The Jarl of Four Stones took delight in his nephew. When Cerd attempted to say his uncle’s name, it came out like a growl, which made Hrald laugh. It was at times hard for him to look at the child without thinking that he himself might have been made a father by now. The few months with his wife seemed a dream which he was always pushing back, and not wanting to remember. Indeed, after the wounding first days following Hrald’s return from Oundle, Dagmar was never spoken of in the hall. Their union had been brief, no child had resulted, and she had been cast out in shame. The advent of Ashild’s babe shifted the eyes of all to her, and the fine son she had brought forth. It was needful and even joyous distraction in a troubling time.
Hrald gave no thought to another wife. Such would emerge one day, he hoped, but he was in no eagerness to place himself again in the way of such dire harm.
Just past Mid Summer one of the serving folk from the foundation of Oundle arrived at the gates of Four Stones. He was mounted on one of Oundle’s two cart horses, and rode saddleless, but with much of the animal’s harness upon its back. Like all visitors during this time of heightened caution, he had been met and escorted by three of the watch-men along the road. He bore a letter for Hrald.
Two monks lately come from Wessex had carried the missive to the Abbess. Hrald had no idea what it was, pressed flat between thin slats of wood. He untied the leathern cord securing it. The letter was a single sheet of parchment, a scrap really, which had never been folded, and bore no sign of sealing wax. His eyes skipped at once to the bottom.
Ceric. He must have written it in haste, and on the road. He had dated it, Near the Octave Day of Easter. That was eight days following that high holy feast, a full four months ago. Hrald read it standing there in the hall yard, then went looking for his sister.
He found her by the washing shed near the kitchen yard, her son in a shallow bronze tub, splashing his open palms in the sudsy water he sat in.
Ashild looked up at him, laughing at Cerd’s play.
“A letter from Ceric,” Hrald told her, as he held it out. “Just brought from Oundle, from two monks stopping there.”
Ashild’s intake of breath signalled her surprise. She wiped her hands on the apron panel of her gown, and took the leaf of parchment. She read it silently, her eyes slowly moving over Ceric’s small and rounded words.
Near the Octave Day of Easter
HRALD – MY BROTHER
Would this scrap of parchment be me myself. Know that I am well and at Eadward’s side. Hearing you and Four Stones are whole would be my greatest boon. All my effort is for Wessex, Kilton, and Ashild. May we be granted Peace between our halls, forever.
CERIC OF KILTON
When she finished she lifted her eyes to Hrald. The letter said close to nothing, yet everything.
Her brother looked at her and said, “I know he will come, if he can.”
She nodded, unable for the moment to speak. Ceric had held this parchment, inked these words, named his hopes. She was what he worked for.
Cerd had stopped in his splashing and sat looking up at her. Now he reached hands and arms out for the letter she held. Anything he grasped went straight to his mouth, something in this case she could not allow. She smiled and shook her head at him. The boy, denied the prize he sought, began to twist his face. His mother was quicker. She passed the parchment back to Hrald, then took a towel and stood her boy up in the water while she wrapped him.
“It is from your father,” she said, and kissed Cerd on his rounded forehead. I pray you meet him soon, she added, silently.
The watchful wariness which had settled over Four Stones for so long had continued over the year and half since Cerd had been born. The needful tasks of running a fortress – meeting the demands of feeding, housing, and training many men – went on unabated month after month, as did the oversight of the village folk, and the vigilant protection of the boundaries of Four Stones’ lands. Oundle and its safety was always a concern. As independent as Abbess Sigewif was, the foundation remained a prime target, and demanded a rotating troop of men garrisoned there to protect it. Yet both Summers since Ceric’s last visit here had been fruitful ones. The granary stores were not swept of their last kernels before the new crop of oats, barley, and wheat was reaped. The flocks of sheep, always under Ælfwyn’s ready care and management, grew steadily in quality of wool, milk, and meat. The upsets Four Stones had suffered receded, whether the ambush by starving renegades Hrald had been present at, the slaying of his three watch-men by Agmund’s men, or the dismissal of the young Lady of Four Stones after a few short months of marriage.
