He looked at his mother and grandmother, smiling at him. His mother had clasped her hands as if at prayer, a gesture he knew well, and her lips were pressed together to hold her smile there. Edwin could see her concern, even fear for him. The young Lord of Kilton had been called to watch and learn, at the very side of the King. He realized now this was why Ælfred had come. He had come for him. He felt deeply honoured that the King himself had done so, and not merely sent a courier to summon him.
Edgyth walked to him now, and embraced him. “Come,” she told him, in a voice as strong as she could muster, “we must ready you.” She turned to Ælfred and curtsied, as Edwin bowed.
Now alone with Modwynn, the King considered how many like partings she had endured. She had experienced this pride and fear every time Godwulf had left to fight alongside his own father, or her sons Godwin and Gyric had taken up their tours in the fyrd of Wessex; then with Ceric her grandson, and now Edwin. Those remaining at the gate must have abundant store of their own courage to withstand it. He knew such from his own partings from Eadward.
He would leave her now to her own thoughts. He took stock of the room once more, and of how well it told of her nature.
The loom against the wall had escaped his eye when he entered, for it had been warped, but stood empty of any weft. Near it upon the floor a kind of frame held a large, partially folded piece of linen, riotously embroidered along the edges with trailing vines and blooming flowers. He went to it. It was marvelously worked. A needle charged with blue thread was stuck into the cloth, waiting to be again taken up.
She smiled. “My shroud. Edgyth drew this all.”
She touched her long and graceful fingers to the cloth in near-caress. The affection she had for her daughter-in-law was reflected in the way she regarded their joint work. “I have nearly finished the last of the thread-work.”
Ælfred looked back at her. She had named this final garment so lightly, almost as the mildest of jests.
He knew his wife was privately working on his own. The soberness of his answer was token of his own affection for this noble woman.
“I pray it is long before it is needed.”
As mother and son were walking to the hall, Eorconbeald and Alwin called out in high spirits to Edwin. Worr had told them of their mission, and they too were headed to the hall to pack their kit.
Beneath her own smile Edgyth, gazing on the beaming faces of these three young men, had to sigh. How eager they were for adventure, to ride into danger and perhaps death.
Edwin’s two chief body-guards began rooting through their alcoves, while he and his mother stepped inside the treasure room. They began the task of selecting and laying out clothing and kit. Edgyth was practised in this, having packed many a saddle bag for Godwin, and Edwin went with a kind of glee from chest to chest with her. He would take full weaponry, a healthy store of silver, and two horses with him. He thought of which horses to choose as he stuffed tunics into a leathern bag. His mother stood next him, carefully smoothing layers of a bedroll. Questioning himself about his horses, he was of a sudden struck by a thought.
Begu.
He must ride to her now, and tell her of his leaving.
“I… I must go and arrange for my horses,” he told his mother. She smiled wistful assent as he hurried from the room.
He told the stablemen he would need his chestnut stallion in the morning, and to ask Worr to choose the best pack animal for him. Then he swung his leg over his sorrel gelding and trotted out the gate. Once free of the sight of the walls, he pressed the animal forward.
He saw Begu two and sometimes three nights a week. Her presence in his life was become an open secret, spoken of by none but privately understood by all. Even Modwynn and Edgyth knew of it, and questioning Worr were glad to hear of her kind nature and constancy. Edwin continued in his delight of her, bringing her an ever-growing stock of silver coinage, small furs, and cloth from the store of Kilton, woven long ago in Frankland and sitting untouched in a chest of the treasure room. At the same time his understanding of her role in his life had deepened. He no longer expected her to appear at the Mid-Summer fire and dance with him, as he had desired the first year of their acquaintance. He understood she served a certain and important role in his life, as she had for Ceric. Once he was wed she must cease to be a part of his life.
He did not give thought to Begu’s future; he could not guess what that might be, just as he could guess only imperfectly at his own. They each had their role to play. He knew he had enriched her greatly in material goods and been as kind to her as he knew to be.
