To his wife Sidroc gave the task of choosing fitting gifts for the women of Four Stones. Ceridwen did not need to think long on this, sending Ælfwyn ten large fleeces of the long-woolled Gotland sheep, a chest of fragrant beeswax tapers, and two jars of Tindr’s honey, knowing she would delight in all of it. For Burginde and Ælfwyn’s daughters and sisters she chose an amber necklace each, and each different from the other; some with round beads, some with long narrow ones, some with amber of gold hue, some almost green.
Anything she might send was but a token, for nothing would give Ælfwyn the joy of seeing Hrald safe and home again. Thinking on this Ceridwen felt her heart contract with her coming loss.
As she lingered over the necklaces she had chosen, she bethought her how alike the houses of Kilton and Four Stones had become. Each had lost its Lord – warriors of great renown – and had now only young sons rule in their stead. At Four Stones it was Hrald, and at Kilton, Edwin, and after him, Ceric. They ruled by consent of their lost fathers’ faithful men, and with the approval of their corresponding Kings. She knew Ceric was eager to return, and sensed that Hrald was not. Yet eager or no, their Fate was cast.
There were tempests of rain and high winds, and skies split with the arced flashes of lightning. Runulv brought his ship to the wooden pier near Rannveig’s brew-house and he and Sidroc began its lading. The captain gathered his men and they all came to Tyrsborg for a feast. Their high spirits and jesting wore well on their fresh and open faces. They were good archers and spears-men all, and better sailors. After long Winter they were eager for adventure, and counted themselves fortunate to have been chosen again to sail for the Dane upon Runulv’s stout ship. Ceric and Hrald mixed easily amongst them in that natural fellowship of the young. Ceridwen looked on the two, showing but little shyness as they shared some laughing talk with the men, and saw Tindr look upon them too.
Tindr knew they were leaving within a few days, as soon as the weather cleared, and would sail far. They had been part of his life in the woods, and the life of the hall, for three seasons, and were passing back into that more akin to these other young men. They must become warriors like Scar and the two that had come after Bright Hair, or Scar would not have given them warriors’ weapons and spent so much time training them up. He had taught them how to track, how to snare rabbits, had made them bows and quivers and shown them how to make arrows and shoot them well. He had liked showing them these things, and knew he would miss them, especially Long Legs, who watched him carefully, and had learnt the signs he used to make himself known.
Two days later the sea rolled on a steady stream of low swells. The wind was cold, but the sky was blue and endless above. Runulv and Sidroc began their final lading. The goshawks in their woven cages had been brought by oxcart to Tyrsborg, and now these cages were lashed aboard, and blankets of heavy wadmal secured over them, to keep the birds dry and warm. And as the goshawks would take no meat save that which was fresh-killed, or they had snatched from the air or meadow themselves, Ring had netted a score of starlings, live, to take along, so that the great birds would feed during the voyage. These were in their own wicker cage, laced with small branches from which the smaller birds cheeped.
Runulv had the safe-passage, sewn in a linen pouch and then rolled in leather, in his small chest by the stern. With them were two more letters, one for Hrald to give to his mother, and the second for Ceric to deliver to his grandmother, both filled with thanks for the boys’ presence, and wishes for the good of all at their respective halls.
The household walked down together to see them off. Gunnvor had already filled their food bags, and now she and Helga stood wiping their eyes with their apron ends. Eirian and Yrling were at their skirts, just beginning to understand the boys were going away, and beginning too to worry over the sorrow on their mother’s face. “Fare-well, little brother, fare-well, little sister,” Hrald told them, as both boys bent down to touch the children’s heads.
Tindr gave them each a parting gift of ten arrows, feathered and tipped, to add to that store already packed in their quivers. Each boy hugged him, then used Tindr’s way of saying thanks, a touch to the heart, with the hand turning outward to he you were grateful to. Rannveig came from her brew-house, summoning Runulv’s crew, as she ever did, to come and carry off a cask of ale as her parting-gift. She gave each boy in turn a quick embrace, fighting her own coming tears as she watched Ceridwen’s lips quiver. She turned from the boys to give her an embrace, willing her be strong.
