Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  “What happened to him?”

  “He cut himself a few Summers back with a scythe. The wound went green and he died.”

  “Why is it safe for me to – see her? Is she old?”

  Worr allowed himself a short laugh. “Of her years I do not know; she looks almost a maid, and is as comely as you might wish.” He considered a moment. “But she is barren. That is why she is safe.”

  The far side of the wheat fields held more crofts, and the furthest hamlet of the village of Kilton. They passed by a few folk working in the warm morning light, women scrubbing laundry, men prising turnips from dark soil. A common well stood on the trackway before one of the crofts, a wooden bucket lashed to a nearby post, with a long handled copper dipper ready upon a flat stone.

  They moved on, turning to the left and the last small croft there. Ceric heard the woman Begu before he saw her. A female voice, high-pitched, sweet, melodious, drifted in song from around the back of the small house.

  They stood their horses and just listened. Then she appeared, her apron held up in her hand. She had been gathering eggs from the tiny fowl-house, and the newly freed hens were scratching about in the shorn grasses on which she stood.

  Her song died on her lips. She looked at Worr, knew him, and smiled. It took her a moment longer to know Ceric for who he was.

  She dropped her head, bent her knees beneath her ruddy gown in a curtsy.

  Worr swung down from his horse, staying Ceric with a movement of his hand. He crossed to where she stood. Ceric looked down on them from his saddle, taking her in.

  She did indeed look a maid; Worr was right in that. She was slender, and not tall. Her hair was lying in tousling pale yellow waves upon her shoulders; not long, but striking in its curl. Her head wrap was the slightest, a mere band of white linen, and set off her hair the more. He thought her eyes must be blue, with such colouring. He wanted to find out.

  Begu had glanced up at him once as she stood with Worr, that is all. Then Worr came back and pulled himself on his horse. Ceric looked at where the woman stood, watching them, her hand still cradling her eggs. Her chin was slightly lowered, but she gave a half-smile and a nod as he looked down at her. Then Worr was turning his horse, and his turned as well.

  Worr’s eyes were straight upon the trackway before them.

  “You may come tonight, to see her,” he said.

  “Tonight.”

  “If you like.”

  Ceric’s mouth felt dry.

  “And bring her silver,” he hazarded.

  “A small sum of silver, yes.”

  “Have you – seen her?”

  Worr gave another short laugh. “Twice,” he allowed. “I was not always wed.”

  He looked now to Ceric’s face, saw the mix of excitement and fear.

  “She will make all easy for you,” he assured. “Go slowly with her, let her show you the way.”

  There was just enough Moon that night for Ceric to make his way back to the end of the pounded trackway to her house. He slipped off his horse and led it behind the wattle-and-daub walls of her small dwelling, fixing the reins to his saddle, then tying a lead about the beast’s neck so it might browse. Then he moved back to her door.

  All was dark. Light was costly, and he did not expect to see the glow of cressets coming from within, glinting from a crack in the shutter covering the single window. He drew closer to the door, feeling the pounding of his heart, grown large in his chest. The window was just to his left, and now between the warped wood of its shutter he saw the smallest amount of light. He tapped on the rough planks of the door.

  She opened it. He stepped within, and she closed it behind him, sliding a wooden board into an iron brace across its breadth. Now inside, he saw two cressets burning, sitting on a low table. A stool with three legs stood near, with a bed, heaped with cushions, on the other side of the table.

  He saw an almost fully charged spindle lying on the table, anchored by a thin thread to a fluffy mass of wool roving. She had been spinning when he had knocked. This knowledge almost startled him; this homeliest of duties making her as it did, almost like any other woman he had met.

  She was fully dressed, but in a different gown than that she wore during the day; in the low light he could not tell if it was light green or yellow.

  He tried to smile. She smiled too, almost shyly, and again dropped her curtsy.

  He wished she would speak. He said the first thing that came into his mind.

  “Your voice – it is a beautiful one. I heard you before I saw you.”

