Tindr

by Octavia Randolph

  Now Hrald spoke. “Can you run?” he asked, his voice tremulous.

  His father took it with the seriousness it warranted.

  “You will know what to do. Even if your hamingja is fearful, your fylgja – your guardian spirit –” he said for Ceric’s benefit, “will guide you, tell you whether to run, or whether you must stay and face your Doom.”

  Later, at dusk, Ceric and Hrald were helping Tindr carry in more firewood. As they stood under the darkening sky by the stacked wood piles, Ceric spoke.

  “Hrald, the spirit your father spoke of,” he wanted to know, “the guardian one…is it like an angel, to us? Does he have one of those, and we don’t, because we are Christian?”

  “The fylgja,” Hrald repeated. His father had told him of all this long ago, told his big sister Ashild too. After his father had vanished he had mentioned his fylgja to Wilgot the priest, telling him he hoped she would take care of his father, wherever he was. Wilgot had clicked his teeth at Hrald, shook his head and told him this was error and belief in magic; Christians had angels to guard them if they were good, and they were not female, but without sex.

  Hrald knew that his father was not truly Christian; he had seen him make Offering at the sacrifice pit at Four Stones. He did not know what more to say to Wilgot, so said nothing.

  Hrald had taken a long time to answer, and now Ceric spoke for him. “I would rather have an angel, with a sword in his hand, as we do,” he declared.

  That night when Ceric was in his alcove he thought more of what they had heard that day. Everything about the Dane surprised him. He told them that he had been afraid in battle and had wanted to quit. Then he killed the Saxon who had spared his life. Ceric knew this was what being cunning was. He knew too that Sidroc had used his cunning to help kill his uncle, who was one of the best fighters in Angle-land, weak shield arm or not.

  Call on your God, the Dane had told them; when you are panicked in battle, call on your God. He knew one of the runes inside Sidroc’s shield was that of the warrior God Tyr. That was the God the Dane called upon.

  His hand went to his chest, and the golden cross that his father had worn. It was a gift from the King he had served, and whom he would serve. It was the cross of the God he served, as well.

  Chapter the Twenty-fourth: Is This Treason

  MINDFUL that the boys not forget their letters, Ceridwen asked Tindr to build a shallow wooden tray. This she filled with melted beeswax, and so had a wax-tablet for their use. She was grateful for it herself, for it was much easier to scribe the alphabet in wax than the smoothed ashes of the cooking-rings.

  Ceric had ever been good at forming letters, and his efforts had won praise both from Dunnere at Kilton and Sigewif at Oundle. Now Hrald, whose practice parchment at Oundle she remembered being blotted with his inky thumbprints, had gained in ability as well, so that only the smaller size of Ceric’s letters betrayed his greater skill. She took pride in the fact that both boys wished to read and write with ease; few enough of the folk at Kilton could, and nearly none at Four Stones. Only Wilgot the priest and now Ælfwyn wrote and read there, and unlike Kilton, there were no books. Sidroc she knew could point out his name, or hers, upon a parchment, but signed himself with the single rune Sigel. He knew the runes, but the laws and records of Angle-land were written not in this ancient scribing but in the alphabet of the Saxons. Here in Gotland there was no written speech save that of runes.

  The boys took turns writing in the tablet, one holding a sharpened stick as stylus while the other dictated what was to be written. In this way they had practice in their spelling as well. When the wax was filled it was smoothed over with the bottom of a small pan warm from the kitchen yard.

  One noon-tide when she had left them to minister to a crying Yrling’s skinned knee she returned to hear Ceric reciting a prayer. Hrald’s dark head was bent over the tablet, and he was digging away in the golden wax as quickly as he could follow his friend’s words. She felt a pang at this; she had not, in good conscience, asked the boys if they said their prayers each morning and night; not when she herself could not join them. They had been away from any Mass or chanted prayer for many weeks. Listening now she heard the ardency of Ceric’s voice. When he had stopped Hrald remained bent over his work for a few moments longer, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he studied his work. “Amen,” he said, adding this final word as well.