Engaged as he would be in warfare, he might not live long. If he died without issue Kilton would likely be forfeit to the King. For this and many other reasons he was keen to meet the maid he would wed. He looked forward to that day, not only for his own sake, but to see what would come of it for Kilton, and his bride’s own burh, or kingdom, for it was not out of the question he marry a noblewoman of Mercia or even Wales.
But just now, today, it was Begu to whom he must bid fare-well.
When he arrived at her hamlet he need not even ride to her house. Begu was standing at the common well, lowering a wooden bucket into its depths, another bucket at her feet.
There was an older woman waiting there, and cottars too abroad in their vegetable plots. As Edwin reined up he saw them nod, or cast their eyes downward in respect. The woman standing near the well dipped her skirts, and stepped back. They had rarely seen the Lord of Kilton in daylight, and now fell away from him in deference. He was left in his own light, one shared by she he had come to see.
Her face lit when she saw him, and at the smile on his own. He was off his horse in a moment, and took the first bucket, which she had nearly hauled up, from her hand. He set it down and lowered the second for her. He pulled that up, nearly brimful, and took the bail of each in hand. The reins of his horse were still over the animal’s neck, and she made a slight gesture towards it, as if she should lead him. She was a little afraid of horses; he knew this, and he smiled at her the more. “No need,” he assured her. “He will follow us.”
They walked, the three of them, the short distance to Begu’s tiny house, Edwin holding the buckets carefully level, Begu at his side, and the sorrel nosing behind them. He carried the water into her work yard and set the buckets on the stone pavers laid by the cooking ring.
He dried his hands by wiping them on his leggings. He could not tell his news without a grin.
“Ælfred is here,” he began, which gave her a slight start. “At Kilton. He came for me.”
She took a breath.
“The King… came for you?”
“Yes. I will ride with him, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she breathed back.
So she was forced to hear this again. He rode on the morrow, into mortal danger. She might not see him again. She steadied herself, and took what comfort she could. She did not love Edwin as she did his brother. Yet it was impossible not to care for him, and care she did.
“I have little time,” he was saying now, glancing to where his loose horse was pulling leaves from a shrub. “But I wanted to tell you, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed. Her small white hand lifted to her eye. One of the curls of her hair was near it, masking the act of wiping away a tear blearing her vision.
“I have brought you no silver,” he confessed. “I wish I had.”
Her fair cheek coloured. “There is no need,” she murmured.
He thought of this, remembering how Ceric, set to ride out with the Prince, had asked him to give Begu fifty silver pieces if he died. He did not like to think of that now, nor of how he had leapt up at his brother’s words, denying that this could befall him. He could not think of himself dying, not on his first tour of duty. If he did, he trusted Ceric would make good the same gift for her, in his name.
“Will you see your brother?” she asked.
“I do not know. Ceric is off with Eadward, where I would li
ke to be, chasing Haesten.”
“You will be with the King,” she reminded. It was gently voiced, like so much she said.
He had to admit this was best of all. “Yes,” he said, and kissed her. “I will be with the King.”
The next morning the hall of Kilton was early astir. The meal that broke the night’s fast was of extra hardiness, as bulwark to those who would ride, and those who must stay behind. The kitchen yard had as well generously reprovisioned the saddle bags of Ælfred’s men.
Modwynn’s fare-well to Edwin, given in her bower house, was difficult, but Edgyth’s fare-well to her son was wrenching. Edgyth could scarcely speak, so full was her heart. Even the smile upon his young face occasioned more pain, for the innocence she saw there. As Edwin stood before her in his fine war-kit, she was struck by how much like Godwin he was. It felt the opening of a doubled flood-gate, of paired love and loss.
He had nearly forgotten the golden dragon pennon she had made for him after he was named Lord of Kilton. It was entirely the work of her hands, from the spinning of the linen, its weaving, and then the coloured thread-work she lavished upon it, delineating the proud beast, claws extended, flying through the air. She had it ready for him, and he once more exclaimed over it, then rolled it carefully up to place with his kit.
