Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  Wilona’s belt is nearly worn through and she sits in the doorway weaving a new one on small wooden tablets. She jumps whenever Touilt slams something. Wilona fights the urge to run away entirely, to find a new place where the old gods are still honoured. Surely it is only a matter of time before Lord Caelin sends word they are no longer required at Ad Gefrin, or worse. It’s tempting to be angry with the gods. She frowns and tries to concentrate on her work.

  She hears a noise and looks up, ready to go inside if Christians are about. But no, it’s Dunstan. Seeing him is like having a heavy, wet cloth removed from her shoulders. How she’s missed him. He lopes down the path, the hood of his cloak over his head to protect him from the drizzle, and a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

  “Touilt, Dunstan is here.” She gathers up her weaving. “I see our provider chooses daylight to come calling this time.”

  “And when else would I come calling?”

  “Fine. A kind gesture performed in anonymity doubles its worth.”

  “What?”

  “No matter. It’s good to see you. Roswitha’s well? And the child coming?”

  “Everything’s fine. I have news along with the bread.”

  “Well, come inside. The season’s turning, although Weed-Month is barely over.” She pats him on the shoulder, as though to confirm he’s really there. She wants to keep touching him, and chides herself. There’s no dignity in behaving like an eager hound.

  Touilt greets Dunstan with more reserve. “Sit. Let me get us a slice of Roswitha’s wonderful bread. I have honey, as it happens, also from a friend”—she winks at him—”which will be a fine treat for us.”

  He hands her the bread, only slightly damp, and bends to pluck a bramble from his trousers. “You shouldn’t waste your food on me.”

  “Waste?” says Wilona, laughing, “No need for that much humility! And not after your generosity.”

  “It’s only a trifle.”

  “Not this, you goose! The food you’ve been leaving.”

  He blinks at her.

  “The baskets. With the food, the bread, the meat …” She shrugs, her hands wide.

  Dunstan pulls his head back on his neck, giving him the look of a startled turtle. “I can’t take credit for the kindness of another. Should have thought of it myself, but honestly, we don’t have that much. I did bring this bread, though.”

  Wilona looks at Touilt, who shakes her head.

  “But if not you, then who?”

  “You have more friends than you think.”

  “So it seems,” says Touilt. “A mystery to be solved, but for now, eat with us.”

  Dunstan’s good manners will not allow him to have more than the smallest slice of bread and the thinnest smear of honey. Touilt natters on about the crops and the weather. In Dunstan’s presence the older woman’s face is lighter, the furrows between her brow not quite so deep. He accepts a mug of apple cider, and sits on a stool by the open door.

  “The king’s announced he’s moving the court to Catreht.”

  Wilona’s heart leaps.

  “Well,” says Touilt, “the people will miss all the feasting.”

  “Yes. The music and the stories have been good. The king’s bard’s a wonder.” Neither woman replies, and so he says, “You’d be most welcome.”

  “Would we? I wonder.” Touilt nibbles a small piece of bread.

  “I heard Lady Elfhild ask about you.”

  “She’s a good woman. I’ll serve her as I always have.”

  Wilona tests the temperature of the milk in the pot she’s stirring. She adds a small piece of salted kid’s stomach. “And what about our honoured guests?” she says, watching the milk slowly separate into curds and whey. “Are they tearing down the tents? Moving along as well?”

  “Some of them, but others are arriving. Edwin sent messengers throughout the land, apparently, telling the chieftains when to bring their people, so they’re not all here at once. Paulinus is to stay until the new moon, and then travel on to meet the king.” He blows a lock of hair from his eyes. “How are you getting along then?”

  “We’re managing.” Touilt smiles at him gently.

  “Winter will be hard this year, I think. The trees have been full of woodpeckers and there’ve been a lot of fogs this moon.”

  Wilona nods. There have been a lot of fogs, particularly in the past week, with mist creeping up from the ground in the morning like the souls of the restless, searching dead. “Last night the mists twirled round the house so thick I thought something was on fire. I couldn’t see so far as the yew,” she says. “And the cobwebs are unusually dense.”

  Dunstan looks across the meadows. “Don’t you feel too alone sometimes, here?”