  Ceridwen and Ceric walked down to the trading road. His boots were worn, and she did not wish to ask Tindr to make him a pair, not with the additional duties which had been thrust on him, so they went to the workshop of the shoe-maker. There was goat hide or cow hide he could offer, the latter in either brown or black. The leather was dressed, and Ceric wished he could have boots of boar hide such as Tindr wore, but chose black cow hide as the next best thing. The shoe-maker drew an outline of his feet, and promised they would be ready in a few days. His old boots, those they were replacing, were brown, and Ceridwen wondered without asking if Ceric now wished for black, as that is what his Uncle Godwin wore.

  Outside the stall they passed a family she did not recognize, with three girls, one about Ceric’s age. She had long, straight, dark golden hair and deep sea-blue eyes. She was laughing about something with her sisters, and when she lifted her head and saw Ceric, she smiled.

  “A pretty maid,” Ceridwen noted as they walked on. Ceric paused and then looked back after the maid; he had not noticed her as she had.

  “Ashild is prettier,” he judged.

  His mother gave a little laugh. “Ashild has a beauty for a mother,” she answered, but her heart had skipped a happy beat. There was little Ceric could have said to give her as much pleasure as his naming Ashild in this way. Ever since the two had met as toddling babes, she had hoped they would grow to love each other. She remembered them in their first play, stuffing sprigs of thyme into the other’s mouth outside the bower house of Kilton. Later he had the full Summer with her and Hrald, when he was nine. And Ceric had spent almost a week at Four Stones before setting sail for Gotland, more than enough time for the two to reacquaint themselves now.

  Ceric thought of his mother’s words. Ashild’s mother was gentle and nice, but tall and thin. Ashild was sturdy, which he liked, and a good rider, and not afraid to get dirty. The Summer he had spent at Four Stones she was always getting scolded for running off at play with Hrald and him. She was hard to scare and did not scream like other maids if you threw a toad at her; she had thrown it right back at him, and it had hit him in the face, which had made her laugh. When he had seen her again before they left to come here she had grown a lot, but he knew he had too.

  “About Ashild,” his mother thought to add. “Do you know that Sidroc is not her father, as he is Hrald’s?”

  “Já,” he said with a nod, which made his mother smile. When they were alone they sometimes spoke the tongue of Angle-land, or a mixture of the two, and were doing so now, but he had answered her in Norse, which he was working to learn.

  “She told me, and Hrald told me too. Her father’s name was Yrling, the same as your Yrling, and he was a war-chief.” He thought a moment more. “She has a talisman from him, a silver hammer of Thor. She showed it to me.”

  “And…did she tell you how her father died?”

  “He was killed.”

  She took a swift breath, and knew she must go on. “Já. Yrling was killed by your Uncle Godwin.”

  They were nearly to Rannveig’s brew-house now, and he stopped before it.

  “Yrling was Sidroc’s uncle,” she told him. “He watched Godwin do it.”

  “Why?” was all he asked. “Was it in battle?”

  She nodded. “In battle. Yrling was fighting to win the burh at Cirenceaster, Lady Ælfwyn’s home. Godwin found him there and killed him, but not for that. He killed him because he thought Yrling had something to do with your father’s maiming.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nai. All Yrling had done w
as accept your father at Four Stones after he had been blinded. You have heard how your uncle sought revenge.”

  Ceric had, many times. Godwin’s vengeance on Hingvar was sung of by the scop at table, and all the thegns knew of it; some of them had even gone with him. He had never known about the death of Ashild’s father as well.

  “Uncle killed Sidroc’s uncle, Yrling,” he repeated. “Ashild’s father. And then Sidroc killed my uncle.”

  “Já,” she answered, softly. “There were years of enmity between them.”

  “And Sidroc is Hrald’s father,” Ceric went on, his voice trailing off. “My friend.”

  His head jerked. “Ashild…does she know this?” He answered himself. “I know she does not.” He had turned to her, eyes burning. “She does not know my uncle killed her father.”

