The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Read online

  Burginde still could not speak, for the tears welling in her eyes choked her. Ælfwyn’s eyes, too, were moist, and the love between them was clear as they embraced.

  Ælfwyn gently pushed herself away and again addressed the treasure box. “Next, I want every woman in the village to receive one silver piece at once. Since I have come here I have not been able to forget their misery, and now I have some way to aid them.” She drew breath and let out a long sigh. “I give thanks I am not as one of them, and give thanks for the great kindness of my mother in providing this means to help them.”

  She turned to Burginde. “You will give it them, Burginde, for you can go without suspicion into their huts.”

  Burginde nodded her head, still too moved for speech.

  Ælfwyn went on softly. “If you find women who have young daughters also got with babes by the Danes, give them two pieces,” she said.

  Burginde found voice. “I will go now, and take a basket with me as if I seek a village woman for herbs.”

  Ælfwyn nodded her head, and looked at the silver. “How many pieces shall I count out?” she asked.

  “Start with fifty,” I said. “Fifty will be light enough for Burginde to carry with no trouble. She will go hut to hut, and should she run out, she will return for more.”

  Burginde had been putting on her apron and mantle and gathering up a basket. She lined one of stout wicker with a linen cloth, and then slipped the silver into it. This she covered with another cloth, and then put a few handfuls of herb stalks over all.

  “Come back as soon as you can, but use your time well to learn as much as you can of the women and their needs,” said Ælfwyn as we walked Burginde to the door.

  We bade her Fare-well, and went back and gazed at the silver gleaming in the chest.

  Chapter the Twenty-second: The Weaving of Life

  “WE should count it all out,” I said, picking up the silver pieces and letting them run through my fingers.

  “To count it is to limit it,” said Ælfwyn. “I would rather not, I think. It seems more this way.”

  “To count it is to know,” I insisted. “There is plenty more left.”

  So we began the count. When we lifted the final piece out, I said, “Three hundred and eight.”

  “And Burginde has fifty with her, and seven of her own,” added Ælfwyn.

  I counted on my fingers. “That makes three hundred sixty five.”

  “One for every day of the year!” said Ælfwyn. “I am sure my mother planned it this way; she is quiet, but clever. Everything she does has meaning.”

  “When we write to her we will tell her you received her calendar,” said I, laughing.

  We took handfuls of the silver and put it all back into its chest, for as Ælfwyn said, It had come thus far safe, so there it should stay. We went to the loom and continued our work, as we knew Burginde would not return for some time.

  “We will start with plain weave, and make it fine, for warm weather will soon be here, and we will want lighter cloth for clothes,” said Ælfwyn.

  I stroked one of the wound balls of yarn, and thought of all the good things of sheep: milk, and cheese, and greatest of all, wool; and I thought too of the making of parchment, and that without a lambskin I could not make any, and so could not send to Ælfwyn’s parents the letter I had promised.

  She seemed to read my thoughts, for she said, “Can it be true that no sheep are left here? How will the people live without sheep? How even will we live? If the Danes are to stay here and make Lindisse their home, surely they know they must farm and raise sheep.”

  “Yet they do not look to be farmers, or herdsmen,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “all the men we have seen, save for smiths and the like, are warriors.” She paused a moment. “They are used to take what they want, not grow it.”

  I thought of the empty fields of the village. “How shall we weave linen? I have seen no flax.”

  “Perhaps the people of Lindisse buy flax, and rett and hackle it here,” said Ælfwyn. “If not, we shall have a retting pond dug, for I would have it all done close to the burh, as is done in Cirenceaster.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the thought of the retting pond. “Just do not have it dug too close to our windows!” I said, recalling the stench the decaying flax gives off.

  She smiled and said, “Tho’ linen thread be so much more work than wool, the pay back is in the weaving, for it is such a pleasure to the fingers.” She looked over to the second loom frame. “Do you think Ecgwald can build us a third loom?”

  “I think he could, if he studies these,” I said. “But there must be a joiner here; how else could Yrling have rebuilt what he has?”

  “I do not know,” said Ælfwyn. “There are many things they seem to want. Women amongst them - there are no wives for these men.”

  “Do they have wives?” I asked. “If so, perhaps they are still in their homeland, and will come later.”

  “Perchance,” mused Ælfwyn. “It is clear there are no women here, save the village women, and it does not seem that the Danes will take up with them, to marry them, I mean. Perhaps Burginde will tell us more.”

  “Ask Yrling. He will know if the men have wives or sweethearts in their homeland. After all, if this is to be the Danes’ new home, they need wives.”

  She was silent a long time. “Yes. They cannot all come as part of a Peace.”

  I looked at her, but her head was lowered over her work, and I could not see her face.

  “Are you well, Ælfwyn?” I asked.

  “I am well,” she answered, not looking up. “It is a strange day, that is all. To find my mother’s silver, and also to receive so much richness from... him.” And her voice trailed off.

  “Why strange?” I asked, and tried to speak gently. “Your mother loves you, and the silver was of course a surprise, but a most happy one.”

  “Yes,” she said, “and I give thanks for it.” She looked over at me, and seemed to search for her words and the thoughts behind them. “But in contrast to her gift I think of all the gold he has given me, and the pearl, and...”

