Born of the Sun (25 page)

She was with Alanna and the rest of the women in the courtyard in front of the main door of the villa. They all turned together to watch Ceawlin come, long legs covering the ground with his characteristic swift grace. When he had almost reached them, Niniane moved forward to meet him. They stood together some ten feet from the huddled group of women and he looked down into her eyes. They were more gray than blue, a sign that she was not happy.

“You never told me you were keeping a lookout for a war band,” she said.

“There was no point in worrying you,” he replied. “It was only a precaution.”

“You said Edric would never dare leave Winchester.”

He shrugged. “Well, he has.”

“And you’re pleased.” She sounded bitter. “Your eyes are bright as stars. You are absolutely delighted.”

“I’m a warrior, Niniane. Of course I’m delighted. It would be strange if I were not.”

“But, Ceawlin,” and despite herself her voice trembled, “suppose you are killed?”

“Death must come to us all, Nan.” His voice was perfectly matter-of-fact. “There are worse ways to go than with glory in battle.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “But I do not think it is my time yet. This is a good thing, Nan. I feel it. And your people are joining with me. It is the start. I know it. The start of the road back to Winchester.”

She stared up at him. He was so confident, so unafraid for himself. It was unfair of her to burden him with her own fears. She forced herself to smile. “I will pray for your victory, Ceawlin. And for your safety. God go with you.”

“There speaks a good wife.” He bent his head and she held up her face for his kiss. “I’ll be back in time to celebrate our marriage properly, I promise you that,” he murmured in her ear. Then Sigurd was bringing Bayvard into the courtyard and he turned away. Five minutes later, the courtyard was empty of horses and men, and the women trailed disconsolately back into the house.

Niniane had spent some fear-filled hours in her young life, but she did not think anything had ever been as bad as the waiting she was enduring now. What would she do if anything should happen to him? How should she live? She had been his but five short months, yet she felt she had belonged to him forever. It was for him, for him and for his child that she carried, that she had been striving and working ever since they came to Bryn Atha. It was for him that she had endangered her immortal soul, ignoring all the strictures of her own faith about the sinfulness of physical passion. She had lived with him in sin, gladly, joyously, intensely, holding nothing back even though she knew their union was unblessed by the church.

And God had not punished her. God had softened Ceawlin’s heart so that he had agreed to a Christian marriage. God had given her a child. Out of her sin had come all her happiness.

If he should be killed now … Surely God would not be so cruel? Not on her wedding day.

Ceawlin…. my love….

“Niniane.”

She opened her eyes and turned to look blankly at Alanna. “If we are all to wait here for the men to return,” Naille’s wife said practically, “we might as well be busy. I’m sure you have work we can help you with.”

“Oh. Yes, Alanna. Of course. Thank you.” Niniane focused her brain with difficulty. “The animals have to be fed, and the men are not here …”

“Just tell me what must be done.”

Niniane smiled. “You are very good. Well, then, the chickens …” They fed the animals and then ate themselves and then gathered once again in the large reception room, a party of women and the priest. It was growing late and the sky was beginning to darken. The sixteen women left behind in Bryn Atha all had husbands or sons or brothers with Ceawlin, and the apprehension in the room thickened with the dusk. Finally Niniane fetched her harp. She was singing one of Alric’s songs about a storm at sea, singing in Saxon and translating for the benefit of her British audience, when one of the women leapt to her feet. “I hear the horses!” she cried.

The harp stilled. The shutters and windows were open, and now they all could clearly hear the noise of hoofbeats. Then came the rumble of male voices, then laughter. Niniane sat perfectly still as the rest of the women ran to the door. Over all the noise of men and horses a clear young voice floated, full of pride. “We won, Mother!” It was Gereint. “We killed half of them and chased the other half back to Winchester!” Niniane’s fingers relaxed their deathlike pressure on the wood of the harp and she went to join the rest of the women in the courtyard.

They had indeed won, surprising Edric at Cob Ford. The ground on the Bryn Atha side of the ford was high, and Ceawlin’s men had come out of cover, pouring down on the men still wading through the water. The attack had been completely unexpected, and their charge, with the impetus given them by the hill, had been ferocious. The men in the water had struggled to raise their weapons, but their shields had been slung across their backs. The men in the front line perished before they could even begin to defend themselves.

