An answering horn rang out from Kilton’s ramparts upon the timber palisade. Edwin, in his finest clothes, stood before the opened gates to meet the King and his retinue. He was flanked by his grandmother, Modwynn, and his mother, Edgyth. Standing off to one side was Raedwulf’s daughter, Wilgyfu, and her husband, Worr, the horse-thegn of Kilton. At that second horn blast the folk of the village of Kilton left what they were doing, and lined the road to see their King. A cheer went up for him, cries of “Ælfred” and “Wessex,” to which Ælfred lifted his hand. The glad faces of the family of the hall were before him as well. Sometimes his own folk looked at him warily; his men needed constant feeding and this is why he must shift that burden from burh to burh with frequent travelling amongst them. This greeting from Kilton was genuine. His departure might be regarded far more ruefully.
As the day was a fine one, the welcome-cup of brown and frothy ale was taken in the garden. A tall wooden framework had been placed there long ago, and was thickly grown with roses and twining flowers. It lent beauty and fragrance, and gave some shelter from the oft sharp wind that could sheet across the sea waves below. Seated at the pavilion table now were Ælfred and Raedwulf, Edwin, the young Lord of Kilton, and the two ladies of the hall. Modwynn and Edgyth had known some trepidation in anticipating the King, concerning what news he might bear of Ceric. Their fears were largely set aside when first they glimpsed Ælfred’s face. His was not the demeanor of a bearer of tragic news. Still, they were more than glad when the King himself began their converse about Kilton’s oldest son. He had left Ceric in good health and spirits, and the news that he continued to distinguish himself at the side of Prince Eadward was welcome indeed.
These assurances over, the King fell into that easy silence that those yearning for peace often crave. Both Modwynn and Edgyth could not help but note the great weariness in his face. The dark circles under his eyes told of many a sleepless night, and the once-fair skin was mazed and browned from being out in all weathers. Modwynn lifted the beaker, one of costly glass, and refilled the ale in his cup. He smiled at her.
“There is something about Kilton. It is part of my boyhood, and separate from war. Here on this cliff was always a sense of refuge from strife.” Those tired eyes held true affection for the Lady of Kilton. “And you were here.”
Modwynn gave a gentle and self-dismissive laugh. Yet she too had strong and fond memories of those early days, when Ælfred and her own sons were boys, and she herself so young.
Ælfred went on. “My father and Godwulf, they were almost as brothers.”
She nodded. “Godwulf’s friendship with your father was one of the joys of his life, and made service to him no burden.” She gave a gentle sigh, and placed her hand on his own. “You are in my prayers at every evening, and every dawn, as well.”
The King smiled, then turned his head across the garden to the stone chantry. “I will give greeting to Godwulf now,” he told her, and rose to go to the church.
Edgyth too rose, for there was much to oversee for the coming feast. Edwin, remembering that his grandmother had long acquaintance with the bailiff and might now wish a private word with him, also excused himself. He had said almost nothing in the presence of the King, as he felt was fitting. Once they had heard Ceric lived, the greatest reason for the King’s visit had vanished. Perhaps he did crave a few days of rest.
As Edwin left, both Raedwulf and Modwynn looked after him.
“He grows well,” Raedwulf judged. “He is, I would reckon, taller than Ceric.”
“Ceric favours his mother,” Modwynn agreed, with a smile of her own. “But I am glad you approve of Edwin. He is all we could hope for.”
The bailiff had turned his eyes back to the sweep of sea before him. “I have not seen the King so at ease, for many a week,” he admitted.
“I am ever glad to see my King, and to see you, my friend,” she told the bailiff.
“I know now that Ceric lives, and serves well. Tell me what more you can.”
The bailiff smiled. “It is a tale of perpetual wandering,” he answered. “Just as Eadward has not returned to Witanceaster, and has kept Ceric from returning here, so has the King been endlessly on the move, riding after the enemy, seeking provisions, shoring up failing defences, or worse, flagging spirits.”
