The day was busy. Gunnvor had been up at dawn, stuffing food bags for Sidroc. Helga had helped Ceridwen gather the kit he would need, that for the ship, and that which would be needed to camp on land. And Ceridwen smoothed and rolled his clothing. He was taking little with him, and almost no jewellery; a broad silver cuff he favoured on his wrist, nothing more. But he had counted out much silver in coin the night before, done it before his shield-maiden, and had two purses tucked into his belt.
“All the gold is here,” he told her, kneeling on the floor of the treasure room. The short floor board that covered the opening in the earthen floor beneath was lying to one side, and she knelt on a corner of her folded-back plush weaving. He gestured to the many small crocks sunk into the hole.
“That gold which is yours, your morning-gift from me. And all the gold pieces I have earned from trading.” He pointed to another pot. “The gold cuff, of the Rus. The larger pots are full of silver, both coins and hack.”
She knew all this, but his telling her again gave them both comfort.
“Will you not take some gold,” she asked, as he counted out the silver he had chosen for the trip.
“Nai. This will be enough. If it is not, having gold will make no difference.”
They would sail next day at noon, on the receding tide. In the grey light of morning Ceridwen was in the kitchen yard, helping Gunnvor with the final packing of food. She lifted her head and watched Sidroc slip into the forest. She thought she knew where he was heading.
He walked alone along the trail through unfurling ferns and mosses looking black in the little light. There had been rain in the night, and the bark of the smooth beeches and birches showed where the drops still ran down. He passed hollows in which a few crusts of snow lay melting, further darkening the clots of brown leaves caught there. He went on a short way, then turned to the place of Offering he had made.
It was where he and his shield-maiden and Tindr and Rannveig had gathered at his first sacrifice at Blót, that blood-month of coming Winter. He had offered seven sows that year, a gift that reflected his thankfulness for coming whole and well and with the woman he wanted to this good island.
Now he stood alone, looking at the low platforms he and Tindr had built, bearing the tattered remains of animals sacrificed there. They had been sent mainly to Freyja and her brother Freyr as thank-offerings, but he had come here and spoken to Tyr as well, that God of justice he had long ago given himself to. Tyr was his God, and had ever guided his arm.
He had need to speak to Tyr now.
Sidroc had made a vow, one made none the less sacred for it being sworn in his own stable yard.
“You are the last,” he had vowed, before he delivered the death-blow to Godwin of Kilton.
“Tyr,” he spoke aloud, lifting his hands, and looking up into the bare branches of the trees hedging the place. He had ever felt that Tyr saw him, watched him even.
“I made a vow: not to kill again. Now I must break that vow. If I die, I will not blame you. You are the Law-giver, and my death will be the just answer for all the men I have killed. I know that.
“But if I am truly your son, understand what I do. I go to help my own son. His sisters. Their mother. Know that is why I sail. That is why I will kill again.”
He had arrived in the grove empty-handed. The God also would have noticed that.
“I bring you no Offering. None but myself. If you deem it, I will be your sacrifice.”
He dropped his head a moment, thinking on the moment of his death. He shook that head, lifted it again to the naked branches of the trees. There was a second vow he must break, that he made to his shield-maiden. He had told her would not take ship again, would live the rest of his life here on Gotland. In her kisses she had forgiven him, but Freyja had been called to witness that vow.
“Freyja, white-armed one. You know all that is done between my shield-maiden and me. You marked her to be mine, and at last gave her to me. Keep her safe when I am away. And if I cannot come back, lighten her heart with the knowledge I await her in your jewelled hall.”
That hall felt closer to him than it had in many years. His eyes lifted higher, far up in the interlace of stark and reaching branches.