The boys lay down their packs and shields. They came first to the other’s parent. Hrald threw his arms around Ceridwen, and she clutched him to her, kissing his face and head. “I thank you for everything, Lady Ceridwen,” he told her. “I will not forget this time with you, and Tindr, and Ceric.”
He was on the verge of saying, “And I would stay with you if I could,” but she was crying, and he knew this truth would likely make him cry as well. He drew back enough from her embrace to be able to kiss her cheek. She had that smell of warm roses which she always bore on feasts and other special days.
Ceric went to Sidroc. “I thank you for the gift of arms,” he said, as he stood before him, “and for what you have shown us.”
He made no move to embrace him, and Sidroc too held back. “You are a good friend to Hrald,” the Dane told him, “and I thank you for that. It will be my wish that you two will always be so.”
“Of course we will be friends,” Ceric was quick to answer. “My mother has asked me that I go to see Hrald at Four Stones when I can, now that I am older.”
This surprised Sidroc. “I am glad for that. And there is no need for you, now in peace-time, to take ship to do so. The ride across the Kingdoms would be one worthy of a good rider like you.”
Ceric did not expect this praise, and his cheek coloured slightly.
Sidroc placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Hrald was coming to him, and Ceric turned to his mother.
Mother and son spent a moment looking at each other.
“Fare-well, mother,” Ceric said. His eyes had back flicked to Sidroc who stood behind her, and now returned to her. “I will never see you again.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Ah, Ceric, do not say that – do not,” she faltered. She could not speak more; her tears stifled her.
“Your life is here,” he answered, but there was some water come into his own eyes now. “That is what you told Uncle.”
“But you are my life as well,” she said, when her throat opened enough for words. She had taken up his hand and was now kissing it.
She tried to smile. “I cannot return to Kilton, and you must. You are of Kilton, it is your Fate.” She held his hand in her own, and pressed it as she went on.
“I was never of Kilton. But out of love for your father I bore you, that Kilton might live and thrive. We gave your brother for the same end.” She wiped her eyes with her free hand. “Please do not hate me for not being able to give more.”
“I do not hate you, mother,” he said, in a low voice. “But if you were with me you could convince the others to name me Uncle’s heir.”
She lifted her head at this, as if in surprise. He felt her hand stiffen where it held his. She let go that hand.
“That is for Ælfred to decide, only him,” she answered, but with gentleness. She nodded slightly, considering what he had said. In truth, the King was Ceric’s godfather; he might indeed abrogate the will of a dead man for the seeming good of Kilton.
Her own green eyes were looking into his, as she studied every part of his young face, impressing it into memory.
“My wish for you is that you will be your own man. Not your father’s son, nor your uncle’s nephew – but your own truest self.”
Hrald’s face was buried in his father’s tunic. He was stifling tears; his father’s arms, wrapped about him, felt the heave of his boy’s chest. Sidroc looked down at Hrald’s brown head, and the tuft of hair that stood up at the crown. He smoothe
d that tuft as he looked over at Runulv’s waiting ship. He had had no last fare-well with his own father, and felt now the mercy in that. To have had Hrald with him for these many months, and to lose him anew was a pain unlike any he had known. His losses had always been tempered with hope, or had been balanced with some gain. The only gain he saw in losing Hrald was that Four Stones would one day have a worthy leader in him, and at this moment, his boy clinging to him, that did not seem enough.
Finally Hrald broke from him enough to look up.
“I will do my best to keep your treasure for you until you return,” his boy told him.
He had no words to answer this, and found himself lifting his eyes to the broad blue sky above their heads.
He must speak, and found himself saying that which he had before. “Your mother – your sisters – when you are older they will be in your keeping. Four Stones will be yours. Honour Guthrum our King, and the Peace with Ælfred, and all should go well.”
