He fell on his knees. He pressed his hands together at his heart, then lifted the right to bless himself. He wanted to pray for his uncle’s soul, and did not know how to.
When Hrald saw Ceric kneel he got off his horse. He walked to him and stood an arms-span off.
Hrald had only met Godwin of Kilton once, when he had brought Ceric to Four Stones. He knew his mother did not like Ceric’s uncle, and he did not either. He remembered how his mother had wept as she readied him to make the trip to see his father. Ashild was making trouble because she wanted to go too, but she was a maid and could not. His mother had made him hide her letter in his pack, in a special lining Burginde had sewn, so that it could not be seen even if the pack were emptied out. Even so she made him promise he would give up the letter if Ceric’s uncle frightened him.
Ceric loved his uncle, he knew that, and they had both stood there and watched as he fought and died. They had not spoken of this, and Hrald could not see how they could. His father had killed Ceric’s uncle, and in front of them. His father did not want to fight; he had said so, but when Godwin of Kilton would not go, his father had told him he was going to kill him, and he did. He had been afraid Ceric would hate his father, or hate him, but somehow he did not.
Ceric was still praying, but Hrald could hear he was sniffling too. He did not know what to do, so he knelt down next to his friend. He crossed himself and began saying the Lord’s Prayer, softly, but aloud. Ceric turned his head to him, and then began saying it with him.
When they had done they stood up and walked back to their horses, grazing on the grasses by the upright stones. After they had ridden a while Ceric spoke.
“I will always be your friend, Hrald, if you will always be mine.”
Chapter the Twenty-third: Call On Your God
ONE morning Ceridwen watched Sidroc and the boys saddle and bridle their horses. He had been speaking to them as they did so, and she could see the excitement in the boys’ eyes. Eirian was standing before her on the outdoor table, so she could more easily measure the hem-length for the new gown she was sewing up. Sidroc walked over to her, leading his horse, as the boys swung up in their saddles.
“Where are you heading,” she asked with a smile.
“To see Berse,” he said, in the same easy tone he used when something was serious.
It took her a moment to speak. Berse was the weapon-smith.
“Hrald has but ten years,” is how she answered him.
Sidroc held his reins in one hand and idly slapped them against the palm of the other. His head turned back towards his son a moment.
“He is with me for this year only. I must teach him what I can.”
There was nothing she could say to this. She felt herself swallow, and forced herself to smile.
“To get them…swords?”
He let out a short laugh. “Nai. They would only hurt their arms, and pick up bad habits through lack of strength. They can learn much with their knives. I will have Berse make them both shields, sized for their bodies, and spears too.”
Eirian now leaned towards her father, spreading her skirt out between clenched fists as if to show it off.
“New,” she beamed at him.
He reached over and stroked the bridge of her nose. “And pretty, for a pretty maid,” he told her. Yrling popped out of the stable, saw the boys mounted and ready to ride, and began hopping up and down, holding his arms up, wanting to join them.
She laughed. “I will finish Eirian’s gown, and take them both for a walk,” she said.
She had to catch Yrling up to keep him from running after. He whined out his complaint, and it was Hrald who turned in his saddle and looked back at the child and waved to him. He has every sweetness of his mother, she thought, leading Yrling back.
Once at Berse’s forge the weapon-smith did not blink at Sidroc’s request. Here was a warrior who wanted to train his boys early, and provide them with the best kit. He looked the boys up and down, then measured their height and the length of their arms with his oiled leathern thong ticked over with measure-marks. Two ash spears and two iron-rimmed shields of linden wood, fitted for the boys, he was glad to provide. He made spears and knives for the men of Gotland, but nearly every sword he hammered out was destined for foreign trade. He had long ago repaired the shattered rim to the Dane’s shield, and was happy for more local business now.
A week later Sidroc returned with Ceric and Hrald to pick up Berse’s handiwork. They had their first lesson right there, how to mount your horse with your shield slung on your back.
“Tighten your chest strap so it cannot move. If it bumps your horse, he could startle, and run from you.”
Both shields were of unpainted wood, with an iron handle inside the central boss for gripping, and a leathern strap to slip the fore-arm through for extra support. They were sized to protect the torso, from shoulder to hip, and thus were noticeably smaller than those for a man. Small as they were, the iron rimming made them heavy.
“You can paint the face of it as you like,” Sidroc told them as they rode back to the hall. “You can blacken it with charcoal or pitch, then seal the blackening in with beeswax. You can use powdered limestone to whiten it; or there is a good red paint here, made from copper ore, the same the red-painted houses are brushed with.” He was carrying both their new spears and would show them later how to secure them safely to the saddle while riding.
They began as soon as they arrived Tyrsborg, with shield-work, the boys holding their knives as if they were swords, and then their spears. Sidroc got his own black and white painted shield, and Ceric and Hrald flanked him as he moved.
“Fighting starts with the feet,” he told them. “Stay light on your feet, knees slightly bent, to more easily swing the shield to ward off blows to the knee and legs, or lift it quickly to block a blow to the head.”
