by Carol Browne
“Don’t ask me,” he replied with a shrug. “Godwin has put me in a bad humour. Whatever I say will bode ill for your rescuer—if it isn’t mocked first.” He thrust out his chin and glared at Godwin. “But she’s not one of my father’s serfs, and if she isn’t one of yours, she has no right to be on Lord Othere’s land.”
Folding his arms, Elric turned to the third man. “And what do you say, Godwin?” he asked, as though granting him an undeserved honour.
Elgiva looked at Godwin. He must be at least ten years older than his companions, though she couldn’t be sure. Wilthkin had much shorter lives than elves, and guessing their ages was difficult once they had reached a certain maturity.
His plain apparel marked him out as a man of low rank, and whereas his masters sported immature beards, he was clean-shaven. Bellic had told her a few things about wilthkin so she supposed this man was a Briton; his shoulder-length hair had a coppery sheen, and he had a dark, gentle beauty that was strangely appealing.
He folded his arms across his chest, smiling impishly at Elric, but Elgiva sensed tension behind the smile. He gazed at her for a moment with what she could only describe as regret, then he spoke.
“If I wasn’t a man of honour, I’d say I was glad my wife isn’t here.” It seemed he had said what was expected of him. Elric smirked appreciatively. “But Master Elric, this girl has perhaps saved your life. True, she’s a trespasser, but a most welcome one in that case.” His tone became more flippant. “Besides, she’s young and looks half-witted, so I think we should be merciful.”
“How dare you! I have all the usual number of wits and more besides. Don’t taunt me . . . or I’ll call back that boar and watch him make a meal of you all.” Forgetting her fear, Elgiva tossed back her head defiantly.
Godwin and Elric stared at each other, and Godwin spoke with a wry grimace, “Well, apart from the language of my betters, I speak a few words of the Celtic tongue. I know some Roman phrases, too, I learnt from Aethelwulf the Sage. But now I find myself surpassed. I couldn’t claim to be fluent in Boar.”
“And why not, when you are one?” Deor put in with a satisfied pout. “So, what do you say to that, then? I’ve learnt to beat you at your own game.”
Godwin regarded Deor as though he were an imbecile, and then he said, “And why not, my lord? I beat you at yours.”
Deor spluttered indignantly, but before he could respond, Elgiva spoke up.
“Enough!” she cried. “I saved your life, Lord Elric, and you’ve no right to toy with me.”
Godwin lowered his gaze, while Elric’s eyes glittered dangerously. Elgiva’s anger became fear, and the impulse to flee made her turn on her heel.
“Stay, friend,” commanded Elric. “We did not mean offence.”
He placed a hand on her arm and she turned to look at him. She tried to appear affronted, despite the fear that clogged her throat.
“You know what I am, Lord Elric, so why don’t you put an end to me now and spare me this cruel sport?”
The three men looked at each other blankly.
“What are you, then?” asked Godwin, who by some unvoiced agreement seemed to have been delegated to speak. “Apart from another damned Saxon, a trespasser on Lord Othere’s land, and a saver of great men?”
Elgiva’s mouth fell open. A what?
In the silence that followed, her mind laboured to make some sense of it all. A veil shifted from her perception. She glanced at her hands and noticed that they looked different, somehow, the skin pink and a little coarser. She had changed. But when?
Help me walk unremarked upon into the world of the wilthkin. Change me into a Saxon . . . The spell had taken effect in the order in which she had spoken it. The magic was real.
“What is wrong with this girl?” asked Deor. “Surely she is elf-shot.”
Elgiva glared at him before she could stop herself, but he seemed hardly to notice her reaction.
“Master Elric,” said Godwin quickly, “this creature has a fine spirit, which I think we have offended. Your father would—”
“Speak not of him,” snapped Elric. “I know how to behave.”
