The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Page 18
Burginde regarded us for a moment, but did not speak. Instead she walked to the large weaving chest, opened the lid, and brought forth three spindles. Then she brought forth a sack of carded wool, and three distaffs, and brought this all over to where we sat.
“Spinning’s best at a time like this, and we have just as much need to spin as to weave,” she said firmly, and handled both Ælfwyn and me a spindle and distaff.
“You are right, Burginde,” answered the Lady, taking up the spindle, “and we shall need stockings soon. Let us spin for stockings so that Ceridwen may see the fineness of your thread.”
“Your thread could be as fine, if you put your mind to it,” replied Burginde with a mild reproach.
“You know I have tried,” said Ælfwyn. “No one can spin as finely as you, not even my dear mother.”
“Ach! ‘Tis always the same, you praise my work, and I end up with all the fine spinning,” sauced back Burginde, but it was clear she was proud to be praised in this way.
So we set to work, each wrapping our distaff with a loose coil of the wool, teasing it out with our fingers and letting the weight of the steadily dropping spindles before us twist the soft staple into thread that crept up the length of the spindle shaft. It was a pleasure to do; never did I think I would welcome spinning as I did that morning. But then I was with Ælfwyn and Burginde, and this chore which had always seemed so arduous at the Priory became something we three shared between us in the privacy of our chamber.
So we three women went on with the work of our hands, just as the men below went on with theirs.
Chapter the Twenty-seventh: Lightning
AFTER we ate at noon we spun for a bit longer. Burginde had almost twice as much thread as we, and the lumps in my own made me ashamed of my little skill. Burginde held her thread differently from me, and she took time to guide my fingers.
“‘Tis a smoother pull if you let the first finger droop downward, like this,” she said, bending my hand, “and no thread can be even if your pull be not smooth.”
I practised this a while, and Ælfwyn teased us both, and said soon she could give up spinning forever if I only could learn this craft as well as Burginde.
Then Ælfwyn began to yawn, and it was the nurse’s turn to tease her, for it was clear, she said, that Ælfwyn had found something better to do during the nights than sleep.
Ælfwyn put down her spindle and threw a nearby pillow at her, and we all three laughed.
She stretched and yawned again. “I truly am sleepy. I will lie down and rest for a while. We have done enough today.” She pulled off her gown, curled up on my bed and pulled a coverlet over herself. “Work no longer, Ceridwen. Or if you do, let it be something that pleases you.”
I put down my spindle, but Burginde kept on with her work. “There will be thread enough for stockings by tonight,” she said. “Sleep well.”
Ælfwyn sighed and snuggled into the bed. “It will be good to sleep up here again. We must remember to bring up my bedding before Yrling leaves and locks the treasure room.” And in just a few moments she was asleep.
I wondered what I should do. The light was not strong enough for fine handwork, and I began to weary of the room. “I think I will go into the hall,” I said to Burginde.
“Good,” she answered, without looking up. “Likely one of them will cut their fingers off gawking at you rather than their sharpening.”
I was surprised at this. “But they almost never look at me,” I said. “I do not even think most of them know I am here.”
“Humph! I see them looking, and the stars above only know what they be saying in that coarse speech of theirs.”
My face must have shown my alarm. She laughed at me and said, “All that’s been known to you is your kinsman’s hall and the monks that raised you after. Of course the brutes below gawk and speak of you; you be of marrying age and quite comely. ‘Tis the way of men, and ‘twould be little different if we were here or in the hall of Ælfsige.”
I hesitated, and she stopped her work. “Go on,” she said, with mock impatience, “you be safe enough in the very hall. Just remember what I told you yesterday about some men thinking No means Yes.” She made a little gesture towards the door. “Go and see what you can see. All is well here, and anyone can see yours be a restless nature.”
The hall was much quieter; perhaps half as many men were left from the morning. The tables which had been a jumble of hides and packs and weapons now were laid with order. Each shield upon the table was flanked by several spears, their tips pointing outward into the room. Two sheaths lay by each shield, one each for a knife and a sword; and those who would carry also the skeggox had laid this battle axe with their other arms. Most of the weapons lay sheathed, their owners having finished preparing them. Other men still worked at the whetstone, or sat polishing their blades.
I stood some little distance watching all this. Then a man who worked alone at the end of one of the tables turned and saw me. It was Sidroc, and he nodded at me as if he would have me come over. I crossed to where he stood, one foot up on a bench, polishing the blade of his sword with a wooden buffer covered with leather. The long blacked iron guard between the blade and hilt ended in two iron balls that gleamed dully. He did not speak, and I silently regarded his work. His movement was smooth and light, but he attended on each stroke, and when he took the grip in his hand to turn the blade his fingers closed around it with the sureness of the practised warrior.
At last I spoke. “Your swords are different from the swords of my kinsman’s men, and those of the thegns of Ælfsige.”
“Yes,” he replied, going on with his polishing. “Ours are longer by a handspan, sometimes a hand’s length. Theirs are a bit broader at the hilt.”
