“Does Hrald live?”
He nodded. “He… forgives me.”
Modwynn gave silent thanks. The bond between the two had ever been strong. And in the confusion of battle one’s men got hacked, trampled, struck by errant weapons which maimed and killed their own. It was more than clear Ceric had not known Hrald’s men were on the field.
For all that had been snatched away, one thing had been granted. Ceric told them of it now.
“Ashild had a child. My child, a boy. His name is Cerd. Before I left he learnt to run to me, and laugh in my arms.”
Shock gave way to wonderment. Modwynn voiced it.
“You have a son, an heir for Kilton.”
Ceric was shaking his head at her hopes.
“I could not take him, grandmother. I could not. I took his mother, forever, from that hall.” His voice rose in pitch and urgency. “He is what is left of Ashild. I could not take him.”
She must accept this dictum from the boy’s father. There would be time for the child to grow, to come here to see his father and know Kilton. Right now she must care for her grieving grandson.
Edgyth, also fearing for Ceric, was of the same mind. He needed rest and care before he could begin to heal, and this was best accomplished while withdrawn from public view.
Edgyth’s gentle voice was yet backed with purpose.
“Ceric,” she invited. “Let me make ready for you the bower house, where your parents lived.”
Ceric nodded, and Modwynn seconded the idea with swift assent. “All know of your return,” she told him. “You need not appear in the hall until you are ready.”
Modwynn turned to the horse-thegn of Kilton. Her worn and tear-streaked face yet showed her gratitude. “Wilgyfu and your boys await you. We all of us welcome you home.”
Worr had a final task. He placed his hand on the wrapped bundle before him. “This is Cadmar’s sword, restored to the treasury from whence it came.”
Modwynn placed her hands on the sword and pulled back the cloth, revealing the hilt of Cadmar’s blade.
Cadmar had been far more than a warrior. But this weapon was the emblem of his service to Kilton, and she was grateful for its return.
“I know the value of Cadmar’s sword. My own father gave it to him, when he was old and Cadmar, young. I present it to you, Worr, for your faithful service.”
Worr bowed his head in fervent thanks. The legacy of this weapon imbued it with value far beyond the rippling steel of its pattern-welded blade.
Alone in her bower, Modwynn left the doorway where she had seen the three out. She turned in the small space, and walked to her loom. By it was the frame which held a folded length of linen, brightly embroidered at the edges. There was a small cushioned chair there, on which she had sat by the hour, needle in hand. She paused by it now, looking, and seeing nothing. This doubled grief was almost beyond compassing. Cadmar, trusted friend and advisor, was dead, his body lying in an Anglian forest. She was given no chance to bid fare-well to her old friend. None could know when he slipped away that he rode to his death, but he must have suspected it, and wished to spare them both the pain of a final parting.
Her own husband Godwulf had died in a moment, with no chance to bid fare-well. But he had done so in the pleasure garden, and she could drop on her knees and kiss his still-warm face. If she had been near Cadmar she would have lifted his hands in her own, and kissed those.
But Ashild of Four Stones – what tragedy was this? How did one recover? How could Ceric forgive himself his unknowing act of war? Kilton’s hope for union with the great hall of Anglia had been piteously dashed. The shock and sorrow of the family of Four Stones staggered her. She lifted her hand to her face as these thoughts came near to overwhelming her. The gladsome news of the child of those halls almost added to her grief. Like Ceric in his shock, like Ashild, this boy, little Cerd, seemed beyond recovery as well. She sank down upon the chair, and wept.
Ceric walked with Edgyth to the bower house. He took the key from his belt and unlocked the door. He stepped over the spot, deeply sanded, where a serving man had long ago died; saw the alcove where he slept as a small boy. There, by the casement on the other side of the bed, lay the empty cradle. He unbuckled his weapon belts and hung both blades on the pegs by the bed, where his father had hung the same seax. He sat down at the small table. Edgyth and a serving woman moved about, opening chests, making up the bed. His saddle bags were carried in, and more clothing brought from his own alcove in the hall. Edgyth gave him a parting kiss, and left.