The first of these mishaps had left the hall with an orphaned boy. It took a while before Hrald realised it was not the stableman Mul fostering the child Bork, but he himself. The boy lived with Mul’s family, and his wife fed, dressed, and cared for Bork as if he were her own. But the boy’s attachments were all to the Jarl and his mother. It was these who first struck him as sparing his life, and caring for him.
Since his coming to the hall Bork had shot up, his scrawny frame filling out, but the added flesh was barely able to keep up with his next growth spurt. Hrald had no idea of the boy’s age in years. In some ways he seemed young, and in other ways, far older. Mul’s wife, comparing him to her own boys, guessed him to be now of eleven or twelve years. Bork was become Hrald’s shadow about the hall yards. Mul, understanding the boy’s attachment, put him in sole charge of the Jarl’s horses, a task that he took with the gravity it warranted. And taking the Abbess’ counsel to heart, Hrald himself began to teach Bork to read and write. He gave the boy his old wax tablet and wooden stylus, and showed him first how to write his own name, both in the runes, and in the speech of Anglia as taught to him by his mother, then Wilgot the priest, and finally Sigewif. Bork took to it well enough; he had nimble fingers given to the plaiting of horses’ manes, and with leather-working dies could stamp handsome patterns in the bridle leather and reins Hrald held. He remained a reticent child. He rarely smiled; there was a kind of silent urgency about him, but when praised with a word or two the narrow chest would expand with solemn pride.
Hrald remembered Dagmar studying the boy, and telling him Bork would do anything for Hrald, and for his mother. He did not like to recall his wife’s time here at Four Stones, but felt she had been right in judging this. It felt a heavy charge.
Just within the Anglian border Edwin, Lord of Kilton, was headed for service under Prince Eadward. He had been sent by Ælfred to join his son in tracking down those Danes who had camped on the Lyge. Worr rode with him, and Edwin had his body-guards Eorconbeald and Alwin to augment his presence. A fourth man from Kilton had also made himself known. Cadmar had trailed behind the small body of men. On the third day out Cadmar announced himself at dawn by appearing on the opposite bank of the shallow stream by which they had camped.
The warrior-monk knelt at the edge of the water, washing himself as first Eorconbeald and then Edwin approached to do the same. The astonishment of the younger men was met by a shrugging lack of concern by the older, who merely looked over, grey hair dripping, and grinned. Ordering his return was out of the question, for at Kilton Cadmar occupied a special role. He was revered by Lady Modwynn, and held in the highest esteem by all. And as their battle trainer he was in fact a superior to all of them. For his part, Worr was happy to have Cadmar along. Worr was old enough to have strong memory of the man’s fighting days, and recalled his cool detachment as a battle mate. His would be a steadying presence for the young lord.
As they broke their fast together Alwin had to tease Cadmar. They had all watched Ælfred’s easy familiarity with the old man, and how the two had spoken together at the sparring ground.
“Here to be the King’s eyes and ears, are you?” Alwin gibed.
Cadmar laughed and looked at Alwin, Eorconbeald, and then Edwin in turn. “No. Only my own, that my long training of you has not been in vain.”
Edwin and his companions were escorted to the Prince by one of t
he men he had sent back to make report to the King. They followed the northerly route of the stream, which grew broad and active. Their days in the saddle were long, pressing their mounts to make up time to overtake the Prince. The many tracks left behind by Eadward’s horses grew fresher. At dusk six days out they caught up to them. Late Summer as it was, darkness fell earlier each day, and the Prince and his men were already at their night’s camp.
The escort held his brass horn to his lips. He blew the Prince’s three-note call, signalling one of his own men had returned. After it sounded, Worr added the blackbird call he had oftentimes used with Ceric. At the signal horn all of Eadward’s men had stood, eager to greet the returning messenger lest he carried news. He appeared, with five others, moving forward on their horses out of the gathering gloom. They came closer to where the small cooking fire burned, and quit their beasts.
