Born of the Sun (22 page)

“Well, someone got a child on the queen,” Gereint said. His eyes flickered a little at his own daring. If his father ever heard him saying such things …

“Edric. The thane we were discussing. It was common knowledge that he shared the queen’s bed.” Niniane’s voice was quiet. Perhaps she ought not to have spoken? Ceawlin was so white, so silent …

Gereint ate in silence, digesting what she had said along with his dinner. At last he turned to Ceawlin. “How many men are coming here?”

Ceawlin picked up his knife again. Evidently he had got over whatever it was that had been bothering him. “About a dozen to begin with.”

“A dozen? That is all? You cannot win a kingdom with a dozen men!”

Ceawlin grinned at the boy, a cocky, beguiling grin. “It is the start, Gereint. Once the others see that I am able to support a war band, more will follow.”

“And then you will go to war against the queen?”

“Then I will go to war against the queen.”

There was a reflective silence as Gereint watched Ceawlin eat. Then, “My father said you fought like a madman at Beranbyrg.”

Ceawlin grunted around the bread in his mouth. “It’s a matter of training,” he said. “I’ve been training for war since I was eight years old.”

Gereint’s eyes grew very large. “All I ever do is work in the fields,” he said. Regretfully.

“Well, that is important work too,” said Ceawlin.

“Yes,” Gereint answered, but he did not sound so sure.

After dinner Ceawlin went down to the stable to check on the horses. Gereint hesitated as the prince went out, hesitated and looked at Niniane. “Go with Ceawlin if you like, Gereint,” she said casually. “He is going to make sure the horses have water for the night. Perhaps you could help.”

“All right,” the boy said, and turned to follow the Saxon. They came back in forty minutes, both talking easily about the different horses they had known. Niniane was just finishing the dishes. It was later than their usual hour; the sky was growing dark.

Ceawlin yawned. “Gods, but I’m tired.”

“Go along to bed,” Niniane said. “I’ll come in a little while.”

He went off down the gallery, and after a minute Gereint said he would go to bed too. Niniane went back to the kitchen and began to set things out for the morning. Her hands worked independently of her mind, however. Her mind was on the news Ceawlin had brought of Fara.

Her heart grieved for the friedlehe. Fara had always been so beautifully kind to her. But her heart grieved even more for Fara’s son, who had somehow become more important to her than any other person in the world.

His face had given her no clue as to how he felt. His very impassiveness, however, told her that she could not be the one to offer him comfort. He would have to be the one to make the first move, let her know that he wanted her sympathy, her care. She could not intrude unwanted upon his grief.

She finished in the kitchen and went slowly down the gallery to their room. He was in bed, the blankets pulled up over his shoulders, his ba.ck toward the door. She came in quietly and began to undress. She folded her clothes neatly on the chest and slipped into the bed beside him. There was silence. And then he reached for her.

He had never made love to her like he did this night, desperately, recklessly, exhaustingly. For the first time she was conscious that she was just a body to him; she doubted he even knew who she was. She did not resent this, however, but was glad to give him what comfort he could find. When finally he lay quiet, she cradled him in her arms and pressed her lips against his hair as if he were a child at her breast. He slept.

It was a beautiful warm June day and Niniane decided to take a chair out to the courtyard so she could sit in the sun and dry her hair. She had washed it that morning, and Ceawlin’s as well, and now that he was gone for the rest of the day she thought she would just sit quietly for an hour or so and play her harp. She had been feeling very tired these last few weeks.

The sun was strong and Niniane spread her hair like a fan over the back of her chair and picked up her harp. It was the harp Alric had made for her, one of the few things she had brought away from Winchester. She was plucking on the strings, trying to catch a certain melody that had been running in her mind, when the sound of horses broke through her concentration. She looked up.

There was a crowd of Saxon thanes riding through the gate.

Guthfrid! Niniane thought instantly. She has come to kill us. Then she recognized Sigurd.

Sigurd had seen her first. “Niniane!” he called. He turned to say something to the men behind him, then dismounted, gave his horse to someone to hold, and began to walk across the courtyard.