There was a tap at the door. Worr came in, Ceric’s spear in hand. He placed it by the hanging weapons. It had been the spear of his father, and was thus a family heirloom. It must be kept. Ceric had not touched it since dropping it by Cadmar’s body. He had not closed his hand around a spear since he had picked up the throwing spear with which he had killed Ashild. He knew he never would.
Worr came to where he sat. He had brought Ceric home, which Worr knew would be only the start of his reclamation. Right now the horse-thegn would say what he could.
“Ceric. Any man would have done the same, seeing that war-flag. I would have done it.”
Ceric listened, and nodded his head.
Later Ceric walked alone through the hall yards, seeing all as they went about the needful duties of their day. He felt as if he saw them for the first time. The stable and kitchen folk looked at him, and his own men, unwilling to intrude, gave him a wary but respectful nod when their eyes met. He moved deeper into the precincts, nearer the bower house, to those places frequented by the family of Kilton. The day was a fine one, the sky the cool blue of shorter days and coming frosts. The sea was active; he heard it pounding against the base of Kilton’s cliffs before he saw its curling white wave tips. The pleasure garden was before him, the leaves of its fruit trees withering and falling away, the table and benches in the open pavilion bleached and bare in the strong sunlight. He walked to the edge of the cliff, and looked down at the foaming water. The landing stage had been long pulled up against the threat of raiding ships. But he thought that he wanted to take one of Kilton’s small boats, and set out on the tossing sea in it, the way he and Worr used to when he was younger.
Modwynn spent time with him, and Worr too. He went to the hall at night and took his place at the high table, by Edwin’s empty chair. The place where Cadmar had sat also lay empty, and would be so at least until his prayer service was held. Ceric lifted his cup to his lips, and tried to eat. Garrulf the scop bowed to him, and began to sing that night a favourite tale of his when a boy, that of sling-throwing David and his triumph over the giant, Goliath. Ceric tried without success to attend while Garrulf struck the strings of his harp and chanted of the adventure. He could not hear of death tonight, nor remain in this crowded hall. He must be alone in his torment. He went early to the bower house, lit the cressets, and sat at the table until they guttered and burnt out.
In the morning as he took clothing where it had been laid, he saw something of wood in the corner of the deep chest. He drew out the wooden bird his father had carved for him as a toy, and ran his finger over his own teething marks on it. He could barely recall his father. The toy made him think of his uncle, calling him Chirp. He placed the bird on the sill of the casement. He may have been Cerd’s age when his father made this for him.
Two days later Edwin arrived home. The Prince had returned to Witanceaster with the captured Danes and to seek his own needed rest. Edwin was thanked and sent west to Kilton. He travelled with Eorconbeald and Alwin, and the full complement of men with whom he had ridden to Eadward; save for the signal loss of Cadmar, he had lost none. It was his sole consolation.
His journey home had been marked by discomfort of both body and mind. Being flung from his horse rendered him almost blinded by searing headaches. At times he had not been able to open his eyes for the pain. His broken nose had been set aright by Eorconbeald, who had given it a stinging wrench to straighten it, then packed his nostrils with
thin strips of linen to absorb the new bleeding. The headaches had abated, but his cracked ribs took longer. They made him feel fragile and even flawed. He was unable to draw a full breath without a gasping wince. The broad scrape on the right side of his face had gone from scab to fresh pink skin beneath, but the skin beneath his eyes, which had been blacked from his fall, was still slightly darkened. Far worse than any of these bodily ailments was the sorrow he felt for his brother.
He was aggrieved on his own account, as well. Cadmar’s loss felt overwhelming. The man had been respected, even beloved, by all. He was one of the few who recalled his grandmother as a young woman, and had knowledge of her own parents. Cadmar had trained every warrior at Kilton for the past two decades, and overseen the training of the village ceorls. He had been Edwin’s special counsel and mentor. Edwin had hoped to return to Kilton with Cadmar at his side, with the big man telling of the young Lord’s prowess in arms. Instead Cadmar was dead, and he had not even had the chance to raise spear or sword against a single enemy. The shame he felt at this he was unable to express to anyone. As his horse galloped onto the field he told himself he was Godwin’s son. A moment later he was sent sprawling, at once rendered unfit. Rather than winning repute on the field, he had needed rescue. He could not help being disheartened at his own performance. He faulted himself even for the loss of his chestnut stallion.
