The slightest movement of the shield-maiden’s hands made Sidroc turn his eyes from Yrling to her. She looked at him for but a moment, enough for him to see she knew the truth behind the gift. It was Sidroc who had sent it, on behalf of a neglectful uncle.
But now Yrling was leading Ælfwyn to the table. Toki was just at Sidroc’s side, and made a movement first towards the bright-haired maid.
“She sits by me,” Sidroc told his cousin. His voice was low, and he spoke in Norse, but his look was enough to quell Toki’s forward movement. Yet Toki gave a short laugh as he answered.
“But she will lie with me.”
Sidroc heard this, low as it was, but gave no sign of doing so. Yrling had placed his bride to his left, and Sidroc took his place by her, the shield-maiden next to him, on his left. A glittering array of cups sat there. The gemmed cup of gold from which Yrling drank was before him, as were two new cups, neither of which Sidroc had seen before this morning. He watched his uncle pick up a second golden cup, one set with rounded chunks of rock crystal and cabochons of jet, and set it before Ælfwyn. Another cup was new, and Yrling passed it to Sidroc, that he might place it before the maid at his side. It was a small cup wrought of silver, and like his own, had a rim of gold.
Their serving woman went out through the kitchen passageway. She had been much in the kitchen yard since her arrival. The food that came was of unusual savour, far better than the meal last night, and the men knew it was likely her doing, rousing the kitchen folk to as yet unknown labours. And too, the waggons surely carried provender to help make this first meal a fine one. The roast fowl would have come from the hen houses in the kitchen yard, but the salt it had been sprinkled with was white and pure, with no trace of sour earthiness. There were as well bowls of dried and honeyed pears, apples, and cherries. Honey had not been tasted by the men at Four Stones in months; a crock of it must have been brought in the waggons.
This sweetness added to the meal, and to Sidroc was somehow played upon by the sweet odour rising from the young women flanking him. Even the poorest woman could pluck herbs and flowers and roll them in her hands, crushing the stems and blossoms to release their perfume. But such fragrance was as fleeting as the broken flowers themselves. Rich women used scented oils to anoint skin and hair. Merchants had stalls from which they sold tiny vials of them. Up at the trading town of Jorvik he had seen the minute flagons, and seen too how well dressed were those Danes who traded in them. These two noblewomen would have such oils, and their hair and clothing carried a wafting and spicy sweetness, fresh and heady both. All about them, gowns, and person, and hair, seemed so. There was a washing shed out near the kitchen yard, with basins and a low wooden tub, where the men could wash hands, face, and feet every day. Despite these ablutions Sidroc was more than aware of his own strong scent, one of sweat, horses, and leather. It was a contrast as great as that between his own hand, large, calloused, dark hair growing on the back of it, and the graceful, pale, and slender hands of the two Saxon maids curling about the body of their gold and silver cups.
Yrling spoke to his nephews during this meal, spoke in Norse. Sidroc, seated between the two maids, would have liked to have spoken to them, had them lean forward slightly on the bench and face each other with the smiles he knew they must often share as they spoke together. But Yrling was speaking of the movement of horses, telling Toki and him of those of his own he wanted rested in the forest-hemmed valley, and which he wanted brought back to the stable paddock within the keep confines. It was foaling time as well, and he wanted all dams nearing their time brought to the stable, or to the mares’ paddock for safety. Wolves roamed the forest, bold enough in their packs to spring from the trees and run down a newly dropped foal.
Then, with an abruptness that made his bride blink, Yrling set down his cup. “We go now to the waggons,” he announced, speaking in the tongue of Angle-land to Ælfwyn, “and I will accept the tribute that you bring.”
He looked to his nephews, telling them to go now and ready the waggons. They rose, Sidroc with regret. He walked past the fire-pit, Toki ahead of him, knowing that his uncle sat there alone with his bride and her friend. There was something he wanted to say to them, not meant for his ears.
