Sydney gave the seven women at the table a small smile and ate her meal in silence. There was no need to pretend she was their equal. Both they and she knew she was not.
Whispering started up among some of them, not loud enough for Sydney to hear what they were saying and she knew they were talking about her. She didn’t let it bother her. Food was the priority. That, and a good night’s sleep.
Wulfstan found her as she was finishing eating. “The Lady wishes to speak to you.”
Sydney saw from the corner of her eye how the women at the table all bristled at the royal command. Silently, she followed Wulfstan to the head table and stood before Aethelfreda, who looked her up and down.
“Adequate, I suppose. Tomorrow when we move among the soldiers, your appearance will be more important. I had not suspected you to be such a handsome woman underneath the dirt and rags. That will be its own distraction.”
“I…um…thank you, my Lady,” Sydney replied.
“That eye is healing well. Good. I expect you to present yourself among my retinue tomorrow. Wulfstan will see to it. You may go.”
Sydney had seen others give a short bob of their heads when they moved away from Aethelfreda and she copied the moment now and went back to the table she had been sitting at.
Her plate had disappeared and she mentally shrugged. She had eaten her fill already.
Once Aethelfreda and her daughter left the room, the women got to their feet. One of them, an older woman, looked at Sydney with a haughty lift of her chin. “You are to come with us.”
“She is to sleep with us?” one of the others cried softly.
“I am quite sure she is used to sleeping on the floor,” the first replied.
Sydney drew in a breath and let it out. She just had to survive this night, that was all. Tomorrow, she would be on the road and away from them.
The cottage that had been vacated to house the women’s dormitory for the single women of Aethelfreda’s household was nearby. Narrow beds that were simple wooden platforms with straw-stuffed mattresses upon them fill most of the low-roofed room.
Another thin mattress lay in the corner by the door, next to the window aperture. There were no blankets or covers.
The women were all undressing and carefully hanging their clothes on pegs on the wall, or laying them across the foot of their beds. Sydney watched one of them wrap a sheet around her naked body, then ease herself beneath the covers and skins on her bed.
With no blankets of her own, Sydney had no intention of removing a single layer of clothing. She curled up on the mattress, feeling the straw shift inside. Her hip felt as though it was resting on the floor beneath. Carefully, she wrapped the hem of her dress around her feet, and hugged herself for extra warmth. She kept a grip on the hilt of the long knife, tucked under her arm. They could steal her purse and its single coin, if they wanted, but the knife was too valuable to lose.
As the room grew quiet and the oil lamps were extinguished, Sydney considered her position. Clearly, she was in Mercia. Rafe would have jumped back to where he was first located during this time, somewhere in Powys. By sheer chance, Sydney was now part of the Lady of Mercia’s retinue and would travel to Brycheiniog tomorrow and if Aethelfreda was right, then so would the army of Powys. Would Rafe travel with them? Or would she somehow have to detach herself from Mercia and follow the other army back to Powys?
There were too many questions she could not answer right now. Her first priority must be to find Rafe and let him know where she was. If that meant deserting the army she had been recruited into and walking through the countryside until she found him, then she might have to do that. How far away was Powys? Well, it was the kingdom directly to the west of Mercia. She had learned that much from Google and from listening to Rafe the night before they had jumped. Although, how far inside the Mercia borders was this fortified town she had found herself in? What was the town called? And what town would Rafe be in? How far inside Powys was that place? Where was it?
She kept herself in a tight ball, hugging herself, as she worried over the huge number of things that could go wrong. It seemed that sleep would never reach her, yet she did grow sleepy after a long while of listening to the soft wind outside the window and the sound of guards moving about in the night. Far off, she heard dogs bark, the lowing of cattle and sheep bleating. There was no background hum from overhead powerlines, or the far distant growl of traffic on a highway somewhere. The night was peaceful.
It was a broken sleep, for the cold ate into her bones. From the discussions at the dinner table, she had learned that this was the middle of summer. English summers were cool in comparison to Los Angeles, then, and the lack of sealed windows and doors made the cold more apparent.
At the first sign of dawn, she rose stiffly and stretched out kinks and aches. She was not the only one awake. The women were all talking softly among themselves as they dressed, brushed each other’s hair and braided and coiled and pinned. Sydney copied them as far as she could. She had no comb, so instead she loosened the leather tie about the end of her braid and freed her hair. It was difficult to manage, being so long, but it felt wonderful to have it loose. She bent over and ran her fingers over her scalp, massaging it. Then, reluctantly, she pulled her hair back and braided it once more.
There was no mirror to check her appearance in. She straightened her clothing as much as she could and brushed off dirt. No water was brought for bathing or washing, either.
The women were all wrapping what looked like shawls about their shoulders and pinning them in place with a variety of brooches and pins.
Sydney had no other garments, so she looked out the open window, instead, taking in the early morning. A fine mist was wreathing its fingers in and out of the buildings she could see from the window. There were people moving through the mist, making it swirl. Most of them seemed to be heading in the same general direction.
“Are you a heathen, too?” someone said behind her.
Sydney turned. The same woman who had told her to come here with them last night was standing behind her. “Why would you ask that?”
