Born of the Sun

by Joan Wolf

  "How far is this farm?"

  "Not too far—two miles, perhaps."

  "Then let us go."

  There was the faintest of pauses; then, "I think you should stay here, Prince."

  At first he looked surprised, then he scowled. "Of course I am not going to stay here! Do you think I am afraid of a simple farmer?"

  "I know you are not afraid, but until we find out ..."

  "Absolutely not. I am coming with you."

  Niniane set her teeth. "You could get killed."

  "Well, it will make a nice gift for you if I do. You will be home again without a Saxon husband to worry about. Come, stop talking and let's go."

  He walked out of the kitchen and Niniane trailed along behind him, furious. What he had said was perfectly true, of course. If he were killed, her own life would certainly be easier. But for some reason she did not quite understand, she did not want him to be killed.

  They saddled up the horses once again and started along the track that led to Geara's. They rode in silence, Niniane thinking furiously of what she would say to Geara to explain Ceawlin, and Ceawlin trying to figure out how the inexplicable absence of Coinmail was likely to affect his own future plans.

  As Geara's farm came into sight, Niniane turned to Ceawlin. "Don't tell Geara who you are. It might not be safe. We'll just say that you are my husband and that the two of us decided to run away from Winchester together."

  His eyes always seemed to deepen in color whenever his emotions were stirred. "Run away?"

  "Will you think for just one moment?" she snapped, and his eyes grew even more turquoise. "This is not a time for heroics. It is a time for sensible thinking. It is necessary for you to win the support of the Atrebates. Am I right?"

  "Yes." His answer was grudging.

  "Well, until we find out what the situation is, it will be safest to keep your identity quiet. You are my husband. You fell out with the new rulers in Winchester, which is true enough, and so decided to come to the home of your wife."

  For a long moment he did not answer, and Niniane was afraid he was going to be stubborn. He was staring between his horse's ears and his profile looked stubborn. "Prince—" she began to say, and he turned his eyes toward her.

  "If I am to be merely a simple thane, you had better not call me prince."

  Thank God he was going to be sensible. She gave him an enchanting smile. "Ceawlin. It will be all right to use your name. The Atrebates know nothing of Winchester or its inhabitants."

  He looked disgusted but had the sense not to answer.

  * * * *

  Geara was a childless old man whose wife was long dead, and he had always been fond of Niniane. She had felt he was the safest person she could apply to for information about Coinmail, and her decision was borne out by the greeting the old farmer gave her when they found him in the pig pen mending a fence. He was so clearly delighted to see her. A further factor in her choice of Geara was that he had only one man to help him do all the work of the farm, so there was little chance of word of her return getting out before she was ready.

  He was delighted to see her, but he bristled at the sight of Ceawlin, who was, as Niniane had regretfully realized when she was thinking up her story, unmistakably a Saxon. He might sound British when he spoke, but there was no disguising that silver-blond hair. Niniane waxed eloquent about how Ceawlin had rescued her from marriage to the vile Edwin, risking his own life in the process. It was quite a moving tale, if she did say so herself, and it produced the desired effect upon Geara.

  She glanced only once at Ceawlin's face, then hastily averted her eyes.

  "Geara," she said at last, getting down to the main purpose of their visit, "where on earth has Coinmail gone?"

  "Oh, yes. You would be knowing nothing about that." Geara spat in his hands. "He went to your mother's brother, the one that lives away to the west."

  "But why? And when did he go?"

  "He went but a month ago." The old man shrugged. "Why? I can't say. He was grim as death after that there battle."

  "I can imagine," Ceawlin murmured.

  "Well, what did he do with all the livestock?" Niniane persisted. "There is nothing left at Bryn Atha, Geara. He must be planning to be away for quite a long time."

  "He did take most of the livestock to Naille to look out for. The two old folk you had at Bryn Atha died this winter, so there was no one there to look after them, you see."

  "I see." Niniane folded her lips. "I see also that we are going to be very hungry unless I can get some of the livestock back from Naille."