  Again, she ducked her head. “I thank you, Lord Ceric,” she answered.

  “I will not be Lord,” he corrected. “Please to call me Ceric.”

  She gave a nod of agreement. He kept looking at her. “And you are – Begu.”

  It was dim in the room, but she did indeed look truly a maid. Standing this near her he saw he was more than a full hand’s length taller. She was slender as a reed, delicately boned, the skin of her face parchment-pale and fine. Her tumble of light yellow curls, resting just below her shoulders, struck him as almost wondrous, a nimbus for a saint. He caught himself at that, remembering what she was, but went on admiring it just the same. It was entirely unbound, with not even the slight strip of linen she had tied around it this morning. He wondered what such hair would feel like, crisp or soft; wished to grasp it in his hand. The lack of light denied his finding out the colour of her eyes; she would tell him.

  He could not recall having seen her before. She seemed altogether fey, not of the world. Despite her spindle, she was not like any other woman.

  He saw her eyes had been following his, reading perhaps his thoughts. Now she spoke again.

  “Please to have some ale,” she invited. She had bent to a squat earthen jug that sat upon the table, poured out ale into two thick-walled pottery cups. She made a slight gesture to the bed. There was but the one stool, and nowhere else to sit. He placed himself on the edge of her bed, sinking in slightly on the featherbed beneath the wool coverlet. She sat next him, and handed him a cup. Her fingers were each as slender as his little finger.

  He took a deep draught into his mouth, too much. He almost choked, his throat was so tight. He struggled not to sputter out the ale, but a few flying drops escaped his lips. He felt a hot-faced fool.

  She waited for him to compose himself, then stood. He stood too, uncertain if he were somehow being dismissed.

  Instead she reached her arms towards him. He took her up in his own, pressed her into his chest. She felt so small in his arms, and he thought he was feeling the rapid beat of her own heart as well, as he held her. She lifted her face to his.

  They kissed just once, and he knew his lips met hers too hard.

  She only smiled, and began to undress him. She started with the leathern belt from which hung his seax, reaching to the brass buckle at the side of his waist, pulling the beautiful weapon off, laying it on the table by her spindle. Next she worked the buckle of his broad belt, which held the small purse in which the silver meant for her waited; and which held too the second pouch which bore flint and iron. She dropped down to the floor, unfastened the toggle on the ankle of his boots, and pulled them off with his stockings.

  She took his tunic from him then, grasping it at its hem, a smile lighting her face for a moment as he bent towards her so she could reach to draw it over his head. Nothing was left but his leggings.

  Her fingers went to his waist, found the toggle, and the few laces. He thought he might erupt as her hands grasped the waistband and pulled the leggings down, to free him. He reached towards her, wanting to press her once more, and far more urgently, against his hungering body. But she had once again dropped down, lifting his feet out of the leggings. She let the leggings lie where they fell, and rose to him.

  He stood naked before her, wearing nothing but his golden cross against his bare chest. She regarded him a long moment, her face kindly, and almost radia
nt, in the soft light. She reached and touched that cross, her finger lightly falling upon the red garnet set in its heart. He burned to feel her hands on his flesh.

  Her action, her touching of his cross, stayed him; he heard Worr telling him, Go slowly with her.

  He began with her sash. There were no keys, or other goods attached to it, just a ribband-like length of cloth with some kind of thread-work. He dropped it upon the cushions at the foot of her bed.

  He knelt at her feet. She wore upon them night-shoes of beaten felt, and no stockings. He pulled the woollen slippers from her feet, saw them as fine and delicate as her fingers.

  Her gown. He had taken up the hem of her skirts in his hand when he finished with her shoes, and now gathered the mass of fabric in handfuls as he rose. She lifted her arms and he drew it off, a pool of dusty hue fallen behind her. Only her shift remained, of white linen, and bright even in the low light. It was sleeveless, with broad straps of linen reaching over her shoulders. He could see the tips of her nipples raised against the thin cloth.

