“My lord,” Ricbert says, “you’ve done your duty. Do no more.”
“Get on with it then,” Coifi snaps.
Touilt stirs and her hands reach up. Blood smears her teeth. “Stop them,” she whispers.
In Touilt’s eyes there is rage, and even fear, but also something else, a deeper grief. It transfers, all of a moment, to Egan. He opens his mouth, searching for words. The woman breaks her gaze and looks upon her ward, who now, at last, begins to cry.
“They’re killing the gods,” she whispers, and the women embrace.
Egan stands, his throat constricted. There’s no victory here, only a terrible wrong that may never be righted, save by God’s almighty plan. These women love their gods as he loves Christ. He can only leave them to their mourning and pray for them to receive, by grace, knowledge of the One God. Shame burrows in him like an egg-laying blowfly.
The guards rip the hanging from the ceiling, exposing the vision-platform, the great tree, and drawings of wolves and bears, ravens, geese, salmon, and the great owl. Wilona whirls around and stands before the platform, eyes closed, head back. She calls out something … Egan blinks. There, above her head is … what? Something. She opens her eyes. Egan is not the only one to see some change in the air, for he senses their fear, even Coifi, whose knuckles are white on the dark wood of the cross-staff.
“You may not do this thing,” she says. “You do not wish to do this thing.”
The guards shuffle their enormous feet and adjust the grip on their axes. Ricbert steps back.
Coifi turns on them. “What are you waiting for, you cowards! You have your orders. Destroy it!” Spittle flies from his lips. He grabs a spear from the nearest guard and hurls it over the vision-platform. It sticks deeply into the wall, in the heart of Yggdrasil, the shaft quivering. For a second it seems as if everyone in the room is waiting to see if Thunor will crack the place in two, or if Eostre or the horned god will send the forces of the wild wood to rip and destroy these violators. “Do it!” shrieks Coifi.
The spell is broken, and one guard reaches for Touilt and tosses her aside. She lands near the hearth with a thud and a gasp as the wind is knocked out of her. Another guard reaches for Wilona, while the third destroys the ladder to the platform with one blow. Wilona claws at her tormentor’s eyes and is rewarded with two blows to the head that leave her senseless. To his eternal shame, Egan simply stands there, frozen with confusion.
It’s over in moments, the platform in splinters, the tapestry shredded. Coifi steps outside and returns with a bucket of whitewash, which he hurls at the wall, defacing the sacred symbols. Then they turn to Touilt’s trunk. One of them snaps the lock with his dagger and the other slices through her wolf pelt, then the blue cloaks, and her cat-skin gloves. They punch through the drum and stomp on the wolf and owl clasps. Finally, Coifi slashes at their pots and jars of ointments and herbs and powdered roots.
Egan cannot bear to watch. He steps outside into the morning light. That the day is breaking with such golden splendour feels all wrong.
And then, with the same suddenness with which they came, the men are leaving. Ricbert hesitates and Coifi shoves him through the door. At the threshold, Coifi turns and says, “You were given chances, Touilt. The decision was yours. And now you have another one. Remember that the door to Christ’s hall is always open to you.”
Touilt spits on his tunic, and the saliva is streaked with blood. He laughs. “Be grateful we didn’t burn you out.” They don’t bother to shut the door behind them.
Coifi shoves Egan and he stumbles up the path. “Wretch. Fool. Paulinus is glad to be rid of you. But if we return and find the village has slipped back to the old ways, it’ll be your hide stretched on the door of the king’s hall!”
The rest of the day is eerily silent, as though by destroying the vision-platform the Christians have also banished the birds and the wind, and the distant sound of the babbling brook. Fog rolls in from the sacred mountain, first consuming the royal compound, and then the village, and then the women’s hut, the well, and the yew. Wilona wonders if Woden’s handmaid is dragging her mist across the land as punishment for the blasphemy. Part of her hopes so.
Touilt lies on her bed, her back to the room, her eyes shut, and will not be roused. “Leave me,” she growls when Wilona approaches. At first, Wilona tries to gather the herbs, to sweep the floor, to return the unbroken furniture to its place, but Touilt threatens to strike her if she doesn’t stop. And so she sits and watches the shadows move across the room, as fog curls under the shutters.
