Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  Ceric could say nothing to this; he could no more picture Ashild hanging in tears about his neck as he could Hrald forsaking his vow to honour the Peace. He only bowed his head and murmured, “I thank you, my Lord.”

  All of Kilton was much occupied with the outfitting of the men who would leave. If Modwynn did not run the hall and yards as capably as she did, such a thing would have been unmanageable on such short notice. But all played their part in equipping the men and beasts who would travel across Wessex to Witanceaster, and from there to the furthest eastern shores of the vast island. His Aunt Edgyth took charge of preparing Ceric’s own clothing, just as Worr’s wife Wilgyfu did for him. Most of the men riding with them were wed, so that parting must be born.

  Ceric’s alcove was small, and his war-kit, clothing, and other needful things were being packed in the treasure room. Edgyth had largely finished with clothes and bedding for him, and had left the room. Edwin was there, watching his brother polish the blade of both sword and seax.

  “Will you go out tonight,” Edwin asked him. His question was quiet, but pointed.

  Ceric raised his eyes from his work, and the polishing cloth slowed in his hand.

  “Go to see your woman,” Edwin went on.

  Ceric’s lips had slightly parted. Edwin did not mean to make it hard for his older brother.

  “I know, of course,” he went on. “You have a woman in the village you go to.”

  Ceric’s eyes dropped down to his seax blade, that once worn by his father. “I do not know,” he confessed. “All is so busy here.”

  Edwin thought a moment. Neither his voice nor his eyes were challenging Ceric. “You should go,” he prompted.

  Ceric let out with a small laugh, one of surprise.

  “You should go,” Edwin said again.

  Ceric sat looking across at Edwin’s open face.

  “Her name is Begu,” Ceric found himself saying. “If I do not come back, give her fifty silver pieces in my name.”

  Edwin stood up. “You will come back,” he returned, his alarm showing in the haste of his response.

  Ceric stared at him. “Yes. I will come back. And I will go tonight to see her.”

  Begu still lay clasped in his arms when he told her he rode to war. She had met him at her door with the same warm greeting she had ever given, and they had drunk mead and undressed the other without haste. He was more quiet than was his custom, but she had seen him in many moods. Yet he seemed more tender to her when he touched her, more thoughtful and considered in his actions. His murmurs were breathed into her ear, and he held and stroked her floss-like hair as he had during their first nights together. When he pulled away from her, he kept holding her still.

  “I ride with Eadward, the King’s son, on the morrow.”

  She gave a small cry of surprise; it was not yet time for him and his men to do so. Her hand about his shoulder tightened, but she kept her voice low.

  “Then there is war, here in Wessex?”

  “There will be a great action.” He turned his face up into the darkness of roof rafters. “At last I will be part of it.”

  His tone was neither boasting nor wistful, a soft statement of fact.

  She lowered her head into his shoulder. It was not meet nor fitting that she weep over him, yet it was all she could do to hold back her tears. His arm, still about her, tightened for a moment, pressing her more fully against his ribcage.

  Her hand on his shoulder dropped down, felt the raised scar there in the hard muscle.

  At once his thoughts went to Hrald, the giver of that wound, and how he had stabbed himself in answer to the hurt he had given him. Hrald had drawn the first blood he had ever shed. Eadward’s words rose in his mind, Eadward musing about the Jarl of Four Stones riding to join the other Danes at Middeltun.

  Ceric’s eyes were wide open, staring up into the dark. The thought of facing Hrald as enemy was impossible to compass. Yet the Prince was right, there was no way to know how it fared in Lindisse, what Hrald might be forced to do.

  Begu had moved her hand, off that which had been sewn by another woman, a woman she knew Ceric loved. But the withdrawal of her hand made him think of Ashild.

  He kissed Begu’s brow, then swung his legs onto the floorboards. He never left so early as this, and as he pulled on his clothes he spoke to her.

  “I must go back to the hall and sleep; tomorrow will be full.”

  She gave the same gentle sounds of assent she ever gave. It was dark enough that he could not see her face clearly, for which she was grateful. But when he stood she could not help but reach her hand out to him, touching his leg. He looked down at her, and lowered himself to sit on the edge of her bed.

