Sisters of the Fire

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘Forget I said that,’ she mumbled.

  He stood, bloody hands at his side, and moved close to her. Kissed her hard. All the anger, the frustration, the strong currents of feeling she was perpetually managing and holding down, sensed an outlet, a clear path towards light and freedom.

  ‘Clean off your hands,’ she said on a rasping breath. ‘Let’s go.’

  The long evening had turned to dark and Skalmir was asleep beside her, but Bluebell didn’t sleep. She lay for hours, her brain ticking over, making plans. Then she heard Thrymm whimpering from the next room and rose to look in on her.

  By soft firelight, Bluebell could see the dog was dreaming. Bluebell stroked her ears and she opened her eyes but didn’t try to move under the blankets Skalmir had carefully laid on her. The fire was low, so Bluebell added more wood and stoked it. Thrymm closed her eyes again.

  What was that noise?

  Bluebell’s body sprang to alert, but as she listened more closely she realised the sound was distant. Singing. She went to the shutter and unlatched it, opened it an inch and listened out into the dark wood. Voices, singing a melancholy song that rose and fell on the breeze. They were singing for Dardru, their fallen companion. Bluebell listened for a while, then closed the shutter and latched it again. She sat by Thrymm, hugging her knees to her chest. The singing continued, faint and mournful, long into the night.

  More people came to visit Guthmer dead than ever had alive. To Ivy, they seemed like wolves closing in, sniffing the breeze, searching for prey.

  Guthmer looked very old lying there, his white hair scant on the pillow, his bony body folded into a noble pose on the rich red fabric that had been laid across his bed. Elgith had dressed him while Ivy was on her way back from Folcenham, and he wore a deep green tunic and breeches, bordered all around with gold thread. It seemed a waste to bury him in it, but Ivy had no desire to redress him. I will never see him naked again, she said clearly in her mind, and the thought cheered her immensely.

  Though that brooch was certainly not going into the ground. Garnet and gold, two birds gripping each other. She knew he had it from his grandfather, and that it was his favourite piece. Maybe he had even told Elgith he wanted to be buried with it, but it was far too beautiful and precious to abandon in the mud. Ivy searched about quickly on his dresser, found a plain silver brooch instead, and swapped them over. She pinned the garnet-and-gold brooch inside her sleeve and straightened Guthmer’s tunic. The door to his bower opened, and Ivy tensed. Who would it be this time?

  She turned. His face was familiar; his name escaped her: a second cousin of Guthmer’s who owned seven hides of land outside the city walls. He was round in the middle, grey at the temples, ambitious to his marrow.

  ‘My dear Ivy,’ he said, advancing, taking her hand. ‘My sorrow at the passing of my cousin is only exceeded by my pity for his widow.’

  She offered a little smile. It was the third time today she had been oiled with false sympathy. ‘You are too kind, though forgive me. In my grief and distress I have forgotten your name.’

  ‘Garrat, your departed husband’s second cousin. We met at your wedding and I was at both your sons’ devotions to Maava. What a shame the boys are not older and cannot take over from their father. A heavy responsibility, indeed. And yet, Guthmer’s family should retain the leadership of Sæcaster. It is too important a town to entrust to … just anyone.’ He fixed her with his dark gaze and she tried to hide her open loathing for him.

  ‘You’ll forgive me,’ she said, turning away. ‘But such discussions … my husband is not yet in his grave. Decisions will be made in due course.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he muttered, but remained standing there behind her for a long minute before finally slipping out.

  Ivy took a deep breath. All of them – not just Garrat but the other distant cousins, counsellors, thanes who had already come to offer their sympathy with hunger in their eyes – would soon know how little their words meant to her. If she was strong enough.

  ‘You are strong enough,’ she said out loud, softly. Then louder, ‘You are strong enough.’

  The door opened again, and she knew by the smell of cheese and incense that it was the young preacher, Albus.

  ‘It’s time, Ivy,’ he said gently.

  She stood aside, and a group of men walked in and picked up the pallet that Guthmer lay upon. She followed them out into a blustery, sun-drenched afternoon. Hilla, the nurse, was outside with her boys, and Ivy took them by their little hands and began their solemn procession.

