough to administer. And what could Cutha do? Guthfrid has the power in Winchester now."
"Gods." His eyes were getting very turquoise. "I never thought of that. You're right, Niniane. I must get her out of Winchester." His voice became accusing. "Why did you not mention this before?"
"I didn't think of it before," she confessed. In truth, she had thought of little else but him these last weeks, but she did not say that. "It was when you started to talk of bringing women here, and I thought of the women's hall at Winchester and Fara. It just came to me...."
They stared at each other, both realizing they were guilty of forgetting Fara. Ceawlin put down the hammer and stood up. "I'll ride to Venta and see Sigurd."
Niniane stared up at him, but there was no one else who could go. "Yes," she said finally, her voice low. "I think you had better."
* * * *
Ceawlin awoke early the following morning, the day he was to leave for Venta. The light outside the window was just beginning to turn from black to gray. Ceawlin was finding that he too liked sleeping in a room with a window. It was nice to wake in the morning and see the sky.
Niniane was still asleep, curled under the blankets like a kitten. He had kept her awake for quite a long time last night.
He propped his chin upon his hands and lay still, regarding his wife. Or what he could see of his wife, which was one bare shoulder and a shining stream of autumn-brown hair.
He loved making love to her. She stirred his blood more than any of the more knowledgeable, more experienced women he had known before. She knew nothing except what he had taught her, what they had learned together, yet he found the flicker of her eyelash more erotic than the most blatantly sexual enticements of any of his other women. It could be the isolation of Bryn Atha, of course. They were certainly not leading a normal life cooped up here together with scarcely another soul to speak to from morning until night. It could be. But he did not think so.
He should be getting up. He wanted to get an early start, make Venta before the gates were closed. He had certainly said sufficient farewell to Niniane last night. He remembered suddenly the first morning he had awakened beside her, in the storage barn where they had taken brief refuge on their flight from Winchester. He had wanted her then, and had refrained because she was a virgin and he had not wanted to frighten her. Well, she was a virgin no longer. He could certainly attest to that.
It would not take very long at all, really....
"Niniane." He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. She was so light-boned, she weighed scarcely anything. But she held such profound delight.... "Niniane!" Her eyes opened and regarded him drowsily, dark and colorless in the gray light of the bedroom. He turned her on her back and slid over her, then into her. Her eyes opened wider. "Mmmmm," he murmured deeply. He lowered his mouth to hers. For a moment she gave him no response, still half-asleep. He deepened the kiss and began to move slowly within her. He waited. He was not looking simply for his own quick relief; he had found that half his pleasure came from the delight he was able to give to her. After a minute her mouth answered to his, then her hips began to move in rhythm with his motion. "Nan," he said against her mouth. "Ah...."
"I have to leave," he said a little while later. "Gereint will be here later this morning." He had made arrangements yesterday for Naille's eldest son to stay with Niniane until he returned.
"Yes. You must."
They neither of them moved. Then she said, "Whom will you go to in Venta? Who will be safe?"
"There is a woman I know," he answered thoughtlessly, and felt her grow rigid against him.
"A woman!"
"An old woman," he lied, "a friend of my mother's."
She relaxed again, warm and pliant in his arms. "Oh."
He kissed the top of her head and got out of bed. She got up too and said, "I'll get your food ready, Ceawlin."
As he dressed, he wondered idly why he had bothered to lie to her. It was easier, he decided, that was all. He knew how women were. He had lived with his mother and Guthfrid for too long not to understand about women and jealousy. The less Niniane knew about his doings, Ceawlin thought, the better it would be for both of them.
He made Venta before the gates were closed, riding
in on a horse he had borrowed from Naille. Bayvard would most certainly have been recognized, and quite possibly Niniane's chestnut gelding as well. So, since secrecy was essential, he had taken a roan from Naille. He was also wearing a hooded cloak that had once belonged to Niniane's father. He had protested to her at first that a hood in May would look suspicious. She insisted that he wear it.
"You may perhaps look a little unusual," she had said, "but if you hunch over and pretend to be old, the cloak will cause no comment. Old people are always cold. In any case, the hood will be safer than going bareheaded. There isn't another head like yours in all of Wessex, Ceawlin. You simply must wear the hood."
