by Rebecca Tope
‘A little before Beltane,’ Fippa nodded. ‘Do you not feel it?’
‘I shook my head, wishing I could say I had known already. Such was Fippa’s power that I had no doubt that she was right.
‘And you will be handfasted with Frith? At the next full moon?’
I sighed, long and deep. The image of my full-grown son rose before me, like an angry angel, accusing and betrayed. How could I do this to him? I could not enter into a heathen ceremony of marriage, when I had been wedded to his father by a Christian priest, and lived as a Christian all my life.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I must wait for the church to be built, and be married there. I am a Christian.’
‘But Frith is not,’ Fippa snapped back. ‘And the growing of a church will take a great deal longer than the growing of a child.’
I shook my buzzing head. ‘Then I will wait,’ I said again. I could not worry about the status or future of a child I had known nothing of, a few moments earlier.
‘Do not break our friendship,’ she warned me, her voice low and harsh. Her lips drew back from the broken back teeth, in a strange grimace. ‘Together we can be contented and strong. You are welcome here, so long as you follow our ways. We have been pleased to see Frith made happy again. There is much to lose.’
I said nothing, though she expected something from me. At last, she threw down the chips of wood, so they fell into a design of their own accord. It was the rune of the grave, quite clearly. The long stem, with the same crooked branch on either side. The lines my grandmother had taught me, those that went with this rune, came into my head. ‘Riches fade, joys pass away, friendships end.’ Fippa was killing my love for Frith. I took the rune as a threat, more than a prediction. A challenge to me to defy her power. I stared at her, full of fear and doubt and anger. With a weird cackle, she got to her feet. A great crow she had tamed as a chick flapped over to her from a low branch close by, and settled on her shoulder. I shuddered. I had not seen it do this before, and had thought little of her having such a companion. Now I saw the meaning of it and understood how much trouble there was yet ahead of me.
When she had gone, Frith put his arm around my shoulder. He was trembling. ‘What have we done?’ he said.
‘We have taken pleasure in each other,’ I replied. ‘And nature has done the rest. We should be proud, not quivering like disobedient children. She took great pains to strike fear into us.’ I was still bewildered by what had taken place. I had believed Fippa to be a force for goodness, a woman who would rejoice at any new life. Instead, she had seemed intent on punishment and threat.
‘She did not expect defiance,’ he explained. ‘She has known little of it from these people.’
‘And you - what are you thinking now?’ It seemed that everything had changed between us. He had become weak in my eyes, merely because he had remained silent throughout the encounter with Fippa.
‘I would be honoured if you would be handfasted with me,’ he said gravely. ‘And I would feel the most favoured man on earth to have a child of my own, after so many years.’
‘I cannot give any undertakings,’ I told him, sadly. His hand still lay in mine, and when I looked at him, I almost felt the same eagerness for the sensations his body could give me. Almost, but not quite. ‘Something has been spoiled,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘It has been too brief,’ he whispered.
‘Is it finished then?’ He had given in much more easily and quickly than I could grasp. For me, there were still possibilities for us. Frith was alive and in good health. He did not cough, his bones were not staring out from his sides. Life had been proven by the seed taking root within me, and life brought hope with it, by its very nature.
‘No, no.’ He spoke in a voice thick with distress and denial, but I had no sense that he felt it was within his power to control the outcome of our story. ‘We have just begun.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘If only you will help me, and do all you can to placate Fippa.’
But I turned away from him, and walked up the knoll to the place where my son now had a hut of his own.
When I got there, Cuthman was nowhere to be seen. The foundation trench was finished by then, a four-sided scar on the hilltop, the soil banked up on the outside, all the way around, making it visible from some distance away. It had been finished for a week or more, and I was not sure what he intended to do next. Two days earlier, he had come down to the dining hall at sunset, sitting with Garth and Welf, Fippa’s sons, but saying little to them. It had surprised me at first, until I dismissed it as no more than a chance seating arrangement. There had not been space next to me, with Frith so attentive, and there had been a coolness between Cuthman and me for a few days.
The hut my son had erected for himself was meagre and makeshift. A rush bed, with a coarse cover and a raised ledge for his few possessions were all it contained. It was poorer than our old moorland home, and it hurt me to see it. The villagers lived more richly than this. They decorated their homes with woven wallhangings and rugs, carved wooden, bone and stone figures for their household gods, and they made dream-catchers from feathers which they dyed beautifully. I had never known such colour in my life as there was in Steyning. The women had learned to mix dyes of all kinds, and their woollens were bright yellows and blues. They used the weeds and shells and small creatures from the sea to make rich greens and browns, and they gathered the wild flowers to adorn their doorposts and hearths.