  She waited a moment before she spoke again. “Lady Ælfwyn knows; I told her long ago. And it was I who sent her the silver hammer of Thor. She must feel that telling Ashild will serve no purpose.”

  The wooden slab bench near the end of the pier was empty, and Ceridwen walked to it now. This was much to take in, and she hoped they could sit together before returning to the hall. Ceric came with her, and sat down. There was no ship tied at the pier, and their eyes went out across the expanse of the Baltic. The light wind caused narrow ripples of white foam to be pushed towards them, like torn and looping threads of linen. A flock of dark sea ducks that bobbed not far out began squawking and flapping their wings, then rose in noisy action, taking flight over their heads.

  “Mother,” he said at last. “Godwin of Kilton is dead. My place there…has it changed?”

  Before she could begin to answer he spoke again.

  “I know my brother Edwin is heir; you and father gave him to Godwin to be so. I know I will be his pledged man.”

  She was looking at the profile of his face as he said this.

  “But I am four years older than he. Will I not become heir to Kilton now? Edwin is no different than me; we are sons of you and father. Why should I not be heir now?”

  Her mouth had gone dry.

  Now that Ceric had begun along this path, he followed it.

  “Why…did you not give me to Godwin and Edgyth, to be their son? I was older and would be fit to fight for Kilton sooner. Instead you gave Edwin, who was just a babe.”

  She was no longer looking at the line of Ceric’s forehead and nose; she was looking out upon the water. The Sun came out from behind a thin scrim of cloud. Its rays were focused on the cresting top of a distant wave, and dazzled her.

  He was troubled enough by her silence that he turned to her.

  “Is this…treason?” he asked. She was forced to look at him, and watch the eyelashes sweep down over his green eyes.

  “Nai, nai,” she forced herself to say. Her words were almost hoarse, coming as they did from the pit of her belly.

  “You are right to question,” she said, trying to make strong her voice. “Your father and I could not give you, Ceric; we could not.”

  He saw tears begin to run from the inner corners of her eyes. She did not lift her hand to wipe them away.

  “You were our first-born…we could not give you, not for Kilton’s sake, nor anyone’s.”

  She was crying freely now, and had lowered her head. He did not understand how he had made her cry so. It was not as if she had given a child to be taken far from her; Edwin was raised just as he had been, at the keep.

  “Now that Uncle is dead, would it not be best for me to be heir?”

  She was swallowing back her tears, trying to compose herself.

  “There was a ceremony,” she reminded him, “you were there; I think you might recall it. Dunnere was there to bless Edwin, and bless his becoming Godwin’s son.

  “Wills have been written,” she went on, “both your uncle’s and your aunt’s, naming Edwin as their son and heir.”

  “But he is no different than me. Naming him changes nothing. He is the same as me. Their wills name me, the older one, as second.”

  She had no answer for this. She wiped her cheeks with her hand as he warmed to his own words.

  “And I will be ready to fight for Kilton, and for Ælfred, long before Edwin.”

  “You are eager to return,” she asked, when she could speak again.

  “Yes,” he answered, pointed in his use of the Saxon word. “I want to be with you this year, but Kilton is my home, and my duty.”

  She tried to smile. “You are young to speak of duty, Ceric. Give yourself more time before it is forced upon you.”

  “There could be war again, and soon,” he returned. Of a sudden he sounded not like a boy of twelve, but eighteen years.

  “Who says this?” she asked. It had been no small measure of comfort that peace had held throughout much of Angle-land, with it divided between the King of the Danes, Guthrum, and King Ælfred.

  “Cadmar. Worr. And most of all, Uncle. The peace is broken all the time in small ways, by Danes looking to take what they can.”

  There were skirmishes amongst those Danes who had already settled in the lands of the Angles and Saxons, she knew that; there were always those who grew discontent and wanted more. Nor had those who had been displaced forgotten it.

  “Hrald is your best friend, is he not?” she reminded him. “He is a Dane.”