When they came out all the men at Four Stones were waiting. Those working at forge or smoothing wood came from their sheds, with tongs or adze in hand, summoned by the whistles of Sidroc and Toki. Others who had been rolling barrels across the forecourt, or carrying armfuls of wooden staves stopped, so they might see. Even the look-outs upon the ramparts turned to gaze down. The cousins had unlaced the tarpaulins, pulling them open so tantalizing glimpses of chests and barrels could be seen.
Yrling jumped up on the waggon board of the lead waggon, and held his arms up.
“I promised a hall, and have won it for you,” he told the men in Norse. “I promised riches, and have won them, and shared them out with open hand.”
These first words were met with cheers and whoops, the men beating their flat palms upon their thighs to applaud their Jarl.
“You promised women, too,” called one in the back of the circle. It was only half in jest, for another man quickly added, “Win us some like those before us,” and gestured to the two maids standing there by the wheel.
Yrling laughed, but Ælfwyn, though she tried to smile, understood the import if not the words.
Yrling grinned down at her, and pointed at her himself. “Ælfwyn is my wife, she who has brought all this across Kingdoms. This is what her father, Ælfsige of Cirenceaster sends as his tribute to me.”
She heard her name, it was clear by the shift of her eyes, and her father’s name as well, but what Yrling said of her she could not know. He turned to the contents of the waggon then, drawing forth things within, holding them up for the men to admire. A massive bronze pot, surely of Frankish make, was pulled forward, one embossed all over with wreathing animals and vines. Other, smaller pots, also of bronze, showing the same skill in their working. A bowl, a shallow dish, a large round salver, all of silver, and all so bright that one saw one’s reflection within. A small casket of bronze, enviable in itself, bearing nothing less than pieces of gold, thinly beaten but of diameter greater than a hen’s egg. Three bracelets of the same precious stuff, one sized for a man. Lengths of cloth of purple, which few men had ever before seen, and which Yrling held in his outstretched hands so that the rare colour dazzled their eyes. All this and more he pulled before them, laughing at the richness of his spoils as he did so.
Sidroc and Toki, standing at either side of the waggon, had full view of all the treasure as it was unpacked and displayed. The quality of all was almost dizzying. The ground of the yard was muddy, and the past many days had been wet and grey. Sun shone upon them this morning, yellow beams highlighting the deep green of bronze, the shine of silver, the gleam of gold. All was heightened by the sunlight, the laughter of the men, their surprise and awe at each new discovery they were shown. The two maids who had travelled amongst this treasure raised the pitch of expectation and pleasure another notch. Their youth and comeliness was fully met by these rich goods.
Sidroc watched the display of tribute as intently as any of them. He was aware, slowly at first and then fully, that this was a woman’s treasure, things chosen with care not only for their costliness but for their beauty, or their value in everyday life. No weapon chest was there; no seax or sword with dancing, pattern-welded steel, no helmet of fanciful design. Mayhap Ælfsige could not countenance the sending of arms; not when he had lost so much to Yrling and other warriors. Ælfwyn’s mother may have made up the treasure-list, filling it with such things as would meet her lord and husband’s requirement as to worthiness. One glance at her daughter told him of the most precious item she had parted with.
Ælfwyn stood there at the waggon wheel, watching her new lord display what she had brought, listening to the crowing cheers rising from the men in response. Sidroc could not read her face; the lips were tightly
pressed, bowed slightly upward as if in effort of a smile. But the eyes of rich and clear blue were bright, as if tears glistened there.
The shield-maiden at her side stood so close to her, shoulders again touching, that it was only after a moment’s study he saw that they had clasped hands. There at the level of their skirts, their fingers intertwined, half hidden in the fabric of their gowns. He thought again what he had thought before, that these two would act as one.
It filled him with a sudden burst of happiness, almost exaltation. The one would wed Yrling. The other, him.
Chapter the Twenty-ninth: Two Calls
“NOW we will wed,” Yrling told Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster shortly after the waggons were unloaded.
