After we had done, she said, “Now time will tell its tale.”
I nodded my head. It was growing dark, and the fire from the pit showed more and more brightly every moment. Holt was now under the open-walled shelter; perhaps he already slept. I looked down at Gyric as he lay still upon the table. I thought of the damage which our ride of the night before had done to him. Then I thought that he would have surely died in the cellar of Four Stones if he had not been taken from there. I turned to Gwenyth as she stood beside me.
“I thank you for all your help,” I said.
Her voice was low, but it held no gentleness. “He will not thank me,” was all she answered.
I turned away, stung by her words. I stumbled to my kit pack and took out my mantle. I spread out a coverlet, and wrapped myself in it upon the hard and cold ground.
I do not know why I awoke; I think the fire crackled loudly and startled me. The waxing Moon hung low in the sky, and no night bird sang out. I looked around as I remembered where I was, and in the firelight made out the form of Gwenyth as she stood by Gyric.
I rose and went to her. She was pressing something to his lips. It was not a cup, and I could not tell what it was. A chill ran through me as I recalled the words of Meryth’s husband saying that Gwenyth would as soon kill a man as cure him. Gyric meant nothing to her; and I recalled what she had said when she first saw him: ‘He is a killer like all the rest.’
I thought of these things, but beat back my fear as I came up to her. I stood silently by her side, waiting for her to speak. At last she did. She drew back her hand from his mouth, and said, “‘Tis speed-well; I steeped it in your ale. I got a few drops of its juice into him.”
She stepped back and sighed, and rolled her shoulders as if they ached. I was ashamed at my thought that she might harm him; she may have been up all night. She looked at Gyric and said in a low voice, “I do not think he will live.”
“He must live,” I said in return, and her quiet way filled me with more fear than her earlier fierceness did.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I have done all I can for him. If you desire him to live, you must call him back.”
“Call him?” I asked, fear knotting my throat.
“Yes,” she answered. “If he truly knows what has happened to him, he will not wish to live. None of his kind would choose a life without sight. But you may still keep him from the Lands of the Dead, if you call him back.”
She moved by me, and in the flickering light I saw her go to the shed and lie down. I stood by Gyric and looked down upon his still form. Only the slightest movement of his chest told me that he breathed.
I sat upon the bench and brought my face close to his ear. In the dark I could not see the cruel burn on his temple; I could not even see the dark hollows which were once his eyes. What I could see was the line of his brow, and nose, and lips, and chin, and I kept my gaze fixed upon this.
I looked upon him for a long time, and then words formed within me.
“Gyric,” I whispered. “I want you to live.”
He did not move; he did not moan; his lips were still.
“Gyric, I want you to live,” I said.
I leaned closer to him, and took his hand in both of mine. “I want you to live,” I said again.
I sat there in the dark, his hand in mine, my face close to his ear, whispering his name and saying, I want you to live.
I did not weep as I spoke to him thus; nor, do I think, I prayed. I did not think of Ælfwyn, and her lost love for this man, or of her grief over losing him, only to find him again thus maimed; and I did not think of Gyric himself, perhaps desiring to die as he lay before me; I could not have thought of these things that night and borne it.
Perhaps I did not think at all, as I sat there by him, but only willed; for all I knew were the six words I said over and over again: Gyric, I want you to live.
I awoke to a hand on my shoulder. It was dawn, and Gwenyth stood next to me. My head lay on my arms on the edge of the table, my hand still covering Gyric’s. I straightened, and stood up, and Gwenyth bent over to hear Gyric breathe. He stirred slightly, but did not make a sound.
She did not speak to me, but went about the tasks of drawing water and stoking the fire. I went to the creek, and washed my face and hands and found my comb. I brought forth food from my pack, and Holt and Gwenyth and I sat and ate, nearly in silence.
Then Holt wandered off to the creek, and Gwenyth and I sat together without talking. She rose, and heated more of the birch broth, and I helped her feed it to Gyric. He took many swallows of it, and when he was done we covered him warmly.
Gwenyth stood, bowl in hand, looking at Gyric as I folded a coverlet under his head to serve as a pillow. Without taking her eyes from him she said to me, “He will live.”
I raised my hand to my face, and uttered aloud my thanks.
She said, “Do not thank me. He lives because of you.”
I wanted to tell her this was not true; that it was her craft, but she spoke before I could begin.
“He lives, because of you,” she said again. “One part of him will never forgive you.”
Chapter the Forty-seventh: Awake in the Dark
GYRIC did not speak that day, but he moved more. Once when we held his head to feed him broth he put one arm behind him as if to hold himself up. Gwenyth spoke little to me, and said nothing to him. She sent Holt to take the horses to graze in the small meadow where the birches grew, and he was gone all the day long with them.
The day was filled with Sun, and even the little camp, ringed by stone as it was, grew warm. In the afternoon we heated a full cauldron of water, and Gwenyth floated henbane in it, and she bathed Gyric with it. I took a basin full of it and soaked his hair, combing it out carefully, and thus we rid him of lice. I dried his hair with a linen towel, and it was soft and bright and fell nearly to his shoulders in a wave of coppery gold. So he was clean again, and I felt, must know more comfort.
I bathed too, and changed my gown and washed my shift and stockings, which I had worn since the night we had left Four Stones. Looking through my bag I found another pair of shoes, made of green leather. They were ones Ælfwyn had brought with her from Cirenceaster and never yet worn. I had three of Ælfwyn’s fine wool gowns in addition to my russet and green ones. Four of her silk gowns also lay there, one blue, one green, one dark red, and one pale yellow: she had given me almost all of her best clothing. In my satchel I had a black leathern pouch stuffed with silver pieces, and the tiny red one, full of rings and pins and brooches and chains. There was something too in the bottom of my satchel which I could not recognise by feel. It was long and slender and heavy, and wrapped in a piece of scrap leather and tied with a cord. I took it out and unwrapped it, and again knew the lengths Ælfwyn and Burginde had gone to provide for us, for within lay a spear point, very sharp, and only wanting a shaft. I wondered where they had found it. Perhaps Burginde had taken it from the weapon smith’s stall. I would cut a sapling later and see if I could carve a shaft for it.
I went alone down the trail to the birch grove, and plucked more fresh leaves for Gyric, for I had used all I had gathered earlier. I showed them to Gwenyth when I returned, but she nodded and made no comment. I longed for her to be kinder to me, and did not understand why she was not. I sat looking at her, and she seemed to read my thought, for she suddenly turned on me and demanded, “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, looking away, “I said nothing.” But then I turned to her and asked, “Why are you not kind to me?”
“Why do you expect my kindness?” she asked in return.
I looked around the barren little camp and shrugged my shoulders. “Only because I have tried to be kind to you, and have, I think, done you no harm. And you have helped me greatly, and so I wish you were kinder that I might be able to thank you.”
“Would kindness make my help greater?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I answered, confused. “You are not like M
eryth,” I said, and added, “She loves and defends you still.”
Her narrow blue eyes shot back to me. “My sinful ways are still not forgotten, or forgiven, eh?”
“You are not forgotten, at least by her,” I answered, “and all must miss your healing skills. Besides, you did nothing more than any village girl might.”
“I bore a cursed child,” she said, and tho’ her voice was light it was full of mockery. “A child that was gotten by a Lord. And he loved me, too, that Lord; but proved his cowardice, for because of Holt he put me away from him.” She stood up and walked a few feet away, and then turned.
“As for my craft, ‘tis a bane as well as a blessing. The priest at Four Stones hated me for my skill, for I could heal when he failed. I was first brought to Merewala because of it. His little daughter had fever, and I cured her. Merewala gave me a ring, this one,” she said, thrusting up her right hand, “a silver ring to a cottar’s daughter! He did not forget me then; the next week was the first time he brought me to his bed. I had twelve Winters, and was scarce more than a child myself. I pleased him, and he gave me many gifts, and my father’s croft grew crowded with sheep and goats, and upon my breast I wore this pin I wear today. When Holt was born Merewala was full of joy, and I think nearly took me to the hall to live with him and his daughter and his older sons. But he forsook us when he saw that Holt was odd, and so I forsook him.”
