Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 4

  “A book.” Her words came out gentle as a breath. “We have no books…”

  “The Psalms, my lady. These were rendered from the Latin by Ælfred himself, then copied out and decorated by the monks of Athelney, at the King’s command.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she lifted her gaze back to him. “How glad I am,” she told Raedwulf. “How glad Wilgot will be. Our priest.”

  She had not yet taken the tiny volume out of the lower half of the box which protected it. Instead she pressed the whole to her bosom, against her heart.

  Serving men and women were now come from a side passage, some carrying basins of water and towels, others tall bronze ewers and trays crowded with cups. One of the trays bore several cups of silver, and this was set down near to where Ælfwyn stood by the table.

  They had come upon her without warning, and the bailiff of Defenas had presented himself and his rich gift so quickly, that only now could they pause and observe the ritual welcome she had held to for these many years, that which any hall in Wessex would provide. She took some little pride in this, her serving folk so well trained that they were at the ready with all which was needful. Even the riders of Four Stones who had served as escort knew what was expected of them, and took their turns rinsing their dusty hands when the basins were held before them; they had followed the Saxons in, and wanted to take part in the ale to follow.

  She poured out ale into the silver cups first, then passed one to Ceric, then to Hrald, next to the bailiff, and to Worr. With a nod she told Æthelthryth and Burginde she would pour out as well into the bronze cups for the thegns of Kilton, and did so also for her own men. At this happy occasion all should have their drink poured by the Lady’s own hand. When all held their cups she returned to the lone silver one on her tray, and filled it for herself.

  “I welcome you, as Lady of Four Stones,” she told her visitors, before her eyes fixed on Ceric where he stood next to Hrald. “And I bless your coming,” she added, beaming at them both.

  She looked now to her son, a look suggesting he must speak.

  A little sound came from Hrald’s throat, but he turned and faced his guests. Nearing sixteen years he was tall as the tallest man there. His face was as long and thin as the rest of him, his pointed chin still an echo of his mother’s. His hair, dark as his father’s, and bound in its two plaits, had not a trace of Sun in it. His eyes were a mid-blue, fringed with boyish dark lashes under surprisingly heavy dark eyebrows. Those eyebrows, in reflection of his thoughtfulness, now knitted themselves towards one another.

  He looked at each man in turn, then at Ceric. “Well-come, friends, and well-met,” was all he said, and all he need say.

  They lifted the ale to their lips, and more than one tight throat was eased by the drinking of it.

  Ceric gestured, and two of the thegns came forward. One of them held the gift for Hrald, the other the gifts for the rest of the family.

  “Ashild…?” Ceric finally asked, looking at Hrald.

  On the road one night when he had bedded down he had thought of the moment he would lift the welcome-cup to his mouth, and had pictured Ashild having poured it. Now he began to worry why he had not seen her. Hrald’s letter to him had never arrived Kilton. Perhaps in it he told of Ashild’s marriage…or…

  But his friend shot a look at his mother.

  Ælfwyn shook her head a moment, as if remembering. “The valley of horses – she is there; she went with Ealhswith to choose a horse for her.”

  Ealhswith was Ælfwyn’s youngest girl; she would be, Ceric reckoned, of ten or so years now. That Ashild had taken it upon herself to select a suitable mount for her came as little surprise to him; she was always a good, even a venturesome rider.

  Hrald turned to one of his men. “Go and fetch them,” he said simply.

  The man left and they turned to the gift-giving. Ælfwyn had set the book upon the table, replaced the hard cover to its box, and even draped the linen wrapping over it again, as if she would, alone and in private, have the delight of holding it in her hand, turning over the first leaf, studying the minute words and tiny pictures.

  Ceric took the leathern pouch holding the ring-shirt from the thegn, its heaviness clear. He laid it next the box, and gestured his friend to it.

  Hrald touched it, feeling its massed weight, and its mobility; it shifted slightly as he turned the pouch to open the flap. A sheepskin, fleece side out, had been sewn inside the heavy cow hide of the pouch. He saw the gleam of bright steel. He pulled the mass out, unrolled, and held it by the shoulders, the clinking of the links as it unfurled signaling to even those who could not see what it was.

