Born of the Sun

by Joan Wolf

  "It is much better to hope for the best than it is to hope for the worst," Niniane answered, and Nola laughed in acknowledgment.

  * * * *

  It was bitterly cold the day the festival of Yule was celebrated. Niniane was glad to come into the great hall, all freshly decorated with evergreens and with the Yule log burning and crackling on the immense fireplace. Yule was a feast dedicated to the god Frey, the Saxon god of fertility, and the centerpiece of the feast was a great boar's head, prominently displayed and surrounded with fresh evergreens and berries. Frey was certainly the appropriate god of the day, for as the feast got underway, word came to the hall that the queen had gone into labor.

  The news from the queen's hall brought added zest to the feast. The smoke from the Yule log rose up to the rafters and hovered there, slowly escaping out the smoke vents; the drinking horns went around and around; platters of well-cooked boar's meat were served and trenchers were filled. Outside, the winter night was cold and dark, but here, in the warm hall, fragrant with pine, there was life and companionship and hope that soon the uncertainties that had been plaguing Winchester these last months would be resolved.

  Fara ate nothing. Niniane tried to coax her to take a little meat, but the older woman merely smiled and shook her head. She had grown much thinner this last month. The strain of watching the failing king and wondering about the future of her son had taken its toll. There were hollows at her temples that had not been there before. Her cheekbones were sharper and her wrists too bony.

  I hope to God it is a girl, Niniane thought. She looked from Fara down the table toward Ceawlin. All she could see of him over the intervening people was the top of his fair head. As she slowly looked away, her eyes were caught by Sigurd's. He smiled at her faintly and she smiled back. She liked Sigurd. She had seen quite a bit of him lately; he was fond of his little sister, Coenburg, and would often come to join in their play. Niniane, who loved children, instinctively liked anyone who shared that feeling. And she thought that Sigurd was missing the companionship of Ceawlin, who had been spending more and more time in attendance on his father. In consequence of all this, she and Sigurd had become quite friendly these last months.

  Alric was preparing to sing when there came a hammering at the door of the hall, as if someone were trying to get it open and it was sticking. A thane seated nearby rose and went to pull it ajar. In the doorway a woman was standing, with a bundle of fur in her arms. Niniane recognized her as one of Guthfrid's handmaids. The baby's cry was loud in the sudden quiet of the hall.

  The girl advanced slowly across the polished wooden floor. Niniane thought she looked as if she was enjoying her position as the center of the drama. She stopped when she reached Cynric. "My lord king," she said in a voice clearly audible to every corner of the hall. "I bring you your son."

  Niniane saw Fara's knuckles whiten as she closed her hand hard around the handle of her meat knife. The only sound in the hall was the crackling of the Yule log on the fireplace. Even the baby was silent.

  Niniane could feel her heart hammering all the way up in her head. She had learned but recently the full meaning of the Saxon ritual of presentation. If the king accepted the child from the handmaid, it would mean that he recognized the baby as his. If he waved it away, however, then the child was rejected and would be taken out and exposed.

  "Exposed!" Niniane had cried in horror to Fara when this had been explained to her. "Do you mean left to die?"

  "I am afraid so, my dear."

  "But that is horrible! He cannot be so cruel as to do that."

  "The alternative is even worse," the friedlehe had replied with a bitterness that was unusual. Then, more gently, "We must all pray it is a girl."

  And now the moment had come, and the child was a boy. In the tense silence of the hall, the baby cried again.

  Take him! Niniane thought fiercely. She did not care what it might mean for the future, for her or for Fara or for Fara's son. She only cared that this tiny newborn baby, wrapped so lovingly in his fur bunting, should not die. Take him, Cynric. Take him!

  For a long moment the tableau before her seemed to be frozen in time: the handmaid, the baby, the father and king. Then Cynric held out his arms.

  Niniane felt herself go limp. Her eyes closed with relief. When they opened again it was to see the handmaid, a brilliant smile on her face, handing the child to the king. Cynric held it a little gingerly and Niniane sniffled. Then Cutha was on his feet, coming around to stand before the king and his new son. Someone brought a drinking horn to him and he raised it high. Cynric held the baby a little away from him and Cutha poured the contents of the horn over the child's head. The baby screamed.