I did not know what to respond to all this. “Are you happy here?” I asked, looking about.
“I am free,” she answered. “Free of the village, and its troubles, and its comforts too, when it had comforts. I lived two lives there; one as healer, and another as the bedmate of Merewala, and in both of them I was damned.”
When the Sun grew low in the sky Holt returned, leading the horses. He had over his shoulder several dead starlings and one partridge. Around his neck hung the thin gut sling with which he caught up the bird’s legs and so snared them. Gwenyth praised him for his skill, and set to work skinning the birds for our dinner. We roasted the starlings on spits of green wood, but the partridge she boiled, to make more broth for Gyric.
We simmered the birch leaves in the broth as before, and fed Gyric spoonfuls of it; and tho’ he did not speak he seemed more aware of us.
Holt was busy working with his knife and a piece of hide. Gwenyth regarded him and said to me, “He is making boots for your friend.”
I was surprised at this; tho’ he had carried him a long way Holt scarcely seemed to notice Gyric.
“That is good of you, Holt,” I said. He stopped in his work and looked up at me with a grin.
Gwenyth said, “All hand work he does, and does with skill. He makes our shoes, and wove the baskets that carry our goods.”
Holt did not look up, but nodded and gurgled at this praise. As I looked at Holt I remembered that he was Merewala’s son, and that all of his other sons were dead, and that he too had crossed the shore of Life. Holt lived, and knew pleasure, because his father had cast him off.
When it was time to sleep I set up my bed roll near the table, and before I lay down I went to Gyric and again spoke to him, saying his name and telling him he was with friends.
I awoke in the dark to the sound of a fretful calling, and jumped up and went to Gyric. He was tossing his head from side to side, and pushing his arms out as if to keep something away. He called loudly, and his wailing told me he rode the night-mare. I took his hands and grasped them hard and tried to wake him, saying his name again and again.
I left him for a moment and shoved a few sticks of wood into the failing fire. By its light I saw Gwenyth rise and step out of the little shelter. She looked at me but did not come forward.
“Gyric,” I said, again taking up his arms and holding him, “awaken. It is a dream. You are safe now.”
He called out again, and then there was a gasp, as if he truly did awaken. I let go his arms and placed my hand on his brow to try to calm him. “You are safe, Gyric,” I repeated. “You are safe now.”
He drew a deep breath, the first deep breath I had known him to draw; and cried out a little at the pain of his ribs. The next breath was slower and his body relaxed against the table. He lay back and was quiet, but moved his hands as if he were awake.
I touched them with my own, and said, “Gyric.”
His lips moved, as they had many times before, but now they formed words. He asked in a whisper, “Who are you?”
I tightened my grasp on his hands, and found my own voice, and answered, “I am Ceridwen. My father was Cerd, an ealdorman of Mercia.”
He was quiet a long time, and I did not know if he heard me.
“Mercia,” he repeated, in some wonder. “What place is this, where we are now?”
“We are in Lindisse, in the forests surrounding the keep of Four Stones,” I answered.
“Lindisse?” he asked back, and raised his head a little.
“Yes, but we are safe from the Danes. We are with a woman of Lindisse and her son. They live in these forests and have sheltered us.”
His head dropped back, and I said, “You are weak from your wound, and from the journey here. You must try to rest.”
“How did I come here?” he asked, slowly.
“I took you from the cellar of Four Stones,” I said. The tears in my eyes were now rolling down my cheek. “I am so glad that you live,” I said, and tried not to sob.
