Born of the Sun (64 page)

Ceawlin was not in Winchester when Gereint rode in, and he was directed instead to Crida, whose headquarters as heir was now the old queen’s hall. When he had made Gereint eorl, Ceawlin had given him Cynigils’ old hall, and it was at his Winchester home that Gereint washed the dust of the road off hands and face before going, on reluctant feet, to see Crida.

The autumn day was chill and a fire was going in the hearthplace, which in Crida’s hall had the usual central position in the main room. Crida was alone, standing at the end of the hearth facing the door; the fire from behind lit his hair like a halo. From another room there came the sound of a baby crying, then silence. It was a moment before Gereint realized how rigidly the boy was holding himself.

“Where is my mother?” Crida said, and suddenly Gereint understood what Crida had braced himself to hear.

“She is all right,” he replied hastily. “She is not dead, Crida.”

The boy relaxed visibly; Gereint thought he could almost see the blood begin to flow again through Crida’s veins. His blue-green eyes, so like Ceawlin’s, grew glitteringly bright. “I thought … when you rode in without her …”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you so.” Gereint drew a deep breath. “She is not dead, Crida, but still the news I bring you is not good. Coinmail came to Bryn Atha while she was there and took her by force to Glevum.”

Crida took a step forward. “Took Mother?”

“Yes.” Then, hastily, “He did not harm her. He will not harm her, I am sure of that. But she is being held hostage. There was nothing the thanes or I could do. He came with a hundred men and he took us by surprise.”

“Where are the thanes?” Crida was frowning now.

“Dead,” Gereint replied, his voice harsh. Then, as Crida’s face began to look very grim, “Where is Ceawlin?”

“He went to Wight. He will be back on the morrow.” Crida gestured Gereint to a chair, then slowly took one himself. “Are you sure they were going to Glevum?”

“That is what Coinmail said. It is probably true. Glevum is close to Wales.”

Crida bent his head a little and Gereint watched him. He knew Ceawlin’s son, of course, but they had never dealt before as prince and subject. Crida had Ceawlin’s spectacular coloring, Gereint found himself thinking, but his face was different. The clean bones and planes of Ceawlin’s face gave an impression of strength; Crida’s bones were more like Niniane’s. Yet, although he was almost beautiful, there was nothing feminine about Crida. At last the prince looked up and said, “What are the Atrebates going to do?”

“We will fight for Ceawlin.”

“Good.” Crida’s finely drawn fair brows were sharply knit. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What was the point of kidnapping Mother?”

Gereint was surprised. “As I said, she is a hostage.”

“But a hostage for what? I doubt that Coinmail will use her to try to get my father to annul Cedric’s marriage. From what Mother says, Coinmail has been looking for a reason to raise the Britons against my father for years; he certainly won’t want to remove the reason before ever he gets his fight.”

Gereint looked at the young prince sitting beside him with surprise and respect. “That is so.” Crida’s lashes were shadowing his eyes; his face looked somber. Gereint tried once more to reassure Niniane’s son. “I am certain that Coinmail will not harm her, Crida.” His voice was gentle.

The blue-green eyes lifted in surprise. “Of course he will not harm her. She is his sister,” said Crida, to whom treachery within a family was almost unimaginable. “In fact, I think my mother will deal with being taken hostage better than my father will. He is going to be very upset when he hears what has happened.”

Ceawlin was even more upset than Gereint had expected. He was so upset that it took a few minutes for him to react to the news that Gereint was also bringing him word of Atrebates support.

He stared at Gereint, his eyes narrowed to mere slits of color. “How many men can you raise, Gereint?”

It was with great pride that Gereint answered, “Nearly two hundred.”

Ceawlin’s eyes opened wider. “Two hundred!”

“All the men who can carry a sword will come, Ceawlin.”

Ceawlin’s mouth twisted in a smile that held no humor. “Niniane will be pleased to know she was not kidnapped in vain.”

“It was not just Niniane,” Gereint replied, “but that was certainly part of it.”

There was silence as Ceawlin paced up and down the length of the hearth. They were meeting in the king’s hall the day after Gereint had spoken to Crida. After a minute’s silence Ceawlin said, “I can raise perhaps seven hundred men without the Atrebates. It should be enough.”

