Born of the Sun (9 page)

Well, women were like that. He patted her shoulder and said, looking around, “Where is the princess?”

“Inside. Understandably she preferred not to be a witness to the victory parade.”

“Oh.” He looked at the hall’s closed door. “Does she know the fate of her brother?”

“Yes.” Fara’s eyes were shining. “That was well done of you, Ceawlin.”

He shrugged. “There was no point in making him a hero.”

Fara took his arm. “Come inside and tell me all about it. Or … are you perhaps tired?”

He grinned. “I am not in the least tired.” He let her lead him through the door of the women’s hall.

He did not see Niniane until just before the feast that Cynric was holding in the great hall to celebrate their victory. She had not been in the women’s hall when he had gone in with his mother. He met her accidentally when he was coming back from the stable after checking on his horse. She was on the dueling grounds playing a game with some of the children of his father’s eorls. She looked up when he called, “Princess!” and came slowly across the flat dirt field to join him.

“I met your brother,” he said. “He does wear his hair shorter than I do.”

“I heard about your meeting.” She looked up into his face, her own expression very still. She was so small, he thought. The top of her head did not reach to his shoulder. Her nose tilted upward and was sprinkled with faint golden freckles. It was a joyous-looking little nose and did not go at all with the gravity that was always in her eyes. “You were generous,” she said. “I thank you.”

“Not so generous. I made him swear never to bear arms against us again.”

“Did … did he say anything about me?”

What Coinmail had said when Cynric informed him that he was going to marry Niniane to Cynric’s son was, “Under the circumstances, she is no good to me. Take her if you will.”

Ceawlin looked into those apprehensive slate-colored eyes and could not repeat her brother’s careless dismissal. “He asked after you, of course. And he agreed to your marriage with Edwin.”

Every ounce of color drained from her face. He reached out to grasp her shoulders, afraid she was going to faint. Her bones were as light as a child’s. “I’m all right,” she said, and swayed. He scooped her up in his arms and looked around for someplace where he could set her down.

“Is Niniane all right?” The children she had been playing with came running up to them. He recognized the speaker as Coenburg.

“She’s fine,” Ceawlin responded reassuringly. “Just a little tired. Coenburg, you and your friends had better run along home. It’s almost time to eat.”

The children, accustomed to obeying the voice of authority, ran off. Ceawlin spied a log along the edge of the field and began to walk toward it, still carrying Niniane. “I’m all right,” she said again, her voice still not strong.

“I’m just going to take you to where you can sit down for a few minutes.” He felt her relax against him as he spoke, and her head fell against his shoulder.

She weighed scarcely more than a child either, but she was not a child. He could feel that very clearly, with her held so closely in his arms. She was small and light-boned, but she was a woman.

He lowered her to the log and she leaned forward, her head resting on her knees. Her long brown hair parted and he could see the tender nape of her neck. Her hair wasn’t brown, really, he thought. It was brown and gold and red all together. Pretty. Very pretty.

She looked up and there was now some color in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t often do something as stupid as that.”

“That’s all right. I thought … I thought I had better tell you first.”

Even deeper color flushed into her cheeks. Her skin was as fine as
a
baby’s. “Yes. I see. Thank you.”

“I’ll walk with you back to the women’s hall. It is almost time for the banquet.”

“Thank you, Prince. But I am not going to the banquet. Your mother was kind enough to excuse me.”

“I
see,” he said, and was sorry she would not be there to see him honored.

For all of his life Ceawlin had dreamed of this: his first victory banquet, the scop singing of his deeds of glory, the light in his father’s eyes as he honored him … and its purity was spoiled, as was so much else in his life, by Edwin.

Cynric was proud of his son. He wanted all of Winchester to know how proud he was. He could not understand his wife’s feeling that every honor he bestowed on Ceawlin meant he was taking something away from Edwin. Edwin would be the next King of the West Saxons. Cynric had never once hinted that he wished to take that right away from his true-born son. It was mean and petty of Guthfrid to begrudge Ceawlin his place in the world.