Raedwulf himself had returned only once during the past twelve-month to Defenas. He had journeyed there to act in his role of bailiff, passing judgement on a pressing case which could not be resolved by the lord of the local burh. It was a visit so brief Raedwulf was denied the pleasure of sleeping in his own hall before he must return to the King.
The afternoon was advancing. Raedwulf had given his daughter a single embrace and a hurried kiss. Now he would have time to see her, speak with Worr, and hold his little grandsons.
Modwynn stopped him a moment longer by saying the next. “If you had news of Four Stones I know you would share it,” she murmured.
He must sigh at these words. She could not know how much he yearned for positive report from that keep.
“Nothing of substance. Hrald continues to resist the considerable pressure he must feel to join with either Haesten or Guthrum’s son, Agmund, in their plans to carve up Anglia, or conquer it whole.”
She nodded in gratitude. “So Four Stones holds firm,” she summed.
The stillness and the beauty of the place, and the thoughtfulness of her tone, opened a door for his own thoughts, to which he gave voice. It was neither question nor statement, rather admission of what lay deep within him.
“The Lady thereof,” he told her. “Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster.”
He said no more.
Modwynn looked fully at him, the strong chin dimpled with its cleft, the dark and wavy hair, slightly tousled as it curled over his ears. His eyes, blue and deep of expression. For all the softness of his words it was a declaration of love, no less than that.
Modwynn, watching that face, understood his quietness. “Yes,” she said in answer.
She knew his hall in Defenas had never known a mistress. His wife Leofgyfu, Wilgyfu’s mother, had died long before he had been awarded the land by the King. At last he pictured another woman to share his life there, when peace allowed.
“May God grant you life to win the woman you love,” she said. “Such will give you even more reason to live.”
He gave a slight shake to his head, as if his desires had overstepped the boundaries of the possible. His answer, firm and warm, grasped both public duty and private dream.
“I am always ready to die. I must be. But I am always eager to live,” he said in ending.
The King was met at the door of the stone chapel by the priest of Kilton, Dunnere. The priest was of Welsh parentage, and spoke and wrote that strange tongue. He had in the past been a help to the King when he need convey written messages to Welsh kings and princes, during both times of peace and conflict with that war-like folk.
They nodded to each other, acknowledgment of the Earthly and heavenly realms to which they were attached. Dunnere pulled open the door for the King, then slipped inside behind him to stand silently by, ready if needed to provide ghostly comfort to the monarch.
Ælfred crossed himself and took the space in. He had never entered this chantry without the scent of incense wafting to his nostrils; the very walls, hard and cold stone as they were, seemed to carry the whiff of sandalwood and copal. It added to the timelessness of the small space, and added to what felt a sense of almost formlessness, as if the thick walls might melt into a mist of precious smoke.
He moved to the altar to stand before the grey slab of flooring under which Godwulf was laid. He looked down at it, and its simple inscription, summing up the life of the man:
Godwulf
Ealdorman of Wessex
Lord of Kilton
Ælfred spoke to the dead lord, not in words, but in thought. It was a kind of communing he practised more and more with his own lost kin, and with friends he had cherished, and the old lord had
been one of these. Then he lifted his eyes.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the casement opposite, to rest on the painted statue of St Ninnoc, standing on a stone base projecting from the wall. He recalled another use of this name. Ninnoc had been the name of Gyric’s little daughter, she who had died when he did, carried off by the fever. The wide eyes of the statue seemed to call to him. Those bright blue eyes made fine contrast to Ninnoc’s wooden gown. It was painted red, its artfully carved folds resembling draped cloth. He went to it. Something about the face stirred his memory. Who rose in his mind was the wife of Gyric, Ceridwen, daughter of Cerd. Save for the eyes, the statue was like her; or she had been like this statue. Perhaps that was why the lost child had been named Ninnoc. He drew even closer. He saw two finger rings of gold laying there on the base, at the statue’s feet, in Offering to the saint. Small as they were, he had not noticed them on prior visits. Gazing on them now, he felt assured they were those of Gyric and Ceridwen.