Before the hall the forecourt was crowded with men and horses. Modwynn and Edgyth stood to one side, their eyes filled with images of Edwin, of the King, of stamping horses restless to make a start. Dunnere the priest would give a final blessing to those departing, and was even now walking amongst them, ready with holy oil. Worr was there, standing by his horse, Wilgyfu at his side. She held their youngest son and the second was in Worr’s arms, while the eldest boy was at his grandfather’s side. Raedwulf said his fare-wells and left Worr and his family the last few moments alone.
Ælfred was not yet horsed. He watched Eorconbeald and Alwin lead their mounts from the paddock rail, where they had finished saddling them. Edwin stood there between his laden pack horse and his chestnut stallion, and was himself tightening his saddle animal’s girth. Cadmar was with him, saying little, just watching in that way that bore witness to something that might be momentous. Edwin saw the King gesture to his two body-guards.
The two came before the King and bowed their heads. In their full war-kit they made fine show, steel helmets glinting as the rays of the Sun struck them, ring-shirts gleaming over their tunics of leather. The painted shields on their backs were boldly coloured in red and white and green and blue. They had the free and easy manner of good fighters heading out to win fame, and battle-gain.
Ælfred studied them for a long moment before he spoke, a pause that as it wore on, made the young men more than a trifle uneasy. Then the King lifted his eyes to the Lord of Kilton standing at the paddock, before fixing them again on the body-guards. His voice was unhurried, his tone low, and the gravity of his message unmistakable.
“Edwin and you now become part of my own body-guard, giving Edwin the greatest protection I can afford him. Your duty to him alone is foremost.” His eyes had not left their faces, shifting slowly from one to the other.
“Our lives are ever in the hands of God,” he went on.
Each of them could guess what the following words might be. The King’s eyes settled on Alwin.
“But the Lord of Kilton must not die.”
It was not quite reproach, but it was near. There was to be no showing off at Edwin’s expense, or for personal gain. It was reminder that they must sacrifice themselves so that the young lord would live. They nodded their heads with lowered eyes. Ælfred left them to go to his horse.
Edwin had watched all, without hearing any of it. He walked to the two, leading his horse.
“What secret did the King give you,” he asked, almost teasing them in his tone.
Eorconbeald did not grin back. “No secret. A mere reminder of the danger we go into, and our pledge.”
Edwin cocked his head to the side. There must have been more.
Alwin looked at him, and answered. “I will be dead before they get to you.” He gave a laugh at his own words.
One must laugh, saying such a thing. At times one needed to both affirm and dismiss the seriousness of a given role. Eorconbeald too was now grinning.
Edwin alone did not laugh. He thought, This is what it means to be Lord. This man Alwin will stand before me, saying my life is worth more than his.
It made him shake his head. Dunnere preached that every soul weighed the same in the eyes of God. Here on Earth the scales were always tipped.
Before the four riding from Kilton climbed into their saddles, Dunnere made the sign of the cross on their brows with holy oil, blessing each and asking that God receive their souls. The men placed their helmets back on their heads, mounted their horses and took their places. All the hall and yard cheered them through the gates, and again the cottars of the village lined the road to see their King and now their Lord ride off. The four blended seamlessly into Ælfred’s troops, save that this time Edwin was at the left side of the King.
Cadmar was ready. At dusk he mounted his horse, and with two saddlebags tied firmly behind him, trotted out the gate. The old warrior-monk was known at times to take himself off to Kilton’s forests. There he would make sylvan retreat, for a period of silent reflection and prayer. The guards letting him out thought nothing of it.
Instead he made after the King’s troop. He was of no high use to Kilton. He was no leader of men; his life whether as thegn or monk had been one of obedient service, not command. His devotion to the Lady of Kilton ran deep, but he would not be of any material help to her. He might, though, be of real aid to Edwin.
He left a message with a serving boy, asking him to on the morrow tell Modwynn, “Forgive me, Lady. I ride in the name of your grandson, that he might live and return to you.”
