In battle Ælfred himself had felt a similar spirit fill his breast; his chronicler, recording his deeds to inspire men, had compared him to a wild boar. But to Ælfred it was the Holy Spirit which had filled him, lifting him to feats of unthought-of strength and boldness.
When the five rejoined the thegns camped upon the hill slope, one young warrior in particular went to meet Raedwulf, eager to embrace the older man in grateful welcome, eager to hear of all that had transpired. Camp was struck and the entire army turned their backs on Middeltun, and the gaping mouth of the Thames beyond it. As they rode away Raedwulf looked back at the bustle of Haesten’s building and wall-raising.
“We will come here again, Ceric,” he told his young companion.
Ashild looked down into her blistered palm. Two fluid-filled sacs were rising under the pinkness of her skin, one at the root of her pointing finger, and one, even larger, in the centre of her hand. Her right arm ached and her shoulder had begun to burn. Still, she kept on. She had nailed an old shield to the trunk of an elm, and walked towards it to recover the second of the spears she had just flung. One spear lay a man’s length from the base of the tree, the other off to the left.
She was beyond the old place of Offering, away from the path leading to the stream that ran behind Four Stones. She had come here three days running, to a place unfrequented, where she might learn to kill a man.
Throwing an iron-tipped wooden-shafted spear with anything like power proved to be far more difficult than it looked. As she reached down to pick up the first spear, the pain in her shoulder made her bite her lip. Her palm felt so hot she knew the blisters were soon to burst if she closed her hand around the shaft a few more times. What was worse is that she was no better at hitting her target on this third afternoon than she had been on the first. Her frustration mingled with her mounting anger at the weakness of her own body.
She stood holding one of the spears; just bearing its weight caused pain in her tired arm at this point. She knew Sidroc had always cut a shallow groove in his spear shaft to mark the balance point, but holding the thing aloft, shifting it up and down in her hand, she had no idea how to find where that balance point was.
She put the butt end of it down in the dried grass, and with her other hand pushed her hair away from her face. It was held in a plait, but much had worked its way loose. Her brow was damp, despite the cool greyness of the day. She raised her eyes to the elm tree and what she had fixed there. The shield had once been painted in two nested rings of red and yellow, and looked to her like a mocking, open eye. She took her sash from off her waist and wrapped it twice about her blistered palm, then flung the spear again.
She missed. She let out a short cry of anger, staring after the failed throw. Then she whirled at the sound of a horse’s snort. It was Hrald, standing behind her on his bay. He grinned down at her, his laughter dying at the look on her face. He got off his horse.
He began to ask a question, then checked himself. It was all too clear what she was trying to do.
He came up to her. Her face was lowered, and he wondered if she wept. He reached out and took her right hand, unwrapped the sash she had used to protect it. The large blister had popped, soaking the blue wool with a darkened, wet spot. He dropped her hand.
His voice was low, even solemn.
“I know what you are trying to do. But why?”
The round chin lifted. “There will be war,” she told him.
Hrald began to speak, to counter her assertion, but it died in his throat. He too feared war was near at hand.
Ashild went on, her eyes bright, her words strong. “I would protect myself. Mother, Ealhswith. And Aunts Æthelthryth and Eanflad – ”
She stopped there. They both knew their aunts had been ravished as girls by invaders. Their grandmother, now a nun at Oundle, had suffered the same violation.
Hrald was looking from tree to her. “But a spear…”
“I will not stand by, cowering, with only a knife to fight with.” This was a retort, and she let her anger show in it.
He nodded. He could not but take her seriously.
He looked at her, as if sizing her up. She was smaller than any of the men of Four Stones, but not smaller than some of their sons, who were training.
“If you throw from a run you will have more power behind it,” he said. “You are fast, and your speed will help propel your throw.” He looked around again, as if finding answers for her in the straggly bushes. “Let go the idea of throwing a spear, to start. Holding it in two hands, fighting man-to-man, you can do real damage with your quickness; cripple a man.”