  The people of Sæcaster lined the streets. Some had bowed heads, some made jokes between themselves. Children fidgeted and made noise while their mothers shushed them, and Ivy was so proud of her boys – dressed so beautifully in yellow and blue – who seemed to understand the gravity of the occasion and stayed serious and silent the entire route.

  The mighty city gates opened ahead of them, and Guthmer was carried out of the city and down the earthworks, out towards the burial grounds of his ancestors. Albus had made no objections about the funeral adhering so close to the common faith. He’d said as long as he could pray to Maava, he didn’t mind if Guthmer was buried in his ship as his father and grandfather had been. Guthmer had always been a reluctant trimartyr, going along because of his loyalty to Wengest.

  The large pit had been dug the day before, the ship already lowered into it, filled with pots and plates and weapons and armour. Somebody had strewn flowers into his grave and Ivy wondered if it had been Elgith and why she had loved Guthmer, who seemed to Ivy a slightly foolish, perpetually irritable old man with nothing interesting to say.

  They lined the edge of the grave as Guthmer’s body was carried to its final resting pace in the prow of the ship. Ivy surveyed those who had gathered. Her hair whipped across her face. From down in the harbour, she could hear the gulls calling. The city guard stood by on the other side of the pit, Crispin armed but helmless amid them. He didn’t meet her eye, and she was gripped by a powerful feeling of being lost, swamped by troubles too big for her.

  ‘Why is Papa going in that ship?’ Eadric asked in a clear, bell-like voice.

  Ivy intended to crouch by him and hug him, but overbalanced and fell onto her bottom. A gasp ran through the crowd, and people rushed to help her, assuming she had collapsed. Ivy waved them away, crying, aware that she was playing the role of the heartbroken widow to perfection.

  Ivy knew the wolves would be meeting in secret, making plans, so she wasted no time. That afternoon, while the workmen were still filling in Guthmer’s grave, she summoned Crispin to the hall tower, a stone tower attached to the hall by a wooden staircase. In all these years, she had only visited this room one other time; it was used to hear and settle civil disputes. Once, it had been Guthmer who managed these disputes, but increasingly it had been one or more of his thanes, the very men who now sought to step in as ruler of the city while her sons were too small to protest. Maps and deeds were kept here, sorted into wooden shelves that lined the walls. As the tower and the room were made of stone, Guthmer believed the documents to be safe from fire here.

  Crispin arrived, in his byrnie and sash, just as the smith was leaving. She’d had a metal bolt and box padlock installed on the inside of the hall tower door; the key hung on Ivy’s waist along with the keys to the hall and the bowerhouses. Her first small step towards shutting out the wolves.

  ‘Smart girl,’ Crispin said admiringly as she closed the door behind the smith and drew the bolt.

  She smiled, and felt her face flushing as it always did when Crispin was around. ‘Well, Crispin, captain-defender of Sæcaster, do you swear to me your allegiance?’

  ‘I do, my lady.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she teased.

  ‘But I promise,’ he said, falling to his knees in front of her, grabbing her around the hips and burying his face in her skirt.

  Ivy laughed and tried to bat him away, but he held her bruisingly firm.

  ‘I swe
ar, my lady,’ he said, his voice so muffled by her skirt that she could barely hear it.

  ‘Swear again,’ she said. ‘But closer to my skin.’

  He ruched up her skirt, running his hands over her white thighs, and placed his face against her pubic bone. ‘I swear my lady,’ he said, his warm breath setting her senses alight.

  ‘Closer and deeper,’ she said, not laughing any more.

  He kissed her hotly, wetly, between her legs, then his tongue slid into her, between the folds of her flesh, insistently. She gasped, leaned her head back on the tapestry, one hand in his hair, the other steadying herself on the wall. His hands kneaded her buttocks. Her ears began to ring as her blood thundered past them. The pleasure lifted her up, higher and higher …

  Then somebody tried the door. Found it locked. Banged on it loudly.

