by Joan Wolf
It was noon before he found out. The pass led to the old Roman road that went from Corinium to Calleva. Ceawlin had never had any intention of luring Edric into the pass. He had merely fooled him into remaining in the hills for the night while he and his horsemen galloped back to Calleva. And from Calleva the road to Winchester lay wide open before him.
Edric grimly turned his men and retraced his steps east, out of the hills. They did not pause to eat or to sleep, but marched on through the night. When they reached Calleva it was to find that Ceawlin had been through the previous day and had taken the road south. The tired Winchester war band set out in pursuit.
* * *
Chapter 20
Ceawlin feinted a move to Winchester, then veered west toward Searobyrg, where Cynric had begun his conquest of Wessex so many years ago. For the rest of that spring and early summer, the two war bands played cat-and-mouse throughout Wessex, living off the British farms and Saxon vils that lay in their paths. Ceawlin was hoping desperately to get some word of Cutha, but the eorl and his remaining followers seemed to have simply dropped off the map.
In early July Edric wearied of the chase and returned to Winchester. Guthfrid greeted her husband with public respect and waited until she had him alone in the queen's hall to tell him her thoughts.
"He is making a fool of you!" Her brown eyes were almost black with anger and contempt. "Gods. You are like a hound who cannot sniff out his quarry. He has run you the length and breadth of Wessex, and still he eludes you!"
"What can I do?" Edric shouted in return. "He has no intention of fighting me. He is merely trying to—"
"To make a fool of you. Well, let me tell you, Edric, he is succeeding."
He threw himself into a carved wooden chair and stared at her truculently. "At least I got rid of Cutha."
"Where is Cutha?"
"Gone to earth. No one has heard of him since he fled with his tail between his legs from Banford."
Her thin, arched brows drew together. "I don't like that."
"I like it better than learning that he has joined up with Ceawlin."
"Where is Ceawlin now?"
"Somewhere to the west. Near Selwood."
"Has it ever occurred to you, Edric," said Guthfrid, crossing the room to stand before him, "that all this while Ceawlin has kept you away from the north?"
Edric looked up at her from under his brows.
"Away from Bryn Atha," she said.
There was silence.
"The British there are for him," said Edric at last. "He had some with him at Cob Ford, and there are a number riding with him still."
"And he has a wife there."
"A wife," said Edric, "and a son."
Her eyes widened and a strange glitter came into them, making them look almost feverish. "A son?" Her voice was sharp.
"So I hear."
"I did not know that."
They looked at each other. Then, "He killed my son," she said.
He contemplated her for a long moment before he smiled. "What would you say if I promised to leave for Bryn Atha tomorrow?"
She came to put her hands on his shoulders, and lowered her face until her mouth was almost on his. "I would be very pleased," she murmured. "Only don't kill them. Bring them here."
"It will be my pleasure," he answered, and pulled her down onto his lap.
* * * *
Ceawlin was not in fact near Selwood, the great forest that separated Wessex from Dumnonia. He had followed Edric back to Winchester and was now quartered but seven miles north on the road to Calleva. As Guthfrid had noticed, he was always concerned with making sure that Edric would not slip off to the north. Consequently, when the Winchester war band took to the road, the small troop of horsemen that followed Ceawlin knew of it very quickly.
It soon became clear that Edric was not out on a hunt for Ceawlin but had other prey in mind. He was marching purposefully north, toward Calleva, even though he must still believe Ceawlin to be in the west. And from Calleva it was but ten miles to Bryn Atha.
Ceawlin and his men turned their backs on Edric and rode north as well.
Bryn Atha looked just the same as they rode through the gates on a warm and overcast July afternoon. The dogs raced to greet them, barking noisily. A woman, hearing the dogs, came out the door of the house as the men and horses crossed the courtyard. Sigurd recognized Wynne by the color of her hair. Her lovely face lighted as she spied Penda.
