Thorfast’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Then he made his guess.
“That Saxon.”
“Já. My friend. Ceric of Kilton.”
Hrald felt that Ashild was nearly at his elbow. He could almost feel her anger at being so discussed.
“You cannot throw away her value like that,” Thorfast countered. “What good will she do you, buried away in Wessex?”
Hrald had recoiled at this, snapped his head back, and was staring at him. It was a misstep, Thorfast knew; the rashness of his words had given offence. He had forgot how young Hrald was.
“Ceric of Kilton is godson to Ælfred,” Hrald was telling him. “He wears a golden cross from Rome, gift from the King to Ceric’s father, who fought shield-to-shield with him. Ashild will go to a burh known throughout Wessex for its treasure.”
Thorfast was not sure he could offer the same bride-price as could be summoned from such a place. He thought on what little he recalled of the Saxon youth, well-knit, able-looking enough, and not a man a maid would scorn.
“And Ceric will be Lord of Kilton,” Thorfast considered.
Hrald paused a moment before answering.
“He will not,” he admitted. “He has a younger brother, adopted by the Lord of Kilton, who will fill that seat.”
The door was not closed after all. Thorfast wedged it open.
“Would you have your sister be second in that place? Ashild is proud. She will want, and deserves, to be first, to be Lady of the keep she goes to.”
Jari had made a small grunt of assent. If Ashild was anything, she was proud.
Hrald floundered, looking left and right as if for answers. Ashild had never said to Ceric or to anyone, that she would wed him. Yet Hrald knew she had true affection for Ceric; how could she not, with all the time they had spent together, and the love between their mothers.
Thorfast was speaking again.
“And she would be here in Lindisse, close to Four Stones and all that matters to her.”
Hrald’s chin lowered at this. He knew more than anyone how she loved her homeland and folk. The thought of sending her so far away to Kilton had been his only pang in surrendering her to Ceric.
Thorfast would not relent. He dropped his voice. “Soon all of Angle-land could become Danelaw. Would you have her taken as booty when Kilton falls?”
Hrald stood up. “Kilton will not fall. The Peace will hold. And Ashild will not wed anyone but whom she wants.”
Thorfast stood as well, hand outstretched in calming gesture. “Hrald. We are friends of old.” He lifted both hands, opening them in entreaty. His eyes were steady on his guest. “If Ashild is not destined for another, give me leave to speak to her.”
Destined for another. Hrald had no idea where Ashild’s Fate lay.
Jari was looking at him expectantly, eager for him to agree to so reasonable an offer. And he himself must admit that to deny his sister the chance to be courted by Thorfast did her a disservice.
He was thinking on this when the piping voice of a child sounded. A girl of about five years scampered out of the passageway to the table, laughing as she ran to her father. Thorfast bent to pet the child’s round cheek, then gestured her back to the care of the out-of-breath serving woman who had followed her in.
Hrald watched the child be led away, then answered.
“You may speak to Ashild,” he said.
After his guests had ridden off Thorfast pondered all he had heard. He and Haward would soon be fighting someone, either defending their lands from these Danes come from Frankland, or joining with them to ride against Wessex. It was not what he wanted but at least now he had men enough to have a voice in what came next. Hrald as an ally would vastly strengthen his hand.
As for Hrald’s sister, he had seen women he liked better in the face, but she was comely enough, and she had spirit, which he valued. And when he looked at Ashild, he saw not only her person, but the two hundred warriors of Four Stones.
Chapter the Twelfth: Few Choices
The Island of Gotland
HUNDREDS of leagues from Lindisse, in the near middle of the Baltic Sea, the brewster Rannveig stood before the long wooden table against the wall of her brew-shed, wiping pottery cups. It was just past noon, hours before she would be serving, but five Danes had come in, flush with silver, and she had seated them and brought the ewer of mead they had asked for.
