Born of the Sun (7 page)

As always, all else fell away from her the moment she began to play. She woke the harp to life. “Arthur, the king …” she began to sing in her rich, husky voice, and the room fell very still.

When, finally, the last note had died away, she raised her head. He was looking at her, a very different expression in those blue-green eyes. He said only, “Now I understand why Alric made you the harp,” but for some reason her very breathing altered and she looked in some confusion at her fingers, resting still on the strings of the instrument. She did not look back at him until he rose to leave a few minutes later.

He was so tall, she thought as she watched him walking beside Fara to the door. He topped his mother by half a head, and Fara was a very tall woman. He was much taller than Cynric, and much leaner too. He was very much his mother’s son. Except for the eyes.

He turned at the door and looked back at her. “Don’t expect another Badon this spring, Princess. The tides of war have changed in England and it is we who are on the rise.” He kindly allowed his mother to kiss his cheek, and then he was gone.

Ceawlin came suddenly awake. His sleeping room was pitch dark, but that told him nothing about the time. The walls were so well built that there were no cracks for the light to creep between. Still, he knew it was early. He had always had a sixth sense about time.

It was early, but he knew he would not go back to sleep. He was too keyed-up with anticipation. Tomorrow his father would be marching north to fight the Britons. Ceawlin had been making ready for this, his first war band, for the last month at least. Everything was ready: his sword and spear and sax dagger sharpened, all his leather oiled, his mail byrnie polished. He and Sigurd had been practicing their sword-play for hours each day, thinking up new ways to kill their man. His horse’s bay coat gleamed from all the brushing the stallion had been given recently.

And he still had one more day to get through.

He swung his feet to the floor, lit a candle, and dressed. Then he opened his sleeping room’s door and went out into the main room of the princes’ hall. The door to Edwin’s room was closed and the young men lying on the benches along the wall did not stir. Ceawlin crossed the wooden floor on silent feet and passed out into the morning.

The stars were still out. It was very early indeed. Ceawlin looked slowly around the enclave and his eyes stopped as they encountered the queen’s hall.

The bitch. She had persuaded Cynric to take Edwin as soon as she learned that Ceawlin was to join the war band this spring. Was he never to have anything in his life that wasn’t spoiled by the jealous envy of his brother and the queen?

He began to walk toward the main gate of Winchester. He had put on only breeches and shirt, and the morning air was cool, but Ceawlin did not notice. He paused for a moment in front of the temple, then, after glancing about once more, walked around to the door set in the long side of the building, and went in.

The inside of the Saxon temple at Winchester was small but complete. The pit for making the offering was next to the door on the long wall opposite where Ceawlin was presently standing. The table for the ritual banquet was on the short wall to his right, while the altar and the images of the gods were in the set-apart area to his left. Ceawlin did not pause indoors, however, but passed through the room and out the door on the other side.

This door led into a fenced-in area which was dominated by a massive wooden pillar. Ceawlin went to stand before it.

Woden, he thought, gazing up at the huge carved image towering above him. Woden, father of battles, fill me with your spirit that I may prove myself worthy to be your descendant. He stood there for quite a long time, until the growing light blotted out the stars; then he returned to the princes’ hall to find something to do to pass the day.

Edwin arose after Ceawlin had gone down to the stables. The two boys were forced by custom to share the same hall, but they had so arranged their schedules that they seldom met. Edwin breakfasted by himself and then went to see his mother.

Guthfrid was in her sleeping room in the queen’s hall, having her hair done. She caught a glimpse of her son in the hand mirror she was holding, part of the booty from last year’s war band and Cynric’s gift to her. She smiled at him in the mirror and held her position as the handmaid fastened the last jeweled clasp in her hair.

“You are beautiful as always, Mother,” Edwin said as he crossed the floor toward her.

“Oh, Edwin.” Guthfrid put the mirror down and motioned to her handmaid to leave. She held her face up and Edwin bent to kiss her on the mouth.

“How are you, my love?” the queen murmured as her hand caressed his cheek.

“Well.” He pulled a stool over and sat at Guthfrid’s knee. “Mother, I want to make sure that Ceawlin does not win any fame for himself on this war band.”

Her plucked brows drew a little together. “The king will not leave him behind. You know that, Edwin. I tried, but I made no headway with your father. He was ready to leave
you
behind, because you are not yet seventeen, but he insisted that Ceawlin must go.”

“I know that the king has too great a regard for this bastard,” said Edwin coldly. “I want to remedy that.”

“But how, my love?”

“You have knowledge of poisons, Mother. I need you to help me.”

Her brown eyes widened. “Edwin, you know I would have taken care of your brother that way years ago if I thought I could do so safely.”

“I don’t mean to kill him, Mother. Just make him too sick to fight. He will look a fool, whereas I , . .”

“Ah,” said Guthfrid. Her brow smoothed out. “I see.”

“You gave me something once before. He was sick for two days.”

She smiled. “All right, my love. But you must be careful. Should anyone see you put it into his cup …”

His brown eyes were cold and flat. “No one will see me.”

“Oh, my darling …” and she put her hand on his golden head. “Please be careful. If ever I should lose you …”

He took her other hand and pressed it to his lips. Then he stood up. “Never fear, Mother. I am far too clever to get myself killed.”

She stared up at him, her own hair glimmering in the light from the lamp on her table. “Give the poison directly into my hands,” he said. “I will trust no one else with this. Tomorrow, just before we leave.”

“All right,” she said, and watched with a mixture of pride and fear as he walked out the door of her room.

This year’s war band was larger than last year’s. This year they knew they were going out to fight. The Atrebates had refortified one of Britain’s most ancient hill forts, called Beranbyrg by the Saxons and Barbury by the British, and if Cynric wanted to claim land in their territory, he was going to have to win it by force of arms.

Three hundred thanes were lined up four abreast on the main road of Winchester the morning of April 22. It was a week after the Saxon spring feast of Eostre. Ceawlin and Sigurd, mounting their horses near the stables, exchanged grins of mutual delight and felt sorry for anyone who was not lucky enough to be riding out on this beautiful morning to his first battle.

The two boys settled themselves into their saddles, received their weapons from the slave who was holding them, and began to walk their horses toward the mass of men in the courtyard. As he reached the line of thanes, Ceawlin saw his mother come out the door of the women’s hall. For a moment he hesitated. Then, with a word to Sigurd, he guided his bay stallion across the yard toward her. She came down the steps and stood beside him, her hand on his knee, her eyes searching his face as if to memorize it. He smiled down at her, his eyes very bright. “I will bring honor home to you, Mother,” he said.

Fara smiled back and then was grave again. “I know you will, my son.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. As he turned his horse, he saw out of the side of his eyes the little British princess come out onto the steps of the women’s hall. He closed his fingers on the reins and looked at her directly.

Her small face was perfectly expressionless but he could see even from the back of his horse that there were shadows under her eyes. It was her brother who was leading the Atrebates. For a brief moment his joy in the day was marred by a flash of pity; then he trotted forward to join his kinsmen, his hair shining brighter in the sun than the metal rings of his byrnie.

They marched north along the old Roman road to Corinium. Ceawlin rode beside Sigurd and inhaled the fresh damp odor of growing things. He felt perfectly happy. Until his eye fell on the golden head of his brother, riding next to the king.

Sigurd saw the direction of his gaze. “I’ll watch your back for you,” he murmured.

Ceawlin shot him a look, then shrugged and made no answer. There was no answer he could make. They both knew Sigurd’s concern was not unwarranted.

“Eager for glory, children?” Sigurd’s elder brother, Cuthwulf, pushed his horse between Sigurd and the prince. Cuthwulf had seen battle before, a fact which he never let them forget. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with truculent blue eyes. He was so unlike the suave Cutha that Ceawlin sometimes wondered about his paternity.

Ceawlin said now, mildly, “We only hope to emulate your example, Cuthwulf.”

Sigurd’s brother gave a pleased smile and started to answer. “I think Father is looking for you,” Sigurd said first.

As the boys watched Cuthwulf press his horse forward again, Ceawlin said on a note of suppressed laughter, “Good thinking. We were about to get another rendition of his exploits at Searo byrg.”