So, they have come, Niniane thought, and the thought was not a happy one. She had never quite believed it would happen, she realized as she put her harp onto the seat of her chair and went to greet Ceawlin’s friend.

“Sigurd. So you have come.”

“We have come.” He took her hands into his and gave them a squeeze. “You look wonderful.”

She smiled faintly. “I thought for a minute you were Guthfrid’s war band,” she confessed. “My heart is still pounding.”

He frowned in concern. “I am sorry we frightened you. Ceawlin told us to come in June.”

“I know. And he will be so glad to see you.” She made an effort to look glad herself.

Sigurd was looking around the courtyard. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Where is Ceawlin?”

“He has ridden into the market today.” Niniane’s dimple flickered. “He is working very hard at wooing the Atrebates, Sigurd. He seems to be succeeding. They are beginning to think of him as ‘that nice boy who is married to Niniane.’ ‘

Sigurd threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Come along,” said Niniane, “and I will show your men where they are to sleep.”

When Ceawlin returned to Bryn Atha late in the afternoon, the first thing he saw as he came in through the gate was Sigurd and two other Saxons carrying a table into the newly renovated slave quarters. Sigurd looked up, saw him, and dropped the table. Ceawlin jumped off his horse and the two young men met in the middle of the courtyard, clasping each other’s shoulders and laughing.

Niniane watched them from the villa doorway. Sigurd was a well-looking young man, she thought, but next to Ceawlin’s splendid height and stunning fairness he looked dim and insignificant. They stood together for several minutes, talking. When Ceawlin turned around, Niniane saw that his face had become very grave.

What news of Fara? Niniane thought. She had not asked Sigurd herself, feeling that it was Ceawlin’s place to do that, not hers.

Ceawlin did not come to the villa. He went instead into the slave quarters, presumably to greet his new men. Niniane went back to the kitchen. Somehow, all of these thanes were going to have to be fed.

Fifteen thanes in all had come with Sigurd to join Ceawlin at Bryn Atha, ten from the princes’ hall and five from the great hall. They were all young. Niniane served dinner in the villa dining room, in which she had set up a second table. In fact, as Sigurd said humorously to Ceawlin around a mouthful of stew, Niniane had had them moving furniture ever since they had arrived at Bryn Atha that afternoon.

Niniane smiled and did not reply. She and Ceawlin were seated in the center of the larger table, with Sigurd next to Ceawlin, and Penda, one of the great-hall thanes, next to her. Across from them sat a row of thanes whose faces were all familiar from her years in Winchester, and behind those thanes was yet another table of men.

I will have to get some women in to help me, Niniane thought as she looked around at the busily eating thanes. I cannot feed all these men by myself every day.

Penda said to her courteously, “The venison is very good, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Niniane was not hungry herself, and now she put down her knife and turned to the thane beside her. “How did you manage to get away from Winchester, Penda? You surely did not all just ride out as a group?”

“No.” He grinned at her. Penda was a few years older than Ceawlin, with yellow-brown hair and beard and light hazel eyes. His arrival had been a surprise; he was not one of the thanes Ceawlin had expected to see. “We all left at different times, some to go hunting, some to go to Venta, and then we met on the road. By the time Edric realized we were gone, it was too late in the day for pursuit.”

“Guthfrid may pursue you to Bryn Atha, though. Surely she will guess where you all have gone.” It was Niniane’s deepest fear.

“I do not think we will be pursued, my lady,” the thane replied confidently. “Edric is afraid to turn his back on Winchester. He cannot trust the eorls he would be forced to leave behind. Someone might seize the child and set himself up to rule in Edric’s place.”

“So Edric has truly become so powerful?”

Penda looked disgusted. “Guthfrid is going to marry him.”

“Ah.”

“That is why I have come to Ceawlin,” Penda said. “There is just so much a man can stomach.”

“Yes.” It was Wuffa, the thane who was seated opposite to Ceawlin. Slowly he got to his feet, and the men, seeing him rise, fell silent. Wuffa spoke into the quiet with the formal style of the Saxon banquet hall. “We have come to you, Prince, to ask you to be our lord. You are the Woden-born, the only son your father has left to us. We ask you to take us into your service, and we will swear to follow you faithfully all the days of our lives.”