Edwin scanned the faces as he approached. In the low light some were indistinct. He did not see his brother. Worr too was uneasy. He knew Ceric would have recognized his call and responded in kind. But the call of the blackbird went unanswered.
The Prince came forward. “My Lord,” said Edwin, as he and his companions bowed their heads. Eadward’s escort told of the King’s request, that Edwin serve here on the hunt for Haesten. The Prince welcomed them, and had a special word for Worr. “You have been missed,” he said.
This was high praise for Worr’s tracking skills, but both he and Edwin could not hide their growing discomfort. Edwin was about to speak of it when Eadward read this in their questioning eyes.
“Ceric,” he said. “He is well. He is serving as scout, riding ahead. We are keeping to the stream, and he will find us within a day or two.”
They saw to their horses and then took their places round the cook fire. Edwin was grateful for the browis ladled out; he and those he arrived with were nearly out of provisions. The Prince and his troop had been able to keep themselves supplied by procuring what they could from local crofters they found along the way. It mattered not this was Danish Anglia; times were hard for all, and if a farm had a little grain or a few eggs to spare they would part with them for silver from the men of Wessex offering the metal.
The quiet over Four Stones was an uneasy one, but quiet nonetheless. It was shattered one day by the arrival on foot of an exhausted man, one who had been stationed at the landing port of Saltfleet. He had not even strength to enter the hall, but sunk down on a bench outside the stable, heaving great breaths as he gulped down dippersful of water and then the ale that was brought to him. Hrald, Jari, and Kjeld stood before him, with a growing number of others, including the older warrior, Byrgher. Ashild too was there, drawn by the uproar as she walked through the yard. The man’s torn clothing and bleeding and scratched hands and face gave witness to the rough terrain he had travelled. He had in turn walked and run to Four Stones, telling that two war-ships of unknown Danes had appeared from around the sea promontory at Saltfleet, carrying two or threescore men to each ship. They were not Danes settled in Anglia; these were, by their speech, come from Dane-mark. They drew up to the wooden pier, and screaming out war-cries, began leaping to the planked surface, weapons in hand.
There was no question of the ten men stationed at the port holding the buildings. They ran for their lives into the woods, unable even to stop to catch their horses. They had been pursued, and the survivor knew some at least had been overtaken by the invaders; he could hear the oaths of his companions as they were caught. For fear of discovery he had forsaken any known road and come overland, through marsh and wood, to reach Four Stones again.
“Have any returned?” he asked. “Am I alone?”
The faces of those listening told him he was.
Saltfleet, the port that Sidroc had built, had fallen. Nine of Four Stones’ men were missing, and likely dead. The outrage this sparked was instant and deep.
Hrald turned away from the returning man to face Jari.
“I will find them and fight them,” Hrald said. His jaw was clenched and his words rippled with intent.
Jari’s declaration was even more clear. “We will find them and kill them!”
Nearly all around them gave up a whoop of acclaim. Ashild alone was silent, watching them all.
Hrald felt a surge of energy coursing through his body. His anger at the destruction of his men and storming of his port was intense, and he fought to push it aside so his resolve was foremost. To lead with anger brought recklessness, and he could not afford to be reckless. His father had taught him this, as had Asberg. He must now ride to fight, not just to look and learn. He would find and battle this foe, as soon as all could be made ready.
Commands flew from his lips. He looked to Kjeld.
“Send two men to Asberg at Turcesig. Tell him to leave Styrbjörn in charge, and bring fifty men to Four Stones by tomorrow. Turcesig must ready for a siege.”
They could not know what targets these invaders sought, but every fortified keep was a storehouse of both weaponry and silver, and must expect the attentions of raiders.
“Haward?” posed Jari.
Hrald spent a moment in thought. “Nej,” he decided, with a shake of his head. After what he had learnt of Haward in the past, Hrald wanted to see if he would be carried this news separately, and what he would do about it. “Do not send to Haward. Set two men to watch his hall, to wait, and see if he receives message himself. And who brings such to him.”
Hrald nodded his head to himself, as he made further decision. “We have thirty men at Oundle,” he told Jari. “Send twenty more to the Abbess, fully supplied, taking them from the men at the valley of horses.”