He frowned petulantly, then turned in Elgiva’s direction, as if to speak, but she ignored him. Instead, she was drawn to the serf. She saw his concern and kindness clearly, but also the pain and complexity he kept hidden behind a veil of humour. She needed to acknowledge his support.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Godwin appeared mildly surprised. He looked Elgiva up and down in her shabby servant’s clothes. And what eyes he had. They were blue, like those of the Saxons, but a deeper blue that gave him an open, honest appearance. She fancied she saw a light in them that had been dimmed by harsh experience. She stepped carefully towards him.
“I see sorrow and loss in your eyes. It makes me a little sad.” No sooner had she said it, she cursed herself and, overcome with embarrassment, lowered her gaze.
There was an awkward silence in which the songs of the woodland birds were unnaturally loud. Elric and Deor shuffled their feet.
“You’re wise beyond your years,” said Godwin, his gaze both wary and quizzical. “Do you have the second sight?”
“Er . . . no,” said Elgiva, baffled. “I recognise sorrow, that’s all. It’s my companion, too.”
By now, Elric was clearly growing impatient. “What’s your name, girl? Where is your home?”
“My name is Elgiva,” she answered, “and home is wherever I find myself. My people have banished me.”
She saw their shocked expressions, and her throat constricted.
“Banishment from home,” said Elric, shaking his head. “That’s the worst thing in the world.”
“Now I feel sad for you,” said Godwin, his brow creased with sympathy. “So young and so alone, with no lord to protect you. What on Earth did you do to deserve it? Was your crime so great?”
She looked at each of them in turn. She hadn’t intended any of this. All she needed was food and shelter. No further involvement was required. Not with these barbarians. Why had she trusted them with the truth, when lies were all they deserved? She had committed herself too hastily. And Derryth was a fool.
“I’ve been wronged. But I’ll tell you my tale, and perhaps you can judge for yourselves.”
“Tale-telling comes later,” said Godwin with a smile. “First, you must sample our hospitality.” He turned to address Elric. “This creature looks half-starved. Your father would be angry if we didn’t offer food and shelter to an ill-used Saxon maid.”
They were going to take her back with them, which, of course, was what she wanted, but her elven instincts were appalled. She had forgotten who she was. These people were her people’s enemies.
But . . . she had no people anymore.
Siriol, this was all a mistake!
Elric’s forehead furrowed at Godwin’s suggestion, but Elgiva recoiled from the prospect of help as though she had been offered a quick death.
“No, I can’t,” she protested.
Her intractability appeared to both annoy and bore Elric. He sighed and rested his arm across Godwin’s shoulder. This gesture conveyed an unexpected depth of affection, throwing Elgiva further off balance. She had assumed the serf was her ally because of his lowly status, but despite the arrogance of the younger man, she saw now there were genuine feelings of friendship between the lordling and the slave.
“I’m sorry, I must go,” she said shakily.
“Come, girl, let us help you. We shall be honoured to share our food and hear your sorry tale.” Elric’s tone took on a sharper edge. “How can an exile refuse?”
How indeed? Elgiva was bereft of words. All she could think of was her home, the only world she knew and understood. It was lost to her forever. And now, thanks to Siriol, she had even lost herself. It was all too much to bear.
“Other tribes wouldn’t be so hasty in their trust,” Elric said. “Now, we must get going. We’re two leagues from the settlement and I,
for one, don’t intend to go home empty-handed.”
He turned abruptly and marched away, his bow slung over his shoulder. Deor, with a grin of relief, gathered up his bow and arrows and trotted after his cousin. Godwin stooped to pick up the remainder of their gear, and then he held out his hand towards Elgiva.
For a moment, she chewed her lower lip, still weighing the need for shelter against the instinct to flee. His reassuring smile seemed to be inviting her to trust him.
It galled her to admit it, but already she liked this man.
She took his hand, allowing him to lead her away, and with that small act, she felt she had committed herself to something momentous, yet she had no idea what it was.
