“You think I’ve forgotten I’m a stranger?” Margawn’s hands hurt her, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of wincing.
He frowns. “You’ve been seithkona here because Lord Caelin permitted it, in deference to Touilt. All that’s changed.” He releases her and runs his hand over his face.
His beard is unbraided and longer than it was. There are new lines in his face. So wrapped up has she been in her grief, she hasn’t really looked at him. Her heart softens. The life of a warrior is hard.
“You must see the hazard,” he says. “You must adapt. You’ve skill as a healer; put aside your grief and anger, mould your talent to the new form.”
“I’m tired, Margawn.” She casts one last look at the grave, and turns away. “Will you see me home? I’ve missed you.”
“You’d miss me less if you agreed to be my wife.”
She slips her arm through his. Bana nudges her hip and she ruffles his fur to let him know she isn’t angry with him either. “And what sort of marriage would we have, if I did agree, the handfast or the Christian rite?” She puts her hand against Margawn’s cold lips. “For this night, can we leave such things outside the door?”
He nods and puts his arm around her as the wind knifes through her woollen cloak. How cold Touilt must be.
Touilt’s bed is stained and soiled. Death is such an ugly, undignified thing. Margawn drags the mattress outside for Wilona to burn in the morning. She hasn’t eaten since the night before. Her stomach growls. Margawn builds the hearth fire to a roar. They find what there is to eat, a little hard bread, which they dip in apple-wine, some smoked ham, a nub of cheese. And when the hunger of one kind fades, another rises. It’s been weeks since their parting and they’re ravenous, the tang of death adding urgency to the act. At first it is all a tumble of arms and legs, of tongues and teeth, and Wilona cries out sharply when she comes, tears on her face, as much from grief as pleasure. They are gentler after that. When they are done, a sort of calm descends, veiled in sorrow, but the edges of Wilona’s mourning have been rendered less sharp by Margawn’s touch.
He pulls her close, her head on his wide chest. “It’s difficult to imagine this place without Touilt,” he says. “She was good to me. She cared for my mother in her last days. And …” He pauses and under her ear his heartbeat quickens. “I’ve never said this to anyone. But after my first battle, I had certain … terrors. I was haunted by … there were things … King Cerdic and his queen … I didn’t expect …” His voice trails off.
In a flash, Wilona knows what Margawn means, as surely as if he’d spoken aloud. Shortly after his ascension to the throne, King Edwin called the companions to make war against Elmet, to avenge the assassination of his nephew, Hereric, whose widow, Breguswyth, and two daughters, Hereswith and Hild, were now his wards. He took his vengeance out on Elmet’s King Cerdic and his queen by blood-eagle, opening their rib cages near the spine, and placing their still-breathing lungs on their own backs. A hideous death for a man, but to watch a woman die so? It would scar a good man’s soul.
“Men do what they must in war. There’s no dishonour.”
He shakes his head. “It was a dark time, and without her I might have been lost. Touilt had power. There was much of the warrior spirit in her.”
“Aye,” says Wilona. “There was.” Yet, at the end there was little bravery at all, as far as she could see. She keeps her silence, and dozes.
After a time he gently shakes her. “Wilona?”
She’s groggy, and with waking, the pain of losing Touilt returns. She burrows under the furs, nuzzling into Margawn’s side. “Must you leave?”
“I can’t stay long, and we should talk.”
She doesn’t like the sound of that and shakes her head to clear the dream webs. She raises herself on her elbows.
He takes a deep breath, and she can see by the bluish smudges under his eyes he did not sleep long. “I wish there was more time to mourn with you, but I’ll be called away again soon. We’re to go to Eoforwic soon, perhaps at the new moon. Penda of Mercia is ambitious and war is coming.”
“This is the news from your time in Bebbanburgh?”
He nods. “King Edwin hoped Penda would join with him, but Penda won’t. He’s taken control of Wessex and the territory of the Hwicce.”
“And you think there will be war.”
Margawn grunts. “Isn’t there always? But we’ll prevail.”
“But you’ll have to go.”
“Aye.”