  Geara spat on the ground. "No food in the house, eh?"

  "None."

  "Well, it were not so bad a winter. I can spare you some."

  In the end, Geara gave them flour, corn, milk, cheese, two loaves of bread, and a chicken. He also gave them some grain for the horses. They packed everything onto Niniane's gelding and then Ceawlin lifted her to Bayvard's back and took the chestnut's reins into his own hands. They left Geara's farm, Ceawlin going first on foot, leading the chestnut, and Niniane following.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the farm, Ceawlin turned to her and said, "I'm starving."

  "So am I."

  They looked at each other, then Niniane slid off the stallion's back and they both went to look in the saddlebags the gelding was carrying. Within two minutes they were stuffing themselves with bread and cheese. Ceawlin swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked over at Niniane, and met her eyes. The two of them began to laugh.

  "When we get home I'll cook the chicken," she promised as they restored the saddlebags to a semblance of order. When he came to lift her to Bayvard's back, she said, "Won't he carry us both?"

  He looked down at her appraisingly. He was so tall, she thought. "He probably would," Ceawlin agreed. "You weigh scarcely anything." Then he put his hands on her waist and lifted her to the stallion's back behind the saddle. In a minute he was before her, swinging into the saddle itself.

  "Who is this uncle that your brother went to visit?" he asked over his shoulder.

  She laid her hand on his back to balance herself. Her mother's brother was a prince of the Dobunni tribe whose home was near the old Roman city of Glevum, close by Wales. "My uncle lives in the west," she answered. "I have no idea why Coinmail would have gone to visit him."

  "It is very peculiar."

  Niniane thought it was extremely peculiar, but she did not say so to Ceawlin. Instead, "Perhaps he went to get married."

  He turned his head slightly to look at her over his shoulder. "That is so." He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that is very likely. He can fight no longer, so he might as well wed."

  Niniane did not answer. She could feel the strong muscles of his back under the palm of her hand. She ought not to be so surprised by them, she thought, remembering the duel with Edwin.

  "I will cook the chicken today," she said, changing the subject, "but you are going to have to go hunting if we are to eat tomorrow."

  He gave her a quick boyish smile and then faced front again in the saddle. "Certainly." Then he added, "We will have to go and see this Naille. He will perhaps know more about your brother. And we need some livestock if we are to live at Bryn Atha. Livestock for ourselves, and hay and grain for the horses."

  "Yes," said Niniane, and was glad he could not see the worried look on her face. "We will have to go and see Naille."

  They had the chicken for dinner. Niniane fried it Roman fashion, in oil in a bronze pan on top of the raised hearth stove. She also seasoned it with some herbs that were still left in the larder. Ceawlin ate with obvious relish.

  "What did you do to the chicken?" he asked curiously after he had eaten for five uninterrupted minutes. "In Winchester all our meat is either roasted or stewed."

  Niniane explained. Then she added, "I shall have to restart my garden, but until it yields, we shall have to buy vegetables and corn from the local farmers."

  "Buy?" He raised his fair eyebro
ws. "Surely the tribe owes you a food tax. Since your brother is not here to collect it, why cannot you?"

  "A food tax?" repeated Niniane. "The farms do not belong to us, Prince. They belong to those who work them."

  "Don't call me prince," he said irritably. Then, "What does it matter whom they belong to? The fields of the vil belong to the coerls who work them, but still they owe the king a food tax. How else is the king to realize income?"

  "The Prince of the Atrebates does not take from the people just because he is the prince." Niniane's large, widely spaced eyes were grave and steady on his face. "We farm our own lands, and what else we need, we trade for."

  There had been wine in the pantry as well as the oil and herbs, and she had poured him a cup to take with his dinner. He sipped it now as he thought about what she had just told him. Clearly, he could make no sense of it at all. "What is the prince, then?" he asked her at last.

  "He is the leader."

  "From what you have just told me, he is no different from anyone else in the tribe."