  “And where else would we be?” Stone has replaced the previous gentleness in Touilt’s voice.

  Dunstan’s expression is serious. “I’m your friend. Always have been, isn’t that so?”

  “You’ve certainly made a habit of visiting over the years,” says Touilt.

  “Then trust me when I say it’s better to shelter under the chieftain’s roof than to set yourself apart.”

  “The gods choose where I make my home, boy.”

  “Can’t you consider the possibility your gods take more than they give?”

  Touilt gasps at his audacity but, if he hears, he doesn’t let it stop him.

  “Can’t you consider,” he continues, “what it means to place yourself outside Caelin’s protection?”

  “Is the only way to keep my lord’s favour to hang myself up on a criminal tree?” Touilt slaps the table. “Have you come at his command, like a dog to bark a warning?”

  Dunstan chews his lip. “No, no, of course not. But you might consider being a little less … well … stubborn.” He sounds like a mardy child. “They’re good people, the priests. You should talk to Brother Egan.”

  “Who is this Egan?”

  “Paulinus’s interpreter.”

  “The one with the elf-eyes?” Wilona asks.

  “He comes from Eire and was brought by angels to Ioua Insula, a community of great teaching and kindness. He rode to shore on the back of whales.”

  “Did he?” says Touilt. “Did he really?”

  “He’s a very humble man. He wears only the simplest cloth, eats no meat—I like him.” Dunstan pulls at a ragged thumbnail.

  Touilt throws the wooden pestle she’s holding across the room. It clatters against the wall near Dunstan’s head. He doesn’t flinch. If she’d wanted to hit him, she would have. “We’ve a choice here, Dunstan. We can either talk about this, or you can continue to be the friend you claim to be.”

  “I’ve handled this badly. I’ve been rude. Forgive me.”

  “You have a generous heart,” says Touilt, but her voice is as sour as the milk.

  Wilona takes the pot off the fire and pours the thickening cheese into a basket placed over a pail to drain out the whey. Dunstan takes a wooden flute from his pocket and perfects it with the tip of his knife. Touilt drops rosehips into a clay jar and covers them with liquid honey. Wilona watches Dunstan out of the corner of her eye. He may be a husband and will soon be a father, he may have been to war and wounded, but he’s still a petulant boy with his lower lip stuck out. The corner of her mouth twitches in a small smile. It’s a good thing he had no ambition to be the king’s man, for he has no subtlety; his face reveals everything.

  “So we’re still friends?” he says at last.

  “I don’t understand you or Roswitha, Dunstan.” Touilt holds her hand up to stop him from speaking. “No, do me the courtesy. I’ll not debate you. But we must be clear. There can be no talk of our converting, and in return I’ll not share my thoughts with you on what a great fool I think you are.”

  “Oh, will you not?” He grins now, the old playful Dunstan again.

  “I, too,” Wilona says, “would like to go on, as much as possible, as before.” She will not tell him of the knife-twist in her heart at seeing the wooden c
ross around his neck.

  “I say this only because Roswitha and I are frightened for you. You’ve chosen a hard path. The priests are clear. There are to be no more runes, no more visions, no more altars to the gods. Everything’s being rededicated. Coifi threw his spear over Ricbert’s altar and did so with Ricbert’s blessing.”

  “So, it has come to that.” Touilt’s eyes gaze into some middle distance. “So soon.”

  Wilona’s skin prickles. Why don’t the gods act? Why don’t they cast out these interlopers? It’s a disloyal thought that shames her. “Not even a king has the power to banish my visions,” she says. “They’re gifts from the gods. If people are that fickle, how faithful can they ever have been? The gods reward loyalty.”

  “Well said, Wilona.” Touilt sits down, as though she’s suddenly tired. “Enough, Dunstan. You came to tell us the king was departing, yes? And to warn us. I’m grateful. Is there more?”

  “Only that Brother Egan will stay on as our new priest when Paulinus leaves. The care of our souls is to be in his hands.”

  Wilona blinks, and then feels something very much like a laugh rise up in her. “Oh, let me be sure I understand. This monk, Egan, is to be the new priest? Not Ricbert?”

