Born of the Sun (52 page)

Cutha’s chief allies from among the eorls were Cynigils, who had come into Winchester to assist Cutha and to claim the spoils of victory he had been promised, and Cutha’s own son, Sigurd. Ine and Wuffa had made brief appearances in Winchester, listened politely to Cutha, and then had gone home. For the first time Cutha was fully appreciative of just how much power Ceawlin had bestowed upon his eorls.

And yet, under Ceawlin that power had also been strictly limited, as Cuthwulf had found out. The eorls were free to exercise their power only on the direction of the king. Cutha drummed this message into the ears of Penda and Ine and Wuffa and hoped that his words fell upon fertile soil. Under a new king, he told them, their power would be even greater.

To Cutha’s immense relief, Guthfrid had refused her brother’s demand that she and Edgar come to Wessex. The wolf-mother had but one cub left, and she was not going to risk him until she was certain he would be safe. Not until Ceawlin was dead, she answered Aethelbert, would she come to Winchester.

Cutha was not the only one to be glad that Guthfrid chose to stay in Sutton Hoo. Niniane thanked God fervently when she heard this news from Sigurd. She feared Guthfrid more than she feared the men.

The months went by and there was no word from Ceawlin.

“Your father must keep his identity secret while he lies in British lands,” Niniane told her sons. “It will take time for him to gather a war band.”

“Yes, Mother,” Cerdic and Crida said. “We know. Do not fear. Father will come.”

“But how can he gather a war band?” Cerdic asked his brother when they were alone. “Cutha has all his men locked up here in Winchester.”

“Bertred will aid him,” said Crida stoutly.

“Will he?” said Cerdic. “Last year you would have said the same of Sigurd.”

The two boys looked at each other. “The Atrebates will rally for him, then,” said Crida.

“Perhaps, but they are not really warriors, Crida. Except for Gereint and Ferris and a few others, they are farmers. Gods!” added Cerdic passionately. “I hate being trapped here like this! If only I could get out of Winchester!”

“What would you do if you escaped from Winchester?” Crida asked impatiently.

“Find Father,” said Cedric. “At least then he would not be alone.”

Crida shook his head so hard that his fair, silky hair swung from side to side. “Do not try anything foolish,” he advised. “As you just pointed out, we cannot be certain who is friend and who is foe. You are better off here in Winchester.”

“Crida … has it not occurred to you what will happen to us should Father die?” Cerdic’s eyes had lost all their blue, were large and dark and very gray.

“Yes.” Crida’s fair skin was paler than usual, but his voice remained calm. “Witgar will never reign unchallenged while we live. I know that. He knows that. You can be certain that Mother and Father know that as well.”

“Then … do you not see why we should try to escape from Winchester?”

“No. I think we should wait for Father.” Crida’s eyes were only on a level with his brother’s mouth, but his boy’s voice for a moment sounded uncannily like Ceawlin’s. “He will do something, we can be sure of that. Nor does he need his hostages scattered around the countryside, Cerdic.” After a moment the younger brother added, “And at least in Winchester we have Sigurd.”

“Sigurd.” Cerdic’s voice was full of loathing. “That traitor!”

“Sigurd will protect us,” said Crida. The two boys looked at each other. Then Crida added slowly, “If he can.”

The months were long for Ceawlin as well. Ferris, whose face was not so well-known as Gereint’s, spent the summer carrying messages from Ceawlin to his eorls. Cutha by now, Ceawlin reckoned, must have under his command at least four hundred men. Cutha also had one hundred of Ceawlin’s men locked up in Winchester, effectively depriving him of their services. The collected forces of Penda, Ine, Wuffa, and Bertred would not number two hundred. The eorls, who could count as well as their king, were inclined to wait.

The summer slipped by. True to his word, Ceawlin helped with the field work and did his best to remain inconspicuous. He was not a man it was possible not to notice, however, and all too soon for comfort the presence of the tall blond stranger was a cause for comment in the valley where Owain’s farm lay.

Owain’s wife was nervous.

“I don’t like it,” she told him night after night. “Ferris is in and out of Wessex all the time. They are in league with Ceawlin. I know it.”

“What if they are?” Owain answered. “It has nothing to do with us.”

“It might.” Maire was a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman with strong bones and very white teeth. “That Rhys. He is someone important, Owain. Your cousin and Gereint are one thing, but he is another matter altogether.”

“How important can he be, Maire? He is a Briton, after all.”

“He doesn’t look British.”

Owain shrugged. “No Saxon could speak British like he does. Besides, he is related to Coinmail.”

“But he does not want Coinmail to know he is here.”

Owain shrugged again.

“He may have had a British mother, Owain, but I would wager you his father was a Saxon.” Maire’s brown eyes were somber. “He is important, my husband. You must know that yourself. Ferris and Gereint defer to him. You defer to him … yes you do! Even
I
find myself deferring to him. It’s not that he is demanding, it’s just that he … it is something about him … I cannot say what … but it is there, Owain!”

Owain sighed. He knew his wife was right. “He is very likable, Maire.”

Her smile was rueful. “Too likable, my husband. And too striking. His presence has not gone unnoticed, we can be certain of that. What will happen if people learn we have been harboring a Saxon from Wessex? You know how hated the Saxons are after Bedcanford. We must think of our children, Owain. I think you should tell them it is time to move on.”

Ceawlin was coming to the same conclusion as his hosts. The farm wagons from the valley, loaded with produce to sell in the city, were now rolling regularly to Corinium. Ceawlin could not fail to realize that his presence, along with that of Ferris and Gereint, was causing a great deal of local gossip.

Owain himself took a load of food into Corinium and returned with the news that Coinmail had recently come to the city. The chief of the Dobunni, Coinmail’s father-by-marriage, was ill and the prince had gradually been assuming more and more of the chief’s role. It was accepted that Coinmail’s son would be the next chief, but as the child was but six, Coinmail would be the real chief of the Dobunni for many years. And Corinium was less than twenty miles from Owain’s farm.

“The prince is known to be interested in Wessex,” Owain reported to his cousin upon return to the farm. “He knows Gereint. It will not be long before he learns of your presence in this valley. Glevum was far enough away for secrecy, but now that he has come to Corinium …” Owain’s voice trailed off as he looked unhappily at his three unwanted guests. “You did say you did not wish Coinmail to know of your presence,” he added.

They all waited for the man called Rhys to answer. As Maire had noted, they always waited for Rhys. A fly hovered around the cheese on the table, its buzz loud in the suddenly quiet room. Owain looked at the man sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. His hair had bleached almost white in the summer sun, and his skin had tanned a surprising golden brown. One would not think skin that fair could tan, Owain found