As they walked through the wood, Elgiva toyed with a strand of her hair. Lost in thought, it was some time before she noticed her hair was now a golden yellow. Of course, Siriol had brought about some change, but she had hoped for an illusion, not a physical fact, and the knowledge of her complete transformation made her gasp with shock. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Godwin turned to look at her, clearly concerned by the tightening of her grip. Forcing a smile for his benefit, she told him she had stumbled on a tree root. But she was frightened to be so changed, more frightened still to know the cause. Magic was something the wardain used. It was fearsome and capricious. Underlings like her could only wonder at it and seek to avoid its wrath.
As she left the wood and felt the clean sunshine on her skin, she chided herself for her cowardice. Though Siriol’s magic frightened her, it was good magic and as natural as the air she breathed. It was Lord Bellic’s magic.
And if they couldn’t be together, at least this was something they could share.
CHAPTER THREE
The home of Lord Othere’s people was a well-established and prosperous place, and Elgiva had never seen anything like it. Her people lived unobtrusively in their tidy forest dwellings, while these wilthkin needed an abundance of space in which to live out their brief and brutal lives.
As she was taken through the gates, the stronghold opened out before her, around twenty acres’ worth of bustling activity, and within it were three dozen or more rectangular dwellings of varying sizes, all with pitched, thatched roofs. There were also work sheds, pens, and stables. Smoke hovered in the late summer air, and the stench of burning rubbish made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.
But the noise surprised her more than anything else: the chatter of people doing their chores; the barking of dogs and the bleating of goats; the raucous laughter of warriors, lounging near the stronghold’s gates; the screams of children playing tag; and, somewhere, the laboured clanking of a loom.
She tried to take in all of the details as Godwin led her past the great hall.
“I suppose your lord will put me to work, sweeping floors and scrubbing tables,” said Elgiva.
“Well, we won’t have you sweeping and scrubbing just yet. We generally feed our guests before we stick a broom in their hand.” Godwin’s artless eyes flashed her a look full of gentle humour, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him. “You’re not a servant tonight. Your place will be at the high table, next to Othere himself.”
Her smile disappeared. “It will?”
“A stranger with a tale to tell? You’re worth your weight in gold, Elgiva.”
Elgiva swallowed hard. “I see.”
“But no need to worry about that now. We’ve some time yet before we eat, so I’d better find you a place to stay. We’re a little cramped here at the moment, but we’re building some new dwellings in the spring. Of course, you must have a servant’s quarters.” He grimaced in apology. “For the time being, you’re welcome to share my home, though I’m afraid you will have to share it with my family.”
She inclined her head. “You’re very kind.”
They strolled across the settlement to the servants’ quarters. Godwin walked up to one of the dwellings, pushed open the rickety wooden door, and invited Elgiva to step inside with a sweep of his arm and a grin on his face.
“There’s a spare place over there,” he said, pointing through the gloom.
Elgiva peered across the hut and saw a low wooden frame. On either side were partitions of osiers.
“I’m afraid that’s the best we can do for now. I’ll get you a pallet from somewhere.”
“I’m accustomed to nothing better,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t take offence.
“Neither am I.” He grinned.
“Where’s your family, Godwin?”
“My wife, Rowena, will be preparing food. My two young daughters are playing somewhere. They’re usually with their friends. And I must be getting back to the hall, but I’ll light you a fire before I go.”
The fireplace was a pad of clay in the centre of the room with several three-legged stools beside it. Elgiva chose one and sat down. As the fire caught hold and she had more light, her eyes were drawn to a glinting object hanging high on a wall. It was a fine sword, and it seemed out of place in this meagre dwelling.
Elgiva pointed towards it. “How does a serf come to own such a weapon?”
Godwin moved to take the sword down and show it to her. “My only link with what has been . . . or might have been.” He sat down on a stool beside Elgiva and ran his fingers over the hilt. “Back then, I was the son of people I can’t remember, bearing a name time has erased. I was perhaps five years old, and our village was attacked by Saxons. They took me, but they killed my sister. I’ve never understood why she had to die.” For a few moments, he fell silent, composing himself, and then he quirked an eyebrow at her. “I had the sword with me that day. I don’t know why. Nor do I know why I’m telling you all this.”