  "One doesn't need material things to be a leader," she replied a little haughtily. "Leadership is a moral thing, Pr ... Ceawlin."

  He put down his cup, annoyed by her tone. "Moral?" he said. "You were left all of this," and he gestured to include the room and the villa, "and you make no effort to maintain it or defend it. Is that moral?"

  "You are the ones at fault there, my lord Ceawlin!" she answered hotly. "You Saxons. You come like wolves, destroying everything civilized that Rome has left."

  "Oh, no. Look around you, Princess. Have there been Saxons at Bryn Atha? Not until two years ago, yet the place had already fallen into decay. Silchester—the city you call Calleva—was a city of ghosts long before any Saxon set a foot in it. It is your people who have lost the Roman civilization. You have been in retreat from everything Rome stood for ever since the last legion pulled out."

  "That's not true!" Her small round chin rose and she glared at him. "Have you forgot Badon, my lord?"

  "Arthur was the only one of you who understood what it means to be a king. And he was half Roman."

  She reached for her own wine cup. "And what does it mean to you," she asked, "to be a king?"

  His eyes moved from her hand to his own, so much larger with calluses across the palm from holding a sword. "To be a king means that you are responsible for the people," he answered. "These things like the food tax, the poll tax, they are due to the king because he has taken upon himself the burden of that responsibility."

  "And what exactly does that responsibility entail?" He felt her eyes on his face even as he looked at his own hand.

  He answered slowly but readily. This was something he had thought of before. "The king's responsibility is to lead his people in war, to protect them from famine, to give them justice, to sacrifice for them to the gods." He raised his turquoise eyes. "It is not freedom that a king knows, Niniane. It is responsibility. But it is a responsibility that he takes up gladly, because it is in his blood to do so. The kings of Wessex are Woden-born; the blood of the god gives us our mission."

  If she noticed the change in pronoun, she did not say so. Instead, "Do you think that Cynric was a good king?"

  "You saw him when he was old." He looked over her head, as if he were seeing a picture in his mind. "But I remember him when he was great. Look what he has done for his people. The poorest ceorls, who came landless from Wight, now have rich fields to farm. The thanes sit each night in a splendid hall; the eorls will soon have great lands of their own." His eyes found hers again. "Look what he has done for your people. Venta was dying when Cynric took it; now it is a thriving city." He took a sip of wine. "Cynric made the West Saxon people into a nation," he said. "He was a great king."

  "I am sure you will understand when I say I cannot agree with you." Her tone was dry, astringent.

  "No," he said. "You will never understand. It is because you are a Christian." And he looked at her with pity in his eyes.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  When they had finished eating, Niniane cleared the dishes off the dining-room table and Ceawlin went to the stable to see to the horses. Niniane washed the dishes in the kitchen and remembered that she and Ceawlin were married and that the night was coming on.

  The thought of lying with Edwin had petrified and repulsed her. She was not sure how she felt about lying with Ceawlin.

  She finished putting the dishes away, went down the gallery to Coinmail's room, and opened his clothes chest. It was empty save for a few old tunics that he had evidently felt it not worth taking with him. She lifted one tunic out of the chest and held it up. It would be short on Ceawlin, of course, but it might do for a little until she could make him a few more. He had not brought much with him from Winchester.

  She heard the door open and then his voice. "Niniane! Where are you?"

  "In here," she called back, and listened to his footsteps coming down the gallery. In a trick of memory another scene flashed before her mind: the one other time she had waited in this room and listened to the sound of Saxon footsteps coming nearer. All of a sudden the fear she had felt then washed over her again. Her heart began to pound and she stared at the door with dilated eyes.

  It opened gently. "What are you doing?" Ceawlin asked, and came into the room.

  She did not answer right away, and he cocked an inquiring eyebrow. She felt her hammering heart begin to quiet. It was all right, she thought in some confusion. It was just Ceawlin. "Looking to see if Coinmail left anything you might be able to wear," she managed to answer at last.