He draws her to him, and once more they find comfort in each other, but no act of love can postpone his parting forever, and before the hour is out she is alone again.
Is there no limit to the breaking of a heart?
Wilona picks up Touilt’s wolf pelt and holds it to her face. There’s little of Touilt’s smell left, only something unclean. Perhaps she took her scent with her, or perhaps her wolf has disappeared back to the misty lands.
Raedwyn. Where is the great owl? Gone with the wolf? She’s been loyal to him; will he not be loyal to her? She closes her eyes, softly sings the chant to call him. Nothing. Only the rustle of some small creature in the storage corner. She uses her palm on her chest to beat a rhythm that matches that of her heart. She wills the chant and the heart drum to find him. And then, something stirs.
Flutter of wing and feather, above her, around her, that perfume of the moors, wild and clean and sweet. Her song quiets to a whisper. Her face is wet with tears. She feels Raedwyn near her, looming, protective, and yet as fretful as her own heart. He seems to flit and flap, turning his vast wings this way and that, as though looking for escape. It’s clear to her then: he’s no longer comfortable in Touilt’s hut—in her hut. This place has been claimed by the White Christ. Raedwyn moves like a thing wary of a snare, a trap. Is that what he has to tell her? This place, home for all these years, where she’d been claimed, she thought, by Touilt, is now a snare.
If she’s to stay, she must do so without Raedwyn. And without him, what is there? The whim of kings? Of lords and priests? She cannot cease to be seithkona. Can she? She glances to where the vision-platform once stood; the outline where the boards were torn away is still faintly visible. Perhaps, since she is the only healer in the village, she wouldn’t have to convert, exactly. Perhaps Lord Caelin would permit her, in return for her craft, a certain leeway. She needn’t call herself seithkona. She can keep some things secret. She has the herbs, the plant-lore … and there’s another possibility: she could marry. Her skin tingles; her breath quickens. To live as other women live … She cries out and her hands fly to her head, pulling her hair. But she is not other women. And the herbs? Without the prayers that accompany them, without the runes to bind them, who knows how much power they retain?
She sighs. She’s let her imagination fly too far. Another thought comes to her: it’s one thing for the nobility to switch gods with the same ease they switch allegiance to a more generous, stronger leader, but it’s another for the people to do so, truly do so. Oh, they might be seduced by the pomp, the thrill of something new, but what about six moons from now, or twelve? Kings depend on the people to feed them, but the people depend on the land, the animals of the wood, the elemental beings, and they know how to appease and please; they know what rituals work and how to invoke fertility and plenty. Surely they will not be so quick to destroy their own gods. For a time, certainly, they might be mesmerized by this new religion, but when it fails them, as it must, when famine, illness, and war visit, they’ll come back to the old gods. Brother Egan may have the sheep corralled for now, but once the novelty’s worn off and the bright new rituals have lost their gleam, the people will be alone again on the land of their ancestors, with the gods of their fathers. They’ll need her again.
She feels Raedwyn moving off. She gathers her thoughts as she would a flock of wayward chicks. Calm comes, with a bitter taste of grief, but calm nonetheless. She knows then that Raedwyn speaks to her, for it’s unnatural to be calm in such circu
mstances, but his wing-breath carries sleep and dreams and the sure knowledge that he stands by her still. It’s enough, for this night at least.
Wilona curls into a ball and falls into something like sleep, where she dreams of her mother’s hands and of Touilt’s, and the two sets of hands become like one, smoothing her hair, kneading dough, winding wool, plucking herbs, stirring the porridge, tying the loom weights, untangling a thread, unknotting a knot, unravelling a skein …
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A.D. 628, Month of the Glory Goddess
Egan bends over Ricbert and tries to guide his stylus over the wax-filled tablet, but Ricbert pushes his hand away. “I can do it myself,” he says. The door is open to let light in, and a steady rain drips from the thatch. Ricbert rubs his hands together over a brazier and picks up the stylus again. Although the letters are legible, they are hardly graceful. He tosses the stylus onto the table and rubs his knobby, swollen knuckles.