They stood in the treasure room with Sidroc and the bright-haired one. It was the first look at the room for the two maids, and both, though modest in their movements, had been with their eyes travelling over the number of chests and casks already there, and the many more chests, casks, and baskets now added to the store from their waggons. One waggon had held things which had already been carried up to the narrow room in which they had been sleeping; several chests, and weaving looms. But this was the first time they had entered that room in which Ælfwyn would sleep with Yrling. The low bed was one of the last things their eyes had dropped to when Yrling had spoken.
“I will not wed today,” said that lady. The flatness of her tone and quickness of her words made all three look to her.
Yrling’s jaw tightened, but it was Sidroc who spoke. He kept his voice low, but he gazed at her fully. “You are come here to be wed,” he reminded her.
“I cannot wed without a holy man.” She had swallowed before she said this, a swallowing down of her fear, he saw.
It was again Sidroc who answered her. “There are none of your priests here, nor for many miles. It cannot be done.”
He watched her lift her chin, look back at him. Her voice was just above a whisper. It held no defiance, yet was definite in its certainty. “Then I cannot wed,” she told him.
There was no answer to this. The gaze of the bright-haired one went from Ælfwyn to Yrling. All of them could see the anger clouding Yrling’s face, but it was she who spoke.
She took a small step, not to his uncle, but to Sidroc. Her eyes fastened on his own, which had been narrowed at his uncle’s bride. Her movement towards him claimed his whole attention.
“Sir,” she asked him. “There must be a monk or brother nearby. Please to find him so that my Lady’s wedding may be a happy one.”
A movement of her lower lip betrayed her fear, one she mastered enough to speak to him. Yet the wide green eyes did not falter as they held him in their gaze. Indeed, her eyes were fixed on him.
It was both plea, and challenge, directed at him. Yrling was watching him as well, watching to see how he would meet this unwonted demand. The lady had refused to wed; the shield-maiden had posed a solution, one which he could pursue or refuse.
But Yrling made decision. His uncle was speaking now, staring at him and giving him his orders. “Look for such a man. If he can be found before tomorrow noon, let him be present.”
He looked to Ælfwyn. “If not, she will wed without him.”
She did not move at his words. But the bright-haired one, having won this consent, bowed her head. “Thank you, my Lord, thank you, Sir,” she told them both.
That night Ælfwyn and the shield-maiden again sat on either side of Sidroc. Each were both garbed in the rich dress of the morning, Ælfwyn with the great pearl lying on her breast, hanging from its slender chain of gold. As the two maids entered all eyes shifted to them, and as they passed leering smiles broke across the faces of the men they left in their wake. Sidroc felt an unreasoning umbrage towards his brothers, one as irksome as it was unmerited. The shield-maiden was unwed, and fair game.
Jari was one of the few at the head table who looked without lust. He was saving up silver for the coming of a maid he was pledged to back in Jutland, and had already begun building a house for her out by the valley of horses. Guthrum had ships at his command and had told the men of Four Stones he would ferry waiting wives and sweethearts to Lindisse when the time came. As far as Sidroc knew every other man considered himself a suitable mate for the bright-haired one. Even Asberg had mentioned her to him. Asberg, who was a good warrior, had Yrling’s favour, and bore no scar upon his face.
When she slid in on the bench next Sidroc she kept her eyes on Ælfwyn, who was in fact looking at Yrling. His uncle was taking in the loveliness of his bride with no attempt to mask his pleasure.
Sidroc made comment on this, leaning nearer the shield-maiden’s head to speak to her.
“Your Lady is very beautiful; it is more than my uncle expected.”
This made her turn to him, turn and even smile. He was aware of his own smile, aware too of the thoughtful way she looked at him now.
“Then your uncle will be good to her,” she said.
He let his eyes lift a moment to where Ælfwyn sat, her head inclined to Yrling as he spoke to her. He looked back to the shield-maiden’s uplifted face. “She will have all she wants, if she be good in return.”
“She is very good, I can tell you that,” she answered.
He had to laugh, a guard against his own feelings. Her innocence and earnestness, the lusting eyes of the men as they followed her, the way Yrling studied the maid of Cirenceaster who was soon to warm his bed; it all caused a churning frustration which found outlet in his countering words.
