Another time, heading back to Tyrsborg from setting snares, they watched Tindr stop at a clump of white birch trees. They knew he cut his arrow-sticks from birches; he had taken them to see the stump of a big tree he and his dead father had felled years before. They had coppiced it by chopping it down and sawing the stump flat, so that a ring of upright birch saplings sprang every year from the trunk, as straight and as perfect as if they had been honed. But this was not an arrow-tree Tindr had stopped at. It looked like an ordinary birch, a little thicker than a man could encircle with both hands.
He squatted down and grunted softly as he looked at it, pointing to a black area of the bark. The boys knelt down next to him to see. It looked like a thickened, raised bit of bark; nothing more. A flat stone lay not far from the tree’s roots, and Tindr walked about, gathering others and stacking them about the edges of it. Then he returned to the blackened bark on the birch. With his knife he cut a small piece of it away, and turned it in his hand. It was bright reddish brown within, and crumbled when he rubbed it with fingers and thumb. He set the piece on the stone, and drew from the pouch at his belt his steel fire-striker. In Angle-land flints were plenty, and both Ceric and Hrald could strike out sparks from them. Here on Gotland Tindr used a piece of milky-white quartz, a pretty thing in itself. He struck the quartz against the steel, holding it next to the crumbled bits he had taken from the tree. A spark flew from his striker and flared up, tiny but white-hot, in the reddish brown bits. It caught so quickly it was as if it had fallen on oil-soaked straw. He dropped a few strands of dried lichen upon it. The boys had never seen fire made so quickly nor with so much ease. They picked up bits of the red crumbles and rolled them in their fingers; they were almost moist, but this black-backed growth on the birch bark was best fire-starter one seeking warmth could hope to find.
The boys took turns with their own flints, sharply rapping sparks onto the tiny beds of red stuff, delighting at how it caught and held the spark, feeding it with more lichen and dried leaves. Tindr looked down at them kneeling before the flat rocks and saw their pleasure at what they had learned. They jumped up and looked at the black growth on the birch, looked about them to see if other trees bore it, came back and struck out more small fires, snuffing them out to light yet another. Tindr recalled his Uncle Rapp showing his cousin and him just this same skill, and he saw his younger self in them. His mother had told him these boys must leave when it was warm again. He would give them what wood-craft he could.
Chapter the Twenty-second: I Would Fly Away
THE day came when Sidroc felt himself able to ride. The wound to his thigh had healed into a straight red seam, token of the bloody cut dealt by Godwin’s seax. The red silk that his shield-maiden had stitched it with had rotted away, leaving only the puncture marks she had made with her needle. The leg was still sore, but he walked without limping. Lifting the leg over the saddle was a challenge, and he grimaced to think how dropping down off it would feel. But having been so confined to Tyrsborg he was restless, and the boys were, he knew, impatient for their promised horses. He and Tindr rode out with the boys to Ragnfast’s, Hrald before him on his black stallion, Ceric behind Tindr on the dun mare. Ceric’s mother and the little ones sent them off with smiles and waves. The yearling colt whinnied so when he saw his mother vanish along the forest path that Ceridwen winced; Sidroc had turned in his saddle at the colt’s call and saw his shield-maiden’s brow furrow at the way the colt raced along the paddock fence, calling after the mare.
Ragnfast and Estrid were ready for them. Their young ones crowded about Tindr, and Ceric and Hrald saw how welcome he was at his cousin’s. Both boys were suddenly shy, and even Hrald, who understood the speech of Gotland far better than Ceric, said little. But the horses Ragnfast had selected for them to choose from stood waiting, and they went to them eagerly.
Ragnfast had picked out only geldings to show the boys; he had likely mares, and of a good size, but mares could be tricky, and as the boys would only be here until next Spring he wanted them to have the easiest mounts. On the other hand, a mare might come back to him carrying the foal of the good stallion he had sold Sidroc, which would be a gain. He could show the boys mares if asked for one. The dun with her ruddy mottled coat and dark stripe was one of the best he had ever owned, and he always liked seeing her again.