  "Oh." He took the tunic from her hand and held it up against himself. "I don't think so."

  It was too narrow as well as too short. Niniane was surprised. Ceawlin looked so slim; his shoulders were wider than she had supposed. "Oh, dear." Her voice had still not reached its normal register. "Well, I shall have to try to patch two of them together somehow."

  He dropped the tunic on the bed. "At the moment, Niniane, I am not interested in new tunics."

  "Oh," she said again, and looked at him out of eyes that were absolutely huge.

  He had stepped away from her to model the tunic, and now he moved toward her again. She was standing with the clothes chest directly behind her. She could not back away. "You are my wife," he said, his voice very soft. "You know what that means."

  "I ... I suppose I do."

  He was close enough now to touch her. He stopped and looked down into her eyes. They were not wearing the guarded expression so familiar from her days in Winchester. Instead they were apprehensive, unsure, and faintly ... frightened. He cupped her face in his hands like a flower. "I won't hurt you." His voice now was dark and gentle. He bent his head and began to kiss her.

  She was still as marble under his touch. He realized, with pleasure, that no one had ever kissed her mouth before. He raised his head for just a moment and whispered, "Kiss me back." When her mouth began to answer to his, he felt a thrill that was different from anything he had known before.

  His lips moved from her mouth to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. "See? It can be very nice." Then he found her mouth once more. After a while her arms came up to circle his waist. He bent and lifted her in his arms.

  "No," she said when she realized he was taking her to the bed. "Not here. My room."

  He carried her out of the door of Coinmail's room to the next room on the gallery, kicked the door open, and laid her on the blue wool blanket that covered her bed. Then he lay down next to her.

  Niniane could feel his kisses all the way down in her stomach, and when his hand moved to caress her breast, the power of the sensation she felt shocked her. "Ceawlin ..." she murmured, and her voice was breathless.

  He raised his head and looked down at her. "I told you it would be nice." His own voice was hoarser than usual. Then he sat up and said, "Niniane, take off your clothes."

  Her fingers were shaking as she began to obey him. First the tunic came over her head, then her
gown. She was down to her linen undergarment when she raised her eyes to look at him.

  He had stripped completely and thrown his clothes onto the floor. He was standing in a pool of light from the window, and she stared at him with suddenly widened eyes. He looked, she thought in astonishment, exactly like the god pictured on the mosaic floor in one of the houses in Calleva. It was Apollo, her father had told her, the god revered by the Romans for his healing and his power of prophecy. The mosaic had shown a beautiful young man, fair-haired and beardless, with smoothly muscled shoulders and upper arms, flat stomach, narrow hips, and long athletic legs. The god had worn but a cloak draped across one shoulder and had carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. Niniane had thought when first she saw the picture that he was the most beautiful thing in the world. And now he was standing here in her bedroom, alive.

  He was like the god when he came to her this time too. Mastering. Overpowering. A rush of feeling and desire that she could not even think of denying. She obeyed his wishes, her heart hammering, her body flooding with foreign and overwhelming sensation.

  He did hurt her when he entered her, but she did not try to pull away. Did not want to pull away. And was rewarded by a wild and glorious burst of pleasure such as she had not known could possibly exist.

  After a while he braced his hands on either side of her shoulders and lifted his weight from her. She looked up into his face, framed by the hood of moonlight that was his hair. It was Ceawlin, she thought. Not the god. But she was not sure.

  "Do you know," he said softly, "I don't think I am going to mind staying at Bryn Atha after all."

  * * * *

  Niniane awoke first the following morning. It took her a moment to remember that she was in her own bedroom at Bryn Atha. She remembered instantly who it was sleeping next to her in the bed.

  He was lying on his stomach, his arms stretched over his head. She raised herself up a little cautiously and contemplated the part of him that she could see protruding from beneath her blue blanket: a well-muscled back and a tangle of extremely blond hair. He did not look like a god this morning. He looked like a very large young man who had usurped most of the space in her bed.