Gereint frowned and stared at the restlessly pacing figure of his king. “What do you mean? I have said that we will fight for you.”

Ceawlin came to a halt at the far end of the hearth, put his hands behind his back, and stared at Gereint. “I want you to tell Coinmail that you have two hundred men willing to fight for me. Then I want you to tell him that you will stay home if he will return Niniane to Winchester.”

Gereint’s eyes opened wide. “Ceawlin … Niniane would not want you to do that. She would say that the best way to get her back would be to best Coinmail in battle. He will not harm her; I am confident of that. Coinmail is not cruel, you know. He does not love Niniane, but killing her or hurting her would have no purpose. He will keep her safe for you.”

“It is not that….” Ceawlin turned to put a foot up on the hearth. He bent a little forward so that his hair swung forward, a thick curtain to screen his face. “She is with child, Gereint. That is what is worrying me.”

“Niniane has ever been lucky in childbirth, Ceawlin. Six children she has borne you and always come through healthy and strong. What reason to worry now?”

“You cannot escape fate forever,” Ceawlin said. “And I have bad feelings about this pregnancy. She does not look well.” Then, violently,
“Gods! I
should never have let her go to Bryn Atha!”

Gereint had never heard such a voice from Ceawlin before. He stared at the king’s profile, most of which was still hidden by that silver screen of hair. Then, “Ceawlin, if he thinks you want her back as badly as that, he will never let her go.”

Ceawlin’s head jerked up. “Think,” Gereint said. “It was Crida who asked the crucial question. What is the point in taking Niniane hostage?”

Ceawlin’s head moved a little, but he did not reply.

“The last thing Coinmail wants is for you to back out of Cedric’s marriage. He will not use Niniane to try to get that concession from you. So … why?”

“You tell me,” Ceawlin said.

“He hates you.” Gereint’s mouth twisted. “And it is a very personal hatred too. He would deny that, say he is only doing his duty as a Briton, but he hates you, Ceawlin. I think he cannot forgive you for defeating him that time at Beranbyrg; he cannot forgive you for giving him his life. I think he took Niniane because he hoped it would hurt you. If he knows how much he has hurt you, he will never return her.”

There was a white line around Ceawlin’s mouth. “She is afraid of him,” he said.

“She was always afraid for you, not for herself.” Gereint searched for words that would help. “In her own way,” he finally said, “Niniane is as tough as Coinmail.”

Ceawlin’s response was a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I know that. If only she were not with child!”

Niniane’s feelings echoed Ceawlin’s. It was nearly sixty miles from Bryn Atha to Glevum, and by the time they arrived in the city Niniane was thoroughly exhausted. Coinmail had actually slowed his pace slightly to accommodate his sister, but it had still been too long and too arduous a journey. She scarcely looked around her as the horses came through the town gate. Glevum, she knew, had never been more than a market town for the Romans, and the quick glimpse she had of a small, unimpressive forum and decayed-looking town hall only confirmed what she had expected to see.

Coinmail’s residence was of timber and had been built by his father-by-marriage a decade before. It was rougher-looking than the houses in Winchester, but the hall inside had a glowing hearth and there were outside stairs to the loft, which was used for sleeping. Coinmail’s wife took one look at Niniane and immediately put her to bed with a hot drink. The bedstead straw was sweet and the linens fresh and Niniane slept like the dead for ten hours. She woke with a pain in her back.

She said nothing, hoping it was just a muscle ache from the long ride. She rose and dressed in the clothes from her saddlebags that a maid brought to her, and went slowly and carefully down the loft stairs. Coinmail’s wife was in the hall below, and when she saw Niniane she ordered a bowl of steaming porridge and insisted that Niniane sit and eat.

Coinmail’s wife was named Eithne and she had golden hair and blue eyes and looked kind. Niniane made a great effort to respond to her questions, but with every passing minute the pain in her back was growing worse. She was terrified she was going to lose her baby.

She ate the porridge, thinking it would strengthen her. The pains got strong. Finally she could no longer hide her distress; the air in the hall was chill and damp, but she was sweating and there were marks like bruises under her eyes. When Eithne said, “Are you ill, my sister?” she made herself answer, “I … I fear I am going to miscarry.”

Eithne came to put an arm around her shoulders. “Come back to bed,” she said. “I will send for the midwife.”