But the boys were happy with the horses Ragnfast had set aside for them. They were black, bay, and dark chestnut, and Sidroc let them choose for themselves. Hrald now rode a bay at home, and he chose one here, and Ceric a black, like onto the black yearling at Tyrsborg. Ragnfast did not ask much for a few month’s use of the animals; they would be well cared for, and he was spared the expense of feeding them over the Winter to come. The silver he asked Sidroc for was more for the loan of the saddles and bridles.
Once horsed, the boys felt the island lay ready for them. Tindr took them up and down the coastline, and along such forest tracks as would admit a horse. There were two hills tall enough from which a fair amount of surrounding area could be seen, and they were free to roam wherever they wished. Unlike in Angle-land, there was no risk of Trespass; as long as they trampled no crops nor injured anything, they might ride anywhere.
“You did well in bringing that letter from your mother.”
Sidroc was within the hall, seated at the thick-boarded table with Hrald by his side. They were alone, and had been talking about the arrows Tindr was teaching the boys to feather.
In the weeks that had passed, this was the first time father had spoken to son about the events of his arrival. Each day had been full, and Hrald was always with Ceric, with Yrling following in their wake. Yrling had latched on to Hrald, and all could see the affection the small brother bore for the older. Just now the little ones were out with Ceric and Tindr, hunting up skogkatt kittens in the stable to give to the grain merchant on the road, who had endless need of good mousers.
Hrald took this change of subject in stride, and nodded his grave little nod, the pointed chin bobbing quickly. “She told me I should guard it, but must give it up if I felt in danger.”
Sidroc paused before he made answer. The thought of either boy being threatened by Kilton was not one he could dwell upon. “I am glad you did not.”
He went on to ask the question that he must.
“Your mother, and your sisters…how do they fare?”
“Mother is at Oundle a lot, with grandmother, and Abbess Sigewif. I go with her too sometimes. Ashild is…angry. She wanted to come with Ceric and me, and Mother would not let her.”
To see me, or because Hrald and Ceric were going, he asked himself; Ashild wanted always to be in the thick of things. She is her father’s daughter, he thought, and an image of his Uncle Yrling came into his mind. Strong-willed and impulsive, like Yrling.
“And the little one, Ealhswith?”
“She runs about so fast Burginde cannot catch her. Aunt Eanflad looks after her; Burginde says young legs are needed.”
The smile faded from Hrald’s face, and he asked a question of his own.
“Will you come back, father?”
It could not be more direct, and Sidroc could do nothing but stare. Hrald’s blue eyes were locked upon him.
“I cannot come back,” is how he answered. He had given the smallest, but decisive shake of his head. “Four Stones will be yours in a few years. Asberg and Jari will help you run it, as they do now. If Guthrum stays as King there should be peace enough.”
None of this mattered to his boy.
“Then I would like to stay with you here, Father.”
His answer was swifter than he wished. “You cannot. I spent twelve years winning my lands and treasure. You are the symbol of that in the eyes of the law.”
Hrald kept looking at him, his blue eyes wide.
“But it is yours, not mine.”
Sidroc looked away for one instant, then back at Hrald.
“You are my son. It is yours by birthright.”
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br /> He sensed the thought Hrald held: It is what you wanted, not me. And in fact he had always known this first son of his to be less formed for war than for peace. As Ashild was her father’s child, Hrald was his mother’s.
“But you do not want it now.” Hrald’s judgement was as simple and bald as this.
“I do. It has cost me much to win, and hold. But I want it for you, for your mother and sisters, for Asberg and Jari and all the men who won it with me.”
“But you will not come back?”
There was hope in the piping voice. His son’s face was uplifted, looking at him. He held that gaze as he answered.
“I cannot. The Saxon king, Ælfred, will know by now I killed Kilton. The thegn, Worr, has told him, and even given the fairness of the fight, there will be anger over it, both with the King, and at Ceric’s burh.” He said these things with care, watching his son’s face. “If the anger is great, there could be a blood-feud.”