  ‘My lady, are you in there?’

  Crispin stopped, looked up at her uncertainly.

  ‘Keep going,’ she said softly.

  ‘My lady, it is Garrat again. I had hoped to speak to you before I left. Could you open the door please?’

  But Crispin was making love to her with his tongue again, and she shut out everything but the spinning, weaving pleasure that crashed through her, leaving her gasping, sagging against the cool stone wall.

  Crispin stood, pressed his lips hard against hers so she could taste her own salty sweetness.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  Ivy’s head spun. He had never said that before.

  ‘Don’t listen to any of them,’ he said in a quiet voice, taking her face gently in his right hand. ‘Listen only to me. I will keep you from harm. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ she said.

  He shook his head, fought with something, then said, ‘I don’t think you do understand. I love you, Ivy. I love you freely now, because your husband, my lord, is dead. And even though we must love in secret, you and I are each other’s futures.’ He fell silent.

  Ivy gazed at him, pulse flicking at her throat. ‘I love you too,’ she managed, wanting to say so much more that there wasn’t words for.

  He nodded, released her. ‘Don’t let him in. This evening at dusk you will address the city elders, the thanes, the various cousins and preachers and other interferers. I have sent the guard around to gather them in the hall downstairs. I will tell you what to say.’ And when he saw she looked frightened, he forced a smile and added, ‘We will make your sister Bluebell proud of you.’

  Ivy nodded. Bluebell’s good favour had never been important to her, but at this moment, Crispin’s was.

  ‘My lady?’ This was Garrat, still at the door. ‘Are you well? I thought I heard you cry out?’

  ‘Leave me be,’ she said sharply. ‘I will speak to you all as one this evening.’

  A pause, then, ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  She gave Crispin an uncertain smile.

  ‘Are you frightened, my love?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Everything is about to change.’

  ‘Yes, and they will all have to do precisely as you say. Imagine that. All of them. The thanes who feast in your hall. The farmers who pay you port tax. The traders who rent a berth at the docks and the sailors who come across the sea with a full half of Thyrsland’s imported goods. You, just as Guthmer did, will stand at the head of it all, and nothing will happen but by your say so, and their gold will flow to you and your sons.’

  Ivy smiled. ‘Well, now you say it, it doesn’t sound so frightening after all.’

  ‘And of course, I will be by your side the whole time.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘You can lean on me.’

  She grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘Thank you, my love. I will.’

  Ivy strode into the hall at dusk, Crispin by her side. She had taken care to braid and pin her hair, to wear the richest cloak she could find, embroidered with gold and silver and pinned on with the brooch Guthmer had almost worn into his grave. Crispin’s dark curls shone in the firelight from the sconces. His byrnie was oiled and gleaming. Together, they must have looked impressive, because as the crowd parted around them, quite a few people openly gaped.

  Ivy climbed up onto the dais where her husband’s table would ordinarily be set up. But this wasn’t a feast, this was a meeting; she doubted many of the three dozen or so here would feel like feasting after she said what she had to say.

  Hilla brought her boys forwards and she held them still under steely hands in front of her. The mutterings of her audience tailed off. Quiet reigned.

  She took a deep breath, made her voice even and forceful, and spoke.

  ‘I have brought you all here for important reasons. I have discussed the fate of Sæcaster with many of you in the days since my husband died. As his wife, the duchess of Sæcaster, and as the mother of his sons and heirs, I have made my decision.’

  A few whispers passed through the crowd, and Ivy looked out over them and was struck that they were all men. Every last one of them. Even though it was not surprising, something about this realisation lit a fire inside her. It was always men.

  ‘I am taking over the running of the city –’

  The sentence wasn’t out before the crowd erupted into protests and sounds of suspicion. She held up her hand for them to be quiet, but they were not, so Crispin stepped forwards and boomed, ‘Quiet!’ at the top of his lungs.

  The crowd came to order, though open hostility was now readable on their faces.