“It’s this ache in my joints. At my age I can’t be expected to learn this sort of thing. What possible difference could it make? All this chicken-scratching—what does it mean? I’ve managed to live this long without benefit of Latin, or of your precious writing for that matter.” He taps his head. “I studied twenty years, man! Twenty years to memorize the wisdom, and now you want me to chuck it aside for scribbles in wax. At my age. Idiotic.”
“The wisdom’s not lost, Brother, only augmented. It’s not a matter of doing away with one in favour of the other, but rather a new opportunity. We value the poet’s arts, and no one could honour the traditions more. I know it’s difficult, Brother, but the king wants all monks to learn the language of the Church.”
“I don’t see why.”
“The monks on Ioua Insula commit to the page all kinds of sacred texts, the gospels as well as the words of great holy men. That way, long after we’re returned to dust, Christ’s words and the inspired wisdom of the saints will be ready for the next man.”
“Until a fire comes along and then, poof, all your precious wisdom disappears in a puff of smoke.”
“All the more reason for scriptoriums to make haste. An individual library might indeed burn down, but not all of them. The work as a body is divinely protected.”
Ricbert merely raises an eyebrow. Alas, Brother Ricbert is not an eager or quick student. Egan is about to suggest they return to the memorization of the psalms, when they hear approaching footsteps.
“Thank the gods,” says Ricbert. He glances at Egan and rolls his eyes. “Right. God. Thank God.”
It is Fugol, a boy of nine or ten years, a messenger from Caelin’s hall. He pokes his head round the open door of the church. “Excuse me, my lords …”
“Come in, Fugol, and please, none of this ‘my lords.’ We are all brothers in Christ here,” says Egan, waving the boy in. Brother Ricbert makes some small noise, which Egan decides to ignore.
The boy shrugs. “Well, Lord Caelin sends his greetings and requests your presence.”
“Now?”
“If not sooner.”
“That’s not good,” mutters Ricbert.
“Is something wrong, Fugol?” Egan’s heartbeat has quickened.
“I don’t know, do I?” The boy fusses with his belt. “I’m just told to fetch you.”
Caelin waits for them in the small antechamber of his private quarters. He is seated at a high-backed chair in front of a long table, and across from him sits Cena of the black beard, Caelin’s battle-scarred commander. Furs are draped invitingly on benches, and hangings adorn the walls. In one, a mighty stag has fallen to the hounds, its throat rent and its head bent back in agony, a group of hunters at the ready. The other depicts one of the many battles of Lord Caelin’s career: swords and spears, men writhing, blood spurting. A dozen or more candles are glowing, although it’s only mid-afternoon and still quite light. A jug of wine, cups, the remains of a chicken, and some pieces of bread clutter the table. The air smells of meat and the thick aroma of two giant hounds lolling in a corner.
“My lord, you asked for us?” says Ricbert.
Caelin wipes his fingers on his red tunic. “Come in. There’s a small matter we need to discuss.” He gestures to a servant in the shadows. “Bring that bench over here and pour some wine.”
Egan helps the servant by lifting one end of the bench. “No wine for me, thank you. Just a little water.”
“I’ll have his,” says Ricbert.
Caelin laughs. “Good man.”
When they are seated, Caelin says, “Bad business about the Lady Touilt. Sad. She died hard, I hear.”
“Few deaths are easy, my lord,” says Brother Egan. “But we may be comforted she died safely in the arms of Christ.”
“Yes, well, we’re grateful for that.” Cena rakes his fingers through his beard. “Still, didn’t persuade her ward, did it?”
“Exactly,” says Caelin. “I thought,” he continues, “you might use the moment to solve the problem of the girl.”
Egan glances at Ricbert, who studies the wine in his cup. Egan feels as he always does when in the presence of powerful men who draw their strength not from the glory of Christ Jesus but from the might of their bulging biceps, their swords and spears: he feels inferior, juvenile, and brittle as a wheat stalk in mid-winter.
“I pray for her—”
Caelin flicks his fingers in the air. “Well and good. But you’ve been praying for some time now, Brother Egan, and yet still she keeps herself apart. My doorkeeper, Margawn, warms himself at her fire, and yet even that doesn’t convince her.”
