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

by Octavia Randolph

  He said no more, and I sat alone with my uncertainty. The rain had lessened a bit, and after a time I roused myself and thought to stand up and stretch before I lay down for the night.

  “Are you going far?” asked Gyric, raising his face to me.

  “Only to check on the horses. They are quite close to us, but the rain makes it dark.” I thought he might need to relieve himself and said, “Do you want to walk with me?”

  He nodded his head and scrambled to his feet. The roof of our hide shelter was low and he had trouble clearing it. I took his hand and we stepped into the small grassy clearing. I led him to a few trees on the other side of it. The ground was sopping wet and I felt it almost at once through my thin boots.

  I put his hand on a tree trunk and said, “I will be back when you call for me.”

  I went over to the dark forms of our horses, speaking to them as I approached. They were standing together, dozing, and my mare had her head nestled up against the mane of the gelding.

  As I stood there looking at the horses I heard the cracking of branches and a low, angry cry. I turned and hurried to where I had left Gyric, and found him a few feet away, on one knee, grasping his other shin in his clasped hands. He had tripped over a low-laying tangle of shrubby growth, and one foot still lay caught in it.

  “Are you all right?” I cried out. I knelt down next to him, and tried to lift his hands from his leg.

  He pushed me away. In the set of his mouth there was frustration and anger beyond whatever hurt his leg had received. His chin was held low. He was wet from his fall, and the linen wrap about his wound was twisted up to show the burn upon his temple. I said nothing more, but just knelt there next to him. He made a sound, and then I saw his shoulders begin to tremble. He let his hands fall from his shin and his whole body shook as a strangled sob broke from his lips.

  He put both his hands on his face and choked out, “I cannot even cry anymore.” He made a terrible sound, almost like laughter, but the laughter of the mad, or the damned.

  And hearing him say this, that with his lost eyes were also lost his tears, made my own eyes well up.

  I could speak no words of comfort, except to say his name. I touched his shoulder, and tho’ he did not pull away, I felt I was unwelcome, and drew back. He needs must grieve, and I must let him.

  He moved, and tried to stand again, and I was quick to pull his foot free from the tangle which had tripped him. He put his hand out, and I placed it on my arm, and guided him back to our hide shelter. He lay down without a word, and pulled his mantle about him; and I too lay down in the wet darkness, waiting for sleep which took a long time to come.

  Chapter the Fifty-second: What We Had to Do

  THE morning was bleak, within and without. Gyric was sunk in despair. He scarce spoke a word to me and my own fears and worries about what would happen to us grew silently in my breast. To add to the discomfort we felt from the wet, I could not get our fire started again, for a drizzle fell steadily upon us.

  It made no good sense to try and travel when the skies were obscured with thick clouds and the Sun could not guide us. So we sat silent and damp beneath our hide shelter. I began to really wonder if Gyric would not dismiss me if and when we reached the borders of Mercia. I had no idea what I would do if he did. I did not believe I could find my way safely back to Four Stones alone, even with the fast mare I now rode, for too many Danes would be abroad. Perhaps he would counsel me to return to my first home. But I did not want to return to the small village by the marshes of the Dee: I felt no call to the land there. Such were my thoughts as I sat hunched under my deer hide, trying as best as I could to stay dry.

  Only our horses seemed to welcome the rest. My mare rolled over and over in the wet grass and was playful with the gelding, nipping at his hocks and tempting him to chase her. Watching them I marvelled at how blest animals were to be free from the concerns that troubled our own heads. I recalled the Browny, curled up snug and happy upon Burginde’s bed and purring, as we three women suffered with our fears around her.

  And this thought - of my lost life with Ælfwyn and Burginde, and of the comforts and concerns we had shared in our narrow chamber - broke through my silent sorrow at last. It seemed that our lives then had been happy indeed, or at least, full of hope and content. The threat of war had troubled us, and the usage of the folk of Lindisse at the hands of the Danes was a constant reminder of the cruelty that might soon visit other parts; but I could say in truth that Yrling was a far better man than we had hoped. Ælfwyn had reason to care for him, and these reasons went beyond the gold and silver treasure he had given her. Just a few days ago I had thought I would spend my life with Ælfwyn, at Four Stones or wherever Yrling might take her, and this thought troubled me not; for I felt that Ælfwyn might have some great and good effect on him. She had already accomplished much, and was growing, day by day, in wisdom and in cleverness, so that she might procure the most bounty for her new people.