  "Son of Cynric," Cutha said, "with this water I claim you for one of us." He looked at the king. "What is to be his name?"

  Cynric signaled to the girl to come and relieve him of the baby. Once the child had been taken from his arms, he leaned his hands on the table in front of him and raised his voice. It was steadier than it had been for many months. "I will call him Edgar," he said. He did not look at the son sitting beside him. "And I name him as my heir."

  * * * *

  "Why did he do it?" It was Sigurd speaking as he and Ceawlin rode together through the winter woods, hunting the wolves that preyed upon the peasants' cattle. The thin sunlight penetrated the snow-covered trees with a crystal light. The dogs ran around the horses' legs, making brief forays here and there, casting for a scent. It was the day after Yule. "I don't understand it, Ceawlin. He cannot really believe that child is his."

  "I understand him very well." Ceawlin's face was pale and bleak and marked with the gray hollows of sleeplessness. "It was the only vengeance he could exact for Edwin."

  "Edwin'. That viper. He deserves no vengeance. He deserves the place in hell he has surely won."

  "Perhaps. But he was Cynric's son and I killed him. Make no mistake about that, Sigurd. I did kill him. You were there; you saw. I did not have to cut him with that sword."

  "You did not know the sword was poisoned."

  "I had a very strong notion." The line of Ceawlin's mouth was hard. The side of his face that was turned toward Sigurd showed the faint line of a scar at the side of the eye. "I did it quite deliberately, Sigurd. I won't mislead you about that. I wanted him dead."

  "I don't blame you. No one could blame you for that, Ceawlin. He most certainly planned to kill you."

  Ceawlin's expression did not change. Suddenly the dogs began to howl; they had found a scent. The two boys set off after them, galloping their horses through the snowy woods, jumping fallen branches and narrow streams, the creak of saddle leather and the thud of horses' hooves on frozen ground the only sounds other than the baying of the dogs.

  After half an hour the dogs had the wolf cornered. Ceawlin called them off and lifted his bow. The wolf yelped once and blood spurted on the snow. Sigurd jumped down from his horse and went to look; the wolf was dead. Scarcely was he back in the saddle when the dogs picked up another trail.

  It was not until they were riding back to Winchester that their interrupted conversation was resumed. "We cannot allow it to happen," Sigurd said. "A child king will be a disaster for all of us."

  "I agree." Ceawlin gave his friend an ironic look. "Naturally." Bayvard shied at a noise in the woods alongside the path and Ceawlin patted the stallion's shoulder. "The question is, what can be done about it?"

  "Nothing while Cynric still lives. When he dies it will be up to the Witan to choose a successor." Saxon law did not give the king the sole say in the matter of who would follow him. The council of eorls, the Witan, retained always the right to choose the king's successor from among the royal house. It was only in rare cases, however, that the eldest legitimate son was passed over.

  Ceawlin was looking down at his horse's withers, his hair falling forward over his cheek, screening his face from Sigurd's view. Sigurd, who knew Ceawlin's mannerisms very well, merely waited. At last Ceawlin said, in an oddly muffled voice,
"What does your father say?"

  Sigurd's reply was prompt. "My father has no mind to be ruled by Edric's bastard."

  At that, Ceawlin looked up. His eyes were blazing. "Gods!" He laughed a little unsteadily. Then, "I wanted you to know, Sigurd. I meant to kill him."

  "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we must set aside this bastard and get you named king. That is, if you are willing."

  "I am willing." Ceawlin's horse stepped in a puddle and the ice cracked underfoot. Except for the eyes, his face was colorless in the pure winter light. He lifted it to the sky. "That is why I killed him, Sigurd. So I could be king. If I have earned vengeance for that, then Fate may exact it from me."

  Sigurd halted his horse and Ceawlin's stallion stopped automatically to stay beside him. "Then I pledge myself to you, Ceawlin, son of Cynric," Sigurd said, his face and his voice very solemn. "You are my lord. And may the fates hunt me to the back side of the wind if ever I fail or betray you."