The men began to dismount and two other women came out into the courtyard. Still Sigurd looked around. Bertred was talking to Meghan, and Penda had his arm around Wynne's shoulders. "Where is Niniane?" Ceawlin asked, echoing Sigurd's thoughts. He was squatting on his heels, rubbing the white hound's ears and looking around.
"Oh, my lord, she is seeing to the chickens," Wynne answered a little breathlessly. "Something got at them last night and she is setting a trap."
"Gods," said Ceawlin, torn between exasperation and amusement. "Niniane and her farm!" He gave the hound one last caress, straightened, threw his reins to one of the thanes, and strode off in the direction of the chicken coop, followed by three dogs. Sigurd directed the thanes to take their horses to the stable and, like Ceawlin, gave his reins into someone else's charge. Then he moved slowly toward the house. A man had opened the front door of the villa and was standing there, framed in the doorway. As Sigurd approached, he recognized the Christian priest Father Mai.
Sigurd greeted the priest courteously. "We are pleased to see you," the man replied. "Is the news you bear good or ill?"
"Not good, I fear. Edric is coming north, Father Mai," said Sigurd. "We think he may be heading for Bryn Atha."
The priest did not answer, but his face set into harsher lines.
"For how long have you been here at Bryn Atha?" Sigurd asked.
"A week. Naille told me I was to marry Wynne with one of the Saxon thanes, so we have been hoping you would return before I have to leave."
"Oh, yes." Sigurd had almost forgotten about Penda's marriage. "Well, you will have to do it quickly if it is to be done at all. Ceawlin wants to get everyone out of Bryn Atha before Edric arrives."
The two had been standing in the doorway all this while, and now the priest looked over Sigurd's head. "Here is the prince now," he said. Sigurd turned and saw Ceawlin and Niniane approaching, escorted by the dogs. He was looking down into her face and talking. The top of her head did not reach to his shoulder. As Sigurd watched, she slipped her hand into her husband's and said something in reply. He nodded, his face grave.
"Greetings, Sigurd," Niniane said when they were almost to the villa and finally she noticed the men in the doorway. She smiled. "Why have you not gone into the house?"
Sigurd forced himself to smile back pleasantly. Her own smile was brilliant, her eyes a deep dark blue. She and Ceawlin had not unclasped their hands.
"We were waiting for you," Sigurd answered.
She laughed a little unsteadily. "Well, come along in and let me get you something to eat!" They all went with her into the house, except the dogs, on whom she firmly closed the front door. Niniane directed them to the sitting room and then went along herself to the kitchen. She was back shortly with the news that food was being prepared. Then she said to her husband, "Do you want to see your son?"
Ceawlin, who had been standing by the window, moved with alacrity toward the doorway. "Where is he? Sleeping?"
"He should just be waking from his nap. He has grown so big. Wait until you see him."
They walked down the gallery side by side, walking closer to each other than was necessitated by the width of the hall. Ceawlin opened the bedroom door, then shut it behind them. The shutters had been closed to keep out the summer daylight, and there was silence from the baby's basket. Cerdic was still sleeping.
Ceawlin stood over him, looking down. For a long minute he said nothing. Then, "You must get away from here, Niniane. Both of you. Edric is coming north."
"I see." Her voice was very sof
t. "I thought perhaps that might be the reason for your coming." The baby's lips moved as if he were sucking, then he put his finger in his mouth and fell quiet again.
"He's sucking his thumb!" said Ceawlin. Niniane smiled at the wonder in his voice.
"We are the reason you have stayed south all this time, aren't we?" she asked.
"Yes. I told you I did not want Edric at Bryn Atha. I was also hoping to get word of Cutha."
"You have heard nothing?"
"Nothing." He sounded bitter. "He seems just to have disappeared.
"Ceawlin." She drew a long breath. "Ceawlin," she said again, "I will take the baby and go to Glastonbury with Father Mai. We will be safe there and, more important, we will not be in your way. You will be free to act as you will without the necessity of protecting us always on your mind."
He turned from the baby to look down at her, at the small, great-eyed face that always stirred him so. She was right. She was a burden to him just now. She was tying him down, she and the son who carried his love. There was a short silence; then, "Where is Glastonbury?" he asked.
