Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Come, girl, take that look off your face,” says Touilt. “None of us can see into the wyrd. Isn’t that what this signifies? She holds up the little loom weight with the carved spiral hanging from her belt. “A circle without beginning or end, moving ever inwards, living and dying and living again, just as the sun dies each day and is born again each morning, just as the moon swells with light and then dwindles to darkness? The Norns don’t weave as we do, back and forth, back and forth; they weave in and out and back and forth and round and round, through all time and space, in patterns not even they can discern. What’s the point of anything but acceptance and faith?”

  “Then why bother? Why ride the vision-drum? Why climb the dream-tree?” Wilona thinks of Ricbert.

  “There’s no harm in asking the spirits for guidance, so we might serve more faithfully, so we might ease the suffering of others.” Touilt waves her hand. “I can’t argue these matters now.”

  Wilona draws the bind-rune, combining uruz and ansuz on Touilt’s forehead so she’ll carry wisdom and strength with her. And then, at last, she puts on her own blue tunic and the owl clasps, and settles the pouch with the feather and iron hammer between her breasts, next to the amulet Touilt gave her to ward off unwanted attention. She fastens a band around her forehead, with ansuz and raidho woven into the cloth, for true vision and for journeys. It describes her as someone who has visions, who travels between worlds, and hints of the death that’s also part of her story.

  When they’re done, Touilt takes up her staff. She taps it on the ground and mutters words under her breath as though to activate the power in the wood and bronze. “I am ready,” she says.

  Elba snuffles against the fence as they pass. “Guard the house, Elba,” says Wilona. “We can’t take you to meet the king, now can we?” Elba sticks her nose through the willow-hurdle and grunts.

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Touilt and Wilona arrive at the outskirts of the royal enclosure, the stalls and makeshift shelters are mostly vacant. The two women make their way through the mud and muck, the ground underfoot slippery with rotten vegetables and other detritus, left by people who won’t stay long and don’t care about the mess they leave behind. Between the booths and lean-tos a large ragtag group, smelling of ale and cattle and unwashed flesh, jostle and elbow one another. Dogs run here and there, barking madly, dodging kicks. Wilona doesn’t know how she’ll force these strangers aside.

  “Make way!” Touilt shouts, in a voice that would make a warrior flinch. “Make way!”

  Wilona joins in. “Make way for the Lady Touilt, seithkona to Lord Caelin. Make way!”

  A woman turns around, looking as though she is about to say something less than courteous, but when she sees Touilt and Wilona, their clothes and the rune-signs, she balks. “Beg pardon.” She thumps the man in front of her on the back with a hand from which two fingers are missing. “I’d move aside, if I were you.”

  Others turn to see what the fuss is about and, just as quickly, turn back, shoving and stumbling to get out of the way, as someone pushes through the crowd in front of them. Then Margawn appears, the shaggy beast of a doorkeeper, his head above everyone else’s. Lovely Margawn, thinks Wilona, beautiful Margawn, who looks just like a grumpy, golden bear. His hound is with him, snapping, growling deeply.

  “Stand aside, you rabble. Stand aside or I’ll push you aside, and if I push you, you’ll tumble ‘til you reach the River Glen!”

  A path clears. “Ladies, my apologies no one came to escort you. The dishonour lies with me. I should have thought. There’s been”—he scowls at the crowd—”some confusion and considerable details …”

  “You owe us no apologies, Margawn,” says Touilt.

  And so, thanks to Margawn and his hound, the seithkona passes through the sea of bodies. They step into a clearing where Caelin’s companions stand with their backs to the crowd. The lord’s and lady’s chairs have been placed beneath a canopy. Cuthen the bard, Ricbert, and Caelin’s closest companions, Alfrith and Cena, stand behind the chairs. Margawn guides Touilt and Wilona to stand with the rest.

  Even in the shade of the canopy, the air is too warm. Beads of perspiration stand out on Touilt’s lip and her brow is damp, smearing the runes. Wilona pats her face gently with her sleeve and discreetly gestures to Margawn. “My lady feels a little faint. Can a stool be found?”

  He nods and returns moments later with a seat. At first Touilt does not wish to take it but, in the end, agrees to rest, at least until the king arrives.

  Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild appear, followed by servants, and little Swanhwid in the arms of her young nurse. The poor girl looks about ready to vomit with nerves, thinks Wilona, and prays she doesn’t drop the baby. Wilona stands behind Touilt’s chair, imagining herself as nothing more than a wisp of smoke. She has nothing to worry about for the moment; Caelin is occupied with his men, shouting orders and generally fussing and stomping about.

  A horn sounds across the plain and all eyes turn to the east.

  The standard-bearer, riding a grey horse, carries the Roman-style banner topped by a winged globe. Behind him, the king sits on a jetblack horse, its hooves kicking up clods of earth. He holds the reins loosely in one hand, as though his will alone controls the creature. The gold brooches on his cloak sparkle and glint. His boots gleam; his cape is of the deepest amethyst, trimmed with marten fur. Wilona thinks he must be as hot as a cooking stone. His chest, shoulders, wrists, even the horse’s saddle and bridle, all flash with gold. His face has the always-angry look Wilona remembers, the look that makes her feel like a small frog before a sharp-sighted snake. If King Edwin considers this a joyful visit, it doesn’t show. She can’t help but wonder what makes the king so furious with all the world. He looks above the crowd, even above Lord Caelin, as if his sights are fixed on the next place he seeks to conquer.

  Behind the king, his companions ride black horses too, their bridles and saddles trimmed with silver. They are enormous men who dwarf the king, oaks to his birch. Wilona tries to recall the names of the companions she recognizes—Edwin’s sons are there, Osfrith and Eadfrith, by Edwin’s first wife, Cwenburga. Wilona thinks again how they must take after their mother, for they are black-haired and paleeyed, as many Mercians are. Still, they have their father’s haughty bearing. A ginger-haired warrior she remembers as Indulf, but the names of the others are lost.

  A great cheer goes up from the impatient crowd. “Hail to King Edwin!” “All honour to King Edwin!” “The blessings of Woden be upon him!” The king nods absently, in the way of men accustomed to having their approach met with celebration. She joins in.

  A brightly painted canopied wagon comes into view, pulled by two white oxen. In it reclines Queen Ethelburga, her hair thick golden ropes, her face square and serious. Her tunic is a deep purple, trimmed with fur, and the buckles holding her cloak sparkle with jewels. She holds a baby. Riding on a grey horse alongside the wagon is the man whom Wilona saw in her vision. He wears the white robes he did in her dream; has the same black, strangely tonsured hair and beardless face, the same narrow nose; and even though he’s on a horse, she can see he’s tall. His waist is belted with rope, and other than a gold cross, he wears no adornment. He must be the Roman Christian. No priest of Woden is allowed to carry arms or ride a war-steed.

  Then Wilona’s mouth falls open. There, astride a horse, bold as any chieftain, is Coifi, King Edwin’s priest. A murmur runs through the crowd. Wilona’s eyes meet Touilt’s. The seithkona’s brow is smooth, but from the flash of her eyes and the purposeful set of her smile, it’s clear she, too, is deeply shocked.

  And then comes the rest of the king’s retinue: noblemen and women of the court, the men on horseback, the women in wagons. Behind them, troop servants and supply bearers, royal administrators and tax collectors, musicians, hunters, the men who repair the saddles and bridles, the weapons and the wheels. Cooks and seamstresses, nursemaids and waiting-women. Either the king intends to be
in Ad Gefrin for some time, or else this is the first of many stops on a long journey.

  People throw flowers at the horses’ feet. The companions toss glass beads, bits of amber, and coins. When the king nears, Lord Caelin and Lady Elfhild step forward. The king’s great horse stops, shies, paws the ground ten feet from the lord and lady, but they do not flinch. The king makes a noise in his throat and the horse quiets.

  “I welcome you with all honour, King Edwin, to the house that is already yours.”

  “Is all well, Caelin?”

  “Under your protection and your bounty, Lord, we prosper.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I trust my coming has not discomfited your people.”

  Wilona wonders if he truly cannot see the upheaval all around him. And then it occurs to her that this may very well be the way the entire world looks to kings, since when would they ever come upon a place unannounced, unheralded? Mind you, Edwin lived as a fugitive in exile for many years. He should know better.