This left only thirty to guard the horses, but some of the men Asberg brought could be sent there. Mindful of his offensive needs as he must be, he need be careful in the rationing of his men for defence of all he owned or supported.
“If Asberg brings fifty, we can ride with seventy or eighty men, and still leave the hall defended.”
He felt almost light-headed at all he had just ordered, and all which must be achieved before he rode. He stood in the knot of men as Kjeld and Jari sent men off to their tasks. For the first time he saw his sister, standing there amongst them. She had a stack of folded linens in her arms, which she now lay over the paddock rail.
Hrald nodded at her, and when Kjeld turned back he spoke to both of them.
“We have no idea of who we are tracking, but when we find them we will fight.
“Kjeld, you and Ashild will remain here, in command of Four Stones.”
This time Ashild had answer for her brother, one he did not expect.
“Nej, Hrald,” she told him. She had been watching his face, seeing his calculation of where and how to use his men. Her voice was clear and with a decisiveness of her own. “Let me go with you. I can act as courier.”
Hrald’s eyes met those of his sister. Hers were not flashing with anger, but were bright nonetheless.
He could not let her go, not now. She was not only a woman, but a mother now.
Yet looking at her he felt the injustice of this ruling. She had ridden to Oundle and made a clean kill there; Asberg and his father had seen it. He had crowned her with gold, a warrior’s portion, for her action.
“You need every man,” she insisted, “let me go and spare you another for the field.”
He hesitated long enough for her to add, “You told me I was the best rider amongst us, before the fight at Oundle. Use me as a messenger, then.” She could not help the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth as she said this.
He found himself answering her with a single condition.
“Only if you will swear not to engage in any way.”
“I will swear that. I do swear, Hrald.”
It was an easy promise to make. She did not want to kill another man, not unless she had to.
He had to concede. “Byrgher will stay at your side,” he said, at which the older man nodded.
At this point Burginde, who had been
heading to the kitchen yard, appeared. She took in the activity in a single glance and did an about face back to the hall. She returned with Ælfwyn. Hrald stood there, Jari at his side, and Ashild, with Kjeld at hers. Ælfwyn let her face speak for her. Her son related the news he had been brought, and described his response. He would ride to war, and Ashild was going too, only to act as messenger if needed.
The Lady of Four Stones listened, lips parted, and with cheeks drained of colour. This was war. And her two eldest were running after it. Her son must, he was Jarl. But Ashild…
Her mother searched her face. “You will be there, on the sidelines only,” she repeated.
Ashild nodded. “Only to serve as courier,” she promised.
Hrald was allowing it, and Ælfwyn must accept this. And the thought that Ashild, who loved her brother so dearly, would be near him, gave her a sudden flush of comfort, despite the doubled danger they rode to. She took a breath, noticing the stream of men busy at paddock and stable. She now had her own vital tasks of preparation to attend to.
“The provisions,” she asked her son. “How long will you be gone?’
Hrald gave a glance to the shed which housed the waggons. “A supply waggon will slow us down. We will take pack horses. Give us enough for four days.”
She nodded, but Burginde did more than that.
“I am off,” the nurse said, and made for the kitchen yard.
“The village?” Ælfwyn turned slightly toward the opened gates, her hand lifted.
“They must all come in,” Hrald told her.
Four Stones had known a wakeful and restless night. The needed horses had already been brought from the sheltering valley where so many of them pastured. By mid-morning both mounts and pack animals were saddled, and every man who was riding with Hrald was busy affixing his leathern bags to saddle rings. Every man’s war-kit had been carefully laid out on the trestle tables of the main hall, and men had stood over them, arming themselves. All would be mounted; all would carry a spear, any who owned swords would bear those as well. They all had knives at their hips and those who favoured the skeggox or war hammer had them at the ready, the deadly heads secure in their hardened leathern cases. Ten good archers carried bows with them, their quivers bristling with fletched arrows on their backs. One did not like to give thought to the need for it, but most men carried a roll of linen band for binding wounds.
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