“Are you not attending devotions?” the woman demanded.
Church. England was Christian now. “Of course I am. I was…offering up a silent prayer to God for this wonderful day.” She waved toward the window.
Surprise skittered over the woman’s face. “Then come along,” she said, her gaze flickering over Sydney’s length.
Sydney followed the women as they left the small building. Two armed men stepped up alongside them and they wove through the buildings much like the mist was doing. There did not seem to be any formal roads and the buildings were placed at angles to each other. Everyone moved between or around whatever building was in their way. The road that Sydney had used yesterday seemed to be a rarity here.
The church was the grandest building Sydney had yet seen and it was built of stone, too. Every other building was made of rough-hewn wood with straw thatch for roofs. The stone the church was built with was pale white and looked fresh and new. Inside, the impression of newness held. The ceilings soared into arches that met in the middle in groups of four.
There were simple benches to sit upon and kneel before and the women took two of the benches toward the back. Up at the front where the monk stood waiting for the congregation to gather, the Lady and her daughter and Wulfstan were all standing and waiting.
The service was in Latin and Sydney stared down at her feet, listening. She could understand the monk and even knew that what he was speaking was Latin, which was distinct from what she and everyone else had been speaking, which she now realized was old English.
This was what Taylor had meant when she spoke of the gift of languages that time travel imparted. Sydney had given no thought to what she was speaking. She heard it in her head as plain modern English, without modern slang and references, and with a certain oddness of phrasing.
The Latin the monk was using sounded just as clear and simple, only it was distinctly di
fferent. He was speaking very slowly and his pronunciation sucked. She realized the monk didn’t know Latin as well as she did. He was reciting stock phrases that he didn’t understand.
Did that mean she would understand the Celtic the Britons would speak when they met them? That would make things considerably easier, if she did.
Once the morning prayers were over, everyone walked back to the big building on the town square. Sydney noticed that there were four roads leading into the square. So was this the absolute center of the town and there were only two roads intersecting in the middle? One of these roads would lead to the gates that guarded the town, most likely where the two towers sat overlooking the town.
The square in the middle was full of men, most of them wearing mail. There were a large number of horses snorting and stamping in the chill of the morning. There were carts filled with chests, bundles wrapped in cloth and baskets everywhere. Everyone walking from the church skirted the edges of the square, moving around the frantic activity, the women picking up their hems and cringing if any of the soldiers came too close.
Sydney rolled her eyes. Alfwynn had called them all useless. She was beginning to understand why.
Breakfast was being served from large cooking pots hanging over the fires in the big room. She was handed a wooden bowl and spoon. A thick porridge was ladled into the bowl. A hunk of bread was handed to her. Sydney took the same place she had used the previous evening and tasted the porridge. It was sweet with honey and there was dried fruit mixed in with it. There were no other flavorings, although the milk used was thick and creamy. It was surprisingly good and Sydney ate with relish.
The bread was also thick and rich and heavy. She had never tasted bread like it. The small hunk she had been handed was very filling. She copied the others and wiped up the last of the porridge with her bread.
Once the meal was finished, everyone waited upon Aethelfreda to leave. The Lady stood, glanced at Sydney and beckoned.
Sydney skirted the two fires and presented herself with another bob of her head.
“We march as soon as the horses are ready. Make your preparations. I expect you to be by my side as we pass through the gates.”
“My Lady,” Sydney acknowledged. How was she to make preparations? Even the clothes she stood in were borrowed.
Wulfstan crooked his finger and she followed him out into the square once more. “Come,” he said shortly.
On the far side of the square from the big house, there was a blacksmith working a forge. An anvil sat upon a wooden block in front of the fire. Soldiers stood watching, as if they were waiting for him to finish. Then the blacksmith turned and pounded at the point of a sword with his hammer on the anvil. The sword glowed orange and Sydney could feel the heat from a few paces away.
“Macsen,” Wulfstan said.
The blacksmith wiped his face with his sleeve and jerked his head to one side.
Wulfstan moved around the anvil and picked up another sword that had been lying on top of a barrel, close by the forge. He handed it to Sydney.
The hilt of the sword was covered in leather that was still new. Wire had been twisted around and over it to secure it, and the wire would also provide extra grip. When Sydney curled her fingers over the hilt, the wire did not bite into her flesh. She held up the sword in her hand.
The blade was about a foot longer than the long knife on her belt, which made it short compared to other swords she had seen here. However, the shortness made it lighter. It was perfectly balanced. She thrust it out in front of her and the tip did not try to drop down at all. The weight was all near her hand, which would give her extra thrust. She did not question how she knew this. It was just there, the same way she knew she could walk, run and jump.
“Macsen is the son of the son of the son of a blacksmith,” Wulfstan said in a loud voice. She knew he was speaking to the soldiers standing and watching them as much as he was speaking to her. “He can reckon his forebears back to the days of Arthur, when his ancestor forged the sword Excalibur for the king himself. He has made you a great sword, using every skill a craftsman of his stature knows. Do not fail this sword, Sunngifu of Chirbury. The Lady you are to protect will have need of your blade.”