He caught sight of Ceric’s coppery hair, bringing to mind that boy’s uncle. He paused a moment before he spoke the next. “You will not be made to answer for my act,” he assured his son. “All should go well.”
And if all does not go well? Hrald ached to ask.
Runulv gave a whistle from aboard ship. The mast had been lifted and the men eager to raise sail and be off.
Sidroc held his son by the shoulders, an arms-length away. He swallowed to master his voice, and saw Hrald swallow too as he looked up at him.
“Fare you well, Hrald. Remember what I have taught you. I would like to think I will see you in Asgard, in Freyja’s jeweled hall where I hope to be called. But you, I think, will dwell in the Heaven of Wilgot and your mother.”
So that was it. His father did not expect to ever see him again.
Ceric was coming over. Hrald glanced at him and back to his father. “Fare-well, father,” he said, then pulled away to join Ceric.
The boys climbed aboard and stood together at the rail while the ship heaved away. After a short while they parted. Ceric went to the prow, looking forward, ahead across the waters to their goal. Hrald walked to where Runulv stood, steering oar in hand, in the stern. He stayed there looking back, waving still at the cluster of folk, until he saw the tall figure of his father turn and leave.
The tears Ceridwen wept that day felt wrung from the depths of her heart. The sight of the boys’ empty sleeping alcoves brought a fresh wave of grief, and Helga stripped the bedding out of them, tears streaking her own face, so that no one need see them and be reminded of those who had so lately slept there.
It was a strained and silent day for all. Eirian and Yrling wandered mournfully about, asking when Ceric and Hrald would return. Sleep did not come for Ceridwen that night, and when she turned Sidroc’s arm wrapped about her.
“He told me he would never see me again,” she whispered in the dark.
He felt a spark of anger against the boy at this. It was likely true, but Ceric would only say such a thing to pain her. He did not tell her that his son had said something equally wounding, that he expected him to return to Four Stones. As hard as they had been to hear, he knew Hrald’s words were meant as a wish.
Four-and-forty days passed before Runulv’s red and white woven sail was spotted in the distance. He was welcomed at Rannveig’s, as he ever was, though after his first words to Sidroc and Ceridwen – All is well – called out when he was still at his steering oar, little else mattered. Seas had been heavy, and they had laid in on the Svear shore for two days until the skies cleared, camping on a deserted beach. Thanks to their early start they had made the voyage past Dane-mark and to Lindisse unchallenged, and found Saltfleet as Sidroc had described it. He had spent but one night at Four Stones before returning to the ship.
It took four days from there to reach Frankland, for the winds were contrary, but once there the passage down the Seine was swift. The Gods had been with them, and the fat King of the Franks had been at Paris; Runulv had no need to travel deeper inland. As he had hoped Charles claimed the brown goshawk for himself, and Runulv sold one of the swords and two of the knives to the King’s own companions; the other blades to a trader in Paris. The amber, querns, and salt found buyers in the many stalls that lined the narrow streets. Runulv emptied a bag of silver before them, handfuls of coins rolling, and plucked at a tiny pouch amidst the silver. “For the goshawk,” he smiled, pulling out three pieces of gold.
“One is yours,” Sidroc told him, “and half the silver, for delivering Hrald and Ceric as you did.”
Runulv’s men, cups in hand, let out a cheer. He paid them from his own share, and like their captain, they would be rewarded for the extra time and danger they had faced.
“I have things for you, from Four Stones,” Runulv said, after sweeping his portion of silver back into the bag. A movement of his head indicated he meant both of them.
He asked one of his men to join him, leaving the others at the brew-house. They stopped first at his ship. He and Sidroc went aboard and carried off a small but heavy iron-handled chest. The third man joined them, reappearing with three leathern packs piled in his arms. Ceridwen saw the smallest of the packs was dyed green. It was creased with age, but the scrolling designs she had worked into it as a maid were still visible.
“My packs,” she said. Within must be her clothing, her pear-wood comb, the scant jewels she had taken to Four Stones.
“The Lady had kept them safe for you, and bid me return them now,” Runulv said.
These things seemed as lost to her as the years that had passed, and seeing them again gave her a queer feeling of mixed happiness and startle. The green-dyed pack and her comb were her oldest possessions. Within might even be her father’s seax with its chipped blade, older and dearer still.
Runulv and Sidroc carried the iron-bound chest between them, the man with her bags trailing behind. They walked up to Tyrsborg, Ceridwen at Runulv’s side. Away from the brew-house she was able to ask about their sons, and of Ælfwyn.
“The boys did well, and are both good sailors. From that Lady I have a – a letter,” Runulv told her, again using the Saxon word. “It is in my shoulder-bag.” He was grinning now at them. “The feast she gave us was a great one,” he went on, “and Asberg and Jari did not stop remarking on the goshawks, carrying them about amidst the other men.”
Once in the hall he and Sidroc lifted the chest upon the great table, and her packs were set there as well. Runulv drew from his shoulder-bag a waxed linen tube, which he placed in Ceridwen’s hand.
“I will see you later,” Sidroc told him, for the opening of letter and chest would be private unto themselves.
When they were alone Ceridwen snipped open the tube. She had felt something loose within, and now a bronze key came clattering out. She unfurled the parchment and read aloud.
MY DEAREST CERIDWEN
Nothing could give more joy than to behold Hrald and Ceric safe before me. They have grown so that they are children no longer, but ever our beloved sons. I thank you both for the kindness of your gifts of fine sheepskin, and envy your weavers to have such stuff to work into goods. The tapers of beeswax are generous beyond expectation and half I shall take to Oundle to grace the holy altar. The amber beads already adorn the necks of Burginde, my sisters, and daughters, and they are well pleased with such beauty. Hrald and Ceric have told me of the huntsman who keeps bees so well, and this gift of his honey will add sweetness to our days ahead.
The chest holds something which Hrald begged I send. I could not refuse him, when it is his to give.
I pray God that you and yours remain safe and well. Knowing we have shared our sons like this strengthens our bonds of love. Ceric will return overland under escort to Kilton, and has vowed to return to Four Stones as he can. More than one female here wept upon seeing him.
YOUR LOVING ÆLFWYN
She brushed the tears from her eyes as she lowered the letter. She knew Ælfwyn meant Ashild in the
last line, and could not keep a small smile from her lips. If Sidroc understood as well, he did not show it. She picked up the bronze key.
“It must be for you,” she told him, “Hrald sent it.”
He slid the key into the lock and turned. They heard the latch lift within the dark wood panel. He pushed open the lid.
A sheep-skin, fleece down, lay on top. He lifted it.
Within was his ring-shirt, each steel ring gleaming. In one corner, wrapped in another piece of fleece to keep it from rust, lay his helmet. He had left both with his horse at the foot of the bluff near Saltfleet, four years ago. He had not expected to see them again.
She knew them too for what they were. She recalled the incising on the nose-guard of the helmet, and the spiraling tracing along its curves.
He said nothing, and she could not read his face. He understood why Hrald had not sent his red and black painted shield as well. His boy had told him it lay every night on the oak table, marking the place where the Jarl of Four Stones used to sit.
He lifted the helmet in his hands, turned it as he looked. He laid it back within the chest.
“Your boy said you would not meet again,” he began. “Mine told me he would wait for my return.”
Later that day he hoisted the chest into the treasure room. When he was alone he again lifted the lid and parted the white fleece hiding the treasure within. He looked to his sword, hanging in its scabbard from a peg on the wall, within ready reach. He never had need to wear it, but had kept it polished. Now the rest of his war-kit had been returned, sent by a son who awaited him.
Chapter the Twenty-eighth: Eirik
SIGVOR stood in the doorway of the house, her spindle dropping from her hand. Her boy of four Summers was romping, alone, by the edges of the vegetable rows. The older children had gone off, with their father, to his mother’s farm for the day. She wished to stay behind, with her older boy, and her younger, coming two, who had trailed in his brother’s wake but now set himself down in the grass under the spreading boughs of the linden tree.
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