At last, she slips outside. Touilt either doesn’t hear her or is beyond caring. The fog is so thick she can barely see her feet, and if she didn’t know the path so well, she might be lost. She throws herself beside the holy well. On a wooden block, not very large, perhaps the length of her forearm, a carving is affixed to the dipper post with iron bands. Even Wilona must admit it’s beautifully painted. A woman, in a blue robe, stands under a brightly shining sun. Her skin is white, with a tint of rose. Under her feet rests a crescent moon, and on her head a crown of twelve stars. On the top is inscribed Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, markings that mean nothing to Wilona. It’s puzzling, for it might almost be a portrait of Eostre. A little pallid, perhaps. But why is she surrounded by symbols of the air only—the moon, the sun, the stars? Why is she so removed from earth, from fecundity, from life? No, Eostre would not be pleased. This can only be Mary, the Christian virgin-mother, untouched by life, removed from blood and pleasure. She’s covered in light, standing with her foot crushing the moon, the night. It is enough to make Wilona laugh. How can you deny the forces of the night? How can you desire to crush the wisdom residing with the creatures of the dark, who make up one half of life? Putting them under a virgin’s foot will not banish them.
A little trail of ants marches along the stones at the base—efficient as these Christians, one after the other on their errand, doing exactly as they’re told. A perfect new god for the king. A single god for a single king, one who—what was it Paulinus said from the amphitheatre?—urges his people to turn the other cheek and repay violence with forgiveness. Hypocrites! The only cheeks turned that morning were hers and Touilt’s, stinging from blows. They know how to turn a riddle, these Christians. A meek king. A virgin mother. A god who dies and does not die.
She wants to saw the new goddess off the post and fling it into Elba’s slop heap but doesn’t dare. She must be smart; she must be patient; she must trust the gods. Does the goddess live here still? She dips her fingers in the water and brings it to her lips, longing for the sweet kiss of holiness. Still there—no trace of Christian poison detectable. She bows her head and prays, begging for strength and forgiveness. She washes her face in the holy water, and her fingers touch swelling flesh. It’s hard to see out of her left eye. Her lip is puffy and ragged, and her cheek feels as though shards of glass are buried below the skin.
As she turns to go back inside, she finds the chickens pecking and scratching, but there’s no sign of Elba. Inside, Touilt sits staring at the floor.
“The gate’s open. Elba’s gone,” Wilona says. Touilt coughs deeply and clutches her side. Her face, too, is distended, bluish purple, red and black. Blood cakes her nostrils. “Are you badly injured?”
“A rib perhaps. Cracked, I think, not broken.” Touilt points at the ruined blue cloak. “Cut it into strips and bind me. It might protect more than my bones.” It’s hard to think the bitter sound she makes is laughter. “And bring water; we’ll wash away their taint.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the morning Touilt’s face is a mass of bruises. She hands Wilona a piece of stale bread dipped in buttermilk. “I’m going to leave you on your own for a few days.”
“What? Why? I don’t want to be alone.”
“Can’t help that. I need guidance.” Touilt chews thoughtfully, slowly, and pats her jaw gently, as though to ease the hurt. “I never thought Caelin would treat me like this, or that Elfhild would pe
rmit it. Dangerous pride.” Her brow furrows and she speaks more to herself than to Wilona. “I thought I was special. That may be why the spirits have been distant lately. I don’t know, but perhaps they’ve retreated. I dreamed last night I was on the sacred mountain. The spirits are calling me to their high place. I feel it.”
“Let me come with you.”
“I doubt they’ll return. Not yet. You’re safe.”
“You can’t mean to climb the mountain alone?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I’m called. But your place, for now, is here. Someone needs to make it clear we won’t be intimidated, nor will we abandon the holy tree and the well, even if they’ve nailed a virgin to the post. Besides, you need to clean up this mess.” She means it as a sort of joke.
“You haven’t been well, Touilt.”
“I’ll be with my spirits. One cannot ask for more.”