  Ceric and Hrald stood at the table, backs to the hall. Only Ælfwyn stood next them, watching as her son accepted his gift. The ring-tunic was still held up in Hrald’s hands.

  “To protect you,” Ceric murmured.

  Hrald’s dark lashes had swept down over his eyes. He raised them a moment as he nodded to his friend. He had no words to answer with. It was there in his look.

  He turned to those behind him, holding the heavy thing aloft. The men called out, Danes and Saxons both, the Danes in admiration of a rich gift, the Saxons in the pride of having given it. Onund had been standing in the front, arm draped over Gunnulf’s shoulder, and now dropped his arm and took a step forward to better see the fine ring-shirt.

  When the hall had quieted Ceric tilted his head close to Hrald’s. “The other things…they are for your mother, and sisters,” he told him.

  Hrald nodded; it was time to dismiss the on-lookers. Their guests need be offered the chance to wash, and sleeping places found for them. And as there would be a feast tonight, he knew his mother would need to start giving orders for it. The ale went round a second time, and after this the group dispersed. The escort, satisfied at having taken part in the welcoming, took horse and rode back to their posts. Æthelthryth stayed with her sister, a smile of mild and sweet surprise still upon her lips. Burginde plopped down at a stool off to her mistress’ left, but the other women vanished down the dim passageway to the kitchen yard. Mul was called in, and the thegns returned to the yard with him so that their weary horses might be unloaded and looked after. Ceric and Worr and the bailiff of Defenas stayed on, invited by the lady of the place to sit at the darkened oak table.

  Raedwulf took note of what hung on the wall behind that table. It was a round warrior’s shield, iron rimmed, the leathern face covering the wooden boards of it painted in a broad swirling design of red and black that issued from the pointed iron boss at the shield’s heart. It was, he could see, a shield that had seen some action, battle-tested by the gashes on its face, and the fact that the rim had been patched.

  Ceric saw it too, and knew it for what it was, the shield of Sidroc. He had clear memory of it laying on the table in front of the chair in which that jarl had once sat. Now Hrald went and sat there.

  Ceric felt uncertain if he should give Hrald’s mother her gift now, or wait until Ashild arrived. The second saddle bag holding the things meant for them sat lumpily before him. At that moment he wanted to be outside and alone with Hrald, walking, or maybe riding with him. They could go to the falcon house, or out to the valley of horses. This last thought brought Ashild back to mind. He gave his head a little shake, and was aware that the bailiff was studying him. He cleared his throat and pulled the bag closer.

  “I have something for you, Lady,” he told Ælfwyn. He pulled out a few small linen pouches, sewn into tiny drawstring bags. One was marked with the letter Ash, Æ, sewn into it, naming it as Ælfwyn’s. He placed it in her hands.

  She pulled on the ribband to release the puckered opening, and emptied the contents into her slender hand. It was a small circular pin of a coiled, long-limbed beast mouthing the tip of its own tail, beautifully wrought. It was also of gold.

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Ceric saw her eyes fill, and knew there was no need to say the next.

  “It was my m
other’s. I thought of anything I could bring, you would like something of hers best.”

  She had closed her fingers around it, and smiled at him. “I recall her wearing it at Kilton, when you and Ashild were but babes and I came to see her…”

  Ceric was looking down now, gesturing to the other small pouches. “These are necklaces and bracelets the silver-worker at Kilton made up; please to give them to your sisters and to Ealhswith as you see fit.”

  His eyes went to the still full-looking saddle bag. “The big one – it is for Ashild,” he managed.

  Ælfwyn was thanking him for his generosity when the door at the far end of the hall was pulled open again. They all turned to it. There, outlined in the bright light of mid-day, stood a woman’s form. She left the doorway, a child scampering at her side.

  Ceric stood, aware of the heavy scraping of the double bench he had been seated on. He could scarcely make her out with the glare from the opened door surrounding her. Now that she was so close he felt something akin to dread. What if she had grown plain, or buck-toothed, or…He could not imagine that she was already wed or promised to some man; Hrald or his mother would have told him when he asked about her.