“The Saxons went first,” Naille told Alanna as they lay down to sleep later. There were people sleeping all over the floors of Bryn Atha this night, but Naille and Alanna had been given the bed in Coinmail’s room. “Ceawlin was scrupulous about keeping our men safely to the rear. We just followed the Saxon line. It was surprisingly easy.”

“But weren’t you outnumbered?”

“Not by much. And it didn’t matter. The charge was too strong. They could not stand against it. The river was running red with blood by the time we were finished. And we have only a few flesh wounds!”

“You sound as if you enjoyed yourself,” Alanna accused him.

“I rather think I did.” Naille was surprised at himself.

“What I want to know is what Coinmail is going to do when he hears all this.” Alanna raised herself on her elbow to look down into her husband’s face. “You know his plans. He would never have agreed to fight alongside Ceawlin. To Coinmail, Saxons are the enemy.”

“He may change his mind. When he meets Ceawlin—”

“Coinmail never changes his mind. The world could fall down around him, but he would never change his mind. You have known him since he was a child. You know that.”

“He gave his word not to take up arms against the West Saxons again.”

“He never had any intention of keeping his word.”

“I know. And I am not sure that he is right. If a people cannot trust in their prince’s word …”

“He did not give his word to his people; he gave it to a pagan.”

“I know. And that pagan has implicit trust in it. Because to Ceawlin, his word is sacred.”

Alanna sighed and lay back down again. “Perhaps he will become a Christian. Then even Coinmail could not object to him.”

Naille yawned. “God in heaven, woman, but I’m tired. Let me go to sleep.”

“It is all very well for you, Naille …” Alanna was beginning, but her only answer was a very gentle snore.

Ceawlin was one of the few other men in Bryn Atha to share the privacy of a bedroom with his wife that night. But, unlike Naille, he did not waste his time talking. Nor did he get much sleep. But he woke the following morning, ablaze with energy, and immediately put the women to work cooking a victory banquet for his men.

Niniane did not have the heart to tell him that the corn crops of wheat, barley, and rye were due to be harvested.

The harvest was a good one and the storehouses and barns and bins at Bryn Atha were consequently well-stocked for the winter. Ceawlin celebrated the Saxon Autumn Festival with a great banquet. There was, of course, no Saxon temple at the villa and he decided against creating one. To do so would clash with his policy of placating British sensibilities. So they had the banquet in the villa dining room, with prayers to Woden and Thor and Tiwaz in lieu of a formal sacrifice.

November went out in a downpour of cold, heavy rain and the sullen gray skies of December set in. Ceawlin worked hard at keeping his men busy. No snow had fallen as yet, so he had them out practicing on the iron-hard ground and riding madly through the woods in crazy competitive games. The thanes were joined as often as not by the British boys who had fought with them at Cob Ford. The cold and the grayness were no rival for the youthful high spirits that reigned at Bryn Atha.

Niniane was heavy with child and found the dreariness far more stressful than did the men. As her time drew nearer she began to have fearful dreams and fantasies. Would the babe be healthy? She had seen children before who had been born without limbs, with horribly deformed mouths. Surely, surely, such a thing could not happen to her child. Surely God would not punish a little innocent child for the sins of its mother?

Ceawlin wanted to celebrate the feast of Yule and she worried about that. She had been too lax in permitting all these pagan practices. Surely she should be striving to convert him, to convert all these poor souls to Christ.

The thanes decorated the reception room and the dining room with evergreens they had picked in the wood. At Winchester it had been the women’s work to prepare for Yule, but the only women at Bryn Atha were Christian and so the thanes did it themselves. Niniane and the three British girls stayed in the kitchen and listened to the laughter of the men as they hung the pine and the holly. Ceawlin’s voice was clearest of all.

“They sound as if they’re having fun,” said Meghan a little wistfully.

“Filthy, pagan doings,” replied Amena. She was the oldest of the girls, and the homeliest.