He had them face each other, holding no weapon, just shadowing the other’s move, watching and guessing which direction the shield would be lifted, and when. He showed them how to use the shield itself as a weapon, both to push men over or by catching them unawares with the rim edge. Mindful of taxing their strength, he had them put down the heavy rounds and turn their efforts to their spears. Their thrown spear-work was good, both of them; they threw with balance and form, though of course not much strength. Both knew how to find that balance point in the shaft where one should grip for the longest and surest throw. Sidroc liked to incise a shallow line there, and tie a thin strip of leather over it, so he could feel it in an instant, even in the dark. He brought out his own spears, both the light Idrisid one and the heavy Norse, to show them.
They took turns hurling their spears at the target boards on the stable wall. Tindr came back from some errand as they were doing so, and stopped to watch them. Knowing how good he was with his bow made Ceric throw his spear a little harder.
Afterwards they sat together at the outside table. The target boards nailed up on the stable wall bore many fresh gouges from their practice.
“You are good spears-men, both of you,” Sidroc praised, at which both boys straightened up a little on their benches.
“You have watched Asberg well,” he told his son. “Asberg is one of the best with a spear that I have seen. We fought many battles side by side. I have watched him clear a path through men three deep.” Hrald had in fact begun to use a spear under his uncle’s guidance, and was pleased to know that his father held him in such esteem.
“And you,” Sidroc went on to Ceric, “I think you have learnt much from the warriors of Kilton.”
This was uncertain ground; the chief warrior of Kilton had been of course Godwin, but with the boys staying with them for months he felt they must speak as freely as they could. He had said nothing to Ceric about the duel with Kilton, and did not intend to now. The boy had seen all, had even raised his own hand against his uncle’s madness. There was naught to justify nor excuse.
Ceric was looking at him, and no
dded. “Worr would practice with me, and Cadmar drills all the men.”
At this name Sidroc could not keep from grinning. “The warrior-monk?” He gave a laugh. “He of the strong wrists. I am sure he bests all with a spear.”
“Do you know him?” Ceric asked, in surprise.
“I met him at Kilton. I came there twice, the first time you were no bigger than Yrling.”
Ceric recalled now being told this by his mother. His only memory was of playing with Ashild; he had none of Sidroc.
“The second time, when I met Cadmar, I came with my King, Guthrum, to celebrate the Peace with your King, Ælfred. There was feasting and gaming.”
Ceric recalled this himself, how the Danes had come and sat at table with his Godfather Ælfred, his Uncle Godwin, and his father. The hall had been full of Danes; the Jarl of South Lindisse had been one of them.
Sidroc’s own memory flicked back to that stay, but he did not let it linger there. He had come face to face with his shield-maiden at the grove above the burh, and she had given him her kiss. He looked back at her son.
“One night I took silver off of Cadmar at dice. Then he challenged me at arm-wrestling, and won it all back,” he ended, with a grin. He paused a moment, the smile still on his face, thinking on all this.
“Never wine before a battle,” he thought to tell them then. And no women, he would have added, were the boys just a few years older. “Nothing is worse than fighting with a bad head. Ale, já, of course; or one cup, only, of mead; no more. Save wine and mead for your return, when you show off your battle-gain, and drink to the dead.”
In the days and weeks to come the boys practiced with Sidroc nearly every day. He had the boys spar with nothing but their spears in their hands, taught them to block and push, how to quickly drop the point and drive it home on a man’s body or leg.
“You will always face warriors more skilled than you, with greater strength and experience. You are young; use your speed to your advantage. Bring your man down, then kill him. A quick thrust to the leg can disable a man, make him lower his shield or weapon, giving you your opening.”
He showed them how to fight shield-to-shield, protecting each other as they advanced; and back-to-back as well, to work out of a melee.
“In the heart of any battle, men become panicked and confused. When you are young stay at the edges, where you can work your way to safety. From there you can pick out the weakest opponent, deliver a death blow to those wounded who might still be able to kill one of your brothers with a flung knife or axe. Staying alive is what matters. You are of no use throwing your life away; a dead man cannot kill.”
He had them practice throwing their spears standing still, and at a run. He had them trip each other, tumble on the ground and grapple to gain advantage, striking with knees and elbows, pulling at hair or yanking at tunics to down each other. Hrald got his eye blackened, and Ceric a swollen bump on the forehead. Some nights both boys went to sleep with sore arms and shoulders, and neither would admit it.
“Before you head into battle, make sure all your clothing and kit is secure. Tighten your belt, and your weapons-belt. Re-tie your leg wrappings so they hold firmly. If your hair is long, braid it and tuck the braid into your tunic so it is not at hand to be grabbed at.”
Sidroc was mindful not to push them to real injury, but mindful too of the passing of the weeks. By the time the cold weather was setting in he began sparring with them, facing them with his own shield and drawn seax or spear, as the boys countered with theirs. He had them both come at him at once, and showed how by staying light in his stance he could pivot his shield and disarm one of them with it while striking with his weapon at the other. He showed them all he thought they could absorb. Most of all, he told them what he knew.
“You can be a good warrior at twenty, and you will have boldness then. But you will not come to your full strength until you are five-and-twenty. If you live, the next ten will be your best fighting years. You will gain in strength, but much more will you gain in cunning. A cunning warrior uses every tool he has mastered to take his advantage over his enemy. Axe, spear, sword, shield, seax; já; but his mind.
“Each man has a style in which he fights. The older you are, the more battles you have seen, the faster you will see that style, know its strength and weakness. You will keep your head when others about you panic and show their fear. You will kill quicker, and cleaner, with less risk to yourself.”
Being twenty was a full eight years away for Ceric, and twice Hrald’s age. Both knew they would be given swords long before that, and likely have the chance to use them in battle, as Ceric’s father and uncle had. But now they heard that these first few years would be those of greatest danger to them. Cadmar had taken his two sons into battle at sixteen and seventeen years of age, and seen them both slaughtered. Ceric knew that, but it was not until this scarred Danish warrior stood before him and suggested that he might not live to see his twenty-fifth year that the danger seemed real.
Sidroc was watching both boys’ faces as he said this. Hrald was quiet by nature, and seemed to hang on every word his father spoke. Ceric was more likely to question, or by a slight shake of his coppery-curled head show that he wished not to believe what he had heard. Each boy now looked at him with fastened eyes as he went on. They had finished with their practice and stood by the stable wall, the boys still holding their spears, butt ends resting on the soil.
“Many times battle will swirl around you,” he told them. “Men are screaming. You see your brothers be hacked down. Take a breath. Call on your God. Pick the man who catches your eye, make him your target.”
Sidroc gazed on them, gravely looking back at him. Both boys would go into their first battle wearing ring-shirts and helmets. He had had no such protection when he started, and only won them later by stripping them off the bodies of the dead. He could see the golden chain around Ceric’s neck, the one that held the cross concealed beneath his tunic. His eye dropped to the silver and gold-hilted seax at the boy’s waist. He and Hrald would step onto the field with a fine and showy war-kit; one that would catch the eye of the warriors they faced. He knew what he must say next.
“If the fighting grows thick around you, and you lose your nerve, drop your sword. It is better to be held to ransom than slain through your uncertainty.”
He said this in the same flat tone that he gave all his instruction, without judgment or censure.
Ceric was quick in his rejection. “I would never do that. That is a great dishonour.”
He had pushed his spear shaft a little away from him, as if thrusting away Sidroc’s words.
Sidroc paused before he answered. “I have,” he told the boy.
“I was young, one of my first battles. I had got separated from my kin, could not see them. My hamingja – my luck-spirit – was frightened. It was leaving me, fleeing, just as I wanted to. I dropped my sword before the man I was fighting. He grinned at me, saw I was young. He bent to pick up my sword; it was a good one. It was then I killed him with my knife.”
He watched the boy’s face, knew what he was thinking. “It was not treachery. He made a mistake. I saw it and turned it to my advantage.”
Ceric took a breath, but slowly nodded his assent.
Sidroc stood, looking at the two, their smooth faces and wide eyes looking back at him. Hrald had a tuft of brown hair on top of his head that stood up; he had had it since he was a toddling boy. Ceric was just beginning to show the sort of frame he would possess as a man, broad of chest, but not tall. At ten and twelve he was teaching them how to kill. His shield-maiden was right, they were but boys. But he was right as well. He must teach them what he could, now, years before he hoped they would need it.
He could see them, ten years hence, fully armed in their war-kits. Their lands were on the other side of Angle-land from each other; Ceric’s far to the West, in the Kingdom of Wessex, and Hrald’s in Lindisse, under the Dane-law held by King Guthrum. He could
not imagine how, after this year together with him, they could ever meet again. Only war could do that.
He spurred himself and went on.
“You will enter the field with your friends. Once you have fought a few battles with them they will be unto brothers to you. You will see them get hit, go down. You will see them get killed. It will sicken you, or you will feel fury. You must master yourself and not grow reckless. If your anger fuels your fighting, let it loose. But gauge well. Going after the man who killed your friend could mean your own death. Or it could mean the glory of avenging him.
“Later, when you drink to the dead, your brothers who have fallen – be glad for them. They are taken by the shield-maidens to the halls of the Gods, or by your angels to Heaven. Either way you will see them soon.”
Both boys swallowed.
“After you fight you will feel the battle-sickness. A taste like metal in the mouth, your belly churning, your mind as if you rode the fastest horse; Odin’s Sleipnir himself. You may retch. It is from what you have seen, and done. It will pass. With time it will lessen. But you will always feel it, each time you face death, each time you kill.”
“What…about berserkrs?” Ceric made bold to ask. “Some men cannot be killed.”
It was Sidroc’s turn to pause. “Já,” he agreed. He had seen this, seen a warrior fight with crazed power: Godwin, as he mowed down men on his way to kill his uncle, Yrling.
And he had fought that way himself; felt the bear-spirit enter his own breast. His shield-maiden had watched one instance of it, the time he fought at sea with Danes, against Danes, to win their way here.
“Some men cannot be killed,” he admitted. “If the bear-spirit enters them, they will kill with such ferocity that no man can stop them. A thrown spear or axe is your best chance, but even this they will deflect or dodge.”
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