“I can’t let you go off alone. I can’t stay here alone.” Wilona throws her hands up. “I can’t!”
“You can and you will. You’ll do as you’re told.”
“But Touilt!”
“But nothing. If you say more about my being too old or too frail, I’ll slap you!”
Wilona had been considering saying something exactly like that, although perhaps not so bluntly. She bites her tongue. She won’t admit she’s as worried about her own safety as Touilt’s.
Touilt huffs and continues. “I’ll skirt the village so they don’t see me. If I leave by mid-morning I’ll reach the summit in time to make a snug camp among the ruins and be ready by nightfall. You’ll see my fire, no doubt, if you look hard enough.”
“And if bad weather moves in?”
“Then Thunor will speak to me all the more clearly.” She holds up her hand. “There’s nothing else to be said.” Touilt smiles. “Besides, you need to cultivate closer relations with spirits of your own, I think.”
Wilona nods. While Touilt’s on the holy mountain with the spirits, she’ll fast and pray as well. Still, she’s never spent a night alone in the hut, and she anticipates an anxious night. “Fine. If that’s your will, so be it. Being alone will be good for me. I’m sure it will.”
“If you call living with the spirits ‘alone’ you’re not the seithkona I taught you to be.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I hope not. We’ve some decisions to make, Wilona, and I can’t make them without guidance from the gods. I don’t know if we’re meant to stay here.”
“We might leave?”
“We might. If the gods call us to retreat into the wild places with them, then that’s what I’ll do. But if you wish to stay, to eat and sleep in Caelin’s hall, and bow your knee to the new god, I’ll not stop you. You’re not my slave.”
Wilona’s mind splits—one part thrilled at the idea of moving deeper into the world of the spirits, but the other part snagged on the desire—there is no other word for it—she feels for Margawn. Where is he? Where is his protection? At the same moment desire flares, resentment sparks. He vowed his friendship. What’s his vow worth, if it’s so easily forsaken? Margawn’s mouth, soft, the teeth shining … but bow to the new god? Abandon Touilt? Impossible. “I go where you go. You’re the mother of my heart.” She bites her lip, forgetting, and winces as it splits open anew.
“What, girl? Out with it.”
“Winter’s coming at a gallop. And if we go we won’t be here to share in the slaughter, so food will be scarce. And there’s shelter to consider. The season won’t soften because we’re homeless.”
“That’s why I’m going today. The sooner I discern the gods’ wishes, the better.” Touilt looks at the ruined pots and jars. “While I’m gone, salvage what you can. If we stay, there’s enough to treat what I expect will be diminished demand.” Her lip curls.
Before the sun climbs much higher in the sky, Touilt is standing with a pack on her back and her staff in her hand. She embraces Wilona. “All shall be well, little one. Our wyrd is in the hands of the Norns.”
As they turn to open the door, there’s a noise on the other side. Something heavy, pushing against the door. Wilona grabs Touilt’s hand, her skin prickling, the hairs on her arms rising, preparing to fight if they must. Some snuffles, a loud squeal. Touilt and Wilona look at each other and burst out laughing, which causes them considerable pain, but they can’t stop. They lift the door and, as soon as there’s enough space, Elba scrambles inside, her tail and snout held high, emitting squeals of delight. She trots to a clear spot on the floor and plops down, her sides heaving.
“Oh, Elba! Where have you been, you niddering pig?” says Wilona.
“I take this as a good sign,” says Touilt. “A very good sign indeed.”
It’s dark now, with the sound of wind in the thatch and rain on the shutters. Elba is snoring on the floor, and Wilona, having placed a hide-rug next to her, leans against her. The sow quite likes, it seems, to feel the comfort of Wilona’s body next to hers. Perhaps to her, Wilona is just another of her kind. To Wilona, having another living creature nearby, even a pig, is solace.