Sigurd groaned. “At least you don’t have to live with him!”

All the laughter fled from Ceawlin’s face. “I’ll take your brother to mine.”

“So will I,” said Sigurd, and his face also was now perfectly sober. “So will I.”

Beranbyrg was some forty miles northeast of Winchester, along the same road that Niniane had traveled with Cynric and Cutha a little less than a year before. Ceawlin had never been this far north before, and he looked around with curiosity as they drew ever closer to the Aildon hills.

“This is nice country,” Sigurd said appreciatively as he too looked over the gently rolling country with its velvety green cover of grass. Farms dotted the landscape and sheep grazed peacefully beside the road.

“The Britons are a strange, solitary people,” Ceawlin replied, a puzzled look between his brows. “Our people like to live together. Even the peasants have all their houses in one vil, and then they go out to work in the fields together. We cooperate with each other, help each other. These Britons, though, live in isolated farmhouses and work all by themselves. It almost seems as if they do not like each other.”

“That is true,” Sigurd agreed. “Look at the way they deserted all the fine cities the Romans built. My father said that only ghosts walk at the place they call Calleva.”

There was a steady breeze blowing off the hills and when Ceawlin turned to look at Sigurd his silver-gilt hair whipped across his lean, hard cheek. The expression on his face was stern. “They have no feeling for kingship,” he said. “That is why this Coinmail will never be able to extend his leadership beyond his own small tribe. It is their weakness, and our strength.”

“They have certainly had no king worth the name since Arthur,” Sigurd said. He frowned in puzzlement. “I wonder why they are like that? Surely they must see how their lack of organization weakens them. Is it that they are cowards who don’t like to fight?”

“It is that they are Christians,” Ceawlin answered. “This Christianity is a faith that takes all power from the king and gives it to the priest. It is the priest to whom they listen, not the king.” He reached up to push the hair off his cheek. “That is why it is the religion of defeat.” He looked again at the green rolling downs that now surrounded them. “All of this,” and he smiled with satisfaction, “will shortly belong to us.”

Beranbyrg had been a fort since prehistoric times. The Celts had not used it for centuries, however, and it had fallen into disrepair until Coinmail refortified during the winter for his stand against the Saxons. It lay along the even more ancient roadway that went through the Aildon hills and all the way into East Anglia.

Cynric sent scouts ahead to report on the state of the fort, and they returned with the information that the outer fortifications of Beranbyrg consisted of a substantial dirt bank and a ditch. The Britons had done a good job of repairing the bank; there were no weak points that the scouts could see.

The Saxons made their camp about two miles from the British fort. It was late in the day and cookfires were lit immediately. The king, Cutha, and their sons sat cross-legged on the ground around one such fire and ate their evening meal together.

“We will attack at dawn,” Cynric said as he slowly chewed his deer meat. “The less light there is, the better chance we have of getting across the ditch and the bank.” He continued to chew as he told them of his plan for the following day. The Saxons were to launch a three-pronged attack led by himself, Cutha, and Cuthwulf. Ceawlin and Edwin were to fight under the king’s command, and Sigurd was to fight with Cutha. Ceawlin gave one quick look to Sigurd as these arrangements were discussed, then looked away.

Cynric finished speaking, threw away the rest of his meat, and looked into his empty cup. Edwin jumped to his feet and took the cup from his father, saying quickly, “Let me serve you, my lord.” Cynric looked at his son’s eager face, smiled, and nodded. Edwin went over to the barrel that held the beer, filled the king’s cup, and brought it to him. Then he said to Cutha, courteously, “May I fill yours also, kinsman?”

Ceawlin watched his brother’s stocky figure go from one man to the next around the fire. Behind him he heard someone near the barrel offering to fill the cups for Edwin, and his brother’s curt rejection. Then Edwin was standing in front of him.

“May I fill yours, brother?” he asked in the same pleasant voice he had used to the others.

Slowly Ceawlin extended his cup. Edwin took it and went to the barrel for the last time. Ceawlin turned his head a little to watch, but saw only his brother’s back as he bent over the beer. Then Edwin was before him once more, the cup extended in his hand.