Born of the Sun (21 page)

“We heard you had tried to kill the baby king and ran away when you failed,” she told him as he sat in her kitchen eating the rabbit stew she had served him.

He scowled. “Is that the story they have given out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the truth is that Guthfrid tried to have
me
killed, but I was warned of the plot and got away first.”

“That sounds more probable,” the Saxon woman agreed. Helwig was a baker who kept the shop that had once belonged to her husband, a Briton who had been dead for several years. Ceawlin had known her for almost the whole of her widowhood. Helwig was a handsome young woman whose husband, a prosperous shopkeeper, had been some thirty years older than she. She had found the freedom of a comfortable widowhood pleasant and had no wish to remarry. The young prince from Winchester had been a thoroughly satisfactory answer to the problem of an empty bed. “If you got away safe,” she said now, “why did you come back? I’d like to think it was for my sake, but I’m not that stupid.”

He grinned at her and took another bite of rabbit stew. “I came back for my mother. I’m worried that she is not safe at Winchester.”

“Ah.” A guarded look came over Helwig’s fair-skinned handsome face.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“The word from Winchester is that Fara is not well,” she answered.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged her big shoulders. “Just that. She is not well. She has not been into Venta since before the king died.”

“My father’s death drained her, that is all.” He wiped up the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. “I need to get a message to Sigurd,” he said around the bread in his mouth. “Who goes to Winchester tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask. Shall I have Sigurd told that you are here?”

“Yes. I need to see him.”

“All right.”

She left by the kitchen door and returned half an hour later. “The soap-maker is taking a wagon to Winchester tomorrow. He is reliable. He will give your message to Sigurd.”

“Good.” Ceawlin had been sitting over his empty plate drinking beer, and now he stood up and stretched. “I have been riding since sunup, Helwig, and I’m tired. Can you lend me a bed?”

“Not my bed?”

He gave her a charming smile. “I’d love to, but not tonight.”

“All right.” She did not seem insulted, but took him to the small bedroom that adjoined hers and left him alone. He was asleep in five minutes.

It was not until late the following afternoon that Sigurd came to the house on Lindum Street. Ceawlin had been growing more and more impatient as the hours went by. The bake shop was in the front part of Helwig’s house, with the living rooms behind it. The living area consisted of two small bedrooms, a small salon, and the kitchen where Helwig did the baking in the back. There was not much space. Ceawlin found himself confined to the salon and spent most of the day pacing up and down the room like a lion in a cage. He heard Sigurd’s voice in the bakery as soon as his friend came in, but as there were others in the shop as well, Sigurd had to wait until they left before he could come through into the salon where Ceawlin waited.

The two young men .clasped shoulders and pummeled each other on the back. “Gods,” said Sigurd at last. “What are you doing in Venta, Ceawlin? I thought you were safe at Bryn Atha.”

Helwig came to the door and peeked in. “Keep your voices down,” she warned.

“We will,” Ceawlin promised. Then, to Sigurd, “I came because I’m worried about my mother.” Helwig went back to the shop and Ceawlin continued, “I want to take her back to Bryn Atha with me, Sigurd. I don’t think she is safe in Winchester.”

“Oh.” Sigurd’s eyes slid away from Ceawlin’s concerned blue gaze. After a minute Sigurd sat down in one of Helwig’s well-worn chairs and rested his elbows on the wicker arms. He looked at his lap.

“What is it?” Ceawlin’s voice was sharp. “Nothing has happened to her?”

Sigurd did not look up. “She is sick, Ceawlin. This last month, since you have been gone, she has failed greatly. There is something wrong with her insides. She is in great pain.”

The fair skin of Ceawlin’s cheeks, still so boyishly innocent of any trace of beard, went suddenly white. “Could it be poison?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sigurd shook his head. “My father thought of that. All her food is tasted first. It is not poison, Ceawlin. It is the crab-sickness.” Gray eyes finally lifted to blue. “She is dying.”

“I don’t believe it.” The skin over Ceawlin’s cheekbones was stretched taut.

Sigurd remained with his head tilted back, his eyes steady on his friend’s. It was Ceawlin who finally turned away. He walked to the farthest end of the room and rested his forehead against the wall. After a long moment he asked, “You said she is in pain?”

“Yes. But the priest is giving her medicine. It helps.”

“How … how long?”

