Born of the Sun (19 page)

Niniane dreamed during the night. It was a dream she had had occasionally ever since she was a child, a fearful dream for all that it was so silly. She had first dreamed it the night after Kerwyn told her the story of the giant Ysabadin. She had seen the giant in her dream, huge and hairy, with eyes that shone red. The giant was chasing her. She ran and ran but her legs were very heavy. She could not move them. She had to put her hands on her legs to try to push them forward, but it was no use. The giant was going to catch her …

She woke up sweating. Such a silly dream for a grown woman to fear. But her heart was hammering. She lay perfectly still so as not to wake Ceawlin. It was comforting to have him there. It helped to quiet her foolish terror.

It was raining. She could hear the rain beating against the window glass. It was so warm under the covers. Ceawlin was so warm. She laid her cheek against his bare back and closed her eyes. She remembered how safe she had felt wrapped in his arms that night in the barn.

How scornful he would be if he knew she was afraid of a dream. She did not think he was afraid of anything. They were so different, they two. She feared so much.

She feared for him who was so unafraid for himself. They hated the Saxons in this country. How many sons had lost fathers at Beranbyrg? How many fathers had lost sons? How many arrows would be waiting for Ceawlin as he went hunting so fearlessly through the wood?

Under her cheek she could feel his back moving as he breathed. She closed her eyes even tighter and began to pray. She did not want Ceawlin killed.

The following day Niniane and Ceawlin rode to Naille’s farm to bring back the livestock. The track underfoot was thick with mud from the night’s rain. The sky cleared as they rode, however, and by the time they reached the farm the sun was shining. The track took them through fields that had been newly plowed, and in the distance they could see men at work plowing more.

The geese in the farmyard screeched and beat their wings as the strangers came in. Niniane and Ceawlin tied their horses to the hitching post and were knocking at the farmhouse door when a boy of about six years came running up behind them. “We’re out back,” he said breathlessly. “Isolde’s cat has got caught in a tree.”

They followed the child to the yard behind the house. There was a tall beech tree in the middle of the yard, and beneath it, staring upward with concentrated intensity, were a woman and three small children. Far up the tree, clearly visible in the still-bare branches, was a gray cat, meowing piercingly.

“She’s been up there since we woke up this morning,” the boy reported to the two newcomers. “She’s afraid to come down and she’s too high for us to climb after her.”

“Oh, Niniane,” said Alanna distractedly, “it’s you. Have you come for the cow?”

“Yes.” The children had all turned from their distressed contemplation of the tree to stare at the new arrivals on the scene.

“Alanna,” Niniane said gravely, “this is my husband, Ceawlin.”

“You seem to have a problem,” said Ceawlin in his perfect British. He gave Alanna a charming, boyish smile. Alanna’s eyes widened as she took him in.

“My … my cat,” said Isolde. Her small face was swollen with crying, her voice thick with tears. “She wants to come down.”

“So I see,” said Ceawlin, looking up. The tree was tall and the cat was at least thirty feet up in it.

“I wanted to climb up to fetch her, but Mama said I couldn’t,” said the boy. Niniane recognized him as Alanna’s third son, Brice. He had been but four when last she saw him.

“You are more precious than the cat,” said Alanna in a harried voice. Then, to Niniane, “Isolde tamed her, you see. She was more like a dog than a cat. That is why this is so upsetting.”

“I’ll go and get the cat for you, shall I?” said Ceawlin to the little girl.

Her swollen face lighted. “Oh, yes. Would you?”

“Have you some kind of a bag I can put it in?” Ceawlin asked Alanna. “I won’t be able to hold it and climb back down again at the same time.”

“Get the leather game bag from the shed,” Alanna said to her son, and the boy ran off.

“Are you certain you can climb up there?” Niniane asked doubtfully. “Some of those branches look very thin.”

“We’ll soon find out if I can or not,” he returned. He took off his cloak and handed it to her. The women and children all watched him, wide-eyed, as he looked up measuringly at the tree.

“Here it is!” Brice came panting back with a leather bag strung through the top with a leather tie that could be pulled closed.

“This is just what I need,” said Ceawlin, and slung it over his back. Then he went to the tree, jumped to grasp the first branch, and swung himself upward.