“They’re not doing anything so terrible,” Wynne said. She was a pretty girl with red-gold hair and green eyes. Ceawlin had said to get rid of her, that she was too pretty to be let loose around a pack of hungry-eyed thanes, but Niniane needed her help and there had been no one else willing to come to Bryn Atha. So Wynne had stayed. “It’s nice,” Wynne added now, “decorating the house with greens. It’s cheerful.”

Amena snorted.

“I think it
is
nice,” Niniane said firmly. “And I don’t see any reason why we cannot celebrate Christmas at the same time the thanes are celebrating Yule. The feasts fall on almost the same day.”

“Celebrate the birth of Christ with a bunch of filthy pagan rites?” Amena was horrified. “Never!”

“You know what Father Mai said when he was here in August, Amena.” Niniane turned from the bread she was kneading to give the girl a stern look. “He said we were all missionaries for Christ. That it was our duty to do our best to bring the word of Christ to the Saxons. And Yule does not have any ‘filthy pagan rites.’ It is merely a happy feast. We have a special banquet for Christmas too. There can be no harm in combining the two. It will be a way to tell the Saxons the story of Christ’s birth.”

“I think that is a splendid idea!” said Wynne.

“Yes.” Meghan smiled shyly. Then, to Amena in her gentle voice, “Niniane is right, Amena. It is our duty to be missionaries for Christ.”

“I don’t agree,” said Amena.

“Then you do not have to come to the banquet,” Niniane said with perfect pleasantness. “Perhaps you would prefer to go home to your family.”

Amena glared but did not answer. After a minute Niniane went back to kneading her bread.

The sky was full of snow the morning of Christmas-Yule. Niniane went out into the backyard for a few moments to get away from the smells in the kitchen, and saw that the sky was growing darker. The clouds had taken on an ominous yellowish tinge and the wind was strong enough to blow her hair and whip her skirt around her knees. It looked as if a storm was coming.

The baby kicked and she put her hand on the rounded mound of her stomach. Her back ached. Just a few more weeks, she thought. Surely it could not be any longer than that. She was so weary of always being weary. So weary of the clumsiness, the burden of weight she must carry wherever she went. Would she never be slim and vigorous again?

She looked once more at the sky, sighed, and went back to the kitchen.

The combined feast was a great success. The men had roasted a boar for the traditional Yule meal in honor of Frey, and the women had baked for days in order to load the table with special delicacies. There was plenty of mead to go around. The dining room was bright with candles and evergreens and the sound and the laughter of young voices.

When the food had been finished, someone called upon Bertred to play the harp. Niniane had not been able to hold the harp for some time, having lost her lap, and so Bertred, the youngest of the thanes, had been pressed into service as a substitute.

Niniane sat at the big table, with Ceawlin on one side of her and Sigurd on the other, and listened to the sound of Bertred’s pleasant voice. There was a fire going at the stoke hole of the hypocaust, and no one else seemed to feel at all chilled, but Niniane’s hands and feet were freezing. Her hands and feet seemed always to be cold these days. It was as if the babe were drawing all the blood from her, she thought as she pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” It was Sigurd, concern in his kind gray eyes.

“I’m always cold now,” she answered, and gave him a rueful smile. “Feel my hand.”

She extended her fingers and for a moment his hand, large and callused and wonderfully warm, closed around hers and engulfed it.

“You’re freezing!”

“What is it?” Their soft voices had caught Ceawlin’s attention.

“Niniane is freezing,” Sigurd said. He sounded almost angry.

“Are you?” Ceawlin unpinned the brooch that was holding his own cloak and settled it around his wife’s shoulders. It was warm from his body and she huddled into it gratefully. Ceawlin turned back to the music.

“Shall I get you a rug to wrap up in?” Sigurd asked her.

“No. No, thank you, Sigurd. I shall be all right.”

“The tip of your nose is red.”

Ceawlin looked at them again, a slight frown between his brows. “You are distracting from the music.”

“Sorry,” said Niniane, and looked dutifully to Bertred. Sigurd’s mouth tightened but he did not reply.

Bertred was giving them a familiar Saxon lament for lost youth. It was the sort of song only the young could enjoy, Niniane thought as she listened to the chanted words: