The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga

by Octavia Randolph

  I lifted it as gently as I could, but it still stuck in places. Though Sidroc had his face turned away from me I knew it must have cost him some pain. I added more and more water, trying to soften it so I could lift it. At last it came off, and with it the bandage beneath, so that I now looked at the wound itself. I poured some water onto a fresh piece of linen and dabbed at it. The wound was long, as long as my hand, and had a curving shape. It was almost like a flap of skin. Bits of some dried matter that did not dissolve in the water stuck out of it. It was very ugly.

  “It does not look deep,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  He turned his head so it faced the table edge. “If it were deep, I would be dead now,” he answered.

  I leaned forward to look at it more closely. The edges of the wound were blue, and it gave off an awful rotting smell. I picked at one of the bits of dried matter. “There is something like straw in it. Did you use anything to staunch the blood?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I do not know the name in your speech. We find it here growing as it does at home.”

  “I think it must be yarrow,” I said. “That is what we use, but it works best when it is green. This is Winter-dried, and old.”

  “One cannot always fight in Summer,” he replied.

  “You are sure there is no metal left in the wound?”

  “I cannot see into the wound, nor did I see the spear, but I think the point did not break.”

  I took a breath. “I am going to have to open the wound, and search it, and so cleanse it,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “It will hurt, very greatly,” I went on.

  “I have had wounds searched before.”

  “I will do it as quickly as I can, but I will do as well as I can,” I said.

  He turned his head to look at me, tho’ it made him grimace to do so. “I know you will do well,” he said.

  I went to the pack he had dragged in and took his knife from his belt. The grip was of wood. I went to his face and held the handle before him. “Take this in your teeth,” I said, and he did.

  I moved back and looked again at the ugly wound. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it would burst from my chest. Tho’ we were not far from the firepit, my whole body felt cold. I tried to calm myself by drawing a deep breath, and I shook my hands in the air to feel them again.

  I dipped a piece of linen in the water, and pressed it hard over the wound. Sidroc did not move, even tho’ I pushed with force. I drew back the cloth. The wound had begun to bleed again, which was good. I covered it once more, and pressed again, and I could hear Sidroc stifle a groan. The wound now bled freely, and I soaked it up and with my fingers tried to lift the flap of skin. I could not grasp it, and looked in the sewing kit and found a narrow warp beater, almost like a dull knife, that I could slip inside the wound. It caught in some places where it had begun to heal, and I had almost to rip at it to open it. I did so, and for an instant caught the gleam of white rib bones before the blood flowed and obscured my view. I knew Sidroc bit down hard on his knife grip as I did this, but I did not take my eyes from the wound. I poured a bit of water into my cupped hand and thence into the wound which I held open with the warp beater. I did it again, and a third time, hoping that I was flushing all the dried bits of yarrow from it. I lifted it a final time. I could smell nothing but blood, and could not tell if all the fester was gone.

  “I think it is clean now,” I said. I felt weak and light-headed, as if I would retch.

  Sidroc opened his mouth and the knife dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. He gave a great exhalation of breath. For a moment he was quiet.

  “Spit in it,” he said.

  I was so startled that I stood dumb. “What?” I finally asked.

  “Spit in it,” he repeated, and closed his eyes. “Spit in the wound.”

  I stood still and did not move. I did not want to do such a thing; it seemed like a magical binding of some sort.

  “If a maid spits in your wound, it heals twice as fast,” he said.

  “O,” I said. I still did not want to do it. Then I thought that if I refused to do it, he might think I was not still a maid. I was a maid, and did not want him to think otherwise, and then I felt anger at all this. Why should I care whether he thought I was a maid or not?

  But I leaned forward just the same and spat in it.

  He did not say Thank you, or anything at all, but just nodded his head.

  Now I began to bandage the wound, and cut many squares from the linen sheeting, and folded them carefully, so that they would lie smoothly. I ripped a long narrow piece, and wrapped it over the squares, and Sidroc raised himself up off the table enough for me to thread it across his chest. I wrapped it three times about, using two pieces, so that the linen over the wound was secure.

  Sidroc sat up, slowly. His face was no longer white, but I knew the flush on his cheek was due to the pain I had caused him. His hair was damp, and his face looked wet.

  I put my hand up against his brow, and he did not flinch under it.

  “You must drink again,” I said, and handed him the cup.

  But instead of taking it he pressed into my left hand the object he had been holding in his right. “This is yours,” he said.

  I lifted my hand and looked at it. It was a curved silver disk, worked all over with a pierced interlace design which knotted all along its border. On either side of the disk was a silver arm, wrapped with short but heavy black silk cord, and with a silver toggle on one end and a loop in the cord on the other. It was a bracelet, wonderfully worked, and the pureness of the silver was such that it shone like the full Moon.

  “I cannot accept this,” I said, and tried to pass it back to him. “It is of great worth.”

  He smiled slightly. “You are right, for it cost a man his life.”

  Now I wanted it in my keeping even less, and my face must have shown this.

  “Do not worry,” he said. “I would have killed him anyway. But the brightness of the bracelet caught my eye, so I went for him first.”

  “No,” I said again. “Please to take it back.”