Broken vows brought disaster. Guthrum had once sworn a sacred vow on a great silver arm ring, a vow made before the Gods and Ælfred. Sidroc had sworn it too, smeared with his own blood that mass of silver, as did all of Guthrum’s chief men. Then Guthrum, pushed by those men of his who wanted still more, was forced to break his vow, was forced to once again attack Wessex at Æthelinga for a final try at all. There the raven banner of the Danes fell, and they were routed. It was the very same war-flag which had been woven by the great Ragnar Lodbrok’s daughters, and it had never failed to do nought but advance upon the enemy. A broken vow heralded Doom.
He shook his head again, driving this away, and stood looking at the dripping trees a while longer. A bird sang out, the clear and hopeful song of one seeking a mate. He turned and made his way back to his home.
At noon the swollen tide began to turn. Runulv had long been within his ship, had the steering oar untethered. He checked and rechecked the lashings of the heavy grinding stones near the keel. His men were clambering back and forth from pier to ship, carrying on goods. Some had wives, and all had parents or siblings, who now crowded the wooden planks, or stood watching from the trading road.
The goshawks, wicker cages covered by tanned hides to keep the birds warm and dry, were aboard, and secured. Tindr’s honey, a bundle of furs, the bags of amber, these were in place.
Sidroc had carried his packs on. Then came his black-and-white painted shield, and the two spears he chose, one long, such as the Danes and men of Gotland used, and that light and fast throwing spear taken from the ship of the Idrisids. He saved for last the chest which held his ring-tunic and helmet. He had buckled on his sword belt; it had been long since he had done so.
Once again Rannveig had come out of her brew-house, and summoned a few of those sailing to roll a cask of her good ale on board, as her parting gift.
She had a second gift this time. A smaller cask, of mead.
“Drink it in health, Sidroc the Dane,” was all she could say. She stepped back, put her arms about the shoulders of Eirian and Yrling.
Sidroc swallowed, but said with a strong voice. “We will tap it when we turn for home.”
Tindr stood there, with his wife Šeará. Their little boy was at their legs, touching both of them as he looked with big eyes at the ship bobbing pier-side.
Tindr stepped forward. Scar looked to him, then lifted his hands. He reached one out before him, then pulled it back, closing the fingers as he did so. With the same hand he tapped his heart. With both he steepled the fingers together, the sign for the steep-roofed hall where Scar and Bright Hair lived. Then Scar inclined his head to where Bright Hair stood.
Take care of them, he told Tindr. Tindr nodded back. Then he extended his own hand, drew it back, closing the fingers as he did so, and tapped his chest. He pointed to Sidroc. Take care of yourself, he said in return.
All was in readiness. There was no further fare-well, save that for his wife. He took a step further down the wooden planks of the pier. She followed.
He stood looking down at her. He had asked her to wear the red gown he had bought her long ago on the Baltic coast, one she wore only for high and happy feasts.
“Shield-maiden,” he told her. “If I do not return, I will be with you, always.”
She was biting her lip to hold the tears.
“Do not weep, my beautiful one. Freyja, in whose image you were made, prepares a place for you. I will await you in her hall.
“If I come back, we will laugh at this parting, laugh that we could not see Freyja smiling down on us. Think on that day, shield-maiden, when we will again laugh.”
His arm closed around her, pressing her one last time to his chest. Then he stepped back, turned to the waiti
ng ship.
They cast off. A cry arose from the throng on the pier, much like that sounded every time a ship sailed from there with men of Gotland heading for a far place. Sidroc stood in the stern, looking back at the cluster of folk from Tyrsborg, fixing his eye on the red of his wife’s gown.
Runulv, at his side, kept his eye ahead, as firmly as his hand was on the steering oar. He had never let Gyda come to the pier and see him off; it was too hard. He was glad she did not know the danger he faced.
The coast slipped by, one of bright white rock, and budding trees of tender green set in clusters of dark ever-clothed pines and spruces. Towering rauks, great limestone shafts, stood with their feet in the clear waters.
Late in the afternoon when they had cleared the tip of Gotland, Sidroc opened the pack that held his clothing. There on top lay a slender coil of chestnut-gold hair, tightly braided. A lock of her bright hair, which she had cut as a talisman. He lifted it.