She let out a breath. He was neither chiding nor shaming her. He wanted to help.
He went towards the tree and reclaimed the thrown spear. He came back to her and hefted it in one large hand.
“And you need a smaller, lighter spear, one sized for your height and weight.” He smiled. “This one suits Jari, or me.”
“Will you have some made for me?”
He paused a moment, then nodded his assent. She could not go to the weapon-smith and ask such a thing.
He passed the spear to her, saw the pain in her face just taking it from him. “Let me teach you,” he urged. “First you must wait until your hand heals.”
She nodded in return. She dare not admit how her shoulder ached.
They stood together a moment. It was cold and the wind picking up. From overhead in the elm came the cawing of a rook, sounding cold itself.
“I was looking for you,” he told her.
She turned her eyes back to him.
He must get it out, and did so quickly.
“Thorfast asked leave to come see you. He wants you as his wife.”
“Ugh,” she grunted. She flung the spear at the tree; it hit the rim of the shield with a dull clang before falling to the ground on one side.
“A glancing blow. That is good,” said her brother, trying to praise. She had thrown it with fury, and all he could do was keep talking.
“Do not be angry. I allowed it, out of respect for you. I would not say Yes or No for you; you know that.”
She tossed her head back, then rolled her shoulders. She was older than Hrald, and she was being the child to his adult.
“I thank you,” she said. She gave him a fierce hug before they both turned to retrieve the spears.
When Thorfast arrived to see Ashild, he had only ten men at his back. All at Four Stones knew the numbers he could command to ride with him. There was no need for show, and just then he judged, no need for caution. He and Hrald had riders enough all through their lands to warn of sudden approach. Coming with few men made him seem the abler, he thought; showed his confidence and courage. And the feeding and housing of a few men and horses eased the burden on his host.
He had sent a rider ahead, to tell Hrald he would arrive by sunset next day. By this point all the family knew it as a courting-call.
“Ach! Hold still and let me comb it out,” Burginde was urging. She was standing over Ashild, whose head was bent over a copper basin on the table in Ælfwyn’s bower house. The hair-washing was almost complete, and while Ashild’s hair floated loose in the lavender-scented water was the easiest time for the nurse to address the knots and tangles.
“Make haste; my back is breaking,” grumbled the object of her ministrations. Ashild had been nearly growling with first impatience, and now discomfort. Still bent almost double, she stamped one foot. At last allowed up, Burginde wrapped the soaking head in a towel. Ashild snatched the wooden comb from the nurse’s hands; she would not suffer through Burginde’s combing it dry.
“Mind you comb it through,” Burginde warned. “I’ll not have you thrummy-headed as an unshorn ewe!”
Ashild’s mother looked up from the pile of gowns lying on her bed. The small fire-pit had been heaped with charcoal, and Ashild neared it. The maid wore nothing but her shift, and Ælfwyn could see she was chilled; the fine hairs on he
r arms standing. She stepped forward with a mantle to wrap her in.
“The red, or the blue? Or perhaps the green?” her mother wanted to know, tilting her head to the wealth of choices hiding the coverlet.
It was not easy for her mother, Ashild knew this, and anyone hearing the quiet tones of Ælfwyn’s voice would know it too. There was no trace of excitement in it, no happy anticipation for the sake of her offspring. And Ashild was uncertain enough about the visit to echo her mother’s concern.
“It matters little,” she answered, but with no tartness. “He is not coming here for me. He is coming for Four Stone’s sake, and his own.”
Burginde was in the act of wringing out the washing-cloths she had used, the still-warm water dribbling back into the basin beneath her strong hands.
“Not here for you! Then dress me up in one of them, and let us see if it matters!”
Mother and daughter both had to smile at her. Turning back to Ælfwyn, Ashild watched the corners of her mother’s beautiful mouth relax. Despite the heaviness in Ælfwyn’s heart she worked to keep her mood light. Ashild saw her now turn slightly away from her daughter’s gaze.