  “Half,” he corrected.

  She nodded, went on. “But he will rule a Danish keep, a great one.”

  “Hrald is different,” he conceded. “Others could come, from across the sea.”

  “Did you hear this from your uncle, as well?”

  “All say it.” A long moment went by. “Father is dead,” he said. “Now Uncle, who should have lived a longer life. And Edwin is little.”

  “Ceric,” she ventured, not knowing quite how to voice her question. “You know that your uncle is dead through his own actions?”

  He looked down at the grey-white stone at his feet, and rolled a few pebbles under his sole. Before Worr had left, he had taken Ceric aside. Besides his uncle, Worr was the man he trusted most. One of the things he had told him was that his uncle had died in a fair fight. “You saw it yourself,” he had told him. He said something else: It did not matter how great a warrior Godwin was. All warriors will die in battle if they fight long enough.

  His mother was still looking at him, and he looked back. For answer he nodded. They stood, and began climbing the hill to Tyrsborg.

  That night Ceridwen awakened. The Moon was just past full, and shining in a silver beam through the window high on the wall of the treasure room. She pulled herself up and looked at the pool of light greying the floor boards. She did not know why she had awakened. No dream had troubled her, nor night-bird called. Sidroc shifted next her; he too was awake. Sometimes when she awakened so, she merely turned to him and clung, until she felt she could sleep again. Tonight she looked out into the empty light of the treasure room, and was silent. He would wait, she knew, for her to speak.

  “The boys,” she asked, her voice a whisper. “What will become of them?”

  She could feel him give a slow shake of his head. “Their Fate was cast, long ago. How they work with that Fate will decide the rest.”

  She gave a small sigh, and he went on.

  “Ceric will be second at Kilton, and if his brother dies, first. Hrald will rule Four Stones. That is what they were born to. What more will happen will depend on the Gods – both theirs and ours,” he added, with a slight laugh, “and how they can seize the chances that come their way.”

  A long time passed before she spoke again.

  “Ceric asked why he should not be first at Kilton, now his uncle is dead. He is the older, he argued, and will be ready to fight before his brother Edwin.”

  “And he is right, save for one fact,” was how he answered. His voice was low, and held a gentleness he rarely used.

  His thoughts dwelt on Ceric, though he said no more.


  If he did not know the boy, he would be mindful of something happening to the younger brother, some accident that rendered him unfit or even dead. He could not picture Ceric toppling his young brother into a well, or forcing his horse to bolt. But such things happened often enough in great families that his shield-maiden would know of them.

  “There is only one who could make that decision,” she went on. “The King himself. Only Ælfred could deem it best that the Lord of Kilton be the one, and not the other.”

  He would not counter this, despite what he had just been thinking.

  “I…I do not want Ceric to be chosen as heir,” she whispered. There in the dark her thoughts had carried her back years ago, to when threat of Danish attack at Kilton had her asking Modwynn if Ceric would not be safer dressed as any boy, so fearful was she of marking him, through his rich clothing, as the son of the hall, and thus a prize target.

  She shook her head to herself. It little mattered to his safety if Ceric was heir, or second in line. To down or capture the lord of any keep was always the goal in battle, and it was the sworn duty of his pledged men to sacrifice their lives to save his. Either way he would be at the centre of any combat.

  She asked now what she dreaded asking. “What…what if the Peace does not hold?”

  “It has held so far; Guthrum is strong in his desire to maintain what he has won, and Ælfred has been skillful in holding what he could.” He spoke with care, but with the truth as he saw it.

  “It is not in our hands, shield-maiden. Our parts have been played in Angle-land. Our life is here.”

  She made no response, and he listened to her quiet breathing. Her mind was full of questions he could not answer. He could fix none of this, no matter how much he wanted to ease her heart. He moved his hand from his side. It brushed against the seam of the long scar on his thigh. His finger spent a moment, tracing the length of its raised surface, this scar he would bear until the day of his death.

  “Come over here,” he murmured, as he turned and pulled her onto his chest.