The silence was profound as all the men in the room, and Niniane, looked at Ceawlin. Wuffa sat down as Ceawlin rose to his feet. He was so beautiful, Niniane thought, with his new-washed hair and his blue eyes and his splendid height. “I take you as my men,” Ceawlin responded to Wuffa’s request, his voice and his face very grave. “Be sure that for so long as I live, all that I have I will share with you. You are my comitatus. Together, we shall win back Wessex.”

“To Ceawlin!” It was Sigurd, rising to his feet and holding up his cup for the pledge. “To Ceawlin, our rightful king!” All the men leapt to their feet, and Niniane followed more slowly. She drank the toast and looked at her husband and wished she were not so afraid.

“My mother is dead.” He told her when they were alone in their bedroom, undressing for bed. “Sigurd brought me word. She died four days since.”

“Oh, Ceawlin.” She looked at his impassive face and did not know what to say. What words were there for one who believed as he did? For her there was the comfort of a loving God and the reward of heaven. But for him? What did he believe? She was not sure. “I am so sorry,” she said at last, conscious of the inadequacy of the words but not knowing what else to say.

“I’m not. It is a relief. She was in pain. Sigurd told me that when I saw him in Venta. Now I do not have to think of her suffering. Now it is all over.”

He was sitting on the bed, bent over to take off his shoes, and his hair had fallen forward to hide his face. “You did not tell me that,” she said, her voice low. She tried not to feel hurt he had not shared his own pain with her, but she was.

He shrugged. He had unlaced his shoes, but still he bent over them. She realized he was hiding his face from her and she turned away to put her things in the clothes chest. “You were fond of her, I know,” his voice said from behind her. “There was nothing to be gained by worrying you too.”

He had not told her out of care for her. She felt better and was instantly ashamed that her thoughts were more for herself and Ceawlin than they were for Fara.

Fara had had a truly loving heart, Niniane thought. She had not been a Christian, but surely God, who was so good, would welcome her into heaven. The priest who came once or twice a year to Bryn Atha would say that all pagans are damned, but Niniane could not believe that. Not of Fara. Surely Fara was safe with God. The thought comforted her, but she knew it would not comfort Ceawlin. What would comfort him?

“It is over,” he repeated behind her. His voice was flat and hard. “Now it is up to me to see that she is not forgotten. The harpers will sing one day that Fara gave a king to Wessex. I vow it.”

“They will. I know they will.” She turned from the chest to look at him. Perhaps this was the time … The way he sounded … She made up her mind. “Ceawlin,” she said, “I am going to have a baby.”

“What?”

She stared at him. “I am going to have a baby.”

“Are you sure?” He was standing perfectly still, but there was such an air of coiled tension about him that she was frightened.

“Yes, I am sure. The signs are all there, and I talked to Alanna yesterday …” Her voice trailed off. His eyes were blazing purely turquoise and his cheeks were flushed. “Is something wrong? Are you not pleased?”

“Pleased? Pleased? You cannot know how pleased. Oh, Niniane,” and he came to envelop her in a crushing hug. “My good luck,” he mumbled into her hair. “You have always been my good luck.”

She put her own arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against his chest. She was bewildered by this violent reaction, had never expected such a thing from him. Well, she had said the right thing, that was certain. “Your mother would be pleased,” she murmured softly.

“Yes.” His arms tightened. Then they relaxed and he held her away from him so he could look down into her face. “We must get some women here,” he said. “You cannot be doing the work for all these men by yourself.”

“I think I can get some British girls to come and help me. You have done a good job of wooing the local families.”

He grinned. “You should have seen me at the market today. I was even invited to eat with Naille and Col and Conmach.”

“You were?” The three men Ceawlin mentioned were the three most important of the Atrebates leaders after Coinmail.

“And Gereint asked me to show him how to use a sword,” he added smugly.

Niniane laughed.

“Little Niniane.” He flicked her cheek with a finger. “My good luck.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

He dropped his hands from her shoulders and began to take off his tunic. “You were the one who warned me on the dueling grounds.” His voice was muffled by the tunic coming over his head. “Weren’t you?”