  She hurried to where they sat, and came around the table to Ceric. She was slightly breathless, he could hear that, and he hoped she might fling herself into his arms in delighted surprise, allowing herself that liberty due to a childhood friend.

  But no, she drew up short before him. He was taller than her, by more than a hand’s width, and he was glad of it. She was smiling, almost grinning at him, and he saw she was neither plain nor had her teeth gone awry. He was surprised to see her dressed as a woman of the Danes: a sleeveless gown, with paired brooches of silver at the shoulder straps, over a long-sleeved linen shift. Her mother, and Burginde, still wore the long-sleeved gowns favoured by Saxon women. Other than the brooches she wore no jewels, save the small golden cross she had worn since a child.

  “Ceric!” said Ashild, and then grasped him in the briefest of sisterly embraces. She smelt of horses and hay, and he saw the remains of a green and sappy leaf which had stuck to the hem of her head wrap. He could not see her hair, and thought for some fresh and terrible moment she had cut it off. But no, she tossed her head looking at her brother and mother, and he saw it was merely held in a plait trailing down her back. Ceric heard Burginde give a disapproving cluck from where she sat.

  She was not alone in her assessment of the maid’s entry.

  “Ashild,” the Lady of Four Stones said, and even given the smile on that lady’s lips some little note of reproach found its way into her voice. She was standing herself now, looking apologetically at her guests. “Raedwulf of Defenas, this is my eldest, Ashild. And my youngest, Ealhswith,” she added, as that child came to her mother’s side.

  “My ladies,” answered Raedwulf, nodding at them both.

  Ashild looked as if she might laugh, but did not. Ealhswith, suddenly shy, clung to her mother.

  “Worr you will remember,” Ælfwyn was going on to her eldest, who responded with a nod of her own.

  “Ceric has brought us not only the happiness of his visit, but gifts from Kilton,” she was telling Ashild. “A ring-shirt for Hrald. A golden pin which was his mother’s, for me.” Her voice had softened at this last. She looked to Ceric.

  “Yes,” he began, not knowing what more he would say; his brain had emptied. He reached for the saddle bag, and pulled out the bulk of what had filled it. The linen his aunt had used to sew the pouch was of pale yellow, and on it she had threaded a small line of embroidery in darker yellow.

  “This…this is for you,” he said, shoving it at Ashild.

  She gave a little start, almost laughing, and he recalled the day he had thrown a toad at her. She had started like that then, and a moment later picked the ugly thing up and flung it right back at him. It had hit him in the face while he was laughing at her.

  He hoped she would not shove it back, and she did not. Instead she took a moment gathering herself, looking down on it, and wiping her hands on her skirts. He saw its bulk surprised her, and that she had no idea what might be within.

  She shook it out of the linen pouch and onto the surface of the table. It lay there, pooled like the yellow Sun, dazzling with its sheen even in the low light of the hall. She made a small sound, a gasp of wonder, he hoped. She took it in her hands, turned it, found the sleeves.

  It was not only silk, she saw, but a made-up gown, and one of surpassing beauty.

  She knew enough not to hold it up to herself; that would be unseemly in mixed company. But she must show it to the others, now she knew it for what it was, and she lifted it in her hands.

  “A gown. Of silk.”

  This too Ælfwyn knew well, better even than the gold circle pin Ceridwen had worn. This yellow-gold gown of silk had been hers. She had worn it at Cirenceaster, as a maid Ashild’s age.

  Then it had been forfeit to the Dane she had been forced to wed, Yrling; bundled up with everything of worth her parents had ever given her, and much more too, and sent here to the then- ruined keep of Four Stones, which Yrling had conquered. Ashild’s father.

  The Lady of Four Stones felt almost faint, and sat down, gently, but without feeling her knees bend. For the second time since Ceric had arrived she was recalled to her girlhood home, first by the bailiff of Defenas calling her by her original name, and now by this gown, one of four given her by her parents so long ago.

  Another at that table recalled that gown, but she was not looking at him.

