Born of the Sun (51 page)

“Well, then,” and he gave her a crooked grin. “Perhaps you had better find your father’s old razor. And a scissors to cut my hair.”

By the time Gereint galloped back to Bryn Atha with confirmation of what they already knew, Ceawlin had sent most of the British back to their farms.

“I am riding for Corinium,” Ceawlin said to Gereint. “Sigurd will not harm the Atrebates, I am certain of that. Nor is Cutha likely to attempt any forays until he knows I am safely dead.”

Gereint stared at his king. Ceawlin’s fair hair was now as short as his own, and he was as cleanly shaven. “I see,” he said slowly. “You will pretend to be British?”

“Yes.”

“I am coming with you.”

Ceawlin clapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t deny I’d find your company helpful.”

“If Coinmail ever discovers you are in his territory,” Gereint said grimly, “he will be as merciless as Cutha.”

Ceawlin shrugged. “One danger at a time, please. Let us get away from Bryn Atha before I begin to worry about Coinmail.”

“Yes,” said Niniane urgently. “Do not delay any longer!”

“I’ll get the horses,” said Gereint.

“Ferris is insisting he come also,” said Ceawlin, and Gereint, on his way to the door, looked over his shoulder and grinned.

Ceawlin and Niniane were alone. He put his hands on her shoulders. “I hate to leave you like this, Nan, but you cannot come with me.”

“I know.” She looked up at him bravely. “It will be better for the boys if I am with them. They must be so frightened …” She rubbed her palm along his newly shaven jaw. “Sigurd will not harm me,” she said.

“I know.” The look he gave her was strange. “Sigurd would never harm you,” he said.

“Once you get away … then what?”

He put his hand over hers and moved it to his mouth. “I don’t know, shall have to see. Be patient, Nan. Be patient and wait. I shall come for you. Be sure of that.”

“I know.” She raised up to cling around his neck. He held her against him, feeling the slenderness of her, and hoped suddenly, desperately, that she was not in fact carrying his daughter. It was going to be hard enough for her without having to face childbirth as well.

“I must go,” he said, and she released him. Gereint and Ferris were in the courtyard with the horses.

“God keep you, my love,” she said. He nodded and was gone.

When Sigurd’s war band marched into Bryn Atha an hour later, the only people they found were the queen and the villa servants. Niniane was standing in the courtyard directly before the house, and when Sigurd’s horse stopped in front of her, she said clearly, “The king is not here.” Sigurd’s back was to his men and so Niniane was the only one to see the flare of wild relief in the eorl’s gray eyes.

“Where has he gone?” It was a man Niniane recognized as Cutha’s chief thane who now pushed his horse forward to stand beside Sigurd.

Niniane smiled with genuine amusement. “Do you expect me to tell you?”

The man’s hard face tightened and he turned to Sigurd. “I told you, my lord, not to fly the red boar. Had we come under your own banner, we would have caught him.”

Sigurd’s gray eyes were cold. “If I am fighting for my father, then it is right that I fly my father’s banner. Ceawlin has probably gone north, to Penda. There is nothing more for us to do here.”

“Sigurd,” said Niniane urgently, “what of my sons?”

His eyes turned toward her, though he looked not at her face but at a point somewhere to the left of it. “Your sons are safe, Niniane. I go now to Winchester myself. No harm will come to them, I promise you that.”

“Take me with you,” she said.

At that he did not look at her. “I don’t think—” he was beginning, when Cutha’s thane, whose name was Harold, cut in.

“Of course we will take you. Ceawlin’s wife! Did you think we would leave you free, my lady?” His laugh was harsh and brutal.

Niniane ignored him, kept her eyes on Sigurd. “I want to be with my children,” she said.

He hesitated, then nodded, turned, and said to one of his foot thanes abruptly, “Go saddle a horse for the queen. We leave Bryn Atha immediately for Winchester.”

Riding south with the war band reminded Niniane of the first time she had come to Winchester as Cynric’s prize of war. But the fear she had felt then seemed to her as nothing compared with the fear she felt now. Then she had been afraid for herself. Now her fear was for those she loved more than her own life.

Ceawlin had been certain that the boys would be safe so long as he lived. Niniane, thinking things out for herself, thought he was right so far as Cutha was concerned. It would gain Cutha nothing to kill Ceawlin’s sons so long as the king was alive to get more. But would Guthfrid be so rational? Would not Guthfrid demand her vengeance? Ceawlin’s sons for Edwin?

