Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  Yrling had left Jari and Asberg at the hall with Sidroc. No Dane pledged to another as did the Saxon thegns to their lords, but these two were known, without naming them as such, as Sidroc’s men. Jari became so on the day of Une’s death, and Asberg since the day of the taking of Four Stones.

  In Yrling’s absence, Sidroc sat to sup where his uncle always did. Each night Yrling sat at the high table flanked by his two nephews. The darkened oak of the massive slab had taken on new significance since Guthrum had sat there with him. Yrling had made a blood-vow here, drops of his own warm and living blood wetting gold, binding him to Guthrum. A drop or two had seeped into this ancient wood, like a table of sacrifice.

  Now Sidroc sat there, in Yrling’s place, with Asberg on his right and Jari on his left. Jari, now a Tyr-hand, ate with his left hand, and Sidroc had before jested he ever wanted him on his left, so his right elbow was not jarring him. It went deeper than a gibe between friends. In battle, Jari’s shield, now held in his right, gave added protection to any man standing there.

  Asberg had proven from the day of the capture of Yellow-sail that he had a good head. He was slow to anger, a trait Sidroc had grown to value in a man. Asberg was neither tall nor broad, but as able a warrior as any. With a spear he had few equals. These two men he could count on sat at either side of him. Sitting at the centre of the long oak board, overlooking the massed tables of the hall, Sidroc felt the rightness of his place there. One day he would head such a hall, with such men to flank him.

  His next thought went beyond this: Toki has thought the same. He has sat here, picturing himself a war-chief, even a jarl.

  Já, he thought, of course he has. Toki shared with his uncle a certain recklessness of spirit. It would be easy for him to see himself as master of Four Stones.

  That could not happen unless Yrling died. But Toki would not be alone in a contest to win it.

  Yrling was gone for more than a week. Watch-men posted along the road now spotted the returning troop and galloped ahead to Four Stones, whistling and calling that Yrling was near.

  They rode in, soiled with Winter mud, their horses’ legs and chests spattered with it. The thralls of the stable hastened out to them as the troop filled the forecourt between stable and hall.

  Sidroc went to Yrling’s red stallion, holding the shaking head at the cheek-piece as his uncle swung down. Tired and dirty as they were, a moment’s look at the men told the excursion had been marked with success. No face showed that more than Yrling’s, his grin broad and growing as he straightened himself before Sidroc.

  Toki too was on the ground. He was always amongst the first to be horsed, and to quit his beast as well. He stood, a few of his followers about him, tossing his golden helmet in the air and catching it, his face gleeful and smug. Sidroc let his eyes shift to him. He stifled a laugh at his cousin’s satisfaction in having made the journey, his boyish pretence of triumph, as if something had happened to gloat over.

  Sidroc need not wait to ask his uncle of the outcome, he was speaking now, as they walked towards the hall door.

  “She is coming, next month,” Yrling told him. “And bringing treasure in silver, and in gold. Other choice things, too.”

  “And did you see the maid? She who is to be your wife?”

  Yrling paused. “Nej. Her father did not bring her so far; she was back at his chief hall at Cirenceaster.”

  If his uncle was disappointed in this, he did not betray it.

  “But he showed me a plate of pure gold, said she matched it in loveliness, and said she would bring it with her.”

  A plate of pure gold. Yrling’s first wife had brought a small casket of coinage, jewellery, and ornaments of gold. Here was another, seemingly richer maid whose wealth was such she could even dine from the precious stuff.

  “Do you know her name?”

  Yrling gathered his thoughts before speaking the strange word. “She is Ælf-wyn. It means Elf-Joy. He told me.”

  “With such a name she might bear magic,” Sidroc answered.

  “Her silver and her gold will be enough for me,” laughed his uncle.