Niniane’s heart was thudding as she watched his agile figure ascending ever higher. The branches toward the top were much thinner than those at the bottom. Surely they would not hold a man’s weight? Surely one would snap and he would come plunging to the ground. She pictured it happening, pictured him plummeting through the branches to come crashing …

“He’s got her.” Isolde’s voice sounded as if she were praying. Niniane found she
was
praying. She watched Ceawlin grab the cat by the scruff of its neck and stuff it into the bag.

How could he keep his balance? He was so precariously perched, and on such a slender branch …

Please, dear God. Let him come down safely.

Ceawlin slung the bag over his shoulder once more and began to climb back down. As he reached his foot to put his weight on the branch beneath him, there came the sound of a loud
crack.
The women and children gasped. Niniane went deadly pale. But he had reached out and grabbed another branch, hanging for a moment in the air, supported only by his hands. Then he was feeling for another foothold. He found one, and the descent continued.

The children set up a cheer as Ceawlin’s feet touched the ground. He handed the bag to Isolde. “Here she is, frightened but safe.”

Isolde opened the bag and the cat jumped out and streaked away. Isolde ran after it, calling its name. Ceawlin began to laugh.

“Thank you,” said Alanna. “It was foolish to risk your life for a cat, but I thank you for the child’s sake.”

“It gave me a good excuse to climb a tree,” he replied. The short hair on his forehead was slightly damp with sweat. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes were brilliant. “It was fun,” he added, and Niniane, staring at him, knew that he was speaking the truth.

Alanna had planned to send Niniane and her Saxon husband on their way as quickly as possible, but now she said, “Please come into the house and have something to eat and drink.”

“You are very kind,” Ceawlin replied, and they all went into the farmhouse kitchen.

Alanna gave him a beer in her best cup. He drank it and praised her berry bread and talked to her in his perfect British as if he had known her for years. Alanna pressed more beer on him, more bread. The British woman’s worn face was brighter than Niniane had ever seen it. A Saxon, Niniane thought with amusement, at Bryn Atha.

Nor was it just Alanna whom Ceawlin put himself out to charm. The children, too, came in for their share of his attention, and soon they were chattering away as well. Niniane watched his performance with rueful comprehension. That it was a performance she had no doubt. Ceawlin was not a man who, left to himself, would waste his time on children. Sigurd was the one who loved children. Not Ceawlin. This effort to charm was quite deliberate.

It was also successful. “I perfectly understand why you married him,” Alanna said as she stood with Niniane watching Ceawlin tie the crate of chickens to the chestnut gelding’s saddle. “He is not at all like a Saxon.”

Niniane’s lip curled. There was no one more like a Saxon. But she held her tongue and smiled sweetly.

“And he is so good-looking too.” Naille’s wife’s brown eyes were soft as they regarded the tall, lean figure of Ceawlin packing the chickens. “Scarcely more than a boy. How old is he, Niniane?”

“Eighteen.”

Alanna sighed. “You must get him baptized. Then everything will be all right.”

Oh, yes, Niniane thought to herself with irony. Just get him baptized. Ceawlin, son of Cynric, prince of the blood. She thought of how he had looked at his father’s funeral, his clothes all stained with the blood of the ox he had offered. She heard again the contempt that colored his voice every time he uttered the word “Christian.”

If Alanna should know …

It was best that she didn’t know. Best that she thought him only Niniane’s husband, a charming young man, not at all like a Saxon…. Let them get to know him this way. Then, when the truth came out, they might be more inclined to help him. That was Ceawlin’s thought too, she was sure of it. Else why had he put himself out for a mere farmer’s wife?

They were almost ready to leave when Naille came riding into the farmyard. Ceawlin, who was about to lift Niniane to Bayvard’s back, turned to look toward the sound of hooves. Niniane recognized Naille immediately. With him was his eldest son, Gereint, a boy of fifteen. Alanna called, “You are just in time to meet Niniane’s husband, Naille.”

Naille got off his horse and began to walk toward Ceawlin. The Briton’s face was as white as if he had seen a ghost. His burning eyes were riveted to Ceawlin’s face. “You!” he said when he had come to a halt. His voice was a mixture of loathing and fear.
“What are you doing here?”

“But what is it?” Alanna asked worriedly. “I just told you, Naille, this is Niniane’s husband.”