Guthfrid was not yet in Winchester; that she had learned from Sigurd. And Sigurd would never permit harm to befall Ceawlin’s sons. He had promised her…. Desperately Niniane clung to that hope as the walls of Winchester rose before her.

The stockade gate was manned by strangers. Niniane rode between Sigurd and Harold, with Sigurd’s men marching behind as they advanced slowly up the main street toward the great hall. The door of the king’s hall opened and Cutha came out with two men who Niniane guessed must be Witgar and Aethelbert, the king of Wight and East Anglia. Cutha gave his son a smile in which welcome and relief were evenly mixed.

“Where is Ceawlin?” It was the thick-set man with the hunched shoulders who spoke. His eyes went once more over the men, searching for a distinctive blond head.

“We were too late at Bryn Atha,” Sigurd replied evenly. He spoke to his father only. “The king had gone.”

“Where?” demanded Aethelbert, his head jutting forward as well as his shoulders.

“I do not know, my lord,” said Sigurd.

“Who is the woman?” It was the other, older man speaking now. Niniane stared haughtily at the King of Wight and answered.

“I am Niniane, the queen.”

“You
were
the queen, my lady,” the man replied. “Ceawlin is no longer King of Wessex. I am.”

All the way south, Niniane had resolved not to be antagonistic to the men who would be her captors, to be pleasant and accommodating. But to see these … usurpers standing so brazenly in front of Ceawlin’s hall … White fury burned through her veins and she said, scorn death-cold in her voice, “You are not fit to kiss the ground before my husband’s feet.”

“Niniane.” It was Sigurd’s voice, low and urgent. Bright, choleric color had flooded into the insulted Witgar’s face. “The queen is upset, my lords,” he said to the three men standing before him. “She is worried about her children. Let me escort her to them.”

Cutha nodded. “Yes, get her away from here, Sigurd. The boys are in the princes’ hall.”

Sigurd reached over to take Niniane’s reins, and she let him lead her across the courtyard. He dismounted and lifted her down from her horse. “Thank you,” she said stonily, opened the door of the hall, and closed it behind her with a loud bang.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside.

“Mama!” There was a rush of feet and then Eirik was in her arms, with Sigurd clinging to her knees and the older boys pressing so close she could scarcely find floor space to put her feet.

“Where is Father? Do they have him?” It was Crida’s voice that cut through the general babble.

Niniane shook her head. “Your father is safe, my sons. He escaped from Bryn Atha before Sigurd could catch him.”

“The gods are good,” said Cerdic fervently, and Crida’s laugh was unsteady with relief.

“But why are you here, Mama?” Cerdic asked. It was a measure of how he was feeling that he had reverted to the childhood name.

“Your father had to ride hard, Cerdic. I could not go with him.” Her arms tightened on the warm, heavy weight of Eirik. “Besides, I was worried about you.”

“They came out of nowhere, Mama,” Cerdic said grimly. “We had no warning until they were but a few miles away. If Father had been here, he might have been able to organize a defense, but—”

“The hall thanes tried,” Crida put in. “But they got in through the postern gate. Cutha knew where it was, of course.” Crida’s voice was hard and bitter.

“What has happened to the hall thanes?” Niniane asked.

“Cutha has locked them all into Bertred’s hall,” Cerdic said. “He first gave them a choice, Mama. He said they could either swear loyalty to him or be prisoners. Not a single thane would betray my father.” Cerdic’s voice rang with pride.

Niniane kissed Eirik’s blond hair and bent to put him back on his feet. “Where has Father gone?” asked Ceowulf.

Niniane glanced at the two youngest children before looking meaningfully at the eldest three. “To a place where Cutha cannot get him.”

“But where—?” Ceowulf was beginning, when Crida cut in.

“Be quiet, idiot. Can’t you see Mama does not want to talk in front of the babies?”

“I am not a baby,” said Sigurd indignantly. “Am I, Mama? I’m a big boy now. Eirik is a baby.”

“Am not!” said Eirik instantly.

Niniane laughed unsteadily. “Well, it doesn’t sound as if much has changed around here.”

Crida shoved his hand through the short hair on his forehead in Ceawlin’s own gesture. “I wish that were true,” he said.

Cerdic took charge. “Come into my room, Mother. We must talk.” Then, when the two youngest made as if to follow them, “No.” With an imperious gesture he summoned a nurse. “Find my little brothers some food,” he said. “Mother, Crida, come with me.”