  He put his arms about her, pulled her close.

  “I will see you on my return,” he told her. “Keep well until then.”

  For one fleeting moment he considered telling her what he had told Edwin, that if he were killed she would be well and richly taken care of. But his own throat closed, even thinking this. A man must never say such things, it tempted Fate.

  He gave his head a small shake, then rose again. Before he left he set a small pile of whole coinage on the corner of her low table.

  After she had barred her door she sat down on the stool by the table, head in hands. Thanks to Ceric she had a growing store of silver in a pot beneath her floorboards. But she would have traded almost her soul for him to have placed some keepsake into her hand.

  A troop of one and fifty thegns left Kilton a day hence. The number of men was such that the departure blessing was given not inside the hall, but out in the stable yard before it. The fare-well cups of ale were passed, and emptied. Dunnere the priest went from man to man, beginning with Ceric and ending with the drovers, and blessed each one with his thumb, stamping his brow with the Sign of the Cross. All in the work yards came to watch, even the cooks, endlessly busy, stood silent, their hands in their soiled aprons, biting their lips and looking on. The women of the hall stood together, Modwynn and Edgyth, arrayed in sombre richness almost as if for a feast, but with drawn and loving faces. Ranged about them were the wives of all those who rode. Cadmar stood somewhat apart, watching with eyes both proud and grave. At his side was Edwin, dressed too in fine clothing, out of respect for those before him. A pennon with a golden dragon was affixed to one of the horses, a battle-flag woven and embroidered years ago by Modwynn.

  Ceric felt to his core the solemnity of Dunnere’s muttered blessing. It was to him more than a request that God receive his soul if he were to fall. In Ceric’s ears it was an ardent appeal of his own, seeking to be worthy of his vows, his name, his training, and of his sword. He had his hand upon the golden hilt of that sword as the priest drew his thumb down and across his forehead.

  The men mounted their restless horses. For a final time a woman’s hand might be pressed into their own, as wives reached up to their husbands.

  Ceric had none such. From his horse he nodded to his aunt and grandmother, they who had embraced him lovingly within the hall. But before his younger brother he now bowed his head.

  This was the first time he rode to truly defend Kilton, he felt. Despite their ages, Edwin was his Lord. He had bowed to him once, the night Edwin had received the sword and seax of Godwin from the hands of the King. Now he did so again, acknowledging that he rode not only for Ælfred and Wessex, but for Edwin and Kilton.

  This troop of fifty men were under his command. He must say that which would be their battle cry as they ran at the enemy, say it so that those left here would know by what cry they would rally. His voice rang out above the horses’ snorting and tossing heads.

  “For Christ, Ælfred, and Kilton,” he called.

  An answering cheer from his men, hoops and cries from those assembled. Modwynn’s eyes, Edgyth’s eyes, both glittering. He turned.

  The broad palisade gates were swung open. They passed all the folk of the hall and work-yards who had ringed them. Th
e village too was massed to see them off; never in recent memory has such a number ridden to battle. Every thegn was horsed, and those few men who owned more than one led their second, laden with his war-kit and trappings. Ceric rode in front alongside Worr, the golden dragon banner of Ælfred springing from the cantle of Worr’s saddle. There were as well ten additional horses in reserve, trotting alongside the four horse-drawn supply waggons, and six men whose task it would be to guard and keep all the horses on the field of battle when they were taken to the back, away from the shield-wall.

  The greening fields and flocks of woolly sheep waiting to be shorn were passed, as were the furthest groves of fruit trees. The village children who had run after them dropped off one by one. The towers of the ward-corns were reached, and one lifted his horn to his lips and blew a long and low salute to those riding by. Further out they were met by mounted horsemen, watchers who had lately been set at all the roads leading to the burh of Kilton. The pounded road snaked into the forest, and they followed it, heading East.

  Though it be Spring they were blessed with fine weather on the way, with few rains. It took five days to reach King’s hall at Witanceaster. Ceric had been there once before, when he had ridden with Ælfred and Raedwulf to Haesten’s stolen camp at Middeltun. It was the largest burh Ceric had ever seen, for not only did the King and his men live here, but the Witan, that group of King’s advisors, met at Witanceaster as well.