  ‘As I said,’ Ivy continued, her voice sounding very young and female to her own ears. Once again, that flare of anger. If she was Bluebell, they’d all be listening to her. She drew her spine up straight. ‘As I said, I am taking control of Sæcaster and I am aided by the city guard, who have promised to support me loyally. My beloved husband was sick for a long time and neglectful of his duties, but I will be taking them over so that I can one day teach his sons of their responsibilities. All of the thanes who helped during Guthmer’s long illness, I thank you for your kindness and advise you that you may now step down and go on with your lives as they were before.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted a voice from the back, and she was unsurprised to see the insistent Garrat make his way to the front. He pulled his beard thoughtfully. ‘Are we not trimartyrs here?’ he said. ‘Do we not follow King Wengest’s example and believe in the dictates of Maava?’

  A murmur of assent, including from men Ivy knew still sacrificed their old oxen to the Mother in Blood Month.

  Garrat addressed his next speech to the gathered crowd. ‘Does it not say in the second book of Maava that a woman can bear no authority over a man?’ He gestured around him. Firelight bathed their faces. ‘And here we are, all men. Does not Maava say women should submit in silence unless they are magnifying the name of the One Lord?’ He turned to her again, his face screwing up in disdain. ‘Why are you even speaking?’

  A ripple of laughter.

  Ivy’s hatred made her voice roar out of her like fire. ‘All the chapels will be closed!’ she shrieked. ‘Closed … and burned! My family are not trimartyrs and Sæcaster is, from this moment, abandoning that faith. Crispin …’ She turned to him, saw him nod once, softly. ‘Make it so. All of you, leave and do not come back here unless it is to promise me your allegiance, under threat of the city guard.’

  Crispin raised his arms and began to shoo them. ‘The duchess has spoken. Leave quietly please. There will be penalties for any groups of three or more caught meeting together in the city. Sæcaster is safely in the hands of Guthmer’s family, as is right and proper.’

  Ivy watched, pulse thudding fast, while Crispin shepherded them out. There were threats and protests and shaking heads. There were also several thanes who came immediately to stand before her and congratulate her and offer their blessing, though Ivy wasn’t sure whether or not to believe them. Finally, the hall was empty and Ivy stood there with her boys, still in the quiet.

  Crispin came back in and held up his hands to help the boys down.

  ‘That
went well,’ she said, though it was more of a question than a statement.

  ‘It went well enough for now. When they see what a competent ruler you are, they will come round.’

  Little Edmund began to whinge, so she picked him up and squeezed him hard against her. ‘Mama has been so brave for you,’ she said, smooshing his impossibly plump cheek against hers. ‘Crispin, can you organise somebody to send a message to Bluebell, telling her what I’ve done? I need to get the boys back to Hilla.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady,’ he said, with a sweeping bow and a sparkle in his eyes.

  She watched him go, a smile on her lips, then put Edmund down on his chubby little legs and led her sons towards the door.

  Standing just outside was Elgith.

  ‘Elgith,’ Ivy said lightly. ‘I haven’t seen you all day.’

  ‘I went by Guthmer’s grave to pay my own respects quietly, alone,’ she said, and her eyes landed on the brooch Ivy wore.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Ivy asked, her voice a challenge.

  Elgith met her eyes. Her gaze said everything. I know what you are really like. ‘Now Guthmer is dead,’ she said, ‘I will be happy to serve his sons. What task would you have me perform for them?’

  ‘They already have a nurse,’ Ivy said quickly. ‘There is no place for you in the duke’s compound any more.’

  Elgith didn’t break her gaze.

  ‘Perhaps you should go to Folcenham. I could recommend you to Wengest.’

  ‘There is nothing for me in Folcenham,’ Elgith said evenly.

  ‘There is nothing for you here,’ Ivy countered.

  Elgith fell silent. Whatever she was thinking of saying, she ultimately kept to herself.

  ‘Good evening,’ Ivy said. ‘These boys need to be fed and put to bed.’ She left Elgith standing there, wordless in the long shadows. Something about the older woman’s stoic silence made Ivy more nervous than all of those men shouting at her. She fervently wished Elgith would go as she’d asked, and not hang about Sæcaster like a shadow.