Where was she now, Ceridwen, daughter of Cerd, once Ceridwen of Kilton? He knew she dwelt in the Baltic, with the man who had been Jarl of Four Stones. She had left fine sons behind.
The Sun had just risen, and thin clouds of rosy pink streaked the sky above the sparring ground in Kilton’s yard. Edwin had ceded the treasure room to the King, and Raedwulf and the King’s two chief body-guards had slept within. Edwin had spent the night in the hall with the rest of his men. He was now out on the training ground, sparring with Eorconbeald and Alwin under the watchful eyes of Cadmar. Despite the lateness of the hour at which Worr had stayed up talking with his father-in-law, he too was there. This morning Worr was facing Eorconbeald, and Edwin, Alwin, as they practised their spear-work.
Cadmar watched both pairs from the bench, calling out words of advice or jeering taunts as warranted. A man now made his way from the hall towards them. So engaged were the warriors that it took a moment to recognize Ælfred’s presence. Seeing the King, Eorconbeald froze for a moment, which gave Worr the opportunity to deliver a lesson. It came in the form of a solid touch with his spear-point to that captain’s right knee. In battle it would be a crippling blow.
“One instant of distraction will cost you your leg,” Worr told him. He was grinning as he said it, but the message was none the less grave for that.
As the King approached, Cadmar too recognized who he was, and rose.
“Sit, sit, old friend,” the King told him, coming to join him.
As they lowered themselves to the bench, Ælfred added with a smile, “Our bones deserve it.” As he settled on the wooden seat he gave the warrior-monk a pat on the thigh.
Edwin had feared this moment, though it had always awaited him. Here was come the King, to see him spar. He had suffered Worr’s chastisements too many times to break his efforts with Alwin. He must bring the action to a satisfying conclusion, preferably by disarming his opponent in front of the King, before he could make reverence to the monarch for whom he would fight. The Lord of Kilton was now eighteen, both taller and broader of shoulder than Alwin, but the older man, nimble and sure-footed, was a shrewd spear-man. Alwin had also something to prove, and was known as a showy fighter. The greatest spectator of all was now before him.
For his part Ælfred wished to discomfort neither young man. He trusted that Edwin had been well trained. He could assume that at this young age he would have raw strength and little finesse. But that he would gain. The King was more interested in the kind of man Edwin would become, and whether he already possessed in some measure those traits of self-sacrifice, courage, humility, and obedience demanded by his role in life.
Cadmar moved his head closer to his bench mate.
“He will, I think,” Cadmar judged, “turn a savvy warrior. He has already learnt much in reading his opponent.”
“Comes from good blood-stock for that,” Ælfred said with approval. He studied the young Lord, noted the supple strength in his wrists and arms as he moved shield to block and spear to thrust. “Quick with his hands, as well.”
The King continued to survey all four at their spear-play. “Worr, I know well,” he told Cadmar. “The other two?”
“Eorconbeald, facing Worr, is the captain of Edwin’s body-guard. Alwin, facing Edwin, is his second.”
“Thus his best men,” the King summed.
“They are able enough.”
At this point Alwin proved it, by a rapid-fire advance with his shield-arm, which allowed him to make it past the tip of Edwin’s spear, leaving him defenceless.
Any other day Edwin would have given a howl and a pointed oath at this conclusion. This morning he was forced to simply nod his concession to Alwin, and bow his head to his watching King.
Ælfred stood up at this. He nodded in acknowledgement at the men now facing him, the butts of their spears set upon the ground, the shafts held at arm’s length from their bodies in their extended grasp. Then he turned back to their trainer.
“You have done well, Cadmar,” he told the old monk. “As I knew you would.”