“I think she will be,” he said, unable to curb his sneering tone.
She smarted at his answer. The sting of affront, low pitched but discernable, was in her next words to him.
“You gave Toki the pearl, did you not?” she challenged.
He let out a quieting breath. “Yes, I did,” he told her. “Yrling would never think of such a thing.”
She was as swift with her reply as she had been in seeing the thing. “Then it was given falsely.”
“No, it was not,” he defended, “for she would have had it sooner or later, by Yrling’s hand. And it did much good, to come on the road as a welcome gift.”
She got hot at this, the flare of her nostrils proving it, though she kept her voice low. “A gift given falsely never does good.”
Again he laughed. “Did you not all remark over it when you saw it? Did you not squeal with delight? Did you not talk of the richness of it, or the generosity of Yrling?”
She had dropped her eyes under his words, as if in admission. His frustration now was aimed at himself, speaking to her so. He raised his eyes to the darkness of the roof timbers. No answers were there, but he ran his hand through his hair as he calmed his thoughts.
“Things cannot always be as we would have them, shield-maiden,” he said, speaking more of himself at this moment than he could admit. “Your Lady knows this, I know this, and one day Yrling will know this.”
She blinked at him, listening well to his words, taking them in. When Yrling reached out his hand and closed it around the pearl hanging around her Lady’s neck, she looked away.
The next day Sidroc found a Christian holy man, though he had to ride nearly to Geornaham to do so. He took two horses and headed there, wagering that in her devoutness Eldrida, the past Lady of that holding, had succoured such men on her lands. There were surely none left at Four Stones. The temple had been burnt in the taking, and the priest Eldrida had sent with her daughter was as much in the hall’s past as was the maid herself.
A tall stone cross stood at the meeting of two roads on the way, and Fate favoured Sidroc by placing a bony and balding man at its foot. He was on his knees at the base of the monument, his fingers clasping the deeply incised scrolls there, a design which ran its way up the length of the worn stone. He was garbed in the gown, brown in hue, that marked him as a holy man. He paid no mind to Sidroc’s approach, and only when he called him out did the man rise and turn to face him, slowly, and with a
look that suggested he was ready to die. Sidroc told him he was needed, then urged him up on the second horse. There the monk sat wobbling, and, no longer in fear of his life, began chattering away at his escort, who barely grunted at his prattling.
They were half-way back when a rider appeared, coming overland across a meadow fronting a forest. It was a warrior, fully armed, and having emerged from the woodland, now able to canter his mount. The monk gave a shriek. Sidroc had spear and shield, his sword too buckled on his hip, but riding as he was on friendly lands was free of ring-shirt or helmet. The first thing he did was place his fingers in his mouth and give the three-tone whistle which was Yrling’s sign.
The rider reined, slowing enough to enable him to return a whistle: Turcesig. This man was from Guthrum, one of his outriders no doubt, returning.
The monk was none the steadier for Sidroc turning his horse’s head to the newcomer. He spluttered and gasped, and jiggled his legs as they wrapped his mount’s barrel. If Sidroc had not been also holding the reins of the second horse, it may have bolted.
Sidroc knew this outrider, had seen him both at Four Stones and at Turcesig.
“Do you ride now to Yrling?” the man asked. His eyes flicked a moment to the monk, whose horse was trying to turn in circles under the man’s restless heels. Sidroc shortened the lead rein and pulled the horse closer.
“Já. Ælfsige of Cirenceaster sent his daughter; he will wed her today.” Sidroc gave a slight nod in the direction of the worried monk.
“Guthrum will tell him to enjoy the wedding feast,” answered the rider. “Hingvar and Svein are at war in Wessex.”
Sidroc asked the same question he had asked his uncle about these two.
“How many men have they?”
“Upwards of one hundred, in two camps, one for each of the brothers.”
Fifty men each. Such war-bands could act in concert and trap a force of even greater size between them, inflicting great damage in the panic that ensued.
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