She was right, of course, and so he pulled the hood up as soon as he was within sight of Winchester and kept it up until he was safe within the confines of Helwig's house in the Lindum street of Venta. Helwig was surprised to see him.
"We heard you had tried to kill the baby king and ran away when you failed," she told him as he sat in her kitchen eating the rabbit stew she had served him.
He scowled. "Is that the story they have given out?"
"Yes."
"Well, the truth is that Guthfrid tried to have me killed, but I was warned of the plot and got away first."
"That sounds more probable," the Saxon woman agreed. Helwig was a baker who kept the shop that had once belonged to her husband, a Briton who had been dead for several years. Ceawlin had known her for almost the whole of her widowhood. Helwig was a handsome young woman whose husband, a prosperous shopkeeper, had been some thirty years older than she. She had found the freedom of a comfortable widowhood pleasant and had no wish to remarry. The young prince from Winchester had been a thoroughly satisfactory answer to the problem of an empty bed. "If you got away safe," she said now, "why did you come back? I'd like to think it was for my sake, but I'm not that stupid."
He grinned at her and took another bite of rabbit stew. "I came back for my mother. I'm worried that she is not safe at Winchester."
"Ah." A guarded look came over Helwig's fair-skinned handsome face.
He frowned. "What is it?"
"The word from Winchester is that Fara is not well," she answered.
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged her big shoulders. "Just that. She is not well. She has not been into Venta since before the king died."
"My father's death drained her, that is all." He wiped up the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. "I need to get a message to Sigurd," he said around the bread in his mouth. "Who goes to Winchester tomorrow?"
"I don't know. I'll ask. Shall I have Sigurd told that you are here?"
"Yes. I need to see him."
"All right."
She left by the kitchen door and returned half an hour later. "The soap-maker is taking a wagon to Winchester tomorrow. He is reliable. He will give your message to Sigurd."
"Good." Ceawlin had been sitting over his empty plate drinking beer, and now he stood up and stretched. "I have been riding since sunup, Helwig, and I'm tired. Can you lend me a bed?"
"Not my bed?"
He gave her a charming smile. "I'd love to, but not tonight."
"All right." She did not seem insulted, but took him to the small bedroom that adjoined hers and left him alone. He was asleep in five minutes.
It was not until late the following afternoon that Sigurd came to the house on Lindum Street. Ceawlin had been growing more and more impatient as the hours went by. The bake shop was in the front part of Helwig's house, with the living rooms behind it. The living area consisted of two small bedrooms, a small salon, and the kitchen where Helwig did the baking in the back. There was not much space. Ceawlin found himself confined to the salon and spent most of the day pacing up and down the room like a lion in a cage. He heard Sigurd's voice in the bakery as soon as his friend came in, but as there were others in the shop as well, Sigurd had to wait until they left before he could come through into the salon where Ceawlin waited.
The two young men .clasped shoulders and pummeled each other on the back. "Gods," said Sigurd at last. "What are you doing in Venta, Ceawlin? I thought you were safe at Bryn Atha."
Helwig came to the door and peeked in. "Keep your voices down," she warned.
"We will," Ceawlin promised. Then, to Sigurd, "I came because I'm worried about my mother." Helwig went back to the shop and Ceawlin continued, "I want to take her back to Bryn Atha with me, Sigurd. I don't think she is safe in Winchester."
"Oh." Sigurd's eyes slid away from Ceawlin's concerned blue gaze. After a minute Sigurd sat down in one of Helwig's well-worn chairs and rested his elbows on the wicker arms. He looked at his lap.
"What is it?" Ceawlin's voice was sharp. "Nothing has happened to her?"
Sigurd did not look up. "She is sick, Ceawlin. This last month, since you have been gone, she has failed greatly. There is something wrong with her insides. She is in great pain."
The fair skin of Ceawlin's cheeks, still so boyishly innocent of any trace of beard, went suddenly white. "Could it be poison?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Sigurd shook his head. "My father thought of that. All her food is tasted first. It is not poison, Ceawlin. It is the crab-sickness." Gray eyes finally lifted to blue. "She is dying."
"I don't believe it." The skin over Ceawlin's cheekbones was stretched taut.