"In Dumnonia. Dumnonia is British still, has always been British. There is a convent at Glastonbury, a group of religious women sworn to serve God. I can stay with them, Father Mai says. We will be safe there until you send for us."
"You have thought this all out."
She nodded. Even in the dimness of the room he could see the coppery strands in her hair. "I knew it would come to this. I will not leave you vulnerable to Guthfrid's vengeance."
"Nan." At the changed note in his voice she stepped toward him, raising her face. His kiss was hard, hard and hungry. Her arms went around his waist. "Gods. It has been so long," he said. Her body was pressed against his, her head bent back against his arm so her hair spilled over his wrist in a stream of coppery silk. He straightened a little so her feet came off the ground, and began to walk toward the bed.
"Ceawlin ..." Her husky voice was huskier than usual, and unsteady. "Not now. They are waiting for us ..." But despite her words, her body was calling to him. He felt it, felt the fire in his own blood, and laid her down on the bed. When his mouth came down on hers once more, she wrapped her arms around his neck and made no further protest.
* * * *
When Ceawlin finally returned to the sitting room, it was to issue a series of orders. Niniane and the priest were to leave at dawn the following day for Glastonbury. The British girls would go back to their families, while the Saxon slaves were to remain at Bryn Atha. "If there is to be a marriage between Wynne and Penda," Ceawlin said to the priest, "you will have to do it tonight."
It was not until the thanes had fed and watered their horses that Ceawlin learned there was another marriage requested for the evening. Bertred came directly to the villa from the stable and asked to speak to Ceawlin privately. Meghan was with him. "Meghan and I wish to marry, my lord," said Bertred, respectfully but firmly, as soon as he and Meghan were alone with the prince.
Ceawlin raised his brows. "This is a surprise."
"I said nothing to you before because Meghan wished to wait for the priest," Bertred explained. "And then, of course, we have been on the war road. I know that we must leave on the morrow, but still ... we wish to marry." His jaw set with unusual stubbornness.
Ceawlin regarded his young thane thoughtfully. "Do you have the permission of her parents?" he asked after a moment. "It is all right with me, Bertred, but I cannot have the Atrebates at my throat over this."
"My guardian does not mind so long as we are wed in the Christian faith." It was Meghan, who rarely had the courage to talk to Ceawlin, speaking up bravely to second Bertred.
"Your guardian?"
"My uncle," the girl replied. "My parents are dead."
Ceawlin gave them both a long level look. "Do you swear Meghan's uncle has given his permission?"
"Yes, my lord," they chorused together.
"Very well," said Ceawlin. "It seems that Father Mai will have a busy night." He gave Bertred an infectious grin. "As will a few other people around here."
Bertred grinned back and Meghan blushed.
Ceawlin had taken the two lovers into the dining room when they had asked for privacy, and now he dismissed them and walked back to the sitting room, where Niniane was talking with Sigurd and the priest. The three looked up at him when he reentered the room, identical looks of inquiry on their faces. "They want to be married too," Ceawlin said.
Sigurd looked surprised; Niniane did not. "They swear they have permission from Meghan's uncle," Ceawlin continued. Then, to his wife, "Do you know aught of this?"
She shook her head. "Meghan has said nothing to me. But I have had my suspicions. I told you about them, Ceawlin, don't you remember?"
He grunted. She went on, "This is not another case like Wynne and Penda, of that I am certain. They have waited. And Meghan has no parents living, only an uncle, who will be glad enough to relinquish responsibility for her. That is why he let her come to Bryn Atha in the first place."
Ceawlin cocked one eyebrow. "I see." Then, to the priest, "Your services are much in demand, Father Mai."
"That is always the case when a priest comes to an area so rarely," Father Mai replied. "Marriages and baptisms pile up. I have been busy indeed this past week. There was your own son, Prince ..." He stopped as he saw the look on Ceawlin's face. There was a moment of ominous silence.