Women! thought Cynric as he rose to make a speech in honor of his elder son. Guthfrid and Fara had feuded from the first day Guthfrid set foot in Winchester. Women and their sons. Even Woden could not help the poor man who was caught in the middle.

The hall had fallen very quiet, and into that quiet Cynric spoke the words he was so proud to say:

“To you, Ceawlin, son of Cynric, for bravery in battle, I give this sword.” There was a gasp from the benches as the king reached down beside him and brought forth a great sword with a jewel-encrusted pommel and scabbard. Cynric knew that everyone present would recognize it as the sword he had had from his father, Cerdic, when Cynric had left the Isle of Wight to go to the mainland to win his own kingdom. Guthfrid would be furious, would deem it belonged to Edwin, but it was not the official King’s Sword. It was his, given to him by his father, and if he wanted to give it to this son, then he would. “Carry this sword, beloved Ceawlin,” he went on ringingly, “and while you wear it, may all men praise you, as wide as the sea surrounds the shores, wherever the winds may blow.”

He looked at the boy kneeling before him, and at that moment Ceawlin looked up. The boy looked so alone, kneeling there before the entire hall. It might be well to give a little sop to Guthfrid and Edwin. He said to Ceawlin, his voice a little lower than it had been, “While you live, Prince, be true to your lord.” His son’s eyes, so like his, watched him with somber comprehension. There was a brief silence and then he concluded, “Be kind of deeds to your new king when I am gone.”

Ceawlin accepted the sword from his father’s hands and looked over Cynric’s shoulder to where his brother sat beyond. Edwin’s face was white and shrunken, the dark eyes blazing. Ceawlin set his mouth and looked back at his father. “I will, my lord,” he answered, and, bending, touched his forehead to the king’s fingers.

Then Alric, the scop, came forward with his wooden harp and the hall was soon filled with music. He sang of Benmbyrg: of Cynric, the king, and of Ceawlin, his son.

Ceawlin could not enjoy it, this, the first song made of him for this his first battle. He was too conscious of the figure of his brother seated on the far side of the high seat.

Edwin was sick with fury over Ceawlin’s success, and Cynric knew it. That promise he had just extracted from Ceawlin in the presence of all had been the king’s way of trying to placate his legitimate son even as he honored the bastard. “While you live, Prince, be true to your lord.” And, “Be kind to your new king when I am gone.”

It would not serve. Ceawlin had seen that clearly on his brother’s face as Cynric had presented him with the sword. No one,
no one,
was going to come between Edwin and the sun and be allowed to live.

“Ceawlin, son of Cynric, warrior of Wessex,” sang the scop. Ceawlin, listening, felt bitter hatred sear his heart. For all of his life it had been like this, he thought, Edwin spoiling his pleasure in his accomplishments.

There was the scar on his arm from Edwin’s dagger; a memento of the time Ceawlin had first won his father’s praise for his swordsmanship. He had been eight then, he remembered, and Edwin seven.

There was the time Edwin had killed his hound because of Ceawlin’s success in the hunt.

There was the time Edwin had slipped something into his food to make him sick. It was the first night his father had sent a girl to his bed, and he had been too sick to do anything but retch.

The scop was singing something now about his new sword:

It has

An iron blade etched and shining

And hardened in blood. No one who wears it

Into battle, swings it in dangerous places,

Daring and brave, will ever be deserted.

He felt his brother’s eyes boring into the side of his head and knew that Edwin had spoiled this moment too.

Guthfrid retched one last time into the large pottery bowl, then motioned to her handmaid to take it away. The queen lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

There could no longer be any doubt. She was with child.

Could she make Cynric believe it was his?

She lay there in the tumbled bed, the lamplight glimmering on her pale, sweat-misted face, and counted. Cynric had last lain with her shortly before he took the war band to Beranbyrg. That was in April. Gods. This was … what? … June 30. She had conceived after Beranbyrg, she knew that for sure.

Only a month or so difference. He would never be able to be certain the child was not his.

She pushed her matted golden hair off her forehead. He might even be pleased. He had always been so sensitive about the fact that he had fathered only two children. Now, to have a child in his old age … he might be pleased.