The men around him muttered, stirred by Wulfstan’s words. Sydney realized what he was doing. He was acknowledging her place by Aethelfreda’s side as a warrior, so that the rest of the army would accept it, too. If a great blacksmith had made her the best sword he could, then her role was not an honorary one.
Sydney bowed her head toward Macsen. “Thank you for this. I will use it well.”
Macsen nodded back and picked up the glowing sword and thrust it into the barrel of water. It hissed and crackled.
Wulfstan pulled her away. This time they walked through the center of the square instead of around the edges. Sydney carefully threaded the sword into her belt as she walked and heads turned to watch them as they passed.
“I hope you are as good on a horse as you are with a sword,” Wulfstan said.
“I know how to not fall off,” Sydney told him, which was perfectly true. Taylor had warned her to learn how to ride a horse bareback and how to deal with horses in general as they had been the primary means of transport throughout most of history. If she couldn’t get herself up onto the back of one, it would raise questions. “These garments are not made for riding.”
“Then get yourself more suitable clothes,” Wulfstan said with a shrug.
“How?” Sydney asked bluntly.
He pointed to one of the carts standing by the big house. It was being loaded with chests. “Speak to Mave.”
There was a woman with a simple head cloth standing at the back of the cart, counting chests as they were loaded. That would be Mave.
Sydney went over to her, dodging soldiers and horses. The woman looked at her sharply as she drew closer.
“You’d be the one they call Sunngifu, then?” Mave asked. Her eyes were a merry, light brown, and alive with interest. She was an older woman, for her face was lined.
“I am,” Sydney confirmed. “Wulfstan says I should speak to you about clothes suitable for marching and fighting. However, the Lady Aethelfreda still wants me to look like one of her ladies and worthy of being by her side.”
“Aye, a tall order. I believe there’s a way to be both lady and warrior.” She looked Sydney up and down. “You have no issue with wearing a man’s garments?”
“None,” Sydney replied.
“That makes things simpler.” Mave clicked her fingers and the boy standing at the top of the cart pushing the chests around straightened and looked at her. “The top chest there, lad. Be quick about it! Haul it over, now.”
Mave ordered the boy about, as various chests were opened and shut with a bang. Pieces of clothing emerged to land at the back end of the cart in a growing pile, including a pair of leather boots with good sturdy soles and several belts, and a heavy jerkin of mail. “Come, come,” Mave said breathlessly, scooping up the pile of clothing. “They’ll march right soon and you can’t be left behind.” She hurried toward the big house.
Mave’s solution was an ingenious one. She pulled Sydney into a tiny room with a door and shelves filled with aromatic food and ordered her to strip. Then Mave split the silver gunna up the middle on the front and back. In a few short minutes Mave had whipped the raw edges with a needle and thread, the needle flying in her fingers.
While Mave sewed, Sydney removed the last of her garments and with Mave directing, donned the new ones. To begin, she stepped into soft linen drawers that were similar to drawstring shorts. On to each leg she pulled even softer leather leggings that ended at mid-thigh and hugged her legs. Leather thonging wrapped around her calves over the top of the leggings, holding them tight to her leg and also holding the leggings up. The boots were ankle-height and fit surprisingly well.
“No kirtle,” Mave said dismissively as she sewed. “You’ll be astride a horse for days. You can’t hitch it up over your knees. So,
undershirt first.”
The male undershirt was also linen and skimmed her breasts and hips. Over the top of that went the mail jerkin. Sydney was surprised at how heavy it was and also how flexible it was. The leather was soft and suede-like and once she had it on, it didn’t seem nearly as heavy as it had felt in her hand.
Mave dropped the silver-colored gunna over the top. The gunna now flapped open from her hips to the hem. “If you stand still, it looks as it should,” Mave explained as she wound Sydney’s plain belt around her waist and knotted it. “You can sit a horse without hitching it higher. The undershirt reveals your wrists, but if you’re to use your sword, you don’t want fabric getting in the way, so the impropriety will have to pass. God will understand. Now, your sword. Here’s another belt.”
Mave tied the belt in a way that left a loop down by Sydney’s hip. “Slide the sword in. There. Now the hilt won’t get in the way of the reins and you can still reach it well enough.”
Sydney pushed her long knife into the first belt and slid the blade back out of the way.
“You need a scabbard for your seax,” Mave observed. “Although I’ve never seen one quite so long. I doubt any scabbard would fit but the one that was made for it.”
“It was my husband’s,” Sydney said, although she didn’t know if that was true or not. It just felt right to explain the extra length this way. “He was a tall man. I had to sell the scabbard. I kept the knife.”
“Aye, you don’t want people thinking you’re a slave, do you?” Mave gave her a small smile. “There’s no time to arrange a better way to carry it and you’re used to doing it that way, so it will have to serve. Now….”
The last layer was a heavy wool cloak with a hood. “It’ll shed the rain well enough to keep you dry, especially in those sodden Powys hills,” Mave said. “Tuck your hair down the back.”
“It would be easier to do without the veil,” Sydney said, as Mave picked up the veil and filet.
“You would have the entire army thinking you are a woman of loose morals, then?” Mave asked.
Kiss Across Kingdoms Page 6