  I touched her hand and looked at her most earnestly. “It is right that he gives you such things; you are his wife, and did you not bring him great treasure?”

  “It is not that,” she said, and looked down. “I had no choice in bringing him the treasure from Wessex. He has given me great riches, and he does not even know me.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she went on.

  “He knows not what I am like, what makes me happy, what are my virtues and vices; I am an utter stranger to him, and if he regards me at all, it is because I brought him the tribute. To him, I could have been any maiden. He cares not.”

  I hardly knew what to say. “I cannot believe that is true. Even tho’ you are new to each other, your beauty and goodness speak at once.”

  She smiled, but with no heartiness. “O! My face is pleasing to him, that I know; but yours pleases him equally.”

  I tried to jest. “Do you mean we could have tricked Toki on the road, and made me the bride?”

  “Yes,” she said, and I thought she would begin to weep, “or something close to it, for he does not know me, and I think does not even care to know me; so he cannot love me.”

  I took her hand. “That will come, will it not? He regards you well now, and true affection will follow. Any man would love you.”

  “I do not want the love of any man,” she said, and her eyes were full.

  I squeezed her hand and made her look at me. “Hush,” I whispered. “Would you speak against your husband on the first day of your married life?”

  She shook her head, and with her free hand brushed away the tears that now streaked her cheek. She said, “No; I will not speak against him. I only speak my heart.”

  “Ceridwen,” said Ælfwyn after a little time, “I hope you will wed soon, so we can be married together.”

  I
did not know if she was jesting, and began to laugh. “What! Two days ago you made it clear to Yrling that I did not seek a husband, and now you yourself seek one for me?”

  She glanced down. “Well, it is different now; I am married, and it would be pleasant if you were too.” She paused a moment. “We might have our babies at the same time.”

  I saw she did not jest, but I said nothing.

  “You are always speaking to Sidroc, and he to you,” she suggested.

  “I speak to Sidroc because I choose to sit next to him rather than Toki,” I said with some heat. “Besides,” I added, trying to cool my words, “I am dowerless, and have nothing to bring to him or any other man.”

  “If you wed Sidroc, it would not matter, for he is rich enough, and Yrling would make a dowry for you, I think.”

  “I do not want to wed Sidroc, or any man,” I said, and I felt alarm.

  “Well, then you do not have to; you know that. I simply said it would be pleasant to be married at the same time.” And she acted as if the subject was at an end.

  “I am sorry if I was excited; I felt concern,” I began. “You are right, it would be pleasant, and it is kind of you to think of me, but -” I did not finish, for we heard Susa upon the stair, and I was glad of it.

  After we ate we went back to our work. We were tying the heddles of the first loom when we heard Burginde call up from below.

  “‘Tis me,” she hissed, and we went to the doorway to meet her. Her face was red from fresh air and walking, and the basket in her arms overflowed with dried herbs and seed pods.

  “You really did find goods for the Simples chest!” cried out Ælfwyn, as Burginde set down the basket on the table.

  “Of course; for any tale’s only as good as the proof,” answered Burginde, and she took off her mantle and washed her hands.

  “Sit down and eat before you tell us what you have seen,” offered Ælfwyn. “You have been gone all morning.”

  “Thanks, Lady, but I can talk and eat, always could.” And she took a mouthful of bread and began.

  “Well,” she said, “there be four pieces of silver left; I visited every hut. In some three or four women live together with their children, for all their husbands be dead, and many of them died defending their poor huts. So hut and husband both be gone. And to each of these women, whether they lived singly or in groups, I gave a piece of silver, and as it was clear to me there was need, such as daughters gotten with babes, I gave extra.”

  She paused to sip some ale, and Ælfwyn asked, “What did you tell them? How did they act towards you?”

  “What I said in the first hut was pretty near to what I said in all the rest. They knew who I was, and I told them that I be sent from my mistress, that they might have some boon of her. And I said that she was a Lady of Cirenceaster in Wessex, and that she had come to cause peace in both her homeland and here, and that she took from her own treasury the gift that each of them would have. And then I gave them the coin.”

  “What did they do?” I asked. “Were they affright?”

  “Some were affright; some wept; some just stared, and I had to push the silver into their hands. The ones my age took it better than the younger ones; they have lived more, and seen more sorrow, but talked more sense and sooner than the young. Some prayed aloud, but all, before I left, praised you,” she said, looking at Ælfwyn.

  “I am so glad,” she murmured. “Tell us more. Did you learn aught of value?”

  “Well,” said Burginde, “there be a woman, a dyer by trade, and she be with child, about to bear; but her own mother be still alive. And the old woman be regarded as a healer and a leader amongst the women; ‘twas she who filled my basket. I came to their hut towards the end, and so had talked to many women already; and began to think that some news was being kept from me; I knew not what.”

  She stopped to take another bite and swallowed hard. “I tell my tale to both of them, and before I am finished I am stopped by the old woman, who broke off a piece of mistletoe from a mess she had in her store, and makes me stick out my tongue so she can put the bit of leaf and berry upon it! Well, it did not jump off my tongue, so she knows I tell the truth; and so I went on, not a bit affronted, for my own grandmother did the same.”

