The large cloth was more than half-done, a handsome chequered pattern of dark green, dark blue and dark red. Severa pointed with the weaving sword and swore again, adding another few words to Eadwine’s Brittonic vocabulary. The second row of green squares had a thin red line running through the middle of it.
“I must have miscounted,” she said crossly. “I’ll have to unpick it all and do it again.” She kicked one of the uprights, and all the weights holding the warp threads taut rattled. “Damn! Why didn’t I check earlier? I wanted to finish it before Samhain!”
“Why not leave it?”
“Because it isn’t right!”
“I think it looks rather attractive. More individual.”
She looked startled. “You like it? With the mistake?”
“Yes. Anyway, you could put a matching line in when you get to the equivalent row at the other end.” His steel-blue eyes twinkled. “Then you can claim it was deliberate. Like a border.”
“Brilliant!” She clapped her hands. “I’m so glad you came here, Steeleye!”
He laughed. “So am I, Severa.”
Severa felt her heart skip. She liked the way he said her name. His foreign accent suited it, making the name sound – what was the word? – exotic, rather than alien. She looked up at him. He was taller and slimmer than her husband – mind you, most men were – and his face was sharper, more strongly-cut. He looked nice when he laughed, showing very even white teeth and crinkling his eyes up at the corners. In fact, he was quite good-looking, in a way. If only he did not look so pale and tired. Something ought to be done about that.
“Steeleye – ” she began, but was interrupted by the crash of the gate and a mighty shout from Drust.
“Here we are, lassies! Fish supper!”
Lilla and Drust came across the yard, hauling a heavy-looking basket between them. Drust had his spear over his shoulder and was whistling a jaunty tune. He dumped his end of the basket when they reached the house, looked around for a bench in the sunshine, lay down comfortably on it, folded his arms behind his head, and let out a long-drawn sigh of contentment.
“Wake me up when ye’ve finished, laddie,” he drawled. “Loser cleans all the catch, that was the bet.”
Lilla glowered at him. Drust grinned, shut his eyes, and emitted an ostentatious snore.
Eadwine gave Lilla a sympathetic look. “Never take a bet with Drust,” he said, with feeling.
“Now you tell me,” Lilla grumbled. He reached into the basket, took out a trout, and removed the head and the guts with two expert flicks of his knife.
Severa blinked, fascinated. “However did you do that? It looked like magic.”
Lilla grinned. “Practice. My home was by the sea, and we near enough lived on herring.”
“Herring?”
“A sort of fish that lives in the sea,” Eadwine explained, “although not for very long if Lilla’s around.”
A second trout joined its fellow, and then a third and a fourth. The cat lost interest in the dairy, and Severa chased it away.
“Put the scraps in a bucket for the pigs,” she said. “Are there many more?”
She peered into the basket, and her mouth dropped open.
“Mother of God! Are there any fish left in the river? But we’ll never eat all these before they rot! What are you going to do with them?”
“Smoke them,” Lilla answered, and Eadwine groaned in mock horror.
“You mean we’ve travelled for weeks through marsh and forest and moor and still not escaped your smoked fish?”
Severa laughed, kneading bread. “You don’t like it, Steeleye?”
“I’m told it’s an acquired taste,” Eadwine said, with a straight face. “Can I watch? I’ve always wondered how you can take a perfectly respectable fish and turn it into something resembling an old shoe filled with bones.”
“Ah, you Southrons don’t understand good food. Smoked herring keeps for years.”
“Since it’s invariably the last thing left in the store it’s just as well. Picture the scene, Severa. A time of dearth and famine. The barns empty, the fields blasted. The last rat eaten. The last cockroach hunted down. The starving people gather around their chief, an agonising choice before them. On the one hand, a miserable death. On the other, eating the smoked herring.” He shuddered theatrically. “I hope it’s a decision I never have to face.”
Lilla grinned, and flicked the guts of the next trout in his direction. “We shan’t save you any then.”
“Is that a promise?”
Severa laughed again, and reflected that the hafod was going to seem very empty next year. Come to that, the village was going to seem very empty this winter. She wondered if they might be persuaded to stay beyond Samhain. Nobody travelled in winter if they could help it, and they certainly seemed happy here – except for whatever was troubling Steeleye.
Evening meal was much better than usual, both in quality and quantity, all the hot fresh trout and mushrooms that anyone could possibly eat. Lilla and Drust were the heroes of the hour and cheerfully recounted much-embellished fishing tales to a rapt audience. Severa laughed along with the rest, but kept a sharp eye on Steeleye across the fire. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but something was definitely wrong, and she felt she could hazard a guess at what it was.
“Coward! You’re no son of mine –!”