  Dunstan’s lip curls. “Ricbert’s to be his assistant and learn from him, but apparently Brother Egan will be the chief priest.”

  Wilona claps her hands and laughs. “Oh, poor Ricbert! For all his ambition, to be underling to that elf-eyed Egan! Oh, poor man!” She covers her mouth with her hands but is unable to stifle her laughter, and after a moment, even Touilt chuckles.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Egan argued against it, and then begged. He was given a hard penance for his impudence and, in the end, it made no difference. Bishop Paulinus wants it done now, on the eve of his departure. He said he would be neglecting his duty if he permitted the women to continue as before. “I won’t leave the worm in the apple,” he said. “It disturbs Lord Caelin’s faith to have these women defy him.” But both Paulinus and Lord Caelin declined to join them. When Egan asked to be excused as well, saying it might taint any future hope he had of converting the women, the bishop said he needed toughening, and Christ required strong arms as well as hearts.

  It is just before dawn. They are six: Ricbert, Coifi, Egan, and three of the king’s men, who are the size of stallions. Egan thinks this show of force is both unnecessary and unwise but has been told to keep his opinions to himself and learn by the example of his superiors. His stomach is queasy, and he’s sweating. He holds their single torch in one hand but must keep changing hands to wipe his slippery palms on his tunic. They are huge shapes in the pre-dawn shadows; Ricbert, tall and gaunt; Coifi, muscular, heavily bearded, carrying a large bronze cross atop a highly polished staff before him as though to ward off evil spirits.

  One of the king’s men kicks the door open. It slams against the wall and the upper hinge snaps. The three warriors and Coifi rush forward. Ricbert and Brother Egan lag back and exchange quick glances. Ricbert’s face is grim, and in the torchlight the pallor shows. The women have no time to even throw a shawl around their shoulders. In their still-sleepy shock they scramble toward each other while the men kick aside the stools and table. Wind gusts through the door and scatters ashes from the near-dead fire.

  The elder seithkona, her hair in grey straggly braids, her eyes full of crackling torchlight, stands with her legs wide beneath her sleeping tunic and her arms held out, fingers spread. “You have no right! There is no honour in you, to treat women and handmaidens of the gods this way. You dare? Have you no respect?” She makes the sign of the hammer. “By whose authority do you commit this violence?”

  Coifi steps toward Touilt. “We are here by order of the king and your Lord Caelin. You dare to challenge the king’s men?” He raises his hand.

  Wilona lunges at him, but one of the guardsmen sweeps her aside and sends her tumbling to the floor. Her head cracks on the end of the bed. Egan cries out and hastily places the torch in a wall bracket. He takes a step toward the younger seithkona. Her eyes are glassy. The man who struck her points a spear at her, his face impassive.

  Coifi pushes Egan aside with a curse. “Stand back! Do not touch her. I forbid it!”

  “But—”

  “If you interfere I’ll have her pinned to the wall.”

  Coifi approaches Touilt. Wilona scrambles to her feet, winces, and grabs her head. Egan prays, Protect all here, Lord Christ. Protect all here.

  Ricbert reaches for the warrior’s spear and pushes it aside. “There is no need for that. She’s only a girl.” He gestures to Wilona as she stands. “Stay back, or you’ll find yourself on the floor again.”

  Egan silently thanks Christ for Ricbert, while horror at his own weakness swamps him. Wilona glares at Ricbert and then at Egan. He tries to communicate he will not harm her, that he is no enemy.

  Touilt will not step back, and now she and Coifi are nearly nose to nose. “Why would the king send his men against two women, who are, as ever, his loyal servants?” she says.

  Coifi peers into Touilt’s face as though looking for a sign. “You were invited to hear the good news of Christ, woman, and yet you refused.”

  “An invitation can only be called such if one has the right to refuse, is that not so?”

  “You refuse the gift of great worth so generously offered you by your king?”

  “Good King Edwin himself took his time deciding; may his servants not do the same?”