  Chapter the Twenty-seventh: Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster

  The Year 871

  YRLING had agreed to a Peace with Ælfsige of Cirenceaster. As with any vow, he had been willing to swear in blood as to its terms. Instead, surrounded by Ælfsige, Ælfsige’s old father, and a few other cheerless and fully armed warriors he followed the ways of Angle-land. There was as well a Christian holy man there, priest or monk Yrling could not tell. He was presented with a scraped and stiffened lamb skin, covered over with swirling marks flowing from the hand of the holy man. He must make his mark on it as pledge to uphold the terms of the Peace, which were read to him twice by the gowned man. He chose the rune Ansur, that rune of Odin, of knowledge, discourse, and of tests or trials. He took the goose feather in his fist, dipped the sharpened point of it in the pot of dark liquid as he had seen, and scrawled it where the man pointed.

  Ælfsige did the same. Yrling noted that Ælfsige did not himself make the marks on the skin, nor did he seem to know their meaning. He had dictated the terms earlier to the holy man, that was clear, but listened just as carefully as Yrling did when they were read to make certain they were as he wanted. He screwed up his eyes at the black markings on the skin, just as Yrling had, when he looked at it.

  Yrling had made this Peace, and now wished to tell Guthrum of it. Guthrum travelled far and wide over his holdings, and finding him was not easy, even with sending Four Stones’ best riders. At last Yrling heard that Guthrum was near, in fact, just to his northerly borders, at his hall at Turcesig. He picked out a choice mare from his herd to take to him; Guthrum too had an eye for good horse-flesh, and had openly admired Yrling’s animals in the past.

  Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster would be on her way by now, taking an easterly route across Wessex to the borders of Lindisse, where Yrling would meet her. But seeing Guthrum took precedence. There was much to discuss with him, or rather much that Yrling hoped to learn. Guthrum was wily, and like all Danish war-lords told little of his own plans to his under-jarls. But with so much of the North and East of this great island now under Danish rule, it could not be long before the two remaining Kingdoms of the Saxons, Mercia and Wessex, also fell to Danish steel. A vast action was ahead, war on a scale that even Guthrum had not seen, and Guthrum would need all his jarls to fight it. And his neighbour to the South now had a particular interest to forward in return. Yrling, in making this pact with Ælfsige in Wessex had not laid claim to his lands; rather had pledged a stop to his harrying of them. But when Wessex was overrun he wanted Guthrum on his side in his claim to his father-in-law’s holdings.

  It was Toki Yrling sent to meet his bride. Toki and a small troop of good men would serve as escort and carry bride and treasure back to Four Stones. Yrling would ride to Guthrum at Turcesig, leaving Four Stones to Sidroc’s command.

  Before he left Yrling gave both nephews a key to the treasure room. Toki and the rest of the escort needed two days to prepare kit and horses, and possession of one of the keys would keep him from sulking while he was still at Four Stones.

  Yrling, travelling on his own lands to those owned by Guthrum, took a score of men with him. He did not need that many, but a fitting level of show was required. He was not certain of his return; he might remain at Turcesig for some days. Guthrum liked to hunt, and joining any man whose favour you sought in a chosen pursuit was good policy. Both cousins watched him ride off, their arms raised in salute. Yrling rode the stallion Guthrum had given him, a well-muscled sorrel, and led the black mare he had chosen as gift for his host. With a martin-trimmed mantle over his shoulders, and riding and leading such horses, he made striking display.

  Toki would leave on the morrow. Sidroc was out in the kitchen yard with him, watching Toki and his men ready the food packs, when he thought of something.

  “He sends her no gift.” Indeed, their uncle had not set aside
anything for Toki to carry with him as a welcoming-present.

  “Gift?” Toki answered, looking up from where he stuffed a leathern pack with a small iron cauldron. They were sitting at one of the many work tables, the three who would ride with him doing the same. “She is the one bringing treasure.”

  “Já,” Sidroc allowed. “But she is to be his wife. A lady of her like will expect, and needs, a gift.”

  Toki rolled his eyes, but his cousin was already standing, fingering the key to the treasure room. Both knew they were only to enter in the company of the other. Sidroc decided this was such a time. They quitted the kitchen yard.

  The hall was nearly empty, some thralls hauling in more wood for the fire-pit, a few distracted-looking women scrubbing the table tops, now leaning upright against the walls, with wadded handfuls of straw. The box lock of black iron on the treasure room door yielded smoothly to Sidroc’s key deep inside it. They shut the door behind them.