  His voice was grave now. “I cannot take it back, no more than you can take back the service you have rendered to me.”

  “It was no special service,” I protested. “Ælfwyn would have done it, or Burginde.”

  He shook his head. “You do not understand.” He waited, and found the words. “I do not want to be in your debt. If you do not take this bracelet, then I will be.”

  There was no way out. “Yes,” I said at last. “I see.” I looked at the bracelet again. “Only pledge me one thing,” I said.

  He looked at me with eyes that said, I will pledge anything to you.

  “Pledge me that if I ever have need to return it to you, that this bracelet will remind you of my slight service.”

  His voice was almost rough as he answered. “You will never have need to return it. It is yours, no matter what may come.”

  “Then only remember what I have said,” I finished.

  He nodded his head, but I do not think he understood my words, just as I did not; for I did not possess the dragon’s egg that grants forward sight. I could not tell how or why I might need his help.

  I took the bracelet, and fastened it upon my wrist. He took up the cup and drank of the ale, and gave it to me, and I drank as well.

  I looked down at my gown. It was the russet one, and it was spotted with blood and bloody water. He looked at the blood upon it, and I wondered as he looked if he thought it gave me power over him.

  “I will wash my gown in a running stream,” I said, repeating the remedy that would make null the power of another’s blood on your clothing.

  I did not know if he understood this, and I did not want to explain. I did not have to, for Burginde came by.

  “You be looking well,” she said to Sidroc, regarding him closely. “I am hotting ale with feverfew in it,
and will bring you a cup of it.”

  He nodded, and she went off and returned not with a cup but a clean linen tunic. This she cut up the centre, and Sidroc slipped it on, for he could not raise his left arm over his head without pain.

  “Ach, what a day for the spoiling of linen,” she complained, but seemed cheerful enough. “I will be doing nothing but mending.”

  When she was gone he turned to the table where his ring shirt lay. He began to lift it and I said, “Do not put it on. It is so heavy. You have no need of it here, and it will disturb the wound.”

  He shook his head at these words, and said, “Help me put it on.”

  So I did, and laced it up. He turned back to the table and spoke. “I must go and kill my sword, since it failed me.”

  He drew it out of the hide pack, still in its sheath.

  I stepped in front of him. “You cannot go anywhere. You are badly hurt, and hot with fever, and must rest now.”

  “I am not badly hurt,” he answered. “I have fever, but it will pass.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Please do not go, Sidroc,” I asked.

  He stopped and looked at me and I let go his arm. “Come with me then.”

  “No. I do not want you to go at all. It can be done in the morning.”

  “I am going. Come with me.”

  It was nothing but foolishness for him to go; he looked as if he could barely stand. But I saw he would not be stayed, and I did not want him to go alone.

  I picked up his mantle but he shook his head. “I am warm enough,” he said, making light of his burning fever. “You wear it.”

  I fastened it around my shoulders, and he straightened himself and started slowly towards the steps leading to the door. In his right hand he grasped his sheathed sword, and his left arm he held close to his body. I shook my head, feeling angry with myself for not stopping him, but I followed him out of the noisy hall into the yard.

  Night was approaching fast, but there was still light enough to see. He crossed over the yard to the smith’s shed, and called out, for tho’ the awning was not yet rolled down, no one was to be seen.

  “Weland,” he called, and I knew he jested here, for the name he called was the name of the weapon-smith to the Gods.

  A Dane appeared from a door out the back of the shed, his face wreathed in a grin. His eyes went from Sidroc to me as he listened to Sidroc’s words. Then he brought forth three iron hammers, and lay them on the anvil before Sidroc. Sidroc looked at all three, and then choose one. He tried to lift it with his left hand, and I saw the effort it cost.

  I stepped forward and spoke as I lifted the hammer. “Let me take it. You cannot carry both sword and hammer.”

  The hammer was heavy, and cold. I held it with both hands.

  The smith looked at me again and spoke to Sidroc. I could not imagine what he must be saying, and I did not want to know it. Sidroc answered back, and then we walked away, me cradling the heavy hammer against my body.

  We turned not towards the main gate, but towards the kitchen yard, and came to the small door that led through the palisade. It had not yet been fastened for the night, and Sidroc pushed it open with his arm and we stepped through it and onto the path leading to the place of Offering.

  The sky was clearing as the Sun set, so that bright colours began to show in it; streaks of dark red and yellow. I wished that we had brought a torch, as we should surely need it soon, but it was too late to go back. The wind, which had been still all day, began to lift, and I felt cold even in the warm mantle I wore.

  Sidroc walked a little ahead of me; the path was narrow and I did not want to jostle him. I could not see his face and was glad of it, for he must have been in great pain. He walked slowly, but was very straight.

  We passed the grove of young trees and clumps of shrubs, and came to the place where the ground began to fall away. Ahead were the beech trees, and just beyond that, the Offering pit. Some last rays of the dying Sun struck the image of Odin as we neared it.