It was bound at either end with silk thread, that same red thread she had sewn the wound on his thigh with. Then she had sewn the ends together. He touched the plait to his lips a moment, then dropped it over his neck, underneath his tunic.
Chapter the Twentieth: Call to Battle
Kilton
“THERE are more than four score Danish war-ships in the Thames basin alone. That is where we will set our blockade, North of Middeltun.”
The speaker was Eadward, Prince of Wessex, sitting at the great table on the stone dais at Kilton, in a hall emptied save those he would directly address.
Flanking him as he sat were Edwin on his right, and Ceric on his left. Cadmar, Worr, and four of Eadward’s chief men were also there. A lone woman, Modwynn, sat in her accustomed chair of carved oak. Eadward had not had the close personal contact with the Lady of Kilton as had his father, but he granted her the same respect as would the King. She was well-regarded by both men for her wisdom. She also possessed riches in her own right, and Eadward knew this new conflict would demand much silver.
“The blockade will be enacted on land and water. We will sail up the Thames with enough ships to stop the enemy from seeking safety at sea. Half of us will close on the Danes by land, from behind. Any who break through, trying to run overland, will meet the King and his army, ranged about to hold them from fleeing into the countryside.”
Eadward paused, looking from face to face of those he addressed. Ale had been poured, but after a single draught sat untouched as the Prince detailed his war plans. He had arrived with a small group of picked men only a short time ago, and would spend but a single night at Kilton. In the morning he would be off to the next burh with his news.
“Ceric brings me twenty men,” Eadward went on, turning to his left as Ceric bowed his head to him.
The youth’s face wore the same alert but impassive expression that all the men bore. Only the subtle tightening of his jaw, and the tautness of his temple under his coppery gold hair betrayed otherwise.
It was come, Ceric knew. He would soon be thrust into full scale battle, taking his place in a shield-wall on land, or crowding the decks of a war-ship at sea. His hand tightened around the stem of his silver cup, as if it were his sword-hilt. He lifted his eyes again, to see that of Edwin fast upon him, large and round.
The Prince looked now to Edwin. “I would ask you for thirty more.”
A slight pause. Edwin commanded the larger part of Kilton’s thegns, almost fifty men. Ælfred had for years devised his defences so that no burh need send all its men into the field at once. Edwin had yet to ride out to any skirmish, but a quantity of his men had ever faithfully answered the King’s call in the past. Now the Prince asked that more than half of Edwin’s men join with those warriors pledged directly to Ceric, and leave now. The request was proof indeed of the dire nature of the Danish threat.
Edwin had been schooled in temperate speech, but a movement of his body towards that of the Prince and Ceric spoke before he opened his mouth. Cadmar was sitting almost opposite him, and he thought he read the warrior-monk’s approval in his twinkling eyes.
“They are yours. And I will go myself,” Edwin proclaimed. “Thirty-one to join you, and my brother and his men.”
Eadward stopped him with a shake of his head. “That you cannot not do,” he said with decision. “You are Lord of Kilton, and must remain here. But thirty of your thegns I have great need of. Like those of your brother, I will place them under my direct command.”
All at the table knew this would leave Kilton with less than twenty thegns with which to defend itself. Heads shifted, as eyes moved about from face to face, taking this in.
Modwynn’s cheek had paled at her younger grandson’s offer to ride himself, and was only grateful for the speed with which Eadward had refuted it. After the death of her son Godwin she had shepherded Kilton for a long time, waiting for these two boys to grow. Kilton must never be left Lord-less again.
Eadward’s thoughts remained on the challenge ahead. “You must stay at Kilton,” he repeated to Edwin. He then added that which none wished to contemplate.
“You will be called for, if there is need.”
The soberness of this promise and the thought behind it hung in the air a long moment. Edwin would be asked to abandon his hall only in the most desperate straits, something that Eadward had already been forced to consider.