“You were young to have such a weapon.”
“Yes, it’s odd, but the sword has always been with me, I think. I keep it un-honed. I’m not permitted to bear arms here, of course, but I was allowed to keep this. When I was older, Othere told me I tried to defend myself with it, to the great amusement of the raiders. When one of them tried to take it from me, he was badly cut. In fact, he lost three fingers. Othere said they all roared with laughter. Such things amuse them no end. He decided that because I’d defeated one of his best warriors, I could keep the sword. It’s still the subject of a joke among the older men in the mead hall, when they’re all drunk and feeling nostalgic.”
“And the man you wounded?”
“We’ve been friends ever since. So, there you have it; how I came to be at Othere’s, bearing the name he gave me.”
“Godwin, they killed your sister and made you a slave.”
He glared at her. “These things happen. You must know that. Has your tribe never gone to war against the Britons, against each other?”
“But didn’t you ever think of running away?”
“Where should I have run to? I had no idea where my people were. I still don’t. Don’t tell me what I should have done. I was a child when it happened. I had to accept it. The Saxons have treated me well. Othere was more like a father to me when I was a boy. Then I grew up and it no longer mattered. Do you understand? The Saxons are my people now.”
“Godwin, I’m so sorry.”
He touched her arm reassuringly. “Don’t be, please. Perhaps you’re right, but I can’t change what happened. If I could, I would have had them kill me instead of my sister.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, not knowing who you are, or might have been? Don’t you hate the Saxons for taking that away from you?”
“What good would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. We have to accept things as they are and just get on with life.”
“But I can’t! I won’t. What happened to me, it’s wrong. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair!” Elgiva hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.
Godwin put his arm around her and pulled her gently towards him. “But you’ll be all right now. Lord Othere will look after you.”
“What makes you think I want your master looking after me? I want . . . I
need my own people.”
The Saxons are your people, Elgiva.”
This only made Elgiva sob afresh. “Godwin, I don’t know what to do.”
“If you’re afraid of the future, would it help if you knew you had at least one true friend? Well then, upon my oath, I’ll be that friend, and I vow to be your protector if it’s within my power. I pledge this with all my heart.” He placed his hand upon his breast, and then his gaze shifted to the fire and he frowned. “I don’t know why I’m saying such things.”
Elgiva had no idea what to say next, but her awareness shifted to the sword that now lay across his knees. There was something odd about it, a curious feeling she couldn’t explain.
“You say the sword is un-honed, but it looks incredibly sharp,” she ventured.
“A trick of the light. It’s quite dull. I couldn’t cut butter with this.” He ran his thumb hard along the edge of the blade to show her how blunt it was, and then he stood up and replaced the sword on the wall. “I’d better go and tell Lord Othere about you. Stay here and rest. I’ll call for you later.”
With that, he was gone.
Elgiva drew a deep breath, trying to accept the strangeness of the day. Clutching the amulet to her breast, she begged it to maintain the spell, but she also prayed she would not forget who she really was.
***
The feasting was drawing to a close, and the air in the great hall was thick with smoke and sweat and the tang of roasted flesh. Inside this impressive building were splendours Elgiva hadn’t expected. The massive high table bore gleaming goblets and golden platters, all reflecting the light. Benches stood ranked among the thick stanchions that supported the roof with its rafters of ash. On the walls hung silver-tipped drinking horns, colourful tapestries, and polished war-gear, and by the great hearth, a brace of huge deerhounds watched the newcomer warily.
It was clear that what she believed about the wilthkin wasn’t quite true. She had thought their homes would be dirty and dismal, but the great hall was spacious and orderly; the wooden floor had been recently swept, the torches were lit, and a fire blazed on the great clay hearth. Polished and arranged with care, helmets, swords, and axes gleamed bravely on the walls.