She knew they were Danes the moment they opened their mouths; their Norse told her. But one of the five she looked at with special care. He wore his knife across his belly, suspended lengthwise from a belt, instead of on his hip. Only one man wore his knife thus, Sidroc the Dane, and she knew the knife this new Dane bore to be that called a seax, and the work of Saxons.
After the first ewer of mead had vanished down their throats they dropped a small pile of silver into her palm. She carried it back to her scales and shook it into the measuring bowl. The silver was mostly pieces of coin, but one whole piece was there. She picked it up and looked at it, and knew it for what it was. Ceridwen had several of such coins, and when Rannveig came across a newly-minted one she saved it for her, for it bore the countenance of the great Ælfred, King of Wessex. Ceridwen knew this king; he had once been hers.
They had asked for food, as well as more drink, and she moved into the passageway and out past her brewing shed to ask Gudfrid to feed them. Then she headed up the steep hill to Tyrsborg.
Sidroc was stacking firewood against the outside wall of the hall with her son, Tindr. Her boy smiled at her, and Sidroc nodded down at her from his perch atop the tightly packed cords.
“I have Danes, at the brew-house,” she told him.
He shoved the cut piece he had been holding into place, and jumped down to her. Sweat beaded his brow and his dark hair was plastered against his temples, making the grey streak by his left ear slightly darker than it was. Over the years she had made it a habit to tell him whenever any he might take interest in appeared at her tables. Danes were foremost in Sidroc’s line of interest.
“What manner of men are they?”
Rannveig had summed them, and quickly. “Warriors. Young. Cocky with silver. Including this.” Here she handed Sidroc the piece with the side-portrait of Ælfred.
He turned it in his hand, feeling the raised edges of the King’s crown, the line of his nose and chin. He handed it back to her.
She had more to say.
“And one – one wears a seax.”
His chin jerked up at this. It was almost proof of a Dane having fought in Angle-land.
“You have never seen them before?”
“Never. And I know from their talk it is their first time on the island. Their ship dropped them here for the day, I think, while it sailed further North. Their captain has trading dealings somewhere up the coast. They were not needed and asked to wait here.”
“Happy the man who can chose drinking over dealing,” Sidroc observed.
“I will be down, and soon,” he told Rannveig.
She gave her son another smile, then turned and left.
Tindr had been watching his mother, and Sidroc, with his usual care. Sidroc faced him, pointed to Tindr, to himself, then to his eye. He gestured a sword at his side. We are going to see some warriors, he was telling him.
Tindr grasped it. He made a move with both hands, signing the pulling back of a bow string. Should I get my bow, he asked. But Scar shook his head. Just come with me.
Ceridwen saw the departing Rannveig from her front door, which she had pulled open. Eirian and Yrling were off playing with Deer and Tindr’s small boy, and she had thought to prune the rampant growth of her grape vine, now that fruiting was over. She went to her friend.
Rannveig nodded towards the sea. “There are Danes at the brew-house. Your own is coming to look at them.” She wished it to sound a light jest, but she herself felt concern. Before she made her way back she told Ceridwen what she had told Sidroc.
The Mistress of Tyrsborg put down her pruning-hook and walked over the grassy way to the cooking rings. Their cook Gunnvor always had a cauldron of water warming, and Sidroc stood at a basin on one of her work-tables, where he had just finished washing hands, face, and chest. He toweled himself dry, his dark blue eyes crinkling in the easy smile that he almost always greeted his wife with. He picked up his discarded work tunic and met her as he crossed to the side door of their hall.
She followed him into the treasure room, watched as he pulled on one of his best linen tunics. He took his comb from the shelf and ran it through his hair. Then he knelt on the floor, pulled aside her precious plush weaving which lay before the bed, pried up a broad floor board. Under it, for the sake of fire, lay a flat stone, which he also moved. His fingers angled around and pulled up something bright, which he clapped on his right wrist. It was a cuff of gold, cunningly wrought of many hammered, overlapping scales, like unto the scales of a fish or dragon.