“She’s just a woman, Lord,” says Ricbert. “She’s no trouble to you.”
Caelin chuckles. “Ricbert, old friend, you’re unmarried and perhaps not accustomed to the wiles of females. You don’t know the trouble they can cause. Here’s my problem: there’s been rumour in the village, ever since that elf-spawn child was born to the woodworker.” He turns his gaze on Egan. “You were there; you saw it. Can you deny it was elf-stricken?”
“Whatever afflicted the child, Lord, I saw no evidence of sorcery, only tragedy.”
“And what, in your opinion, caused this tragedy, if not evil? Surely you’re not saying your Christ had anything to do with it? Did the parents sin? Are they being punished then?”
Egan’s rib cage begins to feel too small for his thumping heart. “No, no, of course not. When our Lord Christ healed the blind man he told the people the man’s affliction was not a punishment for sin, neither his nor his parents’.”
“And to what then did he attribute this suffering?”
It’s a bad example. Egan’s mind is muddled. He cannot think clearly in this small place. It seems as though Caelin has an argument already laid out, and no matter which way Egan steps, it’s exactly where Caelin wishes.
“I’m no scholar, nor a philosopher to answer the question of why suffering exists.”
Caelin scowls. “But doesn’t your beloved gospel address the issue?”
“Well, yes. In the case of the blind man, but …”
“But what? What does it say about why the man was born blind?”
“It says the man was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed to him.”
Cena picks his front teeth with a silver-plated thorn. “Exactly. Now shouldn’t you be revealing God’s work to the seithkona?” He spits onto the floor.
“She … she doesn’t wish instruction, yet, Lord Caelin. If we give her time I’m sure she’ll—”
“I don’t choose to give her more time, monk. I’m tired of this. The king, whose ring I wear, has seen fit to convert to this new religion. Who does the girl think she is to refuse his gift?” He pounds the table, making the cups jump and one of the dogs bark. “I had some affection for Touilt. Her husband was killed defending us from raiding Picts with my brother when he was lord. She served us well, and she was old and ill. I had patience. I have no patience with this girl, and little, frankly, with you. Neither of you is kin to us, remember. You are here a
t the request of Bishop Paulinus, although one wonders if you were to go missing how much he’d regret you. If the girl goes missing, no one will regret her at all.”
Cena laughs, short and sharp. “Save Margawn, Lord.”
“Give him a slave to warm his bed and he’ll soon forget her,” says Caelin. “Listen to me, monk. Wilona shall accept her place among us, or she can leave. She can marry Margawn—I’ll not stand in the way of that if he wants to take on the wildcat—but as long as she keeps to the old ways and sets herself apart, she’s a burr under my arse. Who knows what curses she might cast on the herds and the crops. Who knows what mischief, or worse, she might get up to, especially now she’s alone. Touilt taught her much. Perhaps too much. I’ll not have the little weasel among the hens. I don’t care how it’s managed—if it ends with her hanging from a tree limb, so be it.” He turns to Cena. “I had a mind to strangle her when she first arrived here with the smell of magic all over her, and would have if it hadn’t been for Touilt.”
Egan coughs and Caelin glares at him. To have the girl’s blood on his hands is unthinkable. Why can’t he find the right words? He opens his mouth. “Forgive me, Lord Caelin, you mean only to protect your people, but truly, I see no danger. The girl grieves for her foster mother, but anyone can see she’s grateful for the home you grant her here. Can’t we give her a little time, let her be drawn to the God of all men—”
Caelin’s fist slams down on the table again and Egan jumps. “By Woden’s one eye, Christian, you make me wonder where the strength of this god is. Get out, both of you. Have your god work his magic on her, and if he fails to do so, I’ll work my own! And make it happen before Eostre’s moon.”
Egan hesitates, scrambling for other, better, words, for he senses he has only made the situation worse. Ricbert grabs the back of Egan’s tunic and yanks him out the door. It’s all Egan can do to swallow the searing shame in his throat.
Ricbert stomps along the muddy path. “You’ve got to learn when to shut up.”
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