That afternoon Ælfred asked to see Modwynn and Edgyth. The King came to Modwynn’s bower house, where she had oftentimes met with Raedwulf. The King was alone, for he had already discussed the matter at hand with the bailiff. Modwynn welcomed him within the bower, one adorned in that simple but rich taste expressive of every work of her hand. Her bed, though narrow, had an understated opulence in its furnishings. A twill-woven spread in subtly harmonizing shades of pale greys lay upon it. The fineness of the thread and density of its weaving gave it a pearl-like lustre when viewed from certain angles. A length of cloth ran down the middle of the table, its long fringed ends spilling down either side. It was of old silk, light green in hue, with a watery variation in its colour which gave life to the fabric, as pattern-welding gives life to steel.
A small silver ewer filled with mead sat upon the table. Edgyth had the honour of pouring out for the King, her mother-in-law, and then herself. Modwynn had several blown glass cups carried from the Rhineland, fashioned by those folk who excelled at making such things, and was glad to bring them out now. Their clarity served to showcase the golden mead swirling behind their clear walls.
Ælfred wished to tell the two women, privately and first, of his decision.
“I would take Edwin with me. I want only him and his two closest men. And Worr.”
Edgyth’s pale cheek paled the further. This is what her son had been raised for, to protect Kilton and all Wessex in service of their King.
Both women knew Ælfred had lost important men. He had certain need of men of nobility in command, as young as Edwin was. And the King would not deplete Kilton’s defensive force. He was leaving every other thegn and ceorl behind.
“Edwin will travel with me,” Ælfred went on, a great but momentary assurance. “I may send him on to Eadward with some of my troops, if the Prince calls for reinforcements.”
The women took this in and nodded, assured at least that Edwin would be exposed to dangers not much greater than the King and Prince both faced.
Unvoiced was the question of command in Edwin’s absence. There was no way of knowing how long the young lord might be gone. Ceric, due back four months ago, still rode at the Prince’s side. Edwin too might be called on for extraordinary duty; the times demanded it. Yet Modwynn had guided and guarded Kilton for long years when it was left Lord-less by Godwin’s death. They had been years of mainly peace, but the many challenges of protection and management of resources had been hers.
With his next words Ælfred seemed to be thinking just this.
“I am well aware of the powers of a capable woman. My daughter Æthelflaed holds the vastness of the Mercian lands entrusted to her when her husband Æthelred is afield.”
He considered them both, sitting across the table from him. “In you, Kilton has two women of wisdom.”
Yet he must make offer, lest the task seem too onerous. “I could leave Worr with you; Raedwulf has offered him, knowing his devotion to Kilton.”
> Modwynn spoke, quietly but in earnest. “Worr has chafed each day, wanting to be at Ceric’s side. His going with Edwin will be the next best thing.”
“And you will need every man,” Edgyth added. “We are well protected here, our men at the ready.”
It was true that Kilton enjoyed rare privilege of position. With its back to the steep cliffs rising from the sea, and the knoll upon which it sat giving long views across the countryside, it was one of the most defensible burhs in the Kingdom. In dire need, Modwynn had a cousin in Sceaftesburh, a capable man of fifty years and still robust, whom she could call on. Yet Ælfred, thinking upon her relation, did not think him any more up to the task than she herself.
“Will you have Edwin brought, that I might tell him this,” he now asked.
Edwin appeared. When the serving woman conveyed the King had called for him, he feared it might be due to his shortcomings at the sparring session. This thought vanished when he saw she led him to his grandmother’s bower house; the King would not chastise him before her. Some graver matter awaited; perhaps the King had need for more silver, or wanted some of Kilton’s men. He was thus unprepared for Ælfred’s opening words, sounded just after Edwin had completed his bow to him.
“You are riding with me, tomorrow, with Worr and your two chief body-guards. The rest of your forces will remain here, for Kilton’s defence.” A moment passed before Ælfred went on. “Or until called for.”
Calling out Kilton’s men would mean an action on a scale Edwin had only heard about, and never lived through.
But it was the first part of the command that Edwin latched upon. The King of Wessex wanted him.
“I thank you, my Lord,” he said, trying not to stammer out his surprise. “I hope to repay your confidence in me.”
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