He replaced all and stood as he buckled on his seax. He did not usually so array himself when he sought out Rannveig’s customers. She knew he had reason, perhaps the fact that the Danes he went to meet had been to Angle-land.
“Rannveig said there were five of them,” she found herself saying. Her eyes flitted to his sword belt, hanging where it always was, on the wall by their bed. He had made no move towards it.
He nodded. “She did,” he agreed.
He looked ready to leave.
“I will come too,” she suggested, “come in through the passage way, stand with Rannveig as if I am of the place.”
“You will not,” he said, as simply as that. “I will not have their heads turned by gawking at you.”
She let a dismissive laugh escape from her lips. She had three-and-thirty years.
He looked at her. She wore that day a gown of indeterminate hue, not quite blue nor green, a happy accident of dyeing. Its colour made her green eyes a deeper, stiller shade. Her hair spilled out from her white head-wrap onto the sleeves and bodice of the gown, thick tresses the shade of bright and burnished gold. If she lacked the freshness of a maid, she had won through years of life and loss and the children she had borne the warm and vibrant ripeness of a woman greatly loved.
He found himself grinning at her.
“You will stay here, until I am back.”
He tucked the pouch that held his silver into his belt, got Tindr, and left.
Walking down the hill he noted the roughness of the Baltic. Sailing season would soon be over; even the fishermen in their stable, broad-beamed craft would haul up soon. But sometimes one must stretch the season. His own captain, Runulv, sailed only early in the year, often in wind and waves matching or exceeding those of Fall. These five Danes may have landed on Gotland now, but likely as not more sailing lay ahead of them.
The day was warm enough that Rannveig had the awnings to the sea rolled up. When he opened the door he saw the Danes, still alone in their eating and drinking. It would be hours before any from the trading road came in. They had their war-kit with them but no packs; it was true they would be picked up and returned to their ship soon. Their round shields stood propped up against the wall behind them, along with five heavy spears. They all looked up as he walked in, and kept watching as his retainer followed him in. Sidroc motioned to Tindr to stay by the table where his mother stood. He approached the men.
They were, he gauged, all of about five-and-twenty years, at their peak in quickness if not yet in strength. Two of them had swords he judged as good ones, including he who wore the seax. They were finishing their meal, and broken loaves and an empty pot of the savoury fish-paste Gudfrid made from salted herring told it had been enjoyed. Just now three of them were again lifting their mead-cups to their lips, and looked at Sidroc over the rims as he reached their table.
“Brothers,” he said.
They took him in, five pair of light eyes raking up and down upon his person. He was tall, lean yet powerfully built, and rich. The cuff of gold was heavy, and the valued work of the Rus, thought one of the men. And he bore a seax with a silver-wrapped hilt. Whether this tall Dane had traded, or raided, for such things, they must admit he wore them well. And there was that scar.
One made way on the bench for him. Sidroc inclined his head to Rannveig, watching all with the discreetness of her calling, bidding her bring another ewer of mead. He took his place at their table.
Sidroc’s eye fastened on the one bearing the seax.
In response the strange Dane spoke, nodding his head at that Sidroc wore.
“Your seax,” the young Dane asked.
“From a Saxon war-lord I dropped at Readingas.”
They had heard of that battle, but had been boys when it had been fought.
He did not ask in return, and the other Dane did not offer. His was not nearly as fine, and he had in fact cut it off the body of a man already dead.
Sidroc let his glance fall again to the man’s weapon. “That Saxon you killed was a good warrior,” he praised.
The bearer of that weapon cocked his head at this.
Sidroc made a slight gesture to his own seax, and went on. “It is a tribute to a dead opponent to wear his weapons,” he noted. “Proof he was worthy of your attention.”
The other Dane gave a short and scoffing laugh. “I never think of the dead,” he claimed.
Sidroc looked at him. “You will,” he promised.
Rannveig brought the fresh ewer to the table, with a cup for Sidroc. Sidroc filled his cup and pushed the ewer to the Dane across from him, who nodded his thanks.