  Ashild held the gown in her hands. It was of such value that she did not know what to say. Her mother, always so good at prompting, had her own eyes cast down at the pitted face of the table, looking at what Ashild could not guess.

  Ashild did not know the meaning of it. She knew a gift of this richness would be given only to a bride, as her bride-price; or by a very rich man to his new wife the first morning they awoke together, to thank her for the gift of her body. Or given, as her mother had once told her, by loving parents to their daughter. Here was her brother’s friend – her friend – giving it. To her.

  She was left alone. Ceric was staring at her, the smile on his lips wavering. Hrald was looking, blankly, she thought, from the pooled silk to her. The older man, the bailiff, was gazing away, off to one side. Only Worr looked normal, expectant, but not conveying any strain.

  “I thank you, Ceric,” she said at last. “It – it is wonderful.”

  “How strange that the bailiff should call you that,” Æthelthryth said to her sister, when their guests had risen and they were alone a moment.

  Ælfwyn simply nodded in assent. It had been one impress after another; Ceric’s joyful coming, Raedwulf’s salutation, seeing the silk gown once more.

  Æthelthryth’s face wore a smile, a wistful one, for their lost home. “But – it is your name,” she answered herself.

  Chapter the Third: Two Swords

  THE feast that night would not be held for several hours. Before that time her guests must be accommodated. With quick decision Ælfwyn offered the weaving room up the side stairway to Raedwulf; she did not deem it fit that he should sleep in the hall with the men. Hrald himself slept there amongst them, as was right for an unmarried youth. But the bailiff would need a table, she thought, and had earned both comfort and privacy after the long ride from Wessex with the younger men.

  She herself slept these days in her bower house, set at the end of her garden. Little Ealhswith and Burginde slept there too. Ashild and Ælfwyn’s sister Eanflad slept in the house of Æthelthryth, wed to Asberg, the Dane who served well in keeping Four Stones for the day Hrald would command.

  The treasure room was become just that, the stronghold in which the treasure was stored. When Hrald wed he would take his wife to it. Ælfwyn had left the wolf-skin spread upon the bed there; she had not slept under it since the day Ceridwen and Sidroc had been taken. It was the gift of her mother to her bridal ni
ght, packed in secret by her and Burginde amongst her barrels and chests of goods and only discovered on the day itself. It was meant to grace the bed of two. If her bed had been cold since, it was not due to the lack of its furred thickness.

  She had taken Ælfred’s gift to her bower house, and given herself a moment to admire it. She had slipped the linen pouch holding Ceridwen’s gold pin within the case surrounding the book, and she took it out now and set it aside. She drew the book out. It was no longer than the length of her hand. The binding was of two thin wooden boards, covered over with sheets of silver, front and back. The spine was left open, the tough and thick red-dyed linen thread that laced the parchment quires together giving colour as they wound through the creamy folds so exposed. The silver-faced covers of the book had been impressed with wondrous skill. The front cover bore an image of God in Majesty, hands open and outstretched, his gown spilling over the cloud he stood on. There were rays of light, shown by lines issuing from behind Him. Surrounding Him were flying beings – angels, she thought; some carried swords, and all had feathered wings, like birds.

  The back was simpler, yet somehow more mysterious. She looked down on a swirling mass of cloud forms, some large, some small, as if the skies had shifted and the God that had been so clear on the front of the Psalter had been obscured. The clouds now blocked the Sun, and Him. She thought on this. No, that was not a hopeful note on which to leave those who had added their own voice to the ancient King David’s in praise. Perhaps it meant that all lay contained within, all the cosmos, everything.

  She let herself sink down on her bed, considering this. She did not understand why Ælfred would send her this gift. She had known, even when she first arrived at Four Stones, that her father had ignored the call to arms of the then-king, Ælfred’s brother. He did so to try and make a separate Peace with Yrling, and in doing so forfeited not only his daughter but later his own life. Her father could not be considered by Ælfred to have been a friend to his own family, or to greater Wessex. And all these long years later, she had been, of course, living under Danish law, and in a Danish Kingdom, nothing to do directly with the King of Wessex.