  He pulled off her shift. He could not look at her naked body for more than a moment; he must have it pressed against his own.

  Their mouths met. His hand ran up her back between the sharpness of her shoulder blades, pressing her more fully to him. The other traced the line of slender hip to slenderer waist, then up between their bodies to her small and firm breast.

  They sank upon the cushions of her bed. She yielded her body to him with modest grace, a slight smile ready on her lips when he betrayed his awkwardness, and full ardour in response to his desire.

  Begu slept. But after this first coupling, Ceric could not sleep. He lay awake at her side, looking at her pale and perfect form.

  Perfect but for one fact, he reminded himself: she could bear no child. But this was the very lack that allowed him into her bed. He kept on with his gaze, from slender white ankles, up the sweep of her legs and the small tuft of golden curls there where they met; up her belly, rising and falling with the slightness of her breathing, to the small yet tender pink-tipped breasts.

  He returned his gaze to her face. After a time he fell to stroking her hair as it lay spilling over the linen sheet her head rested on. Despite the wave it was soft to his fingers, almost as soft as the white skin which felt like new silk beneath the callouses of his hands. She awakened, lids lifting slowly over drowsy eyes. She smiled at him, propped on his elbow, twirling a strand of her floss-like hair round his finger. In another moment he had moved closer to her, brought his mouth to hers. After their kiss she pressed his shoulder down to the featherbed with her own hand, forcing him on his back. That gentle smile once more, as she swung her leg over his hips.

  At night’s end he knew he must leave. Dawn must surely be near, for he had heard the first notes of the lark’s call. As he picked up his belt he remembered the silver within. It felt an ugly thing to hand it to her, yet he did not know how to give it. She was sitting now upon the bed, and had donned her discarded shift. He took the silver from his purse and laid it, quietly as he could, upon one corner of her table, a small stack of whole coinage. He finished dressing, turned, and smiled again at her. To thank her seemed also wrong, and in his uncertainty he said nothing. He could not keep from reaching his hand to her, and she took and held it for a warm moment. Then he was outside in the cool dawn, finding his horse, heading to his hall through the gloom of a day not yet begun.

  He did not see Worr until late in the morning. The horse-thegn stood with Cadmar at the workshop where spear-shafts were fitted with their iron tips, sorting through sheaves of smoothed shafts meant for light throwing, and heavy battle-spears. Ceric moved to join them, face lowered, but with firm step. Worr caught his eye in a short but meaningful glance. Ceric felt his cheek warm, his only answer.

  Tired as he was he moved through the hours half-dazed. He had gone to Begu with the thought of seeing her once, and no more. But every spare moment of that day his thoughts returned to her, and oddly, returned also to Ashild. Each caress he received from Begu kindled his imagination, considering those he would receive from, and give to, Ashild. It confused, and excited him the more.

  By the end of the day he determined he must see Begu again, and that night. He lay down in his alcove without undressing, awaiting the time when a hush would overspread the expanse of the hall. He replayed in his mind what they had done the night past, and despite his exhaustion found himself near panting with anticipation for more. Lying on his back he thought he saw Ashild’s face above him, pictured her darker hair falling down over her larger breasts as she straddled him as Begu had.

  When he awoke it was past dawn. He had slept and missed his chance. His only solace was that he had not told Begu he would come again so soon.

  That night he did not miss his chance. The small house was dark, and it took her a moment to rise from her bed. He puts his lips to the crack in the window shutter and called out her name. She opened, leading him into a darkness which she soon banished, lighting the two cressets with a straw brought to flame from the coals of her small fire pit.

  In the weeks that followed, that pit would blaze, as leaves fell to the tired ground and Winter neared. He brought her more silver coins to begin, then found gifts that might give comfort or delight. He could not give her anything that had been his mother’s, but with silver he could buy and then bestow upon her small furs, ribbands of silk, a sack of goose-down, tapers of fragrant bees’ wax, cups and plates of bronze. He had the comb-maker, a woman of much skill, carve a pear-wood comb, its teeth wide-set to allow for Begu’s curls, its back bearing the incised design of doves trailing garlands of ivy.