“This is Cynric’s son,” returned Naille, his voice hard as iron. “I saw him at Beranbyrg.”

Niniane’s mouth was perfectly dry. She looked at Naille and tried to think of something to say. It was Ceawlin who answered. “I’m surprised you recognized me. At Beranbyrg I distinctly remember being covered with mud.” He sounded as if he were answering a social amenity.

Naille’s eyes widened at the British, but did not answer. “You were the first one over the wall. I remember you very well. And you were the one who gave Coinmail …” His voice trailed off.

“Who gave Coinmail his life,” finished Ceawlin pleasantly. Niniane stared at her husband’s face. He looked perfectly unruffled. Didn’t he understand what danger he was in?

“Yes.”

A silver eyebrow cocked charmingly. “Well, considering that he was to be my brother by marriage …”

Naille’s eyes went to Niniane. “Is this really the man you have married?”

“Yes.”

“You did not tell me yesterday it was Cynric’s son!”

“No.” Her voice came out like a croak. She cleared her throat. “But everything else I said was true, Naille. He did kill Edwin and that is why he had to flee from Winchester. The queen, Guthfrid, hates him and would—”

“What my wife is trying to say,” cut in Ceawlin, and the pleasant note had quite left his voice, “is that I should be my father’s heir, and Guthfrid knows it.”

“Who is king now?” Naille asked.

“Guthfrid’s infant son. But he is not Cynric’s son. Of that I am quite certain.”

“It’s true, Naille,” Niniane put in. “There is no one in Winchester who believes Edgar to be Cynric’s son.”

Naille’s face was a study in conflicting emotions. The West Saxon prince clearly was not behaving as expected. Naille looked from Ceawlin to Niniane, then back again to Ceawlin. “All this talk of Winchester,” he said. “We know nothing of Winchester here. Besides, why should an infant inherit before you?”

Ceawlin’s face was impassive. “Because I am a bastard,” he answered. “But I am my father’s son. Edgar is not.” Instinctively, Niniane had taken a step closer to Ceawlin as he spoke, and now Naille’s eyes turned to her.

“In God’s name, Niniane, why did you bring him here?”

“Because he will be King of Wessex one day, Naille, and it would be well for the Atrebates to get on terms with him.”

“If we kill him, as well we might, he will not be King of Wessex.”

Niniane answered promptly. “No, Edgar will. With Guthfrid as regent. And under Guthfrid you will find the eorls out of control. They have their greedy eyes on our land, Naille. Cynric made a survey after Beranbyrg. You will be fighting them for your farms if you do not support Ceawlin.”

Naille’s brown eyes darted back to the prince. “Is this so?”

Ceawlin nodded. “Among my people it is the custom for a lord to reward the warriors who fight for him. Land is a coveted prize, even more coveted than gold or women. My father told his eorls after Beranbyrg that he would give them lands in your country.”

Naille’s face was bleak. “Then we will fight.”

“You will not have to fight if I am king. Support me and you may keep your lands. But if a child is allowed to reign in Winchester, there will be no strong hand to control the eorls. The lack of leadership will lead them to think they can seize what they will.” Ceawlin allowed a little silence to fall as Naille contemplated this grim prospect. Then: “There is enough land in this country for both our people, surely.”

“The Saxons know only war.” It was Gereint speaking, his upper lip curled with contempt. “Everyone knows what they are. They care for none of the civilized things in life: the tilling of the soil, the husbanding of animals … these things they have no thought for.”

It was what all the Britons thought of the Saxons. Niniane remembered Ceawlin’s anger when she had charged his people with barbarism, and held her breath. But his voice was mild as he answered the boy. “Perhaps what you say was true two hundred years ago, when first my people came to Britain. But we have not lived for two centuries on war alone. We too have cultivated our farms, raised our children, put down our roots.”

“You are pagans.” It was Naille speaking this time.

Ceawlin shrugged. “We do not seek to impose our gods on you.”

Naille frowned as a thought struck him. “Coinmail,” he began, glancing questioningly at Niniane, “our prince …” His voice died away.

“Your prince has sworn not to bear arms against me,” answered Ceawlin. “My wife tells me he has gone to Wales to marry. Do not think he will lead you, Naille. He is a prince. He will not break his word.”