"What do you mean, there was my own son?" The priest stared in horror at a suddenly transformed Ceawlin. The affable, civilized prince he had been talking to was gone as completely as if he had never existed. Ceawlin took a step toward the priest, and Father Mai, who was not a coward, found himself backing away. Ceawlin's face was white, his eyes twin blazes of slitted turquoise. "Did you baptize my son?"
"I ... Yes ... the princess asked me to."
Ceawlin looked at his wife. She was pale, but her chin was up. He took a step toward her and she did not back away. "Is this true?" he asked.
"Yes." Her eyes met the blaze of his and held steady.
His hands were opening and closing into fists at his sides. "I told you I did not want a Christian priest near him. He is my son. How could you dare—?"
"He is my son too, Ceawlin. I could not do otherwise. This is a matter of his immortal soul."
Fury such as he had never before known swept through Ceawlin. She had done it. Cerdic, his son ... bewitched by this mewling priest ... lost.... He took one more step toward her and raised his fist. He wanted to kill her. He did not hear the priest's cry of protest or see Sigurd jump forward to stop him. He had eyes only for Niniane, who did not flinch or try to protect herself, only looked back at him, her face very still. At the last minute he opened his fingers and hit her across the face with his open hand. She fell to the floor.
"Ceawlin! Stop it!" It was Sigurd, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from his wife. Ceawlin shook him off and, turning, crashed out of the room.
The dogs dashed up to him as he left the villa by the rear door. The day had brightened and the late-afternoon sky was now partly blue. Ceawlin noticed nothing, however, as he strode toward the stable. His only desire was to get away from Niniane, to be alone. There were several thanes talking in the stableyard, but they fell silent as soon as they saw his face. He did not even bother to saddle Bayvard, just bridled him, leapt on him bareback, and rode out of the villa grounds toward the fields.
She did not understand what she had done. He realized that as he walked Bayvard around the edges of the hayfield that was filled with high grass getting ready to be cut. She was not Saxon. She could not understand. He had told her once, had tried to explain how he felt about who he was, what he was. Not just a man, but a man born to be king. Woden-born, with the blood of the god running in his veins. And now she had claimed his son for another god, this god who was born in a stable among animals. This weak, gentle god who was good enough for women perhaps, but was not a god for a king.
His son. Her son too. She had said tha
t, and he was too essentially just a man to deny the truth of it. He remembered still her screams the night Cerdic was born.
But she had betrayed him. She had promised never to ... He thought back. She had not promised. He had said he did not wish his son to be baptized and had assumed she would obey. She seemed so mild, Niniane, so soft and yielding.... He was beginning to realize that about some things she was not yielding at all. There was the farm, and the food she had made them grow last year. And now, this baptism....
He could not allow them to go to Glastonbury with the priest. Niniane was too much under the influence of this religion as it was. But where else could he take them that they would be safe?
He rode around and around the hayfield, his brain going in the same large circle as his horse. It was dusk before he realized that he had better be returning to Bryn Atha.
* * * *
Niniane had not been knocked out by Ceawlin's blow, just stunned. She opened her eyes to see Sigurd's white face bending over her. "Are you all right?" he asked her, his voice sounding as strained as his face looked.
"Yes. I think so." She put her hand to her cheek. It stung badly. She flexed her jaw. It hurt. She looked around the room and then at the door.
"He's gone." It was Father Mai, also looking very pale. "My daughter, I am so sorry. I did not realize ... I should not have said anything about the baptism. You should have told me not to say anything."
"It is all right," Niniane replied. Sigurd lifted her to her feet. "He had to be told. I would not keep such a thing from him."
"He should not have hit you." Sigurd's gray eyes were harder than Niniane had ever seen them look. "I understand how he feels, but he should not have hit you."
"Ceawlin's anger is hot, not cold," Niniane replied. "But I have never seen him as angry as this." She was shaking, and stepped away from Sigurd so he should not notice. "Where has he gone?"
"I don't know," Sigurd replied.
Niniane was feeling sick to her stomach. She had known Ceawlin would be angry, but she had not quite expected this ...