“It cannot be long now. She is very frail.”

Ceawlin did not move. Sigurd looked at him as he stood there, head bent, forehead pressed against the green plaster wall. He did not ever remember a time when Ceawlin had looked so vulnerable. Sigurd’s gray eyes were dark with pity.

When Ceawlin finally spoke, his voice was steady. “Can I see her?”

“You cannot come to Winchester, Ceawlin. It would be mad to try. And it would only upset her, to think you had placed yourself in such danger. Her greatest joy right now is the knowledge that you are safe.”

Ceawlin’s fists clenched at his sides. He did not answer.

“I know it is hard,” Sigurd said. “But there is nothing you can do.” After a minute he added softly, “She is going to your father.”

A long silence fell. Sigurd sat quietly, his eyes on Ceawlin’s rigid back and clenched fists. After what seemed like forever, Ceawlin’s hands relaxed and he turned slowly to face Sigurd once more. His face was very white, but Sigurd was relieved to see that he had got himself under control. “The world is changing,” Ceawlin said.

“That it is.” Sigurd judged it was all right now to speak of other things. “Guthfrid is showing herself more and more dependent upon Edric. The eorls are not happy. Edric has his followers, of course, the men who look to prosper under him, but most of the eorls and a number of the thanes don’t like him. They see the golden opportunities for power they envisioned for themselves slipping away.”

“That is good news.” Ceawlin’s face was still too pale and he did not seem to be giving Sigurd his full attention.

Nevertheless, Sigurd went on. “It is known that you are at Bryn Atha. When you took Niniane with you, it was not hard to guess where you would go. Guthfrid wanted Edric to take a war band after you, but he would not. He said you were a lordless man, and so harmless. The truth is, of course, that he was not sure he could find the men to follow him. The eorls may not have wanted you for king, but they are not ready yet to see you dead.”

“That is even better news.” Ceawlin was paying attention now. “I have been fixing up the old slave quarters at Bryn Atha for my own war band, Sigurd. It is a large building and in another month it should be comfortable. The men can come in June.”

Sigurd frowned. “My father is not in favor of your collecting a war band at Bryn Atha, Ceawlin. He says to leave all to him.”

Ceawlin walked back toward the center of the room. “I have much respect for Cutha, you know that. But I cannot let another man do all my work for me. If he will pursue my cause in Winchester, I will be grateful. But I must do what I can myself.” He came to a halt before Sigurd.

Sigurd got slowly to his feet. Cutha, in fact, had been quite adamant that Ceawlin should leave matters to him. “I think my father has hopes of restoring you without a fight,” he said as he straightened up.

“There will have to be a fight,” Ceawlin answered. “There is no avoiding it. There are too many thanes who will fear for themselves if I become king. And rightly so,” he added, his voice and face grim. Then, as Sigurd still hesitated, “If you feel you cannot come yourself, Sigurd, of course I shall understand.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ceawlin. Of course I shall come.” Sigurd was standing close before him now. “Didn’t I swear my allegiance to you as my lord?”

The color suddenly came back to Ceawlin’s cheeks, flushing them a boyish pink. “No matter who else fails me,” he said, and his voice was now much huskier than usual, “I know I can always count on you.”

“Till the death,” said Sigurd, and they looked at each other, both moved and both a little embarrassed by their own emotion. “Well,” said Sigurd more briskly, “I had better be going. People will want to know what I can possibly be finding to do for so long in the bakery.”

Ceawlin grinned. “I was known to spend whole afternoons in the bakery. Why should not you do the same?”

“Helwig never had eyes for me,” Sigurd retorted. “Not with you around.”

“I am not around any longer,” Ceawlin returned. “And you know we were always willing to share our treats.”

It was not until he had put his hand on the door to push it open that Sigurd asked, “How is Niniane?”

“Thriving,” Ceawlin responded instantly. “She is a country creature at heart, you know.”

“Well, it was what she was brought up to, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Ceawlin looked down at his hand, the topic of Niniane clearly not what was on his mind. “Sigurd … will you … will you give my mother my … my love?”

“Of course I will.”

Ceawlin gave him a shadowy smile, but still did not meet his eyes. “Well, then, until June.”

“Until June,” said Sigurd, and pushed open the door.