  One night she complained of a rat, and he too had heard the low rustling at the wall-skirting. He returned in broad day, a lidded woven basket strapped to the cantle of his saddle. Within was a half-grown kitten a stable boy had caught for him. The day was cold and grey-skied, and she was within when he reined up. He did not enter her house, just passed the basket and its mewling contents into her hands at her threshold. Her surprise at seeing him thus could hardly have been greater.

  As she looked up into his smiling face he could finally gauge the hue of her eyes. They were blue, as he had supposed; that blue of near-dusk after a clear day. Those eyes now laughed along with her voice. Much as he wished to stay, he quickly mounted and left, but not without raising his hand to her in salute. Gaining the croft of her nearest neighbour he saw a man at work, smoothing the planed edges of a new hoe-handle. The man did him the courtesy of not seeing him; keeping his eyes intent on the draw-knife in his fist. Ceric knew her neighbours marked his comings and goings; they could hardly do else. Once or twice he had come upon the early risers amongst them as they stumbled out into the dimness of their crofts. They always ducked their heads, hastily and away from him, preserving his privacy.

  For Ceric was of the hall of Kilton, and their own, as they were his. And Begu herself was not despised. She was a quiet and otherwise decent woman, unlike those women trolling the streets of the great trading towns like Lundenwic. There whores reddened their cheeks and lips with berry-juice, and walked unashamed and with roving eyes through crowds of men.

  Moreover it was understood that she was somehow also of Kilton; it was the thegns of the hall who visited her, not the sons and husbands of the villagers. If she was not warmly received by the women with whom she drew water from the well, neither was she shunned. If she had surplus produce, she shared it freely with the others in her hamlet, as did they with her. When one of her sheep suffered from the dropsy, she could knock unafraid on another’s door and ask her husband to help. Begu had in fact never been within the palisade gates of the great hall. She had come to Kilton years after the Danish threat had forced all within for safety. Yet her connection to the warriors who lived there was understood.

  Near Martinmas Ceric arrived at her house, well wrapped against the blowing cold in his thick wool mantle. The sky was black as pitch, yet swimming with stars. In
the dark he could not make out the form standing by her wattle fence until he neared. It was a horse. It nickered, softly, as his own approached, and his horse gave an answering snort.

  He pulled his rein up short. Another man was there.

  He knew he made a sound, a sort of strangled gasp. He felt his chest had fallen into his lap. He squinted towards the shuttered window, and closed door. He scanned the outline of the house, one he thought almost his own. A small curl of smoke rose up through her roof’s smoke hole, bearing the scent of apple-wood.

  He drew nearer the horse to see if it was one he knew, but did not get off his own for fear of next finding himself pounding down her door.

  In the dark he could tell nothing of the beast. He must go, he told himself, and finally he did.

  In the day he noticed the thegns’ faces more than he usually did, and spent some little time in the yard paddocks, looking over their mounts. There were nearly a hundred horses at Kilton, and thirty or more just now in the stable yard. He could not mark them all, unlike Worr, who could. He watched with mounting anger the browsing heads move across the tufted grasses, and again forced himself away.

  That night he came earlier than was his wont to her door. The fire blazed in her fire-pit, as if she knew he would come. The smile with which she ever greeted him faded as he entered; his clouded face spoke even before he opened his mouth.

  “You must not do that. Let other men come to you.”

  She dropped her hands, which had been reaching to take his mantle. She still took it, digging her fingers into its cold softness.

  He had said nothing of this before. Now she almost feared he might strike her. Still, she must speak the truth. She did so, her voice as caringly light as she could make it.

  “You must not become – possessive. It would be all for nought.”

  She found herself looking down at the expanse of wool she held clutched in her hands. “I can never be more to you than what I have been. There is no future, here.”