“And me!” cried Ceowulf in anguish.

Cerdic shrugged. “All right, Ceowulf. You too.” Niniane’s tall eldest son put an arm around her shoulders and led her toward his bedroom. Crida and Ceowulf obediently followed their brother’s lead.

Ferris had a cousin whose farm was about halfway between Byrn Atha and Corinium, and it was at this farm that the three fugitives from Bryn Atha finally halted sometime shortly after midnight. Ferris’ cousin was a man of about thirty, their own age, and he brought the three weary horsemen into his kitchen, sent his wife back to bed, and sat down to listen with horror to the tale of betrayal his cousin had to tell.

When Ferris had finished, the cousin, whose name was Owain, stared in amazed bewilderment at the three men before him. Gereint he had met before. The other very tall, very blond man he did not know. Ferris had introduced him as Rhys. “But I don’t understand,” Owain finally said. “Why did you have to flee? From what you tell me, they were only after the king.”

“It is well known that we are the king’s men,” Gereint replied grimly. “Our lives would be worth naught should Cutha get his hands on us.”

“Well, Ferris … Gereint, you know what we have ever thought of the Atrebates’ support of the Saxons,” said Owain piously. “I do not mean to be harsh, but you have brought this trouble on yourselves.”

Ferris and Gereint both looked quickly at the fair-haired man who was accompanying them. The blond smiled. “Well, all is not lost yet.” His voice was mild. “God willing, Ceawlin is safe and may still prevail.”

“Yes, that is so.” Ferris’ voice sounded oddly choked. “God willing.”

The blond crossed himself and Ferris began to cough. “Are you all right?” the man called Rhys asked.

“Yes, fine.” Ferris looked at his cousin. “I should be glad of some water, though.”

“Of course.” Owain jumped up. “How stupid of me. You must all be thirsty … and hungry too, after such a ride.”

As the men fell on the food and beer he put out, Owain looked from one face to the other. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.

It was the blond, whose eyes were the most startling color Owain had ever seen, who answered. “If you would not mind, we should like to stay here for a while. It will give us a chance to see how things go in Wessex, assess how safe it might be for us to return.” The man’s blue-green eyes were vivid in the dancing light of the candle. “We are all experienced farmers, Owain. We will be glad to help you with your work.”

Gereint’s smile was luminous. “That is so, Rhys,” he agreed.

“Well…” Owain looked at his cousin. There was more here than he had been told, of that he was certain. “Are you waiting to hear from Ceawlin?” he asked Ferris bluntly.

Ferris met his cousin’s eyes and then smiled wryly and shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “We are. And we need a place to stay while we wait. Will you help us, Owain?”

“I think you are mad,” the man of the Dobunni, whose mother had been an Atrebates, said.

The blond grinned. “Doubtless you are right.”

Owain looked at the three of them again and sighed. “Oh, all right. You can stay here for a while.”

“One more thing.” It was the blond again, and this time his pleasant voice was unmistakably giving a command. “It would be better to keep our presence as quiet as possible. Your prince, Coinmail, is not known to be overly fond of his old kinsmen.”

“Are you related to Coinmail?” Owain asked curiously.

“Yes,” said the man called Rhys, and there was a note of ironic amusement in his voice. “I’m afraid that I am.”

Summer came to Winchester. Cutha spent his time in trying to keep Aethelbert and Witgar from falling out and in wooing the eorls. When Ceawlin came back—for Cutha, who knew the king well, had little doubt that Ceawlin would try to regain his kingdom—when Ceawlin came back, much of what happened would depend upon how many friends Cutha was able to win.

The country seemed to Cutha to be sunk in silence. No one knew exactly where Ceawlin was, though it seemed most probable that he was somewhere in Dumnonia. It was Bertred whom Cutha thought the king would try to reach first, and as Banford was not far from Bertred’s manor, it was possible to keep a close watch on Bertred without seeming to do so. Bertred himself Cutha did not attempt to win over. Bertred would be Ceawlin’s man until he died; all Cutha could do there was try to keep the eorl isolated from the king.

Penda was ominously silent. He had been pleasant to the man sent to him by Cutha, but had refused to come to Winchester with his thanes, saying he would be better employed guarding the northern boundary of Wessex. Guarding it from whom or for whom, he did not say.