  A ring of keys to every locked chest was hung just inside the door, and Sidroc took it up. Chests, barrels, and lidded wooden boxes were shoved helter-skelter about the room, piled upon one another. All the excess weaponry Yrling had won was stowed here, spears, swords, the angle-bladed knives the Saxons favoured, even ring-shirts and helmets. Here too was kept the choicest of other plunder, cups of silver and gold, jewellery of the same precious metals, tunics and mantles adorned with thread-work, baskets of furs from northern climes. Against one wall was Yrling’s low bed, tumbled with bed clothes as he had left it. The disorder of all was great. The single window high on the wall gave good light, though, and Sidroc turned to one of the smallest chests, placed upon one of huge girth which was strapped with iron bands.

  Within the smaller chest lay a fine casket of carved walrus ivory; his uncle had showed it to him. He had never seen into the contents of that casket, carved round with figures of men fighting and a curious scene of a couple with a babe in a kind of stable, with three men kneeling before them. The delicacy of the whole made him think that if anything lay within, it would be fit for a lady. He jiggled the bronze key in the box lock of the chest. There indeed sat the small casket, and he lifted it out. It had a tiny lock, but it had been broken. He opened the domed lid.

  They both caught their breath. A tangle of red gold lay there, of flattened linked discs of that prized metal. Each of the golden discs was set with a single gemstone, in shades of red, blue, or yellow. He pulled it out. It was a necklace, and with it, two matching bracelets of equal beauty.

  “This he must give himself,” Sidroc murmured.

  There was something else in the casket, in a tiny pouch of red leather. He pulled at the drawstring, and emptied the contents into his hand. A huge and flawless pearl, one shaped almost like the egg of a songbird, lay there. It had been drilled so that it was held between small caps of gold, fitted to a chain of the same precious stuff. He looked to his cousin.

  “This,” he told him. It had magnificence, yet being a pearl had also a chaste modesty fitted to a bride.

  His cousin gave a whistle in response. “The giving of it is on your head,” he reminded, but tucked the red pouch in his belt all the same.

  With both Yrling and Toki away the hall took on a different tenor. It was not laxity amongst the men; Sidroc kept them to their work of repairing bridles and horse-hardware, the forging of spear-points and shaping of spear shafts, and every man took care in the cleaning of his weapons and honing of his blades. A few had claimed plots out by the longhouse in the valley where they grazed their horses, in expectation of someday wedding and building a house; and these spent time opening the cold and waiting soil to sow Winter wheat. But at night when all not posted at the longhouse gathered under Four Stones’ timber roof to sup, a current of expectation flowed throughout the hall. Yrling would soon wed again, and the treasure his bride carried to him was rumoured to be vast. They would have their share in it, and there would be a feast at the hand-fast, a feast with much ale.

  As the days passed, awaiting Toki’s return, Sidroc more than once overheard men speak about the coming bride, and the fact that none would be surprised if the maid of Cirenceaster arrived at Four Stones a maid no longer. Toki had been sent to fetch her, and no man had Toki’s luck with women. Why should she not invite him into her waggon on the way here? All he need do was smile and she might falter. If he sang, she was certain to fall. When one pointed out Toki’s yellow harp, left behind and hanging on the wall, the other sniggered. Harp or no, if Toki wanted a woman, he was sure to get her.

  When, on a chill and wet day, fog rising from the dark ground, the look-outs on the palisade ramparts began to whistle, all the men massed in the forecourt. Many climbed the ladders to the ramparts to see for themselves. There at a distance was Toki, his grey horse easy to pick out, his golden helmet on his head, spurring his mount, leaving those he led far behind. In his wake there were two ox-drawn waggons, and beside Toki and his men, three others mounted on horseback. These were thegns, riding in position at front and back of the waggons, and the treasure they bore.

  With Guthrum now controlling Turcesig and Yrling Geornaham all near approaches to Four Stones were protected. The gates, for the sake of ease of passage from hall to village, were left open during the day. With Yrling gone, they were kept closed. Sidroc now ordered them opened.