  It was now become a staging ground for the planned action, hundreds of men from all over Wessex filing in by horse and foot. The confusion and noise was like unto a great feast or market-day, but instead of traders opening stalls and farmers selling grain from the back of ox-carts there was troop after troop of warriors. They parcelled out camp sites outside its gates, pulling up tents they would spend the night in, digging latrine trenches, setting up cooking fires. The land around the palisade swarmed with men at work, horses being led to pasture, and folk from Witanceaster proper ducking and dodging their way amongst them.

  One of the King’s men had met them at arrival, and directed them to a patch of meadow. Looking about Ceric spotted a number of men, who like him, led thegns from their own burhs to join with Ælfred or Eadward. They all looked older, seasoned, and he feared he might be the youngest there who fronted a troop of men. He shook this off, recalling Ælfred himself had been named King here when only two years older than he was now. Age did not equal ability.

  He and Worr were pulling up the tent they would share. “Other than the field of battle at Ethandun, I have never seen so many thegns,” Worr said, taking a break from pounding in one of the stakes to look out over all those doing the same.

  This had been the decisive conflict at which Guthrum and all his assembled Danes had been beaten by Ælfred. Worr would have been about Ceric’s age then, and had taken part in the action with Kilton’s thegns, led by Godwin.

  The tent they worked on was not far from a newly-made road, upon which small groups of men both rode and walked through this hive of activity. Two horsemen neared, and Worr’s eye was caught by one of them. He raised his hand to his father-in-law, Raedwulf, Bailiff of Defenas.

  Raedwulf reined in, bidding the man with him continue to the palisade gates. Then he was down from his horse, embracing his son-in-law Worr.

  “How is Wilgyfu,” he asked of his daughter, after the three had made their first greetings.

  “She is well,” Worr assured him. A slight pause, followed by a quietly proud declaration. “There will be a new child after harvest-time.”

  Ceric did not know this either, and both men gave Worr good wishes. The horse-thegn of Kilton’s life was rich and full, and ever-expanding. For an instant Ceric felt the narrowness of his own existence; and Raedwulf too, while finding satisfaction in the news, was made aware of the constriction of his own affairs.

  In the moments that followed the three looked out over the throngs of warriors surrounding them. There was this brief rest of a few hours for both man and horse. On the morrow they would leave, marching towards Middeltun and beyond.

  “What…what will really happen,” Ceric asked Raedwulf. One who had the King’s ear stood before him, and he would not let the chance pass to learn more of what they all headed into.

  Raedwulf tilted his head slightly, but with a smile. “I will be with the King,” he told them. “We will form an outer barrier, but it is a huge area to defend. The Danes do not like to mass, they will scatter into smaller groups to break through.

  “You will go with Eadward, and form the blockade, some on land, some at sea. I do not know how he will assign you,” he ended, looking at both of them. “The Danes have brought horses from Frankland in their warships, and have received more horses from those here in Northumbria and Anglia. And they are the best seaman on any water. Either way it will not be easy to contain them.”

  How know you this about the horses, Ceric thought, but did not voice. “Ælfred has riders, and runners, throughout the kingdom,” is what he said.

  The bailiff nodded. “Yes, they are never-failing, his couriers. And there are a few Danes themselves who have come forward with information.”

  “Those who would keep Guthrum’s Peace,” Ceric said, aware of the note of hope in his own voice. Raedwulf had helped him win Ælfred’s consent for sending for Ashild, and this emboldened him to ask more. “Do you know anything of Four Stones? You have been there, have seen the family thereof. I know they are otherwise unknown to you, but you can judge them.”

  Raedwulf shook his head, no. As he took his warm leave of the two he answered in his breast, But I too have asked about Four Stones; not for your sake alone have I asked about it.

  Despite their weariness Ceric and Worr did not easily find sleep that night. Their tent was snug enough. They had ground cloths of tanned leather hides to keep them from rising damp, and a sheepskin each to lie upon that, and a wool blanket to lie under. There was comfort therein, though not that of the thick feather bed in Ceric’s alcove, or the deep bed Worr shared with Wilgyfu.