The Prince took time now to lift his cup to his lips, breaking the tension for all. He lowered his cup and addressed Ceric.
“We will meet at Witanceaster in seven days,” he went on. “Be ready to ride in two.”
That night before the hall met at table, Ceric begged a word with the Prince. Eadward would spend the night in the treasure room, and was there now, with the four of his thegns who had sat with him earlier. The five were in discourse of their own, but the thegns rose and stood by the far wall as Ceric addressed his Prince.
“My Lord,” Ceric began. Eadward too had risen, and now stood before him, just past the threshold. Filled as it was with the Prince and his men the treasure room seemed almost strange to Ceric, no longer part of Kilton.
Ceric had thought of what he wished to say, but felt ill-equipped to make answer if Eadward should challenge him in any way. Though he had only two years more than he, the Prince was old beyond his years. And he was altogether a more forbidding man than his father, who despite his will of iron, had a gentleness about his person which Eadward lacked. Ceric found himself taking a deep breath before he went on.
“I wish to thank you for the trust you place in me and my men. It is the greatest of honours to ride at your side, and to face the enemy in your father’s name.”
It was also Ceric’s pledged duty to offer his life for his King; both knew that, but he must open his request with the formality of gratitude, even should he soon lose that life in the service of Wessex.
Eadward nodded, accepting this, waiting for more.
“It is of Lindisse I wish to speak, my Lord; South Lindisse, and the keep of Four Stones.”
Eadward’s eyes flitted upwards a moment, in recollection. “That won by Yrling, then held by Sidroc,” he summed.
“Yes, my Lord. The jarl there now is Sidroc’s son, Hrald, who has eighteen years.”
Ceric paused a moment. “I – I know him well; our mothers were close friends. I wish you and the King to know that Hrald will honour the Peace made by your Father the King, and Guthrum. Sidroc signed it too. Hrald will honour it. This I know.”
Eadward did not expect this, and shifted his weight slightly in response. He knew the history of every hall of any size which had fallen to the enemy in any of the lost six Kingdoms in the past twenty years; it was his business to do so. But he spoke first from his gut feeling.
“They are Danes, never to be trusted.” His tone was as flat as his words were blunt. “A Danish pledge is worthless. They have proved that over and over again.”
Ceric’s jaw worked, he felt his throat tighten. He could not co
ntradict Eadward, he knew. But he must speak. He dare not tell the Prince that Hrald was a committed Christian; he would dismiss that as well.
“Hrald – he is half-Dane,” Ceric said. “As are his sisters,” he added, almost blurting it out.
Eadward knew this lineage of the family of Four Stones. He spent a moment considering this, that if any Danish keep would uphold the Peace, it might be Four Stones. He knew Hrald’s mother had been Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster. He recalled now that his father had given leave to Ceric to send for the maid of Four Stones, to be Ceric’s wife. This changed a great deal.
“You are to wed the daughter thereof,” the Prince said.
“I am,” Ceric assented. He made his voice firm, though his chest felt hollow at his claim.
“Would that you had already done so,” Eadward mused. He gave a single shake of his head now.
“The Danes – Haesten and others – will place great pressure on Hrald of Four Stones,” Eadward went on. “I do not think so young a Jarl will be able to withstand it. His own men may rebel against him, wanting to join with Haesten against us.”
Here was voiced all the fears that Ceric had secretly harboured. He must reject them, and he did.
“Hrald will honour the Peace his father made,” Ceric returned. His voice was low, yet strong with his belief.
All Eadward could do was nod, that and a slight lift of his chin.
“Why tell me this,” he questioned. “You cannot know how fares it in Lindisse. We can send neither word nor aid to Four Stones. Hrald is on his own. I pray God he is the man you say he is.”
There was unintended sharpness in Eadward’s words. In softer tone he went on.
“Fate favours you after all, that you have not yet wed the maid. If so she would be hanging round your neck, crying and begging, in fear that you are soon to face her brother, riding to join those Danes at Middeltun.”
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