Ceric went to greet him as they rode in. It was late in the day, and soon they must gather in the hall. First Edgyth, eager to hold her son in the quietude of the treasure room, would bathe his face in the dried flowerheads of the herb ironhard to speed the healing of his skin. Ceric had no time alone with his brother, for before the meal Edwin would be presented with the battle-gain his men had won.
For Ceric to sit there and watch the needful taking up and display of knives and swords and silver necklets and armbands was a form of torture to him. These were carried off from the field upon which he had killed Ashild. As soon as he could he slipped from the table and withdrew.
In the morning Edwin came to him in the bower house. The slight embrace they shared reflected both brothers’ tender states. They spoke of Cadmar, and Ceric recounted in as much detail as he could summon the old man’s final moments, and concern for Edwin. The silence that followed was marked by a sorrow-shot regard, as the brothers looked at each other.
Ceric did not say more, and Edwin would not ask. Worr had told him privately of coming upon his older brother as he rocked Ashild in his arms, calling her name.
Edwin had been told something else, of lasting import. “My lady-mother Edgyth told me you have a son,” he offered.
Ceric nodded. “Yes. I did not know. We had one night together.” He had to pause here, and with a voice near to breaking found need to recount the paucity of what he had been granted. “We had but one night together.”
Kilton had so long need of heirs that any son of the hall was cause for rejoicing. The boy Cerd was not only the child of the eldest of Godwulf’s grandsons, but the boy’s mother was of one of the richest halls in the Dane-law. Edwin was Lord of Kilton, but his brother had already a direct heir, and Edwin did not. Even in his dulled state Ceric knew he must address this.
“Cerd… he will stay at Four Stones, to be raised by Hrald and the Lady Ælfwyn. Only if he is needed would he come here.”
If he was needed. If Edwin died without issue, Kilton would be ruled by Ceric, if Ælfred approved. And Cerd, as first born, would be next in line. If Edwin died, Ceric would surely call for his son Cerd to come here.
All Edwin could do was nod. He had eighteen years and should wed soon, but could not think of this now.
At length Edwin got up to leave. He could not invite his brother to ride out with him; he himself could not pull his weight up on the back of a horse without pain. In fine weather they had swam or sailed. Right now he could not do either. Even if he were sound, the water was grown rough, and none were to risk making a target of themselves to passing raiders. There was nothing he could offer Ceric, save his presence.
As he stood in the middle of the floor Edwin’s eyes were drawn to the dragon bed. It so dominated the small house that any who entered were forced to regard it. The red-painted tongues of the four dragons’ mouths cast their wooden flames up towards the timber roof. Edwin saw the scar on the bedpost nearest the door. Once again he went to it, and placed his finger on the gash.
A thought came to him, for the first time, one that charged him with an icy thrill. He shared a mother with Ceric. Perhaps his father Godwin had come here, to this bed.
Ceric watched him touch the dragon’s throat. They had once wondered together about that knife wound. He remembered that he was going to smooth the gash away, before he brought his wife Ashild to bed here.
That afternoon Edwin went to see Begu. It was broad day, but he felt need of her company, and greater need to tell her Kilton’s news. He wanted her softness, and to hear her gentle murmuring in response to things he told her. Though he used the mounting block, he suppressed a groan as he gained his saddle. But once up, he kept his thoughts focused on she he rode to visit. As he passed the limits of the village he was grateful to be away from the hall, and to be riding alone. He took time to look about him. Tracing the road to Begu’s hamlet, it felt the last of Summer had fled. Even the birds were fewer. Most fields were laying idle after the final harvest, and the sheep had grown heavy in their wool.
He walked his horse into her small work yard. She was not there, but her door was open. His horse nickered, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway.