I tried to give full attention to Cuthman, and his long devotion to God. My loyalty must lie with him, whichever way I looked at the situation. I could not lie to him or conceal important matters from him. Without me, he would be completely alone, and my heart hurt to imagine it. I remembered for the second time that day the hermit we had stayed with, and could not wish my son to become such a creature. Assuming his absence meant he must be in the forest, choosing the trees for his church, or some such task, I sat against his hut, in the full sunshine, and gave myself up to my thoughts. An oddness in my mouth, as if I had tasted a piece of iron, made me shiver. It was a sign of a child growing inside me. I remembered it from those many years before. However many years might pass, I would not forget those strange alarming changes which gripped me when I was with child. The swelling of my breasts, making them itch and chafe, the burning in my throat after every meal, the great desire to drink a cold infusion of rosehips - as well as the sickness that rose in me at the very thought of any warm drink - all came into my mind, and made me feel foolish. Surely I was too old for such stuff now? Too old and weary. I had seen too much to have the proper springs of playfulness and patience for a little child. A new shame at what I had done flushed through me, and a kind of terror at the mockery I would attract.
And only then, as I shifted a little on the hard ground, did the real fear strike me. My back! Was it not certain that in giving birth again I would once more be crippled? How strange that I had not thought of that before. So complete was my recovery that the old pain and stiffness were like dreams, lost in the far past. My couplings with Frith had been so supple and lively, bucking and riding, over and under him, rolling and bending like a girl half my age, that it was as if the trouble had never been. Was I to be blighted again, as retribution for my folly? Had I deserved such harsh punishment? I needed to know, in that instant, what I could expect, and it seemed to me that Cuthman was the only person who could tell me.
I heard men’s voices, coming up the hillside from the forest, precisely where I could not see because of the hut. They were laughing, eager-sounding and merry. Come to take a look at Cuthman’s digging, I thought, expecting some mockery. It occurred to me to jump up and run down the hill to avoid them, but I was lazy and warm and had little to fear from them but unkind words.
Their conversation became more serious, as they approached, and I could make out the words.
‘No need to fell the mature trees, lad,’ came one.
‘No indeed,’ echoed another. ‘What’s needed is the saplings, growing straight and tal
l. That’s the easy way.’
‘Thank you friends,’ came the grave tones of my son. Although his voice was still young and light, he made himself sound older by speaking slow, and saying each word carefully. I had become accustomed to it, but hearing it unexpectedly now, I was more aware of the strangeness of it. He gave everything weight and meaning, merely by speaking in such a way.
I stood up, confused and timid to be found there by the village men, despite having every reason to be visiting my son. Awareness of my condition had changed everything, and made me want to hide away from people until I had absorbed the knowledge.
They were startled to see me, squinting into the bright sun which was high in the sky by then. The two men stood either side of Cuthman, as if guarding him. They were not twins, although they looked it, and I was never fully sure which was Garth and which Welf. They did most things together, and had a way of speaking as one which I found strange. They were shaped much like their mother - short and broad, with strong black hair that frizzed out from their heads and chins. I had never thought to enquire who their father might have been and what had become of him.
‘You have found help, then, son?’ I said, my heart thumping chokingly in my breast. My voice came thin and breathless.
‘Oh, aye,’ said one of his companions - Welf, I think.
The other chimed in. ‘He needs it, for sure.’
‘He can use our oxen, when the harvest is done.’
‘Best team in the village,’ came a grinning boast. There was a rhythm, almost musical, in the way they spoke, as if knowing exactly what each other would say. They formed an impression of something powerful, invincible. They were like a team of oxen themselves, I realised, and smiled a little at the idea.
And then it seemed that the business was done. They clapped Cuthman on his shoulders, and set off down the slope, turning once to wave at us. ‘They are oddly friendly,’ I murmured. ‘What have you done to them?’
‘Acted the helpless fool,’ Cuthman’s reply came glib, pleased at his own cleverness. ‘I knew that if I seemed to be making mistakes, floundering helpless and muddled, there would be some who could not abide to see it. They have a need to see a thing, whatever it be, done well. If the village is to have a church, then it is important to them that it be a good church.’
‘Yet they have no love for your God, or what you mean to do with your church.’
‘They forget that. The building is the thing for them now.’
‘And so they are the fools.’
‘Indeed.’
If it had mattered more to me then what kind of person my son was becoming, I might have made some attempt to guide him. Although I might equally not have done. Cuthman was his own man and had been for a long time. He was no longer any responsibility of mine, and his virtues were not to my credit, any more than his defects were of my doing. And yet in that clear morning, full of my own inner self, I did glimpse a maggot within the lad that perturbed me. I felt a kink in what I had until then believed to be a character at least virtuous, if not entirely saintly. And the glimpse did not serve my own purposes well at all. I needed a soft forgiving son that day. Understanding, loving and helpful, too.
But I had come to share my secret with him, and share it I did, though it was hard to gain his attention. We had grown apart since our arrival here and he had all but forgotten me, I think.
‘Son, I have need of your church. May it be completed swiftly.’
He gazed at the foundation trenches, and then upwards to the invisible edifice which had become his life’s work. ‘It will be swift,’ he replied.
‘Then I might be married in it, before midwinter?’
He did not react immediately, and when he did it was to echo ‘Midwinter? That is impossible.’
‘But I must be married, and soon.’
Only then did he look at me and frown deeply at my words. ‘What are you saying, mother? What nonsense is this?’
‘I wish to marry Frith, and for your sake it should be at the altar of your new church.’
‘For my sake? When did you do anything for my sake?’