  He stood in the yawning gateway watching them approach. The waggon beds were enclosed by tall hoops, and covered over with tarpaulins of some kind, oiled linen or tanned hides; from the distance it was hard to know. But he could see figures on the waggon board of the first waggon.

  The women of the village were come out of their huts, and were standing on the roadside which split their settlement. They stood there in the damp mist, their children at their sides, their babes tied on their hips or in their arms, to watch. As the waggons reached them, a cry, faint but unmistakable, rose from the village women, not of welcome, but of lament.

  Sidroc moved back to the hall doorway as the riders neared. Toki came first, at a charging gallop. One of his men had nearly caught him in the race to be first through the gates. The oxen, like all draught beasts of their ilk, could not be hurried in their shafts. A drover walked at the head of the lead pair. Tied to the back of one of the waggons was a shaggy white pony of no great worth, small enough to have been missed at first viewing.

  One of Toki’s men who had raced through the gates now peeled back to confront the slow-riding thegns fronting the waggons. The thegns were held back, kept outside the gates, when the waggons, led by the single drover, rolled in. Sidroc signalled they stop, just before the burnt walls of the old main hall.

  Toki was before him now. The broad breast of his stallion heaved from the gallop, yet the animal stood shaking his head and jingling his bridle hardware as if ready for more. Toki jumped down and came to Sidroc, pulling off the gilt helmet, grinning like a cat.

  “Two beauties,” said Toki, with a nod of his chin towards the first waggon. Two women sat there on the board, both young, and the head of a third, older woman, peered out from behind, over their shoulders. “At home Yrling would wed both.”

  Sidroc looked past his cousin to take in the bride of Yrling. The eyes of both young women looked back at him, before dropping and shifting away. One glance told him they were of exceptional comeliness, and while both fair, different each from each. He could not look longer; Toki, having delivered his charges, was already gone, cooling his horse at a walk in the paddock. Sidroc commanded Four Stones and must deal with waggons, oxen, pony, the thegns waiting outside, and the men of Four Stones, who stood staring at the new arrivals. None could look at the big waggons without gauging the riches held within; this thought had, when he spotted them, also crossed his own mind.

  He ordered the drover unhitch both teams, and take them to the cattle pen, and told his brothers to return to their work about the yards. Then he stood a moment, uncertain of his next step.

  “Sir,” called one of the women. “P
lease to take my Lady and me to your Lord.”

  He moved to them. They sat side by side, so close their bodies touched. One was pale like the Moon, the other in her colouring, fiery like the dawn Sun. The one who had spoken was the fiery one.

  They were both so young; he had heard Yrling say the Lady Ælfwyn had seventeen years, but neither looked it. Everything about them seemed fresh, even startling to his eyes. The brightness of their gowns, one in blue, the other in green; the fall of their hair upon their mantles; their head wraps of clean white linen. He had not seen women as well dressed since the meeting with Eldrida and Eadburh, but these maids, even sitting rigidly upon the waggon board, had a liveliness and vigour neither of those two possessed.

  The fiery one, in a green gown and a squirrel-trimmed mantle, was looking at him, eyes full on his face, awaiting his answer. She did not flinch, looking on him.

  “He is not here, but returns tonight, or tomorrow, or when he will,” he told them.

  He watched her turn to the other, the pale one. She would be Yrling’s wife; the fiery one had called her, my lady.

  He watched Ælfwyn’s eyes roll up, the slightest bit, as if in cloaked anger. But whether aware of his scrutiny or from her own training, she composed herself, only pressing her lips together in response to this news. The fiery one’s lips parted, as if she would speak again, but she did not, only looked back at him.

  It gave him time to study her. She had hair in abundance, buckles of it, of a distinct and striking hue, a chestnut gold. She was even younger than her lady, he was sure of this, ten and four years, or a year more, perhaps, her face bore the trace of no more years than that. The roundness of her cheek, smoothness of her skin, wideness of her deep green eyes, all was that of a maid not far removed from childhood. The jawline though was decided, even firm, with the slightest of clefts in her chin. A few light freckles dotted her nose, a nose strong for a young face, but pleasing still. The lips beneath that nose were full and deeply bowed, the lips of a woman and not a girl.