  Men were noisy about them, but even when the grounds quieted Ceric found himself looking upwards at the blotched darkness of the steep leathern roof of their tent. Horses, paddocked at a distance, whinnied and called, and watch-men rode along the trackway outside. Inside their tent Ceric and Worr had laid their weapons between them, within easy reach of their own grasp but not of any other.

  In the dark, and even without touching it, Ceric was aware of the presence of Godwulf’s sword. He lay there thinking that twice that famed sword had been wrenched out of his grip by a stronger man, a man with better sword skills than he. Ceric had the fine and well-shaped hands of his father, and his grandmother; he did not yet have the strength in his grip he wanted. He had never bested Cadmar, not even once, in arm-wrestling. “You are not come into your full strength yet,” the warrior-monk had consoled. But losing his sword twice, once in friendly sparring, the second in deadly combat, haunted his thoughts. He must not let it happen a third time.

  “I do not want to fight on a ship,” Ceric found himself saying into the dark. His brain had turned from losing his weapon to losing his life. “To be killed there…if your body is lost overboard…”

  Worr gave a grunt of agreement.

  “I would rather fight on land,” Ceric went on. “Have you fought thus – at sea?”

  “Your uncle did,” Worr recalled aloud, thinking back to the time when Godwin of Kilton had paid for a war-ship to meet the Danish threat.

  “He told me of it, told your father and me,” Worr went on. “The narrow breadth of it, the deck moving beneath your feet…it is not an easy place to fight. Still,” he considered, “it favours quickness, which you have. And you are not so large a target as some of those tall Danes. Could work to your advantage.”

  Ceric felt his friend was grinning now, the way men do when they are soon to face death.

  “What about you,” he asked back. “You are tall, like those Danes.” />
  “We will hope Eadward uses us on land,” Worr answered. “Now get some sleep.”

  The family of Witanceaster stood together to watch Eadward’s men ride in the morning. Besides the many mounted thegns Eadward had collected from the burhs of Wessex, he had amassed as well a great number of men on foot, who lined up in files of five abreast to march behind the supply waggons. These were not thegns, but free ceorls, able to arm themselves and fight with what weapons best suited them. None had been called from a place so distant as Kilton; they were all from Witanceaster or to the East of it, and nearly all were from the villages of burhs which had suffered raiding attacks from the newly arrived Danish forces. Ceric saw men who carried light throwing spears, archers with packed quivers of fletched arrows at hip or shoulder, and those, youths and boys mostly, with nothing more than leathern slings and a supply of carefully chosen rounded stones with which to assail the enemy. These ceorls must carry their weapons and what little kit they owned on their backs, and walk to the place where they might meet death, unprotected by ring-shirt, sword, or helmet. The greatest personal defence any of these boasted was their round shields, and a hardened cap of leather, strapped over with four prongs of metal. Yet their faces were as resolute, and step as firm, as if some scop awaited at home to sing of the deeds of heedless daring they would perform.

  Worr, at his side, had the golden dragon banner of Wessex rising from his saddle. Every troop of thegns carried at least one such pennon, golden creatures dipping and fluttering above the pacing horses. Every pennon was slightly different, each from each, for each had issued from the hands of different women, and the dragons they sported seemed the more fearsome and quick for it. The morning breeze was fresh enough to make the battle flags snap and straighten in the wind as they passed under the King’s gaze.

  The King himself would not leave until next day, and stood his chestnut stallion before the palisade walls to watch his son march off. Ælfred was dressed as for war, his ring-tunic of bright steel catching the rays of morning Sun, his polished helmet almost dazzling. He nodded his head at the groups of thegns as they paraded before him, seeming to look at each man; at least Ceric felt the King’s eyes upon him, saw the grave head nod at him. He thought of Ælfred looking thus upon his own father, and upon Godwin; and then of Ælfred’s brothers who had been King before him. He thought too of Ælfred’s father, who had given his grandfather Godwulf the sword he now carried in the baldric on his chest. The bond went back for years, and many lives.