  “Is that it?” asked Ælfwyn.

  “No, no, there is more. So I take it in mind to ask this woman, in a quiet way, what is being held back from me, and think she would have said, but her daughter begged and pleaded with her not to; and I know the old wise woman did want to tell me; so perhaps she will, soon.”

  “Hmmm,” said Ælfwyn. “I wonder what it can be? And why would they keep it from us?”

  “I will try to learn more,” said Burginde, “but I think the wise woman will tell; she sized me up pretty quick, mistletoe or not, and I think she knows she has no reason to fear.”

  I wondered to myself if the women were trying to protect not themselves, but Ælfwyn by their silence; but I did not know how this could be.

  “Did anyone watch your coming or going?” asked Ælfwyn.

  “No one cared. The big gate outside is closed, but I passed easily through one of the small doors, with little chaff from the Danes.” She smiled her broad smile. “I took every chance to sauce them; ‘tis a pity they knew not a word I said! But they cared not about my going, ‘twas clear to them I headed right for the village, and I stepped lively.”

  “You have done well, Burginde,” said Ælfwyn. “I knew you would.”

  “‘Twas a pleasure to give pleasure,” Burginde answered, fingering her own silver pieces.

  We heard a heavy footfall at the bottom of the stair, but it did not do more than mount the first step. Burginde quickly hid her treasure beneath her pillow, and I stepped to the door and looked down the stairs.

  At the bottom stood Yrling, and he looked at me but did not move. Then he said, “Send my Lady down to me,” and turned and walked back as if he went into the hall.

  I looked into the room at Ælfwyn, but she had heard him speak herself. She grew pale, but came forth without hesitation onto the landing. I walked before her, for I did not want her to go alone, and we went down the wooden steps together.

  At the bottom we turned into the hall, and saw Yrling across the length of it, framed in the light of the open door to the treasure room. He looked at Ælfwyn and the smile grew across his face.

  “Come,” he said.

  Ælfwyn left my side and hurried across the floor to where he stood waiting. She passed in front of him through the door, and without another glance at me he went in and closed it behind them.

  Chapter the Twenty-third: The Meeting on the Road

  I went back upstairs and told Burginde what had happened. She looked up and said, “Ach! He be a randy one. But he will have his fill sooner or later.”

  She went back to poring over her coin, and I sat at the table, but soon grew restless. “I think I will go out and take some air,” I said to Burginde, “for all day I have been within, and I would see the Sun before it sets.”

  “You will want your clogs; the yard be muddy,” she said, and I took the clogs and my mantle and went down the wooden steps.

  Once I was out, I did not know quite what to do. I walked through the drear of the yard, and went around to the ruins of the great hall. I stood for some moments lost in thought as I gazed at the tumbled stones and charred beams. I looked too, at the staff which held the iron spear point, and recalled the story of Merewala and his fall. I thought of his young daughter and her Fate, and wondered if I stood upon the very spot she leapt to.

  I turned away from the ruin, and tried to turn away also from my unquiet thoughts. I walked to the nearest door in the palisade, in front of which two Danes were lingering. They stepped aside, and I passed out briskly to the other side. Danes were about, but none stopped or questioned me. Soon the fields of the village were about me, and I looked again at last year’s furrows, now choked and fouled with dead weeds when the
y should be sprouting green with new barley and peas. I bent down and scooped up a bit of the moist Earth and took a pinch of it between my fingers and touched it to my tongue. It was not salt, but sweet and rich and full of such things that would bring strong crops. I let fall the Earth from my hands and gazed down at the ragged furrows and sorrowed that this good soil lay fallow.

  Across the field, far from the road, I saw two women working alone, scratching at the soil with stripped tree branches. They had no spade, no ox, no plough; and they who had last Spring walked behind their husbands, breaking up with their ploughbats the fresh clods their men had turned over with oxen, now scratched the Earth alone and in misery.

  And I thought: Tonight each of these women will sleep with a silver pence beneath them; but how much more would they give to have their husbands and sons alive again. I thought of the goodness of she who gave the silver. I thought of him who she was forced to wed, and that it was his hand that had wrought all this grief upon so many women. I thought too of Ælfwyn’s own pleasant land, and how she hoped the giving of her hand and the tribute she bore would keep her people from the terrors of war.

  And so my thoughts came back again in circle, and I turned and looked back at the roofs of Four Stones. I took in at a glance its low and ugly forms, and felt glad to be outside of it and free from its shadow.

  As I walked, I saw two horsemen appear from over a low hill and follow a trackway that skirted one of the fields. Both horses were large and grey, and the lighter one was ridden by a man whose yellow hair shone brightly in the Sun. I knew it to be Toki, and was not pleased to think that soon he would ride past me, teasing and making jests.

  I pulled the hood of my mantle more firmly over my head and walked on, hoping they would pass without remark. As they grew nearer they did not slow, but rather began to race their horses. They called out to each other, and beat their horses with their rein ends, and the horses burst into long galloping strides. First Toki took the lead, but then the other man urged his horse forward, and Toki fell behind.