Sigurd remained with his head tilted back, his eyes steady on his friend's. It was Ceawlin who finally turned away. He walked to the farthest end of the room and rested his forehead against the wall. After a long moment he asked, "You said she is in pain?"
"Yes. But the priest is giving her medicine. It helps."
"How ... how long?"
"It cannot be long now. She is very frail."
Ceawlin did not move. Sigurd looked at him as he stood there, head bent, forehead pressed against the green plaster wall. He did not ever remember a time when Ceawlin had looked so vulnerable. Sigurd's gray eyes were dark with pity.
When Ceawlin finally spoke, his voice was steady. "Can I see her?"
"You cannot come to Winchester, Ceawlin. It would be mad to try. And it would only upset her, to think you had placed yourself in such danger. Her greatest joy right now is the knowledge that you are safe."
Ceawlin's fists clenched at his sides. He did not answer.
"I know it is hard," Sigurd said. "But there is nothing you can do." After a minute he added softly, "She is going to your father."
A long silence fell. Sigurd sat quietly, his eyes on Ceawlin's rigid back and clenched fists. After what seemed like forever, Ceawlin's hands relaxed and he turned slowly to face Sigurd once more. His face was very white, but Sigurd was relieved to see that he had got himself under control. "The world is changing," Ceawlin said.
"That it is." Sigurd judged it was all right now to speak of other things. "Guthfrid is showing herself more and more dependent upon Edric. The eorls are not happy. Edric has his followers, of course, the men who look to prosper under him, but most of the eorls and a number of the thanes don't like him. They see the golden opportunities for power they envisioned for themselves slipping away."
"That is good news." Ceawlin's face was still too pale and he did not seem to be giving Sigurd his full attention.
Nevertheless, Sigurd went on. "It is known that you are at Bryn Atha. When you took Niniane with you, it was not hard to guess where you would go. Guthfrid wanted Edric to take a war band after you, but he would not. He said you were a lordless man, and so harmless. The truth is, of course, that he was not sure he could find the men to follow him. The eorls may not have wanted you for king, but they are not ready yet to see you dead."
"That is even better news." Ceawlin was paying attention now. "I have been fixing up the old slave quarters at Bryn Atha for my own war band, Sigurd. It is a large building and in another month it should be comfortable. The men can come in June."
Sigurd frowned. "My father is not in favor of your collecting a war band at Bryn Atha, Ceawlin. He says to leave all
to him."
Ceawlin walked back toward the center of the room. "I have much respect for Cutha, you know that. But I cannot let another man do all my work for me. If he will pursue my cause in Winchester, I will be grateful. But I must do what I can myself." He came to a halt before Sigurd.
Sigurd got slowly to his feet. Cutha, in fact, had been quite adamant that Ceawlin should leave matters to him. "I think my father has hopes of restoring you without a fight," he said as he straightened up.
"There will have to be a fight," Ceawlin answered. "There is no avoiding it. There are too many thanes who will fear for themselves if I become king. And rightly so," he added, his voice and face grim. Then, as Sigurd still hesitated, "If you feel you cannot come yourself, Sigurd, of course I shall understand."
"Don't be a fool, Ceawlin. Of course I shall come." Sigurd was standing close before him now. "Didn't I swear my allegiance to you as my lord?"
The color suddenly came back to Ceawlin's cheeks, flushing them a boyish pink. "No matter who else fails me," he said, and his voice was now much huskier than usual, "I know I can always count on you."
"Till the death," said Sigurd, and they looked at each other, both moved and both a little embarrassed by their own emotion. "Well," said Sigurd more briskly, "I had better be going. People will want to know what I can possibly be finding to do for so long in the bakery."
Ceawlin grinned. "I was known to spend whole afternoons in the bakery. Why should not you do the same?"
"Helwig never had eyes for me," Sigurd retorted. "Not with you around."
"I am not around any longer," Ceawlin returned. "And you know we were always willing to share our treats."
It was not until he had put his hand on the door to push it open that Sigurd asked, "How is Niniane?"
"Thriving," Ceawlin responded instantly. "She is a country creature at heart, you know."
"Well, it was what she was brought up to, I suppose."
"Yes." Ceawlin looked down at his hand, the topic of Niniane clearly not what was on his mind. "Sigurd ... will you ... will you give my mother my ... my love?"