  Sidroc made straight for the pit, and stood before the carved wooden post. He drew his sword from the black wood scabbard, and the scabbard fell to the clay at his feet. He raised the sword before him, as if in salute to Odin, and I saw again the fineness of the metal that he held. Then he plunged the tip of the sword into the wet clay of the pit, and with his foot bent back the blade so that the hilt with its carved grip rested upon one of the round stones that outlined the pit. He put his hand out, and I placed the hammer in it, and he raised it over his head. With a blow of great violence he swung the hammer down upon the bent blade. As he did he cried out one word, what I do not know, but his face told me how the effort of the blow had hurt his wound. And as one with the hammer blow and the cry from Sidroc, the hilt of the sword flew high into the air as it snapped from the blade. I raised my eyes to watch it, and for one moment it glinted in the last light of the Sun. Then it dropped, a dead and useless thing, into the pit.

  Sidroc bent down and picked up the empty scabbard and held it with the hammer in his right hand. He turned away from the pit and made ready to move off. But I could not move, and only lifted his mantle which I wore to my face. No tears fell from my eyes, but I felt that I wept inside my breast.

  I knew he came closer to me, and I turned so he would not see my face. As I did, I saw a slender silver chain glitter upon the bough on which I had hung my sash.

  I did not wish to stay in the place of Offering any longer. My eyes were filled with the sight of the death of the fine sword, and the sight of the wound that Sidroc bore. I felt the silver bracelet upon my wrist, heavy and beautiful, and thought of him that Sidroc had killed who had worn it before me.

  Sidroc did not speak, but came up beside me as I walked. His face was white again, and I felt sure his wound must have bled afresh. The sky was dark now and it was hard to see the path. I reached out and tried to take the hammer from his hand, but he would not let me have it. We went slowly, but even then he stumbled several times.

  We stopped for a moment at the smith’s shed. The canvas was down but Sidroc lifted it and lay the hammer upon the anvil. We walked across to the hall.

  The fire was burning high and all the men were there. Food had been brought, and drink, and some of the tables had been set up as usual, but few men were sitting at them. It was easy to tell which men had returned with Yrling. They roamed around the hall, talking and eating and drinking as they went, stopping to see what booty this one or that one of their fellows had captured, and showing off to those who had not gone what they had themselves won.

  The head table was set up, and food and drink was upon it, but Yrling was not there. I saw him across the hall, talking to several of his men. His face had been bathed, and looked much better. His hair was combed, and he wore a new tunic. His arm was wrapped close to his body with a cloth woven in blue and gold wool. In his hand was a seax, which he was holding out to the men. Even from a distance I could see it was of fine make, for the hilt glittered with silver as he held it up. The Danes did not use the angle-bladed seax; they preferred the straight blades of their own knives. Still, they would not shun a fine weapon when they had won it.

  As I was looking thus at Yrling he saw us, and came over to where we stood. He spoke to Sidroc, and Sidroc answered back, and Yrling seemed to jest with him, for he patted Sidroc on the shoulder. I began to move away. Ælfwyn came around the corner into the hall; she must have been up in our chamber. She spoke first to Sidroc.

  “I am glad you are back. Burginde will bring you some feverfew ale,” she began. Her voice was kind and her face held real concern. “And you should eat something, as well.”

  “I do not want to eat, but only to sleep,” answered Sidroc.

  “Then we will make up a bed for you right now,” said Ælfwyn, and gestured to the treasure room.

  He shook his head. “I will sleep here,” answered Sidroc, and made as if he would lie upon the table again. “I will not have to move much.”


  I unpinned his mantle from my neck and spread it upon the boards. He began to unlace his ring shirt. His fingers moved slowly, and I wanted Yrling to help him, but he did not. So I stepped before Sidroc and drew the leathern laces out. I pulled the heavy shirt back and off his shoulders. Luckily no blood showed on his linen tunic, and he lay down on the table.

  “That is well,” said Yrling. “The table is high and will trouble less the hurt you have.”

  We could all see the wisdom in this. Sidroc closed his eyes almost at once. We stood watching him, and Ælfwyn looked at me and then down at my bloodied gown.

  It was not her, but Yrling that spoke. “You have done well, shield-maiden,” he said. “You are worthy in every way.”

  I do not know if I blushed at this; I do not think so. There was nothing in it to shame me; he meant only praise. I nodded my head, and Ælfwyn squeezed my arm. “Do you go and change your gown,” she said, “and come down and eat with us.” She and Yrling moved off.

  I stood before the table on which Sidroc lay. His face was turned towards me and he was breathing quietly. He was already asleep. As I regarded him, Burginde came up, a bronze cup in her hand.

  “There you be,” she said, with some little edge in her voice. She thrust out the cup to me. “‘Twas hot and cooled three times since you left. Fine time for a stroll.”

  I took the cup from her, and she brought her face down close to Sidroc’s. “Hmmm,” she said. “He sleeps, but I would wake him for this,” she said, pointing to the cup. “His weariness is so great that it overtakes his pain, but soon he will awake from it, and he will wish he had drunk it.”

  “I will stay then, and make certain he drinks it when he awakes,” I said.

  “It must be drunk hot,” Burginde insisted.

  “I will hot it with a poker,” I answered.

  For reply she simply dropped her hands and said, “Ach!,” and moved away.