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

by Octavia Randolph

  I felt a sense of cheerfulness as I set about this task, laying the fire and filling our small cauldron. The dell was a spot of quiet beauty, bright with the flat green spears of nodding vale-lily. The final rays of the Sun were still lingering in the glade where our horses grazed. Gyric lay back upon his sheepskin, leaning against his saddle.

  I plucked a stem of vale-lily and held its tiny white bells to my nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “‘Where dragons bleed, maidens weep,’” I remembered aloud. Gyric turned his head, and I went to him and lifted the little blossoms to his face.

  “Vale-lily,” he said, breathing in the scent.

  “Yes,” I answered. “The whole dell is full of it. Once a dragon bled here.”

  I looked around us at the mossy rocks, and the slender black birches leading to the stream. The stream was shallow. No dragon could live there, and I could see no cave; but still it was not hard to think that a small dragon would have chosen such a place to live, for they, like men, loved beauty in all things made and natural.

  “Do you think dragons still live?” I asked Gyric.

  He thought for a moment before he answered. “I do not know. It has been a long time since any one has seen them; at least since my grandsire’s day. If they still walk the Earth they must do so in secret.”

  “Perhaps there is not enough treasure left,” I suggested. “So they have gone deep underground with it all, and do not come up so often as they did.”

  “They will have to hide deep indeed to keep it from the grasp of the Danes,” answered Gyric.

  This mention of the Danes changed the mood for both of us. Gyric tossed away the stem he held, and I was left remembering the pricked-in design of a dragon that Sidroc bore. The Danes must have dragons in their homeland, too, but I thought about this in silence and said nothing more about it.

  The water in the cauldron was beginning to boil. “It is washing-day,” I said, trying to reclaim my former good spirits. “The sky is still clear, and I think it will stay so, and be dry. I will wash all your linen tunics, if you will be warm enough in your mantle for the night.”

  He nodded, and pulled his tunic from over his head. It was the first time I had seen his naked chest and arms since we had left Gwenyth’s camp. His skin was very fair, and I saw that all the welts had faded. His red-gold hair fell down upon his bare white shoulders. I could not help but look at him, tho’ my cheek flamed; the slenderness and fineness of his body caught and held my eye. Then he pulled his fur-lined mantle around him, and hugged himself as if he were chilled.

  “Are you cold?” I asked. He never liked to be very close to the fire, but I went on, “The fire is a good one. Will you sit nearer it?”

  “I am not cold,” he said.

  So he sat there as I gathered up our clothing to be washed. Soon I had fresh cut stakes festooned with leggings, stockings, tunics, shifts, and gowns. These surrounded our fire like dancing wraiths, swaying under their own wet weight.

  I re-boiled water to make our morning’s broth, and cut slabs of the smoked deer haunch, and brought out eggs, and we ate of this as the darkness began to fall. For drink we had, as always, dippersful of cold water.

  “It will be good to have ale again,” I said, remembering and missing this staple. I passed the dipper to Gyric and he took it and drank. Then he made me glad by saying, “Kilton is famed for its ale. My mother brought with her a recipe from her family, and from that time our ale has been the best in Wessex, even exceeding that of her home.”

  He had never boasted of anything before, or even spoken much on any everyday topic. I had been trying to form a picture of the woman who was Gyric’s mother; a woman who read and wrote, and provided for the wants of a large and populous hall. And too, she must be beautiful in face and form, or Gyric himself would not possess such beauty.

  “I am sure all she does, she does well,” I said.

  “Yes, that is her; she does all things well, and all men respect her for it.”

  “Tell me of her,” I asked, moving closer, for who would not wish to hear more of a woman who is spoken of in this way? “What is her name, and where did she come from, and tell me of the other things she does well.”

  “Her name is Modwynn. She is the daughter of Maerwine, who was bailiff of Sceaftesburh. She owns much land in her own right, and brought with her many hundred head of sheep. She is much younger than my father, by nearly a score of years.”

  “What does she look like?”

  He thought a moment. “She is tall, near as tall as my father. She is still straight and slender. She has fine hands.”

  “Like you,” I murmured.

  “I have her hands,” he admitted with a little shrug.

  “And she taught you letters?”

  “Yes, me and my brother, and one Summer, Ælfred too.”

  “She taught the King?”

  I thought he almost laughed. “He was not the King then; he was only a boy, as I was.”

  “So Ælfred lived with you?”

  “He stayed with us often, as his father Æthelwulf was King then, and so they travelled about Wessex. He was so much younger than his brothers that he spent much time with us, for his mother Osburh was a friend to my mother as well.”

  I thought back to what I had heard of Ælfred. “I have heard that the new King is a great scholar.”

  “That is right. He has been to Rome twice, and would have joined the Church had his brothers lived, and won peace.”

  “They say he is a fierce fighter, but that he is not well.”

  “He has an illness that troubles him; it makes him bleed within, and no leech has cured him. When he is ill with it they are certain he is going to die; he can keep no food nor drink within him. Then it will pass, and he is able to rise and even to fight within a day or two.”