Eadwine sat bolt upright with a jerk, staring into the night with unseeing eyes as the dream faded. His father’s voice had sounded so real. But then, it always did. He sat gasping for air and trembling, waiting for his racing heart to slow, for his muscles to relax – or at least to become less tense – and the appalling images to die away. The fire had died down to embers and it was very dark in the hut, but the sound of even breathing and the occasional snore reassured him that he had not woken anyone else. He must not have cried out. He very rarely did. The early lessons in concealment had been well learned. He had a suspicion that he might not have been quite so controlled during his delirium, judging from the occasional odd glance he received from his friends, but to suffer dreams in a fever was understandable, was not a source of shame. He was shivering with cold now, the sweat trickling over his skin in icy rivulets. Very quietly, he groped for a handful of bracken bedding and rubbed himself down as one might a horse. Then, knowing that he did not want to endure the stuffy darkness of the hut and the peaceful snoring of a man with a clear conscience, he felt around for his clothes, pulled them on and slipped outside.
It was almost as dark outside under the overcast sky, but there was a slight stirring of breeze and although it smelled strongly of farmyard that was at least a change from onions. Eadwine sat down on the bench outside the hut, folded up his long legs and wrapped his good arm around his knees. It was warmer that way, for it must be well into October by now and the air was distinctly chill. He had no cloak and had forgotten to bring the borrowed blanket with him.
A rumbling whisper at his elbow reproved him.
“Ye took first watch.”
Drust was on watch. So he had managed to sleep all through Ashhere’s watch, three hours or more. That was better than usual.
“I don’t need much sleep,” he whispered back.
A disbelieving snort. “Ye need more than ye get.”
“Drust, I didn’t come out here for a chat. Go away.”
A grunt of disapproval, and then he was enveloped in folds of warm woollen cloth.
“Drust, you don’t need to –”
“Dinna ye freeze as well,” Drust grumbled, moving away into the distance to resume his patrol. “Hasna the sense of a babe –”
Eadwine half-smiled. At least Drust was unlikely to gossip with the others. And the cloak was very welcome. He huddled gratefully into the heavy cloth. He would need a cloak before they left. Perhaps he could beg the borrowed blanket from Severa. There was no practical difference between a blanket and a cloak, both were merely large squares of woollen cloth, and the blanket was so threadbare she was probably intending
to throw it out soon anyway.
A woman’s giggle floated faintly across the hafod, followed by a man’s sleepy murmur and another giggle. Well, somebody was awake for a good reason. Good luck to them. His friends must think they had unexpectedly landed in – what did the White Christ followers call it? – heaven. They had food, shelter, unlimited female company, and nothing to be ashamed of. They too had fled a battlefield on which their King had died, but they could excuse the disgraceful action because they had been following their lord. Eadwine had no such defence. His place was beside his father, where Eadric would have been, and his duty was to defend his father to his last breath. Or, failing that, to avenge him on the field. Instead of which he had run away, and the fact that Treowin and Beortred had carried him off the field half-conscious and he had known nothing about it until it was too late did not count as an excuse.
There must have been something he could have done. Perhaps if he had spoken better at the Council he could have convinced them to stand a siege – they had not listened to a word he said, but that only meant he should have been more persuasive. Perhaps he should have tried to hold Derwentcaster. Perhaps he should not have fought the retreat at all, which would have brought him back to the city two or three days earlier. Then perhaps he could have convinced Eadric to defend the city, or at the very least it would have been his task to pursue the raiders and then he would have died in Eadric’s place. Perhaps he should have known the invasion was planned, sent spies into Bernicia or something, and then he might have been able to forewarn his father. Perhaps if he had not been stunned he might have given the shattered army something to rally around, and they might have been able to fight a way back to the city and bar the gates. Perhaps he should have sent a messenger to Ceretic of Elmet earlier, before the invasion had begun, and then Ceretic might have had time to march to their aid. Perhaps he should have left the March, given up the independent command that had become so precious to him, and spent more time at court learning the political undercurrents that might have given him a clue to his brother’s murder – that might even have enabled him to prevent it. Perhaps he should have tried to organise a night attack on the Bernician camp, instead of helping Heledd and Hereric to flee. Perhaps he should have found Aethelind that night and convinced her to run as far as she could, as fast as she could, instead of staying in the city to be caught in its sack.
So many ifs. It was impossible to know what would have happened with any of them, but given the scale of the disaster at least one of them would surely have been better. The trouble was, even with hindsight he did not know what he should have done instead – only that he should obviously have done something different. What would his father’s first words to him be, when they met again in Woden’s hall? The same words he heard in the dream? And Eadric? “Late again, little brother,” in a half-reproving, half-resigned tone, as if he had expected no better?