Wilona had spent the day setting things to rights. She repaired the table—it wobbles, but will do—and salvaged one of the stools. The beds are fine, although the trunks are beyond repair. The hut looks better, but the scar where the vision-platform stood is hideous. She thinks she caught sight of Touilt’s fire on the mountain before the rain moved in, just a tiny speck of reddish orange against a darkening sky. She tells herself Touilt is safe with her spirits. Wilona is bone-weary. She means to pray, to call in the spirits, and she will, in just a few minutes, after a short rest. She watches the fire, the orange and red and blue, sprites and dark elves and fingers and faces. Her eyelids droop. She drifts into a dream of the high moors, a gathering fog …
Then she starts, bolting upright. Elba, too, jerks and swings her head around to the door.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
Wilona pulls the dagger from her belt. She crouches, ready to spring. If it’s Caelin, come to—she cannot even think it—she’ll kill him if she has to and take the consequences.
“Wilona?”
Margawn. Her hands fall to her sides, although her breathing remains harsh. If she ignores him, he’ll go away.
“Wilona, open the door.”
If she opens the door she won’t easily be able to close it to him again. Her fingers tingle, wanting to let him in, but at the same time, it’s the last thing she wants to do.
“Open the door, Wilona.”
She walks over. “Help me. The upper hinge is broken.”
The door is suddenly as light as mist, and just like that, there he stands, his mass filling her sight. There’s ale on his breath, and the smell of smoke and roast meat on his clothes. Rain has left dark stains on his shoulders, and his hood flaps as the wind reaches its cold fingers round him. Bana sits beside him, jaws open, almost smiling. Margawn hesitates, and shock registers in his eyes when he sees the damage to her face.
“Will you let me in?” His eyes flicker to the dagger in Wilona’s hand, and he regards her as he might a rabid terrier. “I come as a friend.”
“The king’s gone then? Caelin’s granted you permission?” She doesn’t step aside. She wants him to feel her anger, although she also wants him to think he’s displeased her only in terms of honour, and not because she longed for him. He vowed his friendship and then disappeared. That wasn’t friendship. That wasn’t honour. The wind lifts her hair, and even with his bulk before her, sheltering her, cold wet drops sting her cheeks. Touilt flashes in her mind. Let her be warm and dry somewhere. Margawn’s eyes are steady. They haven’t even begun, she thinks, and already they’re sparring for the upper hand. Bana stands and shakes, sending water flying.
“Will you let me in?” he says again.
The dog cocks his head and whimpers. It’s almost humorous, the way the dog’s and man’s expressions match.
If this moment passes there will be no other. If Margawn goes away now, he won’t
return, and they’ll nod at each other when their paths cross, and keep every courtesy, and that will be that. Something splinters in her, something as brittle and sharp as river ice, and cracks spread through her. She steps aside. Elba sniffs the air, nervous at the scent of the hound.
“You already have company, I see.”
Wilona turns her back and walks past the fire. “Come in.”
He ducks to avoid hitting his head on the lintel.
“Bana! Sit!”
The dog obeys instantly, still wagging his tail.
“The dog must sense you on the pig,” says Margawn, chuckling. “He was slashed by a boar once, protecting me during a hunt. He’s a brave fighter but tends not to like pigs.”
Wilona is less concerned with pigs and dogs than the state of her face, her uncombed hair, and the sweat of the day’s toil on her body. She hides the dirt under her nails by clasping her hands in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she says.
“Yes, you were.”
“Oh, it’s late to call, don’t you think?”
His hand moves, as though to touch Wilona’s battered face, but he resists and tucks his thumb in his belt. He takes in the condition of the hut. “I see they spared no effort to make their point.” He whistles through his teeth and Bana’s head snaps toward him. Margawn points at a spot on the floor near the door. The dog scuttles there, as though it’s always been his place, and heaves an enormous sigh. Margawn sets his sack down and rights the door. He points to a piece of broken ladder-rung. “Hand me that, will you? It’ll serve as a shim until I can fix it.”
“A pretty gesture. But again, too late,” says Wilona.
“I’d have come sooner if I could. It was out of my control.”
“Always the loyal companion.” She hands him the rung and he wedges it between the door and the wall.
“There. Now no one can open it unless you remove that first.” He faces the door for a moment as though gathering his thoughts. Then he turns around, his expression serious. “You wrong me, and you give my position with Lord Caelin too much credit. I didn’t know.”
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