The sharpness cut me worse than a knife could have done. I gawped at him, unable to speak. What injury or resentment was he harbouring? What failure of mine stuck in his breast, to make him say such a thing? When, indeed, when had I ever put my own requirements before his? A rage gripped me, in the wake of the hurt, and I stepped up close to him.
‘How dare you!’ I screamed at him. ‘How can you dare to say that? I have crouched in that filthy cart month after month, in obedience to your whims – ‘ I stopped abruptly, seeing that I was taking myself right away from where I needed to be with him.
‘But you let those women torment me, and never came to save me,’ he hissed, his face pinched at the memories. So that was it. It was at least a relief to know where the poison came from. My anger left as quickly as it had come and guilt replaced it. I had carried the same unease about the Maiden Castle women and my abandonment of my son, ever since we’d escaped.
‘It’s true,’ I agreed, humble and quiet. ‘And I am deeply sorry for it.’ I quelled the stirring protests in my heart - for what I could possibly have done to help him was still a mystery to me.
A silence followed, where we wrestled with pride and guilt, and the blood bond between us reasserted itself.
‘The church, then – ‘ I began again, needing to persist.
‘The church,’ he agreed, gazing once more at the place where the roof or the tower might be. ‘You have need of my church, mother?’
‘For my marriage,’ I repeated. ‘I wish to marry Frith. And soon.’
‘For what purpose?’ He spoke mildly, but I was suddenly afraid.
‘Purpose?’ I forced a laugh, which echoed mockingly back at me.
‘Marriage has a purpose. It is a sacrament. It is God’s mark on a couple who wish to lie together, for the purpose of creating children.’
‘That’s true,’ I nodded, even more afraid.
‘And none of that can have any meaning for you,’ he smiled. ‘You are my mother, which is an honourable position. I will require you to serve my church, in many different ways. But this talk of a marriage is madness - you have been too long in the sun, perhaps. You are old, mother, and beyond marrying. I will build the church in my own good time, for my own good reasons. The altar will indeed mark the joining of the young people in the village, as well as their baptisms and burials. But never again speak to me of a marriage between you and Frith, because such talk sickens me. Do you understand?’
I turned and ran down the hill, tears blinding me. Inside I felt as if turned to ash, ready to throw myself into the rippling sea, or to hang myself from one of the great oaks in the forest.
My breach with Cuthman persisted throughout the remains of the summer. I was an outcast once more, but this time it was not of my own choosing and it was a source of some misery to me. The child within me brought a sickness which took away all pleasure in eating. Frith and I lay together most nights, gentle and quiet, although now and then we would couple, as if to grasp at the memories of what we had had so few months earlier. The exchange between us, that morning when Fippa revealed my pregnancy, had not recurred. We were bonded, whether we chose it or not, and the community pushed us together as if there could be no doubting the rightness.
But Fippa cast angry glances my way whenever she met me about the village and I felt more and more afraid of her. I let my smock hang loose, before making a bigger one hoping it would conceal the swelling of my belly. I had not yet told Cuthman of my reason for wishing to marry Frith, and the urgency of the need. At first I feared that Fippa or her sons would tell him, but as the weeks passed and he made no reference to it when we met in the hall, I grew less suspicious. By degrees, I became accustomed to the idea of the coming child, curious as to what Fate might bring me this time. Frith laid his hands on my tightening skin, and spoke to his seed, sweet and loving, and I allowed myself to hope that we could b
e a plain little family, two ageing parents of a late loved infant.
The harvest was good; the hunters boasted of the size of the boar they killed in the forest; and the sea yielded up great fishes which kept us healthy with their oil and rich flesh. It was truly a land of plenty, and in that first year of our coming there was no hint of invasion or battles or hardships of any kind. We attracted no attention from the wealthy landowners to the east or the west of us. Bordered as we were by sea and forest, tucked into the shallow kink of the coastline, we were an enchanted island of peace for that brief time when my child quickened within me and Cuthman built his church.
But my days were bleak, for all that. Frith was at heart a fisherman and he would be gone for the entire day in his fragile coracle, rowing himself up and down the shoreline, with his nets and lines, bringing back strange bounty. I had no special friend amongst the villagers, thanks, I believe, to Fippa’s antagonism to me. The women would smile and nod as we passed, and would pass me fleece or peas or corn to work with, alongside them. But they directed little conversation my way, and I never once felt free to reveal my feelings or my fears to them.
So I dreamed my own dreams, remembering my life to that point, rehearsing my story, drawing conclusions now and then as to the meaning of what had befallen me. I recalled Wynn and Spenna and sweet young Hal, with great fondness. I allowed myself to dwell on my memories of Edd, and savour the fellowship he and I had known when we broke away together from the village and made something of our lives on the high windy moors. It seemed that I was telling it all to the budding child within me, for lack of any other listener. To be with child, after all, is to have a companion at all times, whether or not the people around are friendly. It is one of the great delights of the condition, and in that long slow summer and autumn, my little one was my best and dearest friend. The stirrings as it jumped and danced in my belly were its responses to my tales and my thoughts, and I took great joy and comfort from it.