  “We are, as always, at your pleasure. Your quarters are ready and the amphitheatre has been constructed to your specifications. You bring honour, joy, and comfort to your people, my king.”

  Edwin smiles for the first time. “I bring you more than that.” He scans the crowd. “But it can wait. For now, I would settle my lady and my court. You and I shall talk before the feast. Come to my quarters and”—he stretches his neck—”there—Ricbert, are you well?”

  “I am, my king.”

  “Caelin, bring Ricbert with you.”

  “As you wish, my liege.”

  “Tonight the companions will gather at the feast and I’ll give instructions for tomorrow.”

  With this, King Edwin and his retinue lead their horses and wagons around the canopy and disappear into the compound, the servants rushing ahead of them. Apart from the trampled flowers, they leave only muddy tracks and horse dung. The people shuffle about, unclear if it’s really all over, and then the companions wave their arms and tell them to go about their business. Some grumble.

  Caelin steps up. “You’ll have meat to roast this night, and ale.”

  They are pleased at this and disperse, but Wilona notes the frown on Caelin’s face. At last, she’s not the only one worried. She wonders what he thought of the mounted priests; she wonders what Ricbert thought. A snort erupts from Touilt and she sweeps past Wilona. The king had not greeted her nor invited her to the evening’s gathering. There’s no doubt about what the seithkona thinks. It’s as though a cloud of black gnats circles her.

  Egan stands in the doorway of his tent and considers the nearby temple. It’s well carved, heavily thatched, with solid timbers, and will, Christ willing, make a fine church. Egan has a good feeling about Ad Gefrin, with the sacred hill, the sparkle of river-water, the land’s placid roll. The evidence of God’s utterance is all around. When he first arrived he removed his shoes because he wanted to feel the earth on his feet. Now, he prays he’ll have a chance to speak with Ricbert. At the greeting ceremony the pagan priest seemed kindly. Coifi says Ricbert will be an easy conquest, that he’s ambitious and will quickly pledge fealty to whichever hand extends the most gold. Egan chews his lip. That may be Coifi’s sole motivation but, God willing, not Ricbert’s. Prior to his conversion, Coifi had said, “No one has applied himself more diligently to the worship of our gods than I; and yet there are many who received greater favours, who were more prosperous and preferred above me. If the old gods were good for anything, they’d favour me, who’s served them with greater zeal.” Egan had winced at that.

  There’s still some time before the witan, the assembly, is to begin, and surely Ricbert will leave the temple soon and make his way to the king’s hall. Egan doesn’t want to presume to call upon him formally—doing so would only bring on the bishop’s wrath—but he might just step alongside him as he walks. During the journey from Ioua Insula to Bebbanburgh, God provided the opportunity to convert many pagans. What a wonder it is to be present at the moment when they recognize the light of Christ’s love within them. Egan holds the wooden cross to his chest now. If Ricbert converts, Egan thinks he’ll make a wonderful shepherd for the lambs of Ad Gefrin.

  “Brother Egan. Bishop Paulinus requests your presence.” So concentrated is he on the temple doorway that the voice startles him. He turns to see a servant from the royal household. “You are to follow me,” the man says.

  “I’ve prayed on the matter and decided how we’re to proceed, you and I,” says Paulinus. He is sitting on a backless chair fashioned from what look like two arches, the bottom one forming the base, the sides of the upper providing armrests. He dips a slice of plum into a small bowl of honey on the table before him, pops it in his mouth, and chews slowly. Tapestries adorn the walls and candlelight flickers. Fresh rushes on the floor release a sweet scent.

  Egan stands with his hands clasped in his sleeves, his eyes on his feet. They are dirty. “I am ever at your lordship’s service.”

  Brother James is sitting on a cushion-strewn couch, and Egan has the impression he might have been sleeping there a few moments ago, for the handsome face is slightly puffy. When Egan greets him, he raises a languid hand.