“Choose that which gives you most pleasure,” she advised, opening her hand to the gowns.
Ælfwyn retreated a few steps, watching her cloaked daughter yank the comb through her wet hair. She picked up a stool and brought it close to the fire-ring’s heat.
“Let me,” she softly offered, taking the comb from Ashild’s hand. The girl sat before her, and Ælfwyn plucked out bits of dried lavender flowers from the water-darkened hair. A few minutes passed in silence as she gently combed, drawing the damp hair over her daughter’s shoulders.
“This choice must be yours, Ashild,” came her mother’s voice near her ear. “I will not ask you to turn one way, or another.”
Standing behind her as she was, she could not see the tears well in her daughter’s eyes.
Much had already been spoken. A few days earlier Asberg had asked Ælfwyn for a word. He and Jari had followed her into the treasure room. They all knew that Thorfast would be coming, and would hope for immediate answer.
The three of them stood, the subject too grave to admit sitting. Two men wanted Ashild as wife. One meant union with Wessex, and its King, through Ceric; the second the strengthening of the alliance between Thorfast and Four Stones.
They had not gone deep into the matter when Ælfwyn looked about her. “I will bring Ashild,” she declared. “We will not speak of her life without her present.”
She returned from the upstairs weaving room with her daughter. Since Hrald had told her of Thorfast’s suit Ashild had spent much time turning the matter in her mind. Now her uncle and Hrald’s body-guard weighed in.
“Thorfast is nephew to our dead King,” Asberg pointed out. “If he proves able, he could be King himself.” He paused a moment to look directly at his niece. “And you, his Queen.”
Ashild a Queen. All were silent. What Asberg said was true, but the obstacles to such an outcome were many.
“Guthrum still has sons,” Ælfwyn said. “Thorfast would have them to overcome, or to convince join him.”
Jari was nodding his head. “Then there is Haesten, and after Haesten, his own sons, to consider,” he countered. “If he truly has the forces we have heard, Haesten could try to take all of Anglia.” His head turned to look at each before him. “Even beyond.”
This meant war on a scale that had not been seen before.
Ælfwyn could not countenance that now. “If Ashild chooses Ceric, that means Ælfred himself is tied to us. He has been the greatest of Kings, and always honoured the Peace. The reward for our honouring what he and Guthrum created will be his favour.”
Ashild looked from face to face, each with their own concerns, known expectations, and private fears. It was dizzying. She could be a Queen. Or an abject captive. Or soon dead. And possibly anything she did would make no difference.
In the silence that followed Ælfwyn had bethought her something else. “Thorfast is no Christian; he has not been baptised. Thus it would be left to Ashild to persuade him to conversion, and to assure their children were raised in the light of God’s Truth. This is a task which perhaps she does not wish to take on.”
She watched her daughter’s eyes widen, perhaps less at the reminder of her suitor’s heathen state than at the freighted role of bringing Christianity to Turcesig.
Ashild found herself speaking. “Why is Hrald not here? He will be Jarl, he should be here.”
Her elders had meant to discuss Ashild’s future amongst themselves. Ælfwyn had expanded the circle by insisting Ashild be present. But her brother, destined to rule all of South Lindisse, was absent.
Ælfwyn was the one to answer. “He is still young.”
Ashild gave her head a single shake.
“He is older than you know.”
Much was discussed that day, nothing determined. Hrald was brought and listened quietly. Ashild too said nothing; she did not need to. She knew both her mother and brother wished her to wed Ceric. What she felt about the second heir of Kilton seemed almost beside the point now. It was easier to picture happiness with Ceric than it was to picture happiness at Kilton. If he could come and live with her here at Four Stones as he had when they were but children she thought she find joy in being his wife. But the man could not be parted from the place.
Her hair was dry, her mother’s hands smoothing it down her back.
“I will wear the red gown,” she told her mother.