  So much had changed when old Dobbe haltingly told us of the prisoner below the hall. The image of me in the damp cellar turning Gyric’s face toward the flickering torch rose up in my eyes. Beyond my first horror was my desire, far stronger than all else, that he might be delivered from that place. Now Gyric lived, and I had not tried to see beyond this first goal when I carried him from Four Stones. Gyric lived, but he lived in misery.

  I sat hunched under the sopping deer hide, and as the rain redoubled its fall above us, I began to weep. I folded my arms around my knees and lay my head upon my damp sleeves, and my tears rolled down from my cheeks and slipped through my fingers into the wet wool of my gown.

  “Why do you cry?” asked Gyric in a low voice.

  I did not turn my head to look at him, but sobbed out my answer. “Because you are so miserable.”

  He did not answer, but his question stopped my weeping. I wiped my face and turned to look at him. He was sitting just an arm’s length away from me, but it seemed a gulf of a thousand miles. He was cross-legged, and his right hand rested on the hilt of the shining seax. “I am not what I was,” he said, and tho’ his face looked set and steady, his words came haltingly.

  “Many men are wounded in battle,” I said, trying not to snuffle.

  His answer was swift and violent. “This was not battle. I was taken, bound, from a tent in the middle of the night to the cook fire, where a poker was rammed into my eyes!”

  This recollection, vivid in its horror, brought fresh tears to my eyes. Gyric sat rigid and taut as I watched his knuckles grow white gripping his seax hilt.

  “It was an act of treachery,” I choked out.

  “Why did they not kill me?” he asked, raising his face to the wet heavens. “They have left me worse than dead. That is what they wanted. To make me a loathsome, creeping thing, a worm upon the ground. That is all I am now!”

  “Do not say that!” I answered. “I did not bring you out of that hole at Four Stones for that! You are a man. You have been wounded, cruelly, but you will always be a man. You are alive; that is what matters.”

  “You did not know me before. All you can see is this - crippled thing that I am now.”

  “You are right, I did not know you. I can only know you from the first time I saw you, and that was at Four Stones. When I saw what they had done to you my whole heart moved within me, but not for one moment did I have any thought but to carry you away from that place that you might live.”

  He jerked his head and gave a snort. “Yes, a maid of sixteen carries me away!”

  I nearly spat out my next words. “Should I have left you to die?”

  The anger in this question made him stop, and then he slowly turned his face to me.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You risked your life to save mine.”

  “Yes, and I would do it again. But to hear you regard your own life so low is to regard mine as nothing.”

  He gave a sudden exhalation of breath, and his shoulders sl
umped. He let go of his seax and touched both hands to his brow. “I owe you everything. That is what is so hard for me. From now on I must only take.”

  My heart was full, and I tried to speak all I felt within me. “That is not true. I know you were a warrior, but a man is more than his sword. Your father and mother, and your brother, they will rejoice to hear that you live. It will be as if you returned from the grave to them. They will sorrow at your wound, but will rejoice that you still walk the Earth.”

  He gave a small cry of anguish which showed me again how hard it was for him to think on his homecoming. This gave rise to a new thought, and he uttered the next words as an oath. “They will be made to pay! Far beyond my wergild, they will be made to pay. My father and brother will not rest until they slit the throat of he who did this.”

  There was nothing to say to this, for I knew it was true. The lust for vengeance would be strong indeed, for Gyric was not only the son of a powerful Lord but an atheling to the King. I gave a sigh, wondering silently how many men would die as a result of Hingvar’s act of spite against his brother.

  Gyric’s thought had moved on, and he spoke with new force. “It was stupid of me to have been captured. I almost let them.”