  “We are all at God’s service, Brother Egan,” says Paulinus. “But God has singled you out for special work.” He holds up a finger as Egan begins to protest. “All the stories we’ve heard about how you were plucked from a stormy sea by a whale—”

  Egan thinks it imprudent to mention it wasn’t a whale but seals and dolphins. Still, he cannot help but wonder if the mistake isn’t deliberately made. There’s mockery in the bishop’s tone.

  “—so very Jonah-like—it’s obvious you’re not like the rest of us, my son.”

  “I don’t understand, my lord.”

  “No, of course not. That’s due to your humility, I’m sure. But never mind. The point is, when we leave here, we’ll be travelling, as you know, to Eoforwic. We’ll be there for a time, I suspect, for there’s much work to do establishing the cathedral on the spot where King Edwin was baptized.”

  “It will be to the glory of God, my lord.”

  “Indeed. You, of course, already have vast knowledge of the ways of these people, being one of them yourself.”

  “I was born in Eire—”

  Paulinus silences him with a wave of his hand. “But Brother James hasn’t had the experience you have and is eager to attend the witan. In short, your services as translator will not be required tonight. Coifi will assist me, and this is, after all, a meeting of warriors and noblemen. And you are …” His voice trails off.

  “… but a humble monk, your lordship.”

  Paulinus smiles. “Exactly. Brother James will see to my needs. Better you save yourself for working with the people of Ad Gefrin directly. As you’ll see, I have plans for you.”

  Through the night, Touilt sits by the hearth, casting the runes, stirring the ashes, and gazing into the embers. When Wilona offers her a cup of broth she flicks it away without a word, and after that the younger woman sits on her bed, knees up to her chin, trying not to doze off. For a while, in the darkest hours past midnight, an owl hoots from a branch in the yew, softly, almost timidly. In the firelight, Touilt’s face glows, by turns wild and sorrowful. Once, when Wilona nods off, she’s startled awake by a wolf’s howl, but doesn’t hear it again and decides she must have dreamt it.

  Dunstan appears on the path just after dawn, as the women are at the well, finishing their prayers to Eostre, their faces shining with the holy water. Birdsong fills the trees as the long, rosy tendrils of light lure the world into wakefulness. The women are drawn and tired, and from the set of Touilt’s mouth, it’s evident the pain in her belly bothers her.

  “Have you heard?” says Dunstan. “Did anyone come yet to tell you?”

  “If you have something to say, spit it out.” Touilt’s scowl stops Dunstan in his tracks.

  “I see no one did. I thought Caelin … well, I wasn’t sure …”

  “And now you
are.”

  “I don’t mean … I just thought … to see what you think of it all …”

  “By Woden’s ravens, Dunstan, I will slap you!” Touilt stomps past him into the hut.

  “I think you’d better come in and tell us. She’s had a difficult night,” Wilona whispers.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  “You’re here now.”

  Wilona closes the door behind her as they step inside. Touilt sits on a stool near the fire, her eyes flashing. Smoke hovers near the ceiling.

  “You think I need anyone to keep me abreast of what’s important to the gods?” Touilt’s voice is sharp as needles. “The spirits beat you to it, boy. The White Christ has taken hold of Edwin. Am I wrong?”

  From the expression on Dunstan’s face, it’s obvious Touilt’s spirits have spoken the truth.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A.D. 627, Holy-Month, Ad Gefrin

  The next day is almost as fine as the one before, and the amphitheatre is filled. The women, in the first three rows, sit tall and straight with their hands folded in their laps. They’re unaccustomed to being idle, but they’ve been instructed to pay full attention, and thus their distaffs, niddy-noddies, and sewing kits have been left behind, and their children are in the care of neighbours or relatives waiting their turn. Paulinus stands, stoop-shouldered, under the canopy, addressing the crowd in a strong voice.

  Wilona has declined a seat, although it surprised her when Ricbert offered to give up his so she might sit. She waved him away and stood her ground at the edge of the theatre, where her attendance wouldn’t be confused with acceptance. She tried to stay away, but in the end, curiosity won out, and she tells herself it’s best to know everything one can about an adversary. Touilt disapproved of her coming, but didn’t forbid her. Touilt knows her own absence will displease Lord Caelin, but to attend would mean she considered conversion possible. “If anyone asks, tell them I’m indisposed,” she said. “Tell them I ate a bad eel.”