For answer he pulled his hands away and lifted them to his face and pressed them over the wrap covering his wound. His fingers groped beneath it for an instant. His mouth opened, but no cry came forth. He did not scream; he did not wail, or curse; but only kept his hands clenched over his empty eyes so tightly that his whole body trembled.
“Gyric,” I pleaded, and placed my hands on his.
“It is true,” he gasped.
“Yes,” I wept, “it is true. But you live; you live.”
He turned as if he would bury his head in his arms. He howled a long, bitter wail of grief, and I placed my hands on his shoulders. I could not speak; my tears came too fast.
He did not say more, but only hid his head and shuddered. I began to fear that he might go mad from the shock of it.
“Gwenyth,” I called, “help him, please.”
She came forward and looked not at him but at me. “There is no help for him but the truth, and now he knows it.” The words seemed cruel, but her voice was mild as she said it.
I turned my face from her, but she walked to the table and then spoke to Gyric. “You will see no more, and the world as you knew it is lost to you. Yet you have cheated Death. He has left your side empty-handed. This is also the truth.”
She moved away, back to the shelter. Gyric was trembling and I pulled his mantle closer about his shoulders. His breath came in low rasping gasps as he began to sob. His face was buried in his hands. I sat down on the bench and placed my hand upon his arm.
He spoke again, in a hoarse whisper, and I had to bend over him to hear it. “I would wake, but not know if I dreamt. Only the pain I felt told me I still lived,” he said. His voice was so low that it was as if he spoke only to himself.
He rolled onto his back, but still kept one arm flung over his face. “Each time I woke, I woke in this darkness; and I would remember all, but not believe it, tho’ my fingers told me.”
I said nothing, and suddenly he asked, “Are you there?” with a kind of panic in his voice.
I pressed his arm and said, “Yes, yes, I am here.”
He felt for and took my hand in his own and grasped it. “Do not go,” he said with strength.
I closed my other hand over his and answered, “I will not go.”
He moaned, and pressed my hand so tightly that I thought it would surely break. Then of a sudden he let it go, and flailed against the empty air around him.
“Why did they not kill me?” he demanded in anguish. “I am worse than dead. Why did they...”
He did not fini
sh, and I asked him, “Were you captured in a battle by the men of Svein?”
He started and answered in a whisper, “You know this? Yes; and we knew we would be held to ransom. But then we were separated from each other, and one night, for no reason, they... this - happened...”
“It was Hingvar,” I said, scarcely able to say the word.
“Yes! Hingvar,” he answered, and his anguish turned to rage.
The words tumbled from my mouth. “They did not want your ransom price. That is why they did this. Hingvar slayed or maimed all the captives to spite his brother Svein.”
He lay back, silent in his amazement, and then asked, “How is it you know all this?”
“I have been amongst the Danes at Four Stones,” I answered, and each word felt like an admission of guilt.
In reply he gave only a low cursing wail. I bent over him and touched his arm. “Gyric, you are still weak, and this is much to hear. Will you take some broth or ale, and then try to sleep?”
He did not answer me, and lay before me panting out his grief and anguish, gripping his hands and sobbing. It was terrible to see, and worse to hear, and I felt helpless and sick and weary. Beyond this I felt the foolishness of trying to comfort him with offers of sleep, or a cup of ale. Yet I did not want him to surrender completely to his grief; I feared for him. I sat back down on the bench and waited until his breath calmed, and then spoke again.
“I am going to warm ale, and have some,” I began, and as I said this I knew my voice began to tremble with my tears. “Will you have some too?”
He was silent, and I rose and took the ale jug and pushed it into the ashes and glowing coals of the fire. I looked up at the sky. The stars stood out brightly and alone. “It is hours until dawn, Gyric,” I whispered. “You should try to sleep.”
I found a cup and poured out some of the ale, and drank of it, and then went to him. “Here is ale,” I said. “Please try to drink some.”
He raised himself on one elbow, and took the cup in his hand and drank. He passed it back to me and groaned as he lowered himself.
The Circle of Ceridwen: Book One of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Page 36