Chapter the Thirteenth: I Will Come Back To You
Anglia
CERD took toddling steps towards his mother, ending in a run. His dimpled face was framed by curls of reddish-gold, and his nose, small as it was, promised the fine shape of his father’s. His skin had the same fair tint as did that of Ceric. Only in the child’s eyes could Ashild see something of herself. Her boy’s were not the golden-green of his father, nor the grey-blue of her own. They were dark blue, flecked generously with green, the iris rimmed with grey. They had the calmness of his father’s eye colouration, but the flash and storm of her own.
Cerd had also her temper. He was a laughing and lively child, but should anything frustrate him his small hands would curl into fists, the rosy cheeks redden, and the plump little feet stamp angrily upon the planked floors of Ashild’s house, or even the stones of the hall. He would wail, a pitch beginning at a low howl and rising to a shriek. His mother would look down at him and think, I know what it is to feel that way. Burginde would laugh at him, sweeping him up into her arms and holding him aloft to sail around with him in the air until he began chortling with her. He was active in body, a little slow to talk, though Ælfwyn and Burginde reminded her it was generally so with boys. Cerd’s attachment to his mother was as strong as hers to him. His smile for her when he patted her face was one that caused his blue-green eyes to crease shut in pleasure. For Ashild’s part she could imagine standing over him like a she-wolf, snapping to ward off any comers attempting to harm her helpless pup.
Today he and Ashild were in the weaving room together, surrounded by her female kin. Ashild caught him up in one arm and praised him for carrying to her the spindle she had asked him for. Cerd placed the round tip of it in his mouth before surrendering it to her outstretched hand with a laugh.
Ashild and Cerd now slept in the small house Asberg had built years ago for her aunt, Æthelthryth. Ashild had lived there for years with her aunt and uncle, and now they were at Turcesig it was become the home of both she and her son. Sleeping there spared her mother and Burginde the child’s fretful cries at night, though the way they both doted on him it was cl
ear no sacrifice was too great.
Ashild took Cerd almost everywhere with her around hall and precincts. He had even been atop a horse with her. She had climbed upon her white stallion and had Byrgher, one of her brother’s men, hand the child up to her, his little booted feet gleefully drumming upon the saddle pommel. Byrgher laughed. “In two years you will be searching out a pony for him,” he predicted. Byrgher was a family man, a favoured companion of Asberg, and had flanked her with Asberg when they charged from the gates of Oundle to defend it.
The boy was the pride of Four Stones. When Ashild felt strong enough after his birth to take her meals with all, her brother invited her to sit at the high table, next their mother. She had her newborn babe in arms when he told her this, and was struck by the offer. She saw that returning to the women’s table as a mother would be wrong; it was for unwed maids and young girls. Within the hall married women and widows always sat at the table of male kin. Hrald was tacitly honouring the supposed marriage between her and Ceric which Burginde had been so good at suggesting. She came to the high table that night, her babe tied in a sling at her side, like any other young married woman. For her and her babe to be welcomed this way by her brother, to sit before all next her mother and amongst Hrald’s best warriors was more than a sign of her changed estate. It was a marked sign of esteem. It was granted for her status as peace-weaver with one of the most powerful families of Wessex, a recognition of the treaty between Hrald’s part of Anglia and the land Ceric of Kilton had been born into. She knew this, but it did not rankle her as it might have in the past. Her child was a child of Wessex, as well as Anglia. Just as meaningful to those who filled Hrald’s hall was the fact that she was Yrling’s daughter, and here was Yrling’s heir, in the hall he had won. Until Hrald had a son of his own, future hope could rest in this tiny babe, under her arm.
Ashild brought Cerd with her to the high table every night. He would suckle heartily beforehand, and often slept throughout the noise of the meal. But he was there, a son of the hall, just as she was a daughter of the hall. After Cerd was weaned and began to feed himself with help, he sat on Burginde’s lap at the women’s table. There a laughing Ealhswith kept his fists full of bread while he crowed for more.
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