The one with the seax spoke again. “Mine is from Basingas.”
So he was thinking of the dead man, after all.
These men were too young to have fought at the famed pitched battle there, Sidroc knew. He would hazard a guess at some other, smaller, and much more recent action fought there in Wessex.
“That skirmish,” he nodded.
“Já. Last Summer,” agreed the Dane, refilling his cup.
The ewer made another pass around the table. Despite the food they had eaten these Danes were well on their way to being drunk. Sidroc took care to pour himself out equal measure to what they filled their cups with, but had no fear of dulling his wits. He had fifteen years more experience in holding his drink. He called for another ewer, which Rannveig carried over. One of the Danes asked about the treasure on his wrist, and was lauded by its wearer with the assurance that it was indeed the famed gold-work of the Rus.
“The Svear have it all,” complained one, thinking of those distant lands. “Nothing left for us.”
“Like Frankland,” agreed another. “All the easy takings are claimed.”
They were half-drunk, had full bellies, and sitting on an island far from any war. He would risk a direct question.
“Will the winds take you home, or back to Angle-land,” he asked.
“Angle-land, to join the army already there.”
It was the one with the seax that answered. Sidroc leant forward slightly on his elbows, showing his interest, bidding him go on.
“We are throwing in with Haesten. He has eighty ships; even more. He landed just after a fleet four times that size put ashore in Wessex. Most are come from raiding Frankland, but no one of their leaders is strong enough to take command, none but Haesten. Now that Guthrum is dead Haesten will be chief of all, and soon, King of Anglia. After that all of Angle-land will be his.”
“Ours,” corrected one of them. He was grinning like a milk-fed cat.
Sidroc had just heard a great deal. A new Danish army was somehow lately encamped in Angle-land; and Guthrum, who had been his own King and war-lord, was dead. And these Danes he drank with had, a year ago, already fought at least one skirmish there, on Saxon soil.
He knew his eyes had shifted at this news, but he had kept himself from otherwise showing surprise. Deep in their cups as these men were, they may not have noticed. Of Haesten he knew plen
ty, but not this.
His mind turned these facts, extracting as much as he could. None of Guthrum’s many heirs ruled all Anglia; that was clear. New Danes, seemingly having given up on Frankland, had landed. A war-lord with a big enough army could make his move, hoping for aid from those long-settled there.
He thought on Haesten. He would have no less than fifty years now, but was renowned still as a warrior. He had once been one of Guthrum’s chief men, just as Sidroc himself had been. But Haesten had a hard time accepting orders, and soon left to try his hand in Frankland, taking his men with him. There he had fought many battles, and had with his own hand killed the famed Frankish warrior Rutpert. Haesten had been back and forth between Dane-mark and Frankland since then. Now he was ready for his biggest quarry yet, and seemingly had the men and ships to back him.
The Dane with the seax had been studying Sidroc. “You should come with us.”
It took Sidroc a moment to answer. “Perhaps I will.”
He roused himself. He glanced over to where Tindr stood, watching patiently, his mother still at work, needlessly, he knew, wiping and re-wiping the same cups, unwilling to leave. Sidroc began to rise. He had got what he wanted; far more.
One of the Danes was fumbling in his belt, and a clatter of hack-silver spilled out on the table. Two walrus-ivory dice rolled out as well.
“Stay for one game,” slurred the Dane, eyeing Sidroc’s cuff of gold. “Our ship is not here yet.”
Sidroc considered the five of them.
“I have never had much luck at dice. But I will play with you…”
Once back at Tyrsborg Sidroc did not return to stacking wood. Having taken most of the Danes’ silver, he had dropped it into the weighing bowl of Rannveig’s scale in thanks. He walked slowly up the hill, Tindr at his side. He was oft times grateful for Tindr’s silence, as he was now.
His head was buzzing enough from the mead he had drunk that his first stop was at his own well. He downed a full dipperful of the cold water, then dashed some on his brow. He gestured to Tindr to go back to the wood pile. He went into the hall.
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