Ceawlin left for Bryn Atha early the following morning, as soon as the gates of Venta were open. His heart was sore as he rode north, full of trouble for his mother. He wished Sigurd had not told him she was in pain.

Niniane and Gereint were eating dinner in the dining room when he arrived back at Bryn Atha. The dogs, which they had reclaimed from Naille along with the livestock, came racing into the courtyard to greet him, barking and running around his horse’s legs. Niniane heard the racket, cried, “Ceawlin is back!” and ran to the front door. He had dismounted and was walking toward the villa leading his horse when she came out into the courtyard. He was alone.

She went to meet him. “You were not gone long,” she said, her eyes searching his face. His expression told her nothing.

“No. I talked to Sigurd.”

“That is good.” Gereint was standing in the doorway and she turned to say to him, “Gereint, will you take the horse to the stable, please, and give him water and grain? I will keep your dinner for you.”

Naille’s son came to take the reins from Ceawlin, his face sullen. He had not been happy when his father made him come and stay in a Saxon house.

“Come in,” Niniane said to Ceawlin as the boy led the obviously tired horse away. “You must be hungry and thirsty. Did you leave Venta this morning?”

“Yes.” He followed her into the house and let her pour water into a bowl so he could wash. She asked no questions, just took his cloak and put it away. Then, “Come into the dining room. There is chicken.”

As he was following her down the gallery he said, “My mother is ill. Sigurd says she is dying. She could not come with me. I could not even see her.” His voice was perfectly steady, perfectly expressionless.

Niniane bent her head and refrained from looking back at him. “She was not well when we left Winchester, but I did not realize …”

“No. Neither did I.”

They came into the dining room and looked at the table, which was set with two plates of half-eaten food. “Sit down,” Niniane said. “I’ll get you something to eat.” She took a few steps toward the kitchen, then stopped, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers to her mouth. He made no move to come to her, nor did he speak. After a moment she forced herself to control and went into the kitchen to get him a plate of food. They were both seated at the table when Gereint returned.

“Did you learn anything of use from Sigurd?” Niniane asked as Gereint took his place.

“Yes. It’s as we thought would happen. Edric is becoming more powerful. Sigurd says that Cutha does not want me to gather a war band, that he thinks he can gain me the kingship without a fight.”

Niniane forgot even the pretense of eating. “Is that possible?”

He shook his head. He was eating steadily, and drinking great gulps of the wine she had poured. “Guthfrid and Edric are not going to disappear so conveniently. If I want the kingship, I am going to have to fight for it. I told Sigurd to come with the rest of the thanes in June.”

Gereint was staring at Ceawlin, a mixture of fear and distrust in his eyes. Then he turned to Niniane. “You are really going to let him bring his pagan followers to Bryn Atha?”

Ceawlin put down his knife and looked at the boy. “Your father knows all about it,” he said quietly. “You heard the promise I made to him.”

“Will you keep your promise, though?” Gereint asked truculently. “That is what I want to know.”

Anger kindled behind the blue-green eyes. “I have never broken my oath.”

Gereint had obviously been thinking about this, or he had been listening to his elders talk, for now he said challengingly: “What about this new king, your brother? Did you not have to swear an oath to be loyal to him? And are you not about to break it?”

“I swore to uphold the right of Edgar, son of Cynric.” Ceawlin’s eyes were still blazing at the insult. “That brat is no more my father’s son than you are. I know it. Niniane knows it. All of Winchester knows it.”

Niniane gave Gereint credit for bravery if not for sense. His eyes never wavered from Ceawlin’s. “How can you be sure?” he asked.

Ceawlin did not answer. But it was a fair question, Niniane thought suddenly. The boy only wanted to be certain he could trust Ceawlin’s word. She answered Gereint herself.

“Cynric was lucky to get the two sons he had, and he got them when he was in his years of potency, not in his old age. There were no more sons after Ceawlin and Edwin, Gereint. Nor daughters. None of the women in the bower who shared Cynric’s bed …” Here the boy’s eyes widened in shock. “They do things differently in Winchester,” Niniane said. “Anyway, none of the women who slept with the king ever conceived.” She glanced from Gereint’s face to Ceawlin’s and was surprised to find that he was looking white about the nostrils and the mouth. She looked back to Gereint, who was watching her with fascinated horror. “It was not the fault of the women,” she concluded a little hesitantly. “It was Cynric who could not get a child.”