“Killing leads to more killing,” Hrald answered, looking down a moment. He had heard his mother say it often enough.
Sidroc nodded.
Hrald’s clear eyes went to the treasure room door. “The Lady Ceridwen…is she your wife?”
“Já,” he said at once.
“But…mother?” Hrald was biting his lower lip, and now looked down at the planks of the table.
His father let out a slow breath. “The letter you carried – in it, your mother said that she released me. In Angle-land, if a man or woman is gone for five years, the marriage can be dissolved. In two more years your mother will be free to wed again.”
Hrald’s narrow brow was furrowed.
“Or she may to go to Oundle, and become such as Sigewif, or your grandmother.”
The boy seemed to consider this a moment. “But you…you will not come back?”
“I cannot, Hrald. I cannot.” His father looked away from him now.
Yrling and Eirian’s laughing voices could be heard, and in a moment they stood before them, with a grinning Ceric, each holding a squirming kitten. Hrald jumped up and ran to them.
They all went to the upland farm to see the goshawks. Eirian rode with her father, and Yrling with Tindr on a horse borrowed from Ragnfast; the dun mare which Ceridwen rode did not take lightly to the drumming of small feet on her withers. With Ceric and Hrald on their black and bay horses they made an impressive troop. Ceridwen, gazing on her daughter sitting before Sidroc, his arm wrapped about her for safety, could not help but travel back many years to when she rode thus with her uncle’s thick arm about her. Seeing Eirian’s bright smile from her perch told her the girl knew the same gladness she had felt when Cedd had taken her all along their lands on the banks of the Dee.
Ring and Astrid, little son on her hip, greeted them against a background of trees hanging heavy with the flushed cheeks of ripe apples. Ring kept two dogs to aid in the training of the goshawks, and these added their excited baying to the welcome. The boys, faces aglow, headed straight for the hawk-house. Ring spent part of each day, save when the hawks were in their moult, training up the birds within, and with his natural steadiness was well-suited for the patience it demanded. Ceric and Hrald donned gloves, as did Ring and Sidroc, and took each a goshawk upon their hands, grown birds for the boys, and younger for the men. The small brass bells upon the birds’ yellow feet tinkled merrily each time they moved. Once in the open air Ring removed in turn the soft leathern hoods the goshawks wore.
They threw the lure out upon the ground, and watched each bird spring in one great motion after it, and then whistled for the bird to return to the gloved hand to snatch a morsel of raw meat. They walked into the grassy meadow beyond the apple groves with the hawks, and Ring sent the dogs running through the tall growth. Starlings feeding from the seed-heads leapt up, and at Ring’s signal Hrald thrust the male he held into the air. It streaked from his wrist and had downed a bird in a few mighty wing strokes. They all walked to it, Ceridwen having to restrain the youngest from running. The tinkling bell alerted them to where the goshawk stood, wings outstretched, ripping into its prey. After it had flown back to Hrald’s hand the process was repeated, and Ceric’s big female stabbed a plump partridge which the dogs had flushed.
“They will take even large ducks, and the biggest hares,” Ring told them as they looked upon the pair of great wings oaring their way back to Ceric’s arm. The younger birds the men held were not flown, just carried about to acquaint them with hunting with groups of folk about them.
Afterwards Tindr and the boys spent a long while stroking the hawks’ streaked breasts and wings, and even legs and talons, to help keep them tame.
“We will have at least three ready for Frankland,” Ring assured Sidroc when the goshawks had been returned to their mews. Ring’s elder brother Runulv had had great success in carrying the trained birds one at a time to this land of rich noblemen, and could find ready buyers for as many as Sidroc could send.
“I would like to go to Frankland,” Hrald piped up. “There are many churches, made of stone there,” he remembered from the stories Abbess Sigewif had told him.
“Já,” agreed Ring, “and the city of Paris is beyond all others, my brother says. Perhaps one day you will go there yourself.”