Thorfast rode through the palisade gates bringing an exceptional gift. He came first, leading by a tie-rope a pure white horse. It was a stallion, bearing the thick arched neck, heavily-muscled haunches, and long mane and tail that marked it as a worthy stud. Upon its back was girthed a saddle of wood and leather, the leather inset with silver medallions, the wood of the cantle rimed with silver braiding. The bridle on the noble creature’s head and the long reins were fashioned of green-dyed leather. The head and cheek-piece of the bridle were again studded with lozenges of stamped silver.
The ten men he rode with came next, but all eyes were upon Thorfast and the prize he led. The family of Four Stones were gathered to greet him, but even those working in the yard at their varied tasks stopped in their labours and whistled in exclamation at the sight at the snow-white stallion.
“Look what he brings you,” muttered Asberg into Hrald’s ear. “A worthy brother-in-law, and brother-in-arms.”
Once off his horse Thorfast handed the lead to the stallion to one of his men. He came to Hrald, who had stepped forward to meet him. They embraced each other, as they ever had. He then passed to Asberg, who greeted him warmly.
“Lady Ælfwyn,” Thorfast said next. He was smiling, and nodded his head to her as she dipped her own in welcome.
Ælfwyn saw he had made no little effort. He was as finely dressed as for a Twelfth Night feast, in a dark green woollen tunic embellished with thread-work in yellow and blue. For a man with no wife nor mother, he had skilled women at hand to so adorn his clothing. His mantle was of a rich and mellow brown, lined with dark fur such as otter. His short boots were new, and of a deep brown, the toggles fixing them about the ankles small chunks of squared amber.
He now stood before Ashild, gowned in red, with a mantle of thick blue wool over her shoulders. He was smiling, and she could not help but smile as well, despite the awkwardness of standing there before him with all eyes upon them. But he took it lightly, and she would try to match his ease. She dipped her head. He inclined his own, and said only, “Ashild.”
It was the way he spoke it. He had used her name countless times in the past; they had seen each other at many feasts and gatherings. There was gravity in how he used it now, gravity and purpose. She found herself casting her eyes down.
When she lifted them she saw him turn back to his men, take the tie-rope to the stallion. Thorfast was again smiling at Hrald. But he walked past her bro
ther. Ashild stood as their guest came back to her, the huge beast at his shoulder. She could hear the soft snorting breath of the stallion as he stopped.
“My gift to you, Ashild,” Thorfast told her. He extended the tie-rope to her.
She had never beheld a creature of such magnificence. And Thorfast, who wished to wed her, now gave it to her.
She showed her startle, there was no way she could not. The white stallion would have been a remarkable gift for her brother, and beyond; one worthy of a great war-chief or a King. And women did not ride stallions. Those who rode at all rode geldings or the less testy of the mares. She felt her cheek flame, despite her efforts to control the warmth rushing to her face. She became aware of the undercurrent of surprised murmuring from those in the yard watching. It stirred her to action. She took a breath. With all eyes upon them she had no choice but to accept it.
She said what had come to mind when he first rode through the gates with it.
“I have never seen a more beautiful horse.”
His face, which had been held in a look of expectant confidence, creased into a smile.
Yet she had not lifted her hand in acceptance. Still smiling he reached his own to hers. She responded, and took the tie-rope into her own hand.
The party was then welcomed into the hall with ale. There was still an hour or more before the evening meal would gather all together. Thorfast and his men would sleep in the second hall, and after they had stowed their packs Hrald and Asberg and Jari took Thorfast out to the falcon mews, to view the birds before dusk sent the raptors to early sleep. In the morning they would hawk together.
Ashild found herself out by the paddock attached to the lead-roofed horse stable. Mul had already freed the stallion from its bridle and saddle, ever remarking on the beast’s soundness and value. They stood together now, watching his massive form glow even brighter in the dimming light of dusk. Mul would be up early, and ride the newcomer first, just to ascertain its manners; he would not risk the young Lady of Four Stones on an untried beast, regardless of her skill as rider. But this he kept to himself; no need to raise the hackles on a filly as spirited as she.
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