She began to smile, but her face changed, seeing his. It was not the slight hurt to his own face, but the distress so clear upon it. Sudden dread clutched at her heart. He was whole. She feared he had come bearing news of Ceric.
She ran the few steps to him, forcing herself to name him first. “Edwin,” she said.
The stiffness with which he lifted his arms to her betrayed his healing ribcage. She held him, lightly as one would enfold a dove.
They kissed, then she looked him full in the face. The trouble there drove her next words.
“Ceric, Ceric. Is he…?”
“He is home, he is home,” Edwin answered. “But…” he faltered.
“Come in,” she said, her arm about him. “Come in.”
Begu wept, hearing of Ceric. It was the first time she had heard Ashild’s name. Ceric had always called her, “the maid I shall wed,” or “my bride.” Now Begu had a name, a lovely one, to put with the image of she who had so captured Ceric’s heart. The tragedy was vast, and she wept for the pity of it.
They huddled together, sitting on her bed. Edwin did not speak of his own fears and blighted hopes. Beset and harried by them though he was, they seemed trivial in light of what had befallen his brother. She sensed this, that he withheld his own concerns in the face of so great a calamity. She was struck, too, by the knowledge that her tears were all for Ceric, but she could not silence the truth spoken in her heart. Yet Edwin had come to her, today, and she must give what she could.
She began to kiss Edwin, gently, so as not to cause hurt to his face. Piece by piece she removed his clothing, unbuckling his seax, pulling off his boots, slowly drawing off his tunic as he grimaced from the pain of lifting his arms. His leggings she left for last.
She drew off her gown and shift, stripped off her stockings. Her love for Ceric had been the greatest joy, and greatest sorrow, of her life. She must bear it as she had borne all else. Yet she could summon ample tenderness for the young man now in her arms.
With no body to mourn over, a simple prayer service was held for Cadmar. Ceric stood next Modwynn’s right, with Edgyth flanked by Edwin. The tiny chantry was full of warriors. Incense of sandalwood was burning, lifting in blue-gray curls from the round brass censer on the raised stone altar step. Every prayer and psalm Dunnere chanted applied as well to Ashild. She was the other they mourned, even if her name remained unspoken. These were the prayers for the dead, and she wa
lked amongst them.
Standing in that haze of sandalwood Ceric gave thought to how she would be judged. She had died with the heathen amulet of a forsaken God about her neck. Yet she had been baptised and confirmed, and could have just as easily been wearing the small golden cross now about his own neck. He stood there, swaying slightly, atop the stone underneath which his grandfather lay, and thought of that other stone at Oundle sheltering the mortal remains of his beloved wife.
His grandmother Modwynn looked pale and pinched at his side. She was known for her stately bearing, but today she leant into Ceric, so that he placed his arm about her in support. Dunnere made his final blessing, slicing the air over their heads with his palm in benediction. There would be a funeral feast, but Modwynn asked him to take her to her bower. She would retire early; her serving woman would bring her food. Edwin would conduct the feast, as was his duty and privilege, aided by his mother.
At her door she kissed Ceric in fare-well. “Ashild,” she told him. “I saw her once, when you were toddling babes. I yearn now to see your own.”
He could do no more than kiss her in answer.
In the morning Ceric had nearly finished dressing when he was jolted by the shrieking of a woman. He fixed the toggles on his boots, and grabbed his sword from the wall. He looked towards the cries. A woman was by the church, waving her arms in distress. Modwynn’s bower was just beyond, and this was one of her serving women. He ran to her.
His grandmother Modwynn, long the Lady of Kilton, was dead.
The woman was frenzied. Ceric brushed his way past another serving woman into the bower house. There his grandmother lay in bed, at rest and perfectly composed. Her arms were outside the grey woven coverlet, stretched with easy dignity upon it at her sides. The long-fingered hands of such skill had never been so gracefully presented. Her head was slightly tilted to one side, almost as if she craned her neck to hear something whispered.
Ceric came to her. After his mother’s abduction Modwynn had been as mother to him. His greatest advisor and comfort was now dead.
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