Hrald smiled a shy smile as if he were considering this thought.
“Why do they not fly away,” Ceric wondered aloud as they readied themselves to leave. Their saddle bags had been packed full of juicy apples by Tindr when they were in the field.
It was Sidroc who answered. “Sometimes they do. But most come to accept the hawk-house as their home, with its warmth and protection. Also,” he added, gesturing to Ring who cared for them, “here they know they will be fed each day, whether or not they make a strike.”
“Like thegns in a hall at peace-time,” nodded Ceric.
“I would fly away,” said Hrald.
Tindr had taken the boys to a dry stream bed, rich in the white stones shaped like flower stalks and seashells. He had a fine collection of these curious stones, and had helped them in finding their own. Today the boys headed out alone on their horses to find more. The place lay on the other side of the trading road, and inland, and it was a day meant for both a ride and time spent turning over rocks, with a bright but not-too-hot Sun above. The ever-present breeze off the Baltic rippled the grasses near the stable as they saddled their mounts, and after Gunnvor tucked bread and cheese and apples into their saddle bags they were off.
There was no ship at the pier save a fishing boat, though the boys had been told that merchant knorrs sailed in every week during Summer. Such trading was ended this late in the season, but fishermen would go out for as long as the weather held. Still the trading road itself was busy, and the boys walked their horses slowly down the pounded road. Anyone appearing there on horseback was certain to be looked at, as only the rich kept horses, but by now all knew the boys, and nodded and smiled up to them as they passed.
At the end of the road they came upon the tall carved statue of Freyr. They eyed it, wordlessly. There was yet another animal stuck up in the prongs of the tall forks behind it, a goose.
“There is a figure like this,” Ceric began, “a day’s ride away from the hall of Kilton.” He was going to say “on my uncle’s lands” but stopped himself in time.
“Is it of Freyr?” Hrald wanted to know.
“Woden, I think. But it is all worm-eaten and falling to pieces.”
Hrald could not help but give the carving a quick nod of his head, as he had seen Tindr do, but he had dropped a little behind Ceric before doing so, so he would not see.
Ceric rode ahead. They were now at the place of burial. The wooden cross marking Godwin’s grave stood out; all the other markers were low rounded stones. They had walked or ridden past it several times, but always with others. Ceric released his grip on his horse, loosening the reins without really knowing it. The animal slowed. There were two tall upright stones marking the entranc
e to the burial place, a sort of portal, though there was no fence around it. Ceric’s black gelding slowed further, waiting to know which way he should go. Hrald, behind him, slowed too. Ceric reined up before the stone uprights and got off his horse.
Hrald watched him walk to where the wooden cross stood. Hrald had stayed at Tyrsborg with his injured father when Godwin was buried, and again when Ceric had walked away carrying the big cross Tindr had made. Now he watched his friend stand before the cross and stare at it.
Ceric looked at the cross, at the big letters his mother had burnt into it. Rain had stained the new wood, with a few dark streaks, looking almost like tears, running from the letters of his uncle’s name. He let his eyes drop to the soil, now settling after having been disturbed. Some broad green blades of grass had begun to push their way up amongst the rocky ground.
His uncle had been dead for almost four weeks. He knew his body was rotting in the binding sheet he had been wrapped in, just under his feet. He knew his body mattered not; it was the soul that mattered. He hoped his uncle was in Heaven.
His father had been dead so long he had little memory of him, just the white linen band wrapping his empty eyes, and his voice. It was a voice unlike his uncle’s.
It had been Godwin who had truly raised him, Godwin who had romped and played with him when he was little, Godwin who taught him to sail in the little skiffs at the bottom of the Kilton’s steep bluff. When his father and baby sister had died he had gone to live in the treasure room with Godwin and his aunt, to spare him from the fever his mother also raved with. It was Godwin who he was to have served as pledged man. It was Godwin who called him, in quiet moments, Chirp, a name no other used for him. He would not hear it again, he knew.
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