I considered this, and asked, “Which is better?”
He held the blade up to his face so he could look along the length of it. “Either one will kill a man,” he said simply.
I nodded my head mutely and looked away, aware of the foolishness of my question. After a moment he went on.
“Our longer blade extends a man’s reach, and that is nearly always a good thing. But if you are fighting in close quarters, a shorter blade can be brought to bear easier. So they each have their place.”
I looked at his height. “You are so tall that your reach must already be greater than most men’s.”
He nodded. “Yes, but a fast short man can undercut a tall one if he be bold enough.”
“Like the tale of David and Goliath,” I said.
“I do not know the saga you speak of,” he answered.
“It is a story in the Holy Book of Christians, about a young boy who slayed a powerful giant because the giant was over-proud of his force. David was the boy, and he threw a rock that hit the giant in the head and killed him.”
“Foolish not to have worn a helmet,” replied Sidroc.
I did not try to explain that this was not the point of the story, but that David had prevailed because of his goodness.
So we were quiet again for a while, and I studied the things that lay upon the tables. Perhaps Sidroc’s mention of a helmet made me realise that by each and every shield there sat an iron helmet. Some were plain, but many were decorated with inlay of bronze, or covered over with copper foil.
“Every man has a helmet,” I said, almost to myself.
At my kinsman’s hall only Cedd himself and two or three of his richest ceorls had helmets. The rest of the ceorls wore only leathern caps, strapped over with thin bars of iron.
“Of course,” Sidroc answered. “All of Yrling’s men have helmets, not only those going with him tomorrow. Many of them have ring-shirts, and each has the finest swords and knives that can be made or captured.” His tone was serious, and he looked at me as he said this. I hoped my face did not betray the trouble I felt.
“That is how we have won Lindisse, and how we will continue to win,” he finished, and then returned to his work.
He laughed. “No, we are better warriors than most, and Yrling spends much treasure in arming us, tho’ we often capture what we need, as well.”
He looked over the war-kits before him, and then back to me. “When we took Lindisse we fought against peasants swinging ploughs. Even the warriors were poor fighters and poorly armed. Only here at Four Stones did we find a real fight. Merewala and his men were seasoned, and well equipped.”
He did not need to tell me that despite this, they all were slain.
“Even against the best that we meet, we almost always win. Every man in this hall is worth two men of Lindisse or Wessex; some are worth more.”
He stopped and looked at me again. “I myself have seen Yrling kill three men almost at one time, and twice I have killed more than ten men in one battle.” There was no boasting in his voice; he was stating a fact.
I must have swallowed hard, for he smiled. “Do not be troubled. You are safe here.”
I realised how odd it was that he was right; that Four Stones under the control of Yrling was now one of the safest places we could be. But my thoughts went on, and I spoke them.
“I would not be safe, and I would not be here, if I were my own brother,” I said, looking him full in the face.
He seemed startled at this thought, and I went on. “If I were my own brother, you would be preparing to kill me right now.”
At first he smiled, but then said quietly, “Yes, I would kill your brother.” He looked down for a moment. “Especially if it meant capturing you.”
Tears of anger and of some unknown grief were starting in my eyes. “You would not capture me,” I managed to say. “I would die by my own hand before you touched me.”
I could no longer see clearly, and could not trust my voice. I turned to go. He made a quick motion with his hand as if to bid me stay.
“This morning I said I would not drive you from this hall again, and now I have nearly done it. I did not mean to frighten you. I meant only to show you the worth you have in my eyes.”
I stood there before him, and he slipped his sword into its sheath, and sat down on the bench with the sword over his lap. I did not raise my eyes, tho’ I could feel that he was looking at me. Finally I sat down next to him.
It seemed like a long time passed. He said, “You have all the advantage.”
I did not understand this, and remained quiet.
“I want you, and you know it, but you do not yet want me,” he explained. “So you have all the advantage.” His voice was mild. “Women very often do,” he finished.
I thought of what Toki had said to me on the road, that sometimes men had no choice. Yet Sidroc had chosen me in the first place.
“I am sorry that you want me,” I managed to stammer.
He laughed. “Every man at Four Stones wants you. You can have your pick.”
“The other men never even look at me,” I ventured.
“That is only because you came with your Lady. You are seen as part of the tribute, and the tribute belongs to Yrling.”
My face must have twisted in dismay, for he laughed and said quickly, “Do not be upset.” Then he said gravely, “It is a great protection to you to be seen in this way. Nothing else but marriage to Toki or me could provide you with such protection.”
I said nothing to this, but I felt my anger conquering every other emotion within me. I spoke not, but just tossed my head and looked straight before me.
Sidroc also looked ahead, and when he spoke his voice was quiet. “You are beautiful, shield-maiden, but it is your proud spirit that makes me want you.” He paused, and went on. “Now I will say something that will make that proud spirit flame. I say it not to anger you, but to show you how well I regard you. It is this: Yrling would give you to me in a moment. I have only to ask him, and you would be forced to be my wife.”