  “Let them?” I asked. He had never before spoken of the battle.

  “Yes. Ælfred and I were fighting shield-to-shield. He was not strong that day, but weak from loss of blood from his illness. The fighting had gotten too hot, and I seized the dragon banner from Ælfred, so that the Danes would think I was the brother of Æthelred. He is my size and there is a likeness between us. I broke off from him, and it worked: the Danes pursued me, and Ælfred’s other men closed up around him. So I was captured with some companions, and the Danes thought for two days that they had Ælfred himself.”

  “So because of your likeness, the Danes mistook you?”

  I knew also that Gyric was very rich, and that the arms and ring tunic and jewellery and clothes of him would be of equal fineness to that a prince would wear.

  “Yes, that and because I carried the dragon standard of Wessex. Ælfred always carried it for his brother.” The next question was asked softly, as to himself. “Who will carry it for Ælfred now that he himself is King?”

  I thought on all this, and then said, “It is likely you saved the life of Ælfred.” He did not answer, but my thoughts continued to their end. “And since Æthelred was soon to die, in saving Ælfred you saved the life of a King.”

  He shrugged. “No man can predict how any battle will turn.”

  He was quiet for a moment, remembering, for he went on, “We fought shield-to-shield many times since we were boys, and many times shared the battle-gain. Now I am useless to him.”

  I saw the anger rising again in him, and he went on, “Christ blind Hingvar! He and his men will be made to pay.”

  His anger was hard for me to watch, as just as it was. But since it was his due, I would not try to turn him from it. “Hingvar has many enemies, both Saxon and Dane,” I said.

  Gyric spoke through gritted teeth. “I pray it is the hand of a man of Kilton who robs him of his life.”

  There was nothing I could say. He too, was still, and we sat with only the sounds of the dripping trees as answer.

  Then he turned his head to me and asked, “You know all these things because Yrling told them to you?”

  “Yes,” I slowly said, “not Yrling so much, for he was away much of the time and does not speak our tongue as well as - his nephews.”

  He gave a snort and tossed his head. “So the young bucks were clustered around you, filled with stories, boasting of their skills.”

  “Not quite like that,” I stammered. “One of them I did not like at all, and scarcely ever spoke to; and by the end he did not like me either.”

  He inclined his head, and his voice was low, and I thought, tinged with disgust. “And the other? The one who gave you your mare?”

  I was surprised he recalled where my mare had come from, for it was amongst the first things we spoke of when he awakened in Gwenyth’s camp. It made me slightly uneasy that his memory was so sharp, and that such a thing would stick in his mind.

  “The other would speak to me,” I admitted. “We tried to learn things from him, Ælfwyn and I, because he was easy to speak to and treated us well.” I felt as if I was defending myself, and I did not know why I should.

  “And he gave you gifts.”

  “Yes,” I answered slowly. “The mare was, of course, the greatest of them.”

  “What is his name?” he asked, steadily.

  I did not want to answer, but I did. “His name is Sidroc.” I took a long breath and added, “He counselled Yrling against getting involved with Hingvar or his brother.” I thought to add, “And Yrling had no part in what Hingvar did. He was, as I have said, very angry.”

  His voice was reckless with his own anger. “You do not have to defend them to me. If I could I would kill either one of them in an instant.”

  Perhaps he said this because they were Danes, and more so because Yrling had accepted him and thrust him into the cellars of Four Stones to die. And perhaps he said it also because Yrling had taken the woman he loved from him.

  “I am not defending them,” I replied, but I knew there was no strength in my voice. “But I chose to be with Ælfwyn, and she had no choice but to go to Four Stones.” I felt some sense of injustice stirring within me. “It is not our fault,” I began, not feeling really clear myself of what I was speaking of. “I mean what they - the Danes - do. Ælfwyn has given up so much to try and save her people at Cirenceaster.” I did not think I needed to remind Gyric that the chiefest thing she surrendered was her hopes of being wed to him. “And she has worked hard to help the folk of Lindisse. Her father and grandsire ordained this thing. It was in no way her desire; you above all should know this. Having made this sacrifice to go, what should she do? Treat the Dane and his kin with disdain?” I felt close to tears now. “You do not know what she suffered.”