  “He must have great will,” I thought aloud.

  “Yes; great will, and great faith in God.” He added in a sombre voice, “And a great task before him.”

  We sat, each to our own thoughts. My mind turned back to Kilton.

  “Tell me of your father, and of your brother.”

  “Godwulf is my father. He is ealdorman, and was made such many years ago by Æthelwulf. They fought shield-to-shield for many years, and were brothers to each other in their love. Years ago Godwulf himself could have swayed the Witan and become King, but he had no sons behind him. He had not yet wed my mother, and his first wife had died without issue. He called for Æthelwulf as King, always supporting his claim, for Godwulf knew the work of strengthening Wessex would take more than one man’s lifetime. That is the most important thing I can say of Godwulf.”

  “And your brother?”

  “His name is Godwin. He is four years older than I, but some say we are so alike as to be twinned. He is bigger than me, tho’; and a little taller.”

  I saw that he had real love for this man; there was a softness about his lips that told me so, and his voice spoke also of his love, for it was full of pride. “He is the best fighter I have ever seen; that anyone has seen.” Here he stopped, and seemed lost in thought.

  “He must be very skilful,” I said, hoping to hear more.

  “He is, skilful and strong; but most of all he is smart. He is the smartest fighter I have ever seen.”

  “Did he too fight alongside Ælfred?”

  “No; he fought with Æthelred. Æthelred was King, so Godwin fought alongside him; for Godwin will be ealdorman after my father.”

  “Rank-to-rank,” I mused. “So you fought with Ælfred when he was prince, and your brother with the King.”

  “That is right; for it is fit that men of the first rank fight with the King, and those just behind them with the prince.”

  “Will he be with Ælfred now?” I wondered.

  “I cannot say. Kilton is large and rich, and he and my father have many thegns to command. Godwin may be home now if Ælfred does not need him elsewhere in Wessex.”


  I sat thinking of all this, and then asked, “Godwin is four years older than you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, and the gentleness in his voice returned. “But he never treated me like a boy. We were always equals in everything.”

  “He must be a good man,” I said softly.

  He nodded his head. “The best. And he is happy in everything. His only grief is that he has no children.”

  “Surely he has wed by this time?”

  “Yes, he has been married for six years, but his wife, tho’ a good woman, has given him no son or daughter.”

  “Perhaps it is not her fault,” I offered.

  Here Gyric shook his head. “No, for he had a son once, with a village woman; and if she and the babe had not died long ago I know he would have by now brought the boy to the hall to be his son.” He shook his head again. “His wife cannot bring forth a live child. They are all born dead, and they have given up trying.”

  “That is very sad,” I answered. “Sad for all of them.” I thought of the long lost child, and his dead mother, and asked, “How did his little son die? Of the fever?”

  Gyric lowered his face. “Godwin does not even know. He curses himself each day for not caring better for it when it was born. One day he rode through the village and saw the mother and child being laid out for burial. A cottar told him the child caught sick, and then the mother after.”

  He added, in his brother’s defence, “He was young; he did not know enough to care.” I said nothing, but he went on. “She was just a village woman. He did not think anything of it.”

  “Perhaps she loved your brother,” I said, making bold to speak for her. “Surely she loved their son.”

  A shrug of his shoulders was his only answer. He said, “It does not matter now. She was just a village woman, and he gave her silver in exchange for a few nights.”

  I thought to myself: She paid with her life for those nights, just as Godwin pays with his regrets; but this I did not say. I looked at Gyric and spoke to him boldly, tho’ my voice was soft. “Did you too give silver to village women?”

  He turned his face to me, and his mouth opened. I did not know if he was angered by my boldness, but he answered me with something like a laugh. “Yes; once or twice. There were a few who always welcomed the coin.”

  There was no reason for me to be shamed, but my cheeks were hot. “O,” was all I said.

  “You are different from other maids,” he went on. “You are a surprise in what you say and do. I do not think I have ever met anyone just like you.”

  “I am too bold,” I answered. “I am sorry.”

  “Your words are sometimes bold, but it is not that.” His voice was not unkind, nor did he seem to complain of this fact. “Besides,” he went on, “if you were not bold...”

  His words trailed off, and he did not finish; but I could guess that he meant it was my boldness that had plucked him from the cellars of Four Stones.

  Chapter the Fifty-seventh: Flowing Waters

  I did not like to leave the mossy dell in the morning. I felt that here a little window had been opened into this silent young man for me. Hearing him speak of his home in Kilton, and of his parents, and most especially of his brother Godwin, made me feel as tho’ I could know him, and that he might want to be known. Part of this, I thought, grew out of the fright we had faced on the road. There was now a bond between us, and Gyric’s words, “We are a good team,” were always in my head. But there was something else about him, and it took me until this morning to know what it was. It was as simple as this: I did not fear Gyric as I feared other men.