He owed it to both of them to avenge their deaths, for he was the closest adult male relative left. It was his unshakeable duty to kill their killers or die himself in the attempt. His mouth twisted bitterly at the thought. He would have died to save them and he had failed. Now he had to kill for them and he was likely to fail at that too. Avenging his father required him to overthrow Aethelferth the Twister, who was now overlord of almost all North Britannia. And avenging his brother required him to identify and track down a secret assassin. Had Beortred been the murderer? He was never likely to know now, as Beortred was dead. Beortred had died to protect him. And what had happened to Treowin? Had he reached Lundencaster safely? Or was Treowin also suffering on his account? And Aethelind – Aethelind –
He clenched his fists until the bone in his shoulder ached. On no account should he start thinking about Aethelind. Concentrate on the matter in hand instead. Find a place of refuge for his remaining friends, before Aethelferth the Twister hunted him down and they insisted on dying for him too. Unlike them, he could not simply enjoy this unexpectedly pleasant interlude without thought for the future. Friends they might be, but the relationship at bedrock was still governed by the oaths of lord and retainer. They were responsible to him, and he was responsible for them. So it was his duty to find a powerful king to offer them protection.
Which was easier said than done, for he had no powerful connections left. Through his mother he was related to the royal families of Rheged, the North Pennines and Eboracum, which sounded very impressive except that Aethelferth had already overrun all three kingdoms and their royal dynasties were either dead or refugees themselves. One half-sister was married to Aethelferth and the other to Caedbaed of Lindsey, who had already changed sides. All that remained was his tenuous link to Ceretic of Elmet, via Heledd, but even there safety was not guaranteed. Elmet was not a large kingdom, and it was almost encircled by Aethelferth’s subject territories. Ceretic would be hard-pressed to withstand Aethelferth in force, and it was not fair dealing to bring trouble knowingly on a host. Quite apart from the fact that a prudent host was likely to switch sides at the first sign of trouble. But there was little choice. Lundencaster was too far to travel on foot with winter setting in, and in any case his welcome there was no more certain.
Eadwine bit down hard onto his knuckles. What use was his royal blood now? It reduced him to a piece on a gaming board, to be guarded, played or sacrificed as political expediency dictated. What use was he to his friends, with his life dependent on some foreign king’s charity or political whim? They would be better off without him. He had failed Aethelind, failed the people of the March, failed his father and brother, and he was alive while those he loved were dead – or worse. Not fit to live – not fit to live.
Severa hesitated by the house door, watching the motionless shadow huddled on the bench, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. She knew how that felt. Should she leave him alone? If she was right, he certainly would not welcome interference. But she had taken a liking to Steeleye, as well as an interest in him, and she did not like to see him unhappy without at least trying to offer comfort if she could. He could bite her head off if he liked.
Very quietly, she slipped across the yard and sat beside him on the bench. He tensed at her approach, hunched up even more, if that were possible, and turned his shoulder to her. He could hardly tell her to go away, since it was her household, but he could make it quite clear she was not welcome. She was reminded of a hedgehog curling up behind a protective barrier of spines.
“If you slept more,” she said, into the frosty silence, “you would recover quicker.”
“I don’t normally sleep much.”
His voice was even more unfriendly than the silence. Beneath every syllable was the unspoken message, loud and clear: Go away!
Severa chose to ignore it. She recognised this as well.
“You aren’t normally hurt almost unto death,” she said crisply. “Something troubles you.”
He did not answer.
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“No.”
“I think you should.”
The invisible spines were raised a little further. “I beg to differ.”
“I know you cannot speak to your friends. You are the leader and you must never show any doubts. But you will never have to see me again after Samhain. I am in no position to judge you.”
Silence.
“Why do you never talk of the battle? Your friends told me all about it in great detail.”
“That must have been fascinating for you.”
“I took their tales with a large pinch of salt,” she said dryly. “I know nothing of war, but even I know they can’t all have won the battle singlehanded.”
“Especially as we lost.”
Ah, she thought, hearing the bitterness in his tone, now we may be getting somewhere.
“It was not your fault.”
Silence.
“It was not your fault your friends dragged you away hurt after the king was killed.”
Silence.
“It
was not your fault your brother and father were killed.”
Severa felt the bench jolt. A hedgehog probably got a similar shock when it felt the first of the badger’s talons prise beneath its spines.
“And,” she went on relentlessly, “it was not your fault that you could not save Aethelind.”
He recoiled, staring at her in horror.
“You can read minds,” he whispered, and for the first time she saw him reach to touch the iron handle of his knife.
“If I could, I would know what is troubling you without going to all this effort. You spoke of your father and your brother and of Aethelind – whom I guess to be your wife – in your fever, the first night you were here –”
His face contorted, and she thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
“Frija,” he said, very quietly. “You. That was underhand, lady.”
“It seemed to give you comfort. I thought you might as well die happy.”
“I should have smelt a rat when Frija wanted me to speak in Brittonic,” he said bitterly. “I made an utter fool of myself, I suppose.”
“I would not say that.”
“You don’t know!”
“I rather think I do,” she said quietly. “You think you failed them somehow. That if you had acted differently, things would have gone otherwise and your father and brother would still be alive. You would have died so that they might live, and now you hate yourself for living when they are dead. And you think they hate you too, from beyond the grave. Is it not so?”
Paths of Exile Page 18