He reached his hand in front of me as if to stop me from rising, but did not touch me. I bit my lip but looked straight ahead. He went on. “What you must know is that I will never ask Yrling for you. I ask only you for you.”
He put his hand down on his sword again, and said, “I am used to taking what I want. But I can also wait. I want to be your choice, as you are mine. I want you willingly. That is all I will say.”
My anger was gone, and I felt almost numb. I believed he spoke the truth when he said he would not ask Yrling for me. Yet tho’ he had meant to honour me by telling me this, in it was still a terrible threat. If I did not say Yes at some point he could in fact grow tired of waiting and ask Yrling. Ælfwyn had been forced to be Yrling’s wife; why should not a dowerless maid be forced to wed Sidroc?
No other man had ever spoken to me like this; no other man had ever wanted me like this. I had scarcely seen the two ceorls whom the Prior had chosen for me to pick from. I felt the honour in Sidroc’s desire for me, but I could feel nothing else.
He did not seem to expect a reply from me, and indeed asked a question which awoke me from my numbness. “How old are you?”
“I have fifteen Summers.”
“You are older than you look,” he replied. “I thought you might be fourteen.”
I did not know what to say to this; many girls married at thirteen, tho’ Ælfwyn was nearly seventeen.
“I am three-and-twenty,” he said, as if he had expected me to ask the question in return. “Toki and I were born the same Spring. Yrling is only seven years older than us.”
He went on, as if thinking about this. “I am already three-and-twenty, and have never been married. For a long time I did not want to marry; when I was still at home I wanted only to come here and fight, and since I have been here I have been too busy. Also I have not seen any women with whom I have wanted to spend more than a night.”
All the time he was talking this way I felt as if I could barely rouse myself. It felt as if something important had happened between us; that he had somehow decided that he would have me as his wife and that there was nothing I could do about it.
I looked at his sword as it lay across his lap. The plain iron of the hilt gave off a dull gleam. The designs carved into the wooden grip were of two men facing each other with intertwined legs and arms.
I found my voice and asked, “Your sword bears a name?”
He touched the hilt and nodded, and said something that sounded like ‘Thruma’. “Lightning in your speech.”
I nodded my head. I thought of Cedd and the sword he was burnt with.
“You are like us,” he said quietly.
I did not answer. I did not want to. Instead I turned my head and looked around the hall. It was nearly empty; it must be late, and I wanted to go back to our chamber.
Sidroc leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “Tonight we will go and make Offering to the Gods for the success of our journey. Come with us, shield-maiden. Odin will listen to us. It will be as if Freyja herself asked.”
I looked back at him. I opened my mouth, but words would not come.
“Come with us tonight,” he urged. “We will go at dusk. If you wish, ask your Lady to come with you. It will give Yrling great joy if she does.”
Tho’ I sat there still, I was no longer in the hall. My eyes were filled with sudden torch light in the darkness of a grove I knew well as my kinsman and his men held aloft flaming brands. I heard the clanking of iron as the men moved about the ash tree, chanting their call to Woden in the night. I heard the squeal of the piglet as my kinsman slit its throat and watered the roots of the ash tree with its blood. I heard again the glad cry of the men.
“I will come,” I said. I got up and walked across the floor to the passage leading to the stair. The coloured pavement seemed to move under my feet.
Chapter the Twenty-eighth: The Offering
I was halfway up the stair when the door of our room opened and Burginde came out on the landing.
“I be fetching ale for Ælfwyn. Do you want a bite to eat as well?” she asked as she passed me.
“No,” I answered, “but I am thirsty.”
She stopped on the stair and squinted at me in the dim light. “You should have napped yourself. You look all worn out.”
She continued on her way, and I went in and found Ælfwyn pulling on her gown.
“It was good to sleep,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“Only in the hall,” I said.
“Are the men done with their preparations? Did you see Yrling?”
“I did not see Yrling. The men are mostly done.” I walked over to the window and closed it against the gathering dark.
“Sidroc asks if you and I will come out and make Offering with them.” I said this slowly, and there was a long pause before Ælfwyn answered.
“Make Offering? You mean sacrifice to their Gods?” She did not seem to be judging this, but merely considering it in surprise.
I looked down at the floor for a moment. “Yes, they will make sacrifices to their Gods for their safety and success.”
Then I recalled Sidroc’s words. “Sidroc said it would give Yrling great joy if you came.”
“I am a Christian; I cannot sacrifice to the Gods. To do so is the worst blasphemy.” There was no fear in her voice as she said this, only a kind of wonder.
I nodded my head but said nothing. She walked across the room to me, and her eyes searched my face. “Yrling must think that I am willing to forsake my faith after what I did last night.”
“Yrling has nothing to do with this; he does not expect you. It was Sidroc who expects me to come. It is just that he said it would give Yrling joy if you were there as well.”