  He did not answer. It must be hard for him to hear me speak of suffering, I thought. But I said to end, “She did what she had to do.”

  Perhaps my earnest tone made him turn his face to me. He nodded his head wordlessly.

  Chapter the Fifty-third: You Have Not Seen Us

  THE Sun dawned upon us, streaming its rays across the little clearing in which we were camped. We ate, and I began to pack up. Gyric spent some time smoothing and rolling up our sheepskins, and securing them with leathern cords. He moved slowly and cautiously in doing these things. I felt real gladness in watching him, and I wanted to praise him; but I made as little comment as if he were whole and did these things, for I did not wish to embarrass him.

  We were nearly packed, and I was over saddling my mare when a sound from the trees before me made me stop. I caught a glimpse of a small, dark animal, and then a much larger, lighter form. My mare whinnied as a squat black piglet darted from the edges of the trees. Just behind it was an old woman, bearing a stick and a limp tie which had clearly slipped from the iron ring in the piglet’s nose.

  The woman started in fear as she caught sight of me, and flailed at the piglet in an attempt to drive it away. “Dame,” I called out. “I will not harm you.” I turned to look at Gyric. He was standing by the trees we had slept under, grasping his spear in one hand and his drawn seax in another.

  The piglet had frozen when it had reached the open grass, and the woman bent down and slipped her rope through the creature’s nose ring. Her eyes went uneasily from me to where Gyric stood. I spoke again, as much to reassure him as the old woman. “Do not fear us, woman,” I repeated. Her watery eyes looked strangely wide in her thin and wrinkled face. “We will not harm you. We are seeking to purchase food, if you have any to spare.”

  She did not answer, and I said, “Is your home near here?”

  Again she did not respond. “We will not harm you. We will pay you for food,” I said once more.

&
nbsp; “In silver?” she asked. Tho’ her form was slight, her voice was harsh.

  “Yes, in silver,” I answered, glad for any response.

  “We have food,” she said, just as harshly.

  I grew cautious, and wondered who she spoke of. “Where do you live, and with whom?” I asked, trying to make my question a command.

  She blinked but answered readily enough. “Only at the next stream branch; ‘tis a short walk. I bide with my husband, and my son’s wife, and my son’s children.”

  I nodded my head, and thought to go and ask counsel of Gyric. “Stay here while I speak to my brother,” I said to her.

  I approached Gyric, and he shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I came up to him.

  “Gyric,” I began in a low voice, “Did you hear all? This is an old woman, a wood-cutter’s wife perhaps.”

  “I heard,” he replied. He said no more.

  “Shall I go with her and buy food? She says it is not far.” I looked back to where she stood, gaping squint-eyed at us. “I think she can be trusted.”

  “Yes, go,” he answered. Of a sudden he said, “Do not leave me here.”

  I touched his wrist. I saw at once how terrible it would be to be left alone, waiting for me to return.

  Before I could speak he said, “We will go together.”

  “Yes, yes,” I agreed. “The horses are nearly ready.”

  He put away his seax and then said, “Say no more than you need to. Do not go too near her dwelling place, or get far from your mare. If anything happens, recall what I told you. Try to get away. Your mare is fast.”

  “Nothing will happen,” I said, fearful at his fear. The woman watched us without speaking as we finished preparing our packs. She drew the tattered tie which held her piglet closer to her. She had much more to fear from us, I thought, than we did from her.

  “Lead on,” I said to her, trying to sound like Ælfwyn speaking to a village woman.

  She walked quickly out of the clearing, staying close to the creek bed, pulling the piglet behind her. I walked our horses in the water, looking ahead as far as I could. The creek led past an open space, showing signs of having been but recently cleared. In it was a large but rude hut, surrounded by a wall of river stones rolled into place and topped with stakes of wood. Working in the croft were two figures, as shabby as the old woman herself. One was an old man, her husband, no doubt; and the other a woman.