  I thought about this as I packed up our camp. I had never been treated harshly by any man; but at the same time, the men of equal rank I had known expected me, and all other women, to obey them; and behind that expectation was the threat of harm if you did not. I had never lived as close to any men as I had the Danes, and never had any man desired me as Sidroc had. I had no choice in this; he desired me and had told me many times that I would be his. If I had stayed and wed him, he would have been good to me, better I think than Yrling was to Ælfwyn. Many times when I had been near Sidroc I felt I was the one who caused him hurt; yet I knew he had no fear of me, while I had much fear of him, despite or because of his desire for me.

  With Gyric all this was different; and I searched myself carefully to see if I did not fear him because of his wound, and the limits it put upon him. But it was not his wound, I was sure; nor was it that it had been me who had taken him from Four Stones and perhaps saved his life. It was something else, but I could not easily name it. He said I was different from any other maid, and I thought him to be different from any other man. There was a thoughtfulness about him, and something like real gentleness within him, notwithstanding his flashes of fierce anger and grief. I wondered if the closeness I felt to him was akin to the closeness I would have known with a brother, for even in his anger and grief, there was an ease I felt in being near him.

  I had stopped in my work to look at him. He had, as he did each morning, shaken out our sheepskins, and rolled them tightly with the deer hides we used as ground sheets. Now he tied them with leathern cords to our saddles as they lay upon the ground, feeling with his fingers the difference in our two saddles, for the one my mare wore was plain, while his had tooled designs cut into the leather of it. Then he straightened himself and rose, and with his spear in his hand took a few steps.

  “Ceridwen? Are you here?”

  “Yes, I am here,” I answered at once, and I think I startled him by how near I was. I felt a sense of shame to have been watching him as I did, but I could not help it; it gave me pleasure to regard him.

  “You are so quiet. I thought you had walked away.”

  “I am just finishing with our kit,” I lied, stuffing things noisily into the bag. “We are ready to saddle the horses now.” So we set out, tho’ I turned and looked back into the little dell as we rode away.

  The Sun was not yet overhead when the trees grew thinner about us. There was no road or track in sight, nor yet sign of settlement, but we stuck close to the line of trees for safety, until there were few indeed to shelter us. Riding in the open gave its own pleasure, tho’; and the noon Sun was hot upon us, and the grass as high as our horses’ knees and brilliant green.

  “There are no tree stumps. Perhaps it has been pasture land,” I said to Gyric, describing the meadow-like plain we walked through.

  As soon as I had finished these words I saw where we truly were, for as we rose up upon a little knoll there before us flowed the dark green body of a river, cutting through the bright grass like a huge serpent.

  “It is a river, Gyric, a great one, wider far than the Dee,” I said, looking up and down its length as it revealed itself.

  “How wide is it?” he asked, sitting forward on his horse as if to close the distance.

  “Let us get nearer to it, then I can gauge better.”

  We drew closer, but lost the vantage point in doing so. “I think it is about twenty paces wide,” I said, doubtfully.

  Our horses were now at the banks of it, and the ground was wet beneath their hooves.

  “It must be the Trent. Mercia is on the other side.”

  I looked, wide-eyed, across the river to the grassland on the other side. “Then we are that close to safety?” I asked.

  “We do not know if the border still holds,” answered Gyric.

  I considered this, but his thoughts were going on. “Does it flow fast?” he asked. “Can you see a current?”

  I scanned the flowing waters. “It does not look fast. At least, I see no ripples upon the surface.”

  “And it is quiet,” he thought aloud. “We are at the very banks, and cannot hear it. A good sign.”

  I looked up and down the banks. It would be easy for our horses to get into the water, and to climb out again. I only hoped that the current was not strong.

  “Find me a stone,” directed Gyric, as
he swung down from his horse. I climbed down too and found a few round rocks. He selected one and then said, “Watch it carefully.”

  He drew back his arm and threw it with force over the water. It plopped, splashing, a ways from the other bank.

  “It fell into the water, about two horse-lengths from the far shore,” I said, hoping I was close in my estimate.

  He shook his head and gave a little laugh. “The river is far wider than twenty paces,” he said.

  He palmed another stone and threw it again, with more force. It too fell into the water.

  “It went farther, but did not touch the shore,” I reported.

  “It is forty or fifty paces wide here. Does it narrow? Can you tell?”

  “It looks the same, in both directions. The banks are gradual here, but firm. It grows marshy to our right.”

  Gyric stood facing out towards the river, fingering a final stone in his hand. “I am sure it is the Trent. We have done well. If it is still Mercian territory on the other side, we will have done very well.”

  “I pray that it is,” I said, but my heart was in my throat, for many reasons.

  “We could try to find a ford, but it could take days, and lead us into more danger, since Danes will be looking for the easiest ways to move their supply waggons. Since the entry is easy here, and the current probably weak, I think we should cross where we are.”

  “Yes, I agree,” I answered, honoured that he seemed to be asking my opinion.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, turning to me. “Our horses should have no trouble with the swim.”

  “Yes, I am fine,” I answered, but my knees were buckling beneath me. I could not swim, and the thought of clinging to my mare as she attempted to cross the wide river made me feel weak. What if she should buck me off, or I somehow slipped off with the whole saddle?