Thank God he was still able to perform! Thank God he had come to her before Beranbyrg!

That was it. She would remind him that men were more potent on the eve of battle. Everyone knew that. She would say that was why she had finally conceived.

Edric was not going to be happy. He had been becoming increasingly more fretful of late. He was hungry for power. Guthfrid knew he was only waiting for Cynric to die so he could marry her himself. Then he would have the power he craved; then he would be the husband of the queen.

Edric forgot that Edwin would be the king. Edwin, who was not likely to want to share power with his mother’s paramour. Guthfrid was not fool enough to tell that to Edric, however. She needed him. He satisfied her body. When the king’s visits had become so infrequent, she had needed someone. She did not want to lose Edric.

She thought, suddenly, that Edwin would probably be less pleased than anyone else at the prospect of a new brother.

The news ran like wildfire around the women’s hall. Guthfrid, the queen, was with child.

“It cannot be Cynric’s,” Nola said to Niniane as they sat side by side on a bench in the sun behind the women’s hall spinning yarn.

Niniane looked around. One had always to be cautious in Winchester; an astonishing amount of what was said in the women’s hall got back to the queen. “You had better be careful what you say, Nola,” she warned in a low voice.

“I am not the only one who is saying it.” Nola’s brown eyes snapped with feeling. “The king has not fathered a child in sixteen years. It is not likely that he has done so now, in his old age.”

“Then who is the father?” Niniane asked.

“Edric, of course.”

“How can you be so certain, Nola? The king still can … that is, he is able … Well, he sends for girls from the bower. Presumably he is not impotent.”

“No one is saying Cynric is impotent. I can say from personal experience that he is not. But none of his women has ever had a child. I simply do not believe Guthfrid’s child is his.” There was silence as the two girls spun their wool. Then Nola added, “Besides, everyone knows about the queen and Edric.”

“I shouldn’t think the king knows. If he did, he would have done something about it. Cynric does not seem the sort of man to tolerate adultery.”

“I suppose that is so. But I am certain that the queen and Edric are more than merely friends. Why else do you think she allowed you to remain in the women’s hall this past year? She did not want anyone in the queen’s hall she could not completely trust. There is no other reason why she would leave Edwin’s future wife under Fara’s influence.”

“Edwin,” said Niniane in a curiously flat voice. She stared at the green wool in her lap without seeing it. In two days’ time there was to be a formal betrothal ceremony between her and Edwin. Niniane felt cold with terror every time she thought of it. She looked up at Nola and asked, a note of desperation in her quiet voice, “Is there nothing I can do, Nola, to stop this match?”

“I do not understand you, Niniane.” Nola stared at her with frank incredulity. “Cynric is offering you
marriage.
Marriage to the future King of the West Saxons. You will be a queen, you little fool. What is the matter with you?”

“I don’t like Edwin, Nola. There is something about him … something strange …” Her eyes were wide and gray with trouble. “He repels me,” she said. Then, in a burst of frankness, “I cannot bear the thought of him touching me!”

Nola laughed. “Little virgin.” Her voice held no sympathy. “You will change your mind. It is not so bad, believe me. Just close your eyes and it is soon over. I have never been with Edwin myself, but the bower girls who have say he is good. He has his father’s appetite. We must just hope he proves himself a better stud.”

Niniane’s stomach heaved and just then a girl came running around the side of the building. “Where is Fara?” she panted to the two girls spinning in the sun.

“I think she is in the dye house,” Nola answered. “What is wrong?”

“Prince Ceawlin is hurt,” the girl flung over her shoulder as she ran off in the direction of the dye house.

Nola put down her wool. “What can have happened?”

“I don’t know. He went off with Sigurd this morning. I saw them ride out.”

Nola stood up. “I am going to see what has happened.”

“All right.” Niniane looked up at her. “If you need me, I shall be here.” Nola nodded. During the last year they had called upon Niniane on several occasions to sew up a variety of flesh wounds. She was fast and precise and her work rarely left a scar.

Nola left and Niniane sat on, her mind on her upcoming marriage. Unless she did something to stop it, within the month she would find herself in Edwin’s bed.