  Coifi’s mouth softens, almost forming a smile. The king’s men, resolute and grim, stand by the doorway, axes in their belts. “Is it time you need? That seems unlikely, since you shunned the teaching and kept to your hovel, mocking the holy ones as they passed your door. Still, if it’s time you need, I’m a patient man, and Christ the Eternal will leave no lamb lost who seeks to be found. Let us sit down now and you shall hear the words of the hero Jesus. You shall receive the gift here and now, for if you’re receptive to the message of Christ, we’ll not leave your hospitality until you’re satisfied. Will you hear the teaching?”

  Touilt’s eyes are steady. “We’ve already heard your words. They’ve drifted to our house on the lips of our friends and neighbours.” She looks down for a moment, then plucks a shawl from the foot of her bed and wraps it around her shoulders. She raises her chin as she turns back to Coifi. “We remain unmoved.”

  Brother Egan cannot help but be impressed. The woman has such strength, such courage, such faith. Why can’t Coifi see that with patience and love such a heart cannot fail to turn to the true God? Wilona touches the back of her skull, and her fingers come away bloody. Her face shows no fear, and Egan sees that although it is misguided, her faith is strong and pure. Oh, Coifi, he thinks, you’re making grave errors here. These women will die if they must, and we’ll make them martyrs.

  Wilona points at Coifi with her bloody finger. “You think if violence doesn’t work, you can trick the seithkona with clever words?”

  “Friends, be reasonable!” says Ricbert. “We’ve come to include you in this new and wondrous world, not to harm you.”

  Wilona cackles, sharp and scoffing. “With splintered wood and blood instead of flower garlands and roasted pig? How inviting! We depend not on your invitations, friends, but on the protection of the gods!”

  “It doesn’t appear your gods are here.” Coifi glances at Ricbert and his eyes tell Ricbert, too, to be careful. “Where’s the power of Woden now? Where’s Thunor’s hammer?”

  The smirk on his face makes the hairs on Egan’s neck stand. Her eyes on the bullish priest, Touilt chants a spell in words Egan does not understand. The air shimmers and shifts. Wilona makes rune-signs with her blood-stained fingers while Coifi makes the sign of the cross.

  “You don’t behave like a person with an open heart, seithkona. You and your girl—”

  “Wilona is seithkona, as I am, priest, and it would serve you well to treat us with the respect due our position.”

  One
of the guards laughs out loud, and Coifi says, “Make no mistake, the magic of Christ Jesus is stronger than anything you can imagine. Woden and Thunor are no match for the power of the Christian God.”

  “The gods perform what wonders they wish, at a time of their pleasing, and no one escapes their wrath. You should know that, Coifi. Has some enchantment erased your learning?”

  Coifi is the one to laugh now. “I see there’s no reason to think time will change your mind or sharpen your wits, woman.” He turns to the guardsmen. “Proceed.”

  Their hands go to their axes. Egan’s stomach plummets to his knees, and he reaches out to the bedpost so as not to fall.

  Wilona cries out, “Eostre, save us! Woden save us!”

  The men step toward the tapestry dividing the room. In an instant, Touilt is before them, her hands up. Wilona rushes to her side but is blocked by a guard. He holds her arms from behind, pinning them easily with one hand.

  “Release me!” she shrieks.

  Egan regains his senses and tries to step between the axes and Touilt, but Ricbert gestures for him to stay where he is and puts his hand on the guard’s arm. “Gentle, man. There’s no need … Wilona, stop. Touilt, let it be, let it be. It’s done already.” The lines on his face are deep as knife cuts. He seems to have aged a dozen years since he stepped through the door.

  “I forbid you to take another step!” Touilt’s voice is imperious. For a moment she appears more wolf than woman—her mouth a snarl, her teeth bared, her hair wild as fur, her eyes feral. The men freeze, for they know the power of a seithkona’s curse. And then Coifi strikes her with the back of his hand. Her head snaps round with an audible crack and she falls. He raises the staff with the heavy cross on the end, as though to club her. The guard holding Wilona loosens his grip, perhaps in shock. She breaks free and leaps to Touilt. She covers the older woman’s body with her own.

  “Leave her! I’ll curse you all! Leave her!”

  Before he knows what he’s doing, Egan kneels beside the fallen women, facing Coifi, ready to take a death blow. “Remember Christ’s love, my brother. Think of Christ’s love!”