After an hour of fierce contractions, the blood began to flow out of her. The baby, Niniane thought as blood gushed from between her legs, I am losing our baby, Ceawlin.

“Mother of God,” she heard Eithne say. “Can you not get it to stop?”

The pain had let up a little, but now instead of being hot she was cold. Very cold. Her skin felt clammy. “Niniane.” It was a voice she did not recognize. “How do you feel, Niniane?”

She opened her eyes and saw strange blue eyes. She closed her eyes again. “Bring more cloths,” she heard someone say. “We must stop this bleeding.”

She was at a very great distance, floating, floating. Her body hurt but it did not seem to have anything to do with her. She felt free. Dimly, as if from very far away, she heard the voices of women.

And then she saw Ceawlin. He was so vividly present to her that she opened her eyes, expecting him to be there. But there were only the women.

I am so tired, she thought. So tired. But if she floated away she might never see Ceawlin again. I must stay awake, she thought, and frowned with the effort of it.

After what seemed to her a long time, someone said, “We must get her into a clean bed.” She looked down. There was blood everywhere. Someone was washing her and then the women were trying to get her into a clean sleeping gown. She tried to help. “Don’t move,” an authoritative feminine voice said. “I will get someone to lift you into the other bed.”

A man came in and she was put into a bed with clean, fresh linens. “Thank you,” she said, and fell asleep.

She was ill for days. She lay in bed, weak and bloodless, and grieved. Coinmail’s wife was very kind, but Niniane longed for Nola. And for Ceawlin. He loved his children so … he would grieve as much as she. Then, when the midwife told her that she would bear no more, her heart was near to breaking.

She saw nothing of her brother. It was not until she was finally out of bed and able to go down to the hall that she met him again. His gray eyes looked her up and down. “I am glad you are feeling better,” he said.

Niniane’s face was very still and for a moment her delicate features bore an uncanny likeness to his. “You murdered my baby,” she said, her voice cold as death. “I hope Ceawlin drives you and your followers into the sea.”

“There is little likelihood of that,” Coinmail replied. “I am raising almost the whole of South Wales.”

“Ceawlin has never lost a battle, my brother,” Niniane returned with relish. “And you have never won one. Consider that. Your men certainly will.”

“Get her out of here,” Coinmail said to his wife.

“You brought me here, Coinmail.” Niniane’s eyes were pure smoke. “Your mistake.” And she turned with arrogant disdain to walk away with Eithne.

Gereint sent a British spy into Glevum to gather what news he could, and it was from this source that Ceawlin learned of Niniane’s miscarriage.

“The girl I talked to is one of Eithne’s handmaids,” the youngster who had been posing as a Dobunni tribesman told Ceawlin. “She said the queen was near to death but that she is growing stronger now.”

The relief Ceawlin felt was overwhelming. He was sorry about the baby, but, considering the circumstances, he thought things had turned out for the best. It was over and she was all right. Now he could give his full attention to the war.

The armorers were put into production day and night, forging spears and making arrows. The ceorls would have to be given arms; unlike the thanes, they had none of their own. Ceawlin rode from manor to manor, consulting with his eorls, checking supplies, speaking personally to the thanes and then the ceorls, rallying enthusiasm.

Autumn advanced into winter. News came that the armies of Condidan and Farinmail had marched out of Wales and were camping to the north of Glevum, on the banks of the river Severn. The Welsh chieftains together had raised an incredible eight hundred men.

“Coinmail has raised four hundred more,” Ceawlin said to Crida as the two of them sat late one December night by the fire in the king’s hall. “The Dobunni and a goodly number from northern Dumnonia. Or so goes the word from my scouts.”

“You have near a thousand yourself, Father,” Crida said. “And the Britons will be no match for the thanes.”

“I want to force this battle now, Crida,” Ceawlin said. “Hearts are high. Now is the time to strike.”

Crida frowned. “But the weather. Would it not be better to wait for the end of winter?”

“Easier but not better. We have arms enough. The ceorls will not be worrying about planting their fields. Coinmail will not be expecting us to move. The time is now.”

Crida’s eyes had begun to glow. “Where?”

Ceawlin grinned. “I think we ought to hold Yule at Dynas this year,” he said. And Crida laughed.