  Ceawlin held out his hand, grave and quiet. The two young men gripped each other hard. Then they rode in silence back to Winchester.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  It was mid-January and Cynric the king was dying. He lay in the sleeping room of the king's hall in Winchester and looked from under lowered lids at the faces of those who were gathered around his deathbed.

  Closest to him on his left was Guthfrid. His queen. She would be glad to see him go, he thought, glad to have the ruling of her new son to herself. She was a wolf-mother, Guthfrid. Fierce and devouring. He had often wondered if it was she who had made Edwin so ...

  He moved his head restlessly on the pillow. Edwin, his son. Dead by Ceawlin's hand. Even now, when all earthly things were slipping away from his grasp, even now, that thought still hurt.

  His lids were lowered and the others thought him asleep, but he could see. He moved his eyes from the face of his wife to the other side of the bed, to the son who stood there watching him so gravely. At this moment his vision was amazingly clear; he could see how the light from the wall sconces struck sparks of silver from Ceawlin's thick, smooth hair. The boy's face was unreadable. He had learned early to keep his thoughts to himself. He had had to. It was not easy being a bastard, even a king's bastard. Cynric had always understood that.

  His thoughts were so clear, as clear as his vision. He knew he must be dying. Why else would all these people be gathered about his bed? But his mind was so clear.

  It was Ceawlin who should be king after him, not this child of Guthfrid's. But he was Edwin's father. He owed vengeance to the shade of his son. He owed it to Guthfrid.

  Ceawlin had known what he was doing when he sliced Edwin's hand with that sword. Ceawlin always knew what he was doing. Even when he lost his temper, still Ceawlin was in control of himself. He had killed Edwin so he could be king.

  Cynric would have done the same.

  His eyes, shielded by their lowered lids, moved from the contained face of his son to that of his cousin standing next to Ceawlin. Cutha. He had been but a boy when he threw in his lot with Cynric, leaving behind Wight and all his family to venture forth to win a kingdom.

  They had done well together. He had trusted Cutha more than any other man he had ever known.

  Cutha would see to it that Wessex got its proper king.

  Next his eyes moved to the woman who stood beside his pillow. He moved his fingers very slightly and felt her take them into her warm clasp.

  So fair, he thought. Fara. The fairest woman in all the world.

  His eyes closed. He was suddenly so very tired....

  * * * *

  "He is dead." Cutha looked up from the bed where he had been listening to the kings chest for a heartbeat. "Cynric the king is dead."

  For a moment there was blank silence in the room. It had been coming for weeks, but now that it had actually happened, it seemed unbelievable. Cynric was dead. An era was over.

  Cutha turned to Ceawlin. "As his only grown son, Prince, it will fall to you to conduct the funeral rite."

  '"No!" Guthfrid leaned a little forward, across the body of her dead husband. "I will not allow it! He murdered Cynric as surely as he murdered my son!" Her dark eyes, fixed on Ceawlin, were full of hate. "You are not going to say the dead prayers for him!"

  Ceawlin did not answer. It was Cutha who said coolly, "It is right that the funeral ritual be conducted by a man's son, my lady. Your child cannot do it, so it is fitting that it be done by Prince Ceawlin."

  There was a general murmur of agreement among the eorls in the room. Guthfrid looked around with wild and glittering eyes. Then Edric was coming in the door of the room.

  "Cutha is right, my lady." The big bearlike man came to her side. "This once, I think you must give in."

  There was the faintest emphasis on the words "this once." The queen met her paramour's eyes. Then her own dropped and she began to weep and wail and tear her hair.

  "Come, Prince," said Cutha to Ceawlin. "Let us go and make ready."

  When a king died, the Saxons sacrificed an ox. Ceawlin stood in the sacred courtyard outside the temple as the animal was led in by the priests. The eorls and thanes of Winchester lined the courtyard, watching. It was very cold.

  They brought the ox to the place before Woden's tree, and Ceawlin, holding his father's ax, stepped forward. The animal made no protest, merely stood looking placidly up at the great carved pillar of the god. Ceawlin said the prayer of dedication, his breath white in the cold air. Then he brought the ax down. It found the right spot and blood spurted, spattering Ceawlin's white wool tunic. The priest handed him the sacred wand and he dipped it in the blood of the ox, then walked around the group of eorls and thanes, sprinkling them. When this was done, the priest gave him a cup of blood and the men of Winchester moved into the temple where the body of Cynric was lying. The priests took away the ox to cook it for the funeral banquet.

  Hours later, after the altar had been properly stained with the blood of the sacrifice, after the banquet had been eaten, after the grave goods had been dedicated, the men began to file out of the temple, leaving only Ceawlin and the priests to keep watch over the body till dawn.

  The priests sat at the long feasting table and dozed. The temple had been warm with the body heat of many men, but now it was just Ceawlin and the dead, and it was cold. Bone cold. He stood at the foot of his father's bier and looked at the dead king's face.

  He had told Sigurd that he understood why Cynric had given the kingship elsewhere, and he had spoke true. But he did not accept his father's decision. Whatever might come because of it, whatever the price he might be forced to pay, he would be King of Wessex. He felt it was the deepest, strongest thing about him. It was his fate.

  He looked around the silent temple, then back to the figure of Cynric. Where was his father now? he wondered. What was it like in the land of the dead? His mother had told him it was a realm ruled by the goddess Hel and that even the gods must go hence one day.

  In the end, he thought, looking at Cynric's still face, even the gods cannot help us. In the end, even they must die. But in his life Cynric had won fame for himself. Nothing could take that from him. The harpers would sing his deeds for as long as Wessex endured.

  Woden, he prayed, looking from his father to the image of the god, when it is my time to travel the road to hell, let me leave behind me a glorious name. Let not the generations that follow forget that Ceawlin once lived and won greatness for himself and for his people. Let not my name be forgot in the world of men.

  * * * *

  For long periods of time Niniane was able to forget that she was dwelling among pagans. The day-to-day life in Winchester was so deceptive, so pleasant, so eminently civilized. Then something would happen to shock her into remembering that the Saxons were not at all like her. Such an occasion was Cynric's funeral.

  The biggest shock was the sight of Ceawlin, his clothes all splattered with dried blood. He led the funeral procession to the gravesite, walking at the he
ad of the bier upon which the body of Cynric was carried. The eorls and thanes and women of Winchester followed solemnly behind.

  "What happened to Ceawlin?" Niniane asked Nola as she walked beside the British girl in the wake of Fara.

  “What do you mean, what happened?" Both girls had their heads bowed and were talking in muted voices.

  'He is all bloody."

  'That is the blood from the sacrifice, little fool. He watched beside the king's body all night, so he did not have time to change his clothes."

  Ceawlin must have killed the ox himself, Niniane thought with repugnance. It was the only way he could have gotten so thoroughly cohered with blood. She shuddered. It was even in his hair!

  A gaping hole had been dug outside the gates of Winchester, close to the barrow that marked the spot of Edwin's grave. The women clustered around the grave and began to keen loudly as the king, dressed in his finest clothes and covered with a linen shroud, was slowly lowered into the ground. Niniane stood silently in the midst of the household women and watched as Ceawlin placed the grave offerings around his father's body. Cynric's great iron-bound shield, his mail byrnie, several bronze bowls and silver-mounted drinking-horns, two silver spoons, a purse containing forty gold Prankish coins, a gold buckle, a jewelled clasp, and a great silver dish bearing the monogram of the Byzantine emperor Anastasius, all were put into the grave with the king to signify his importance in the land of the dead. One thing that was not included in the grave goods was Cynric's sword. Swords were too precious, and Cynric's King Sword, a magnificent pattern-welded weapon forged in Germany, with a hilt bound with silver-wire, would be passed down to the next King of Wessex.

  At last the grave offerings were all in place. Ceawlin, still wearing his bloodstained tunic, stood on the edge of the grave and said clearly, "Take these treasures, earth, now that the living can no longer enjoy them." As the first shovelful of dirt was thrown, the beginning of the great barrow that would mark the spot of the king's grave, Niniane saw Ceawlin meet Guthfrid's eyes across the grave. His face did not change expression, and after a moment he turned away. As the diggers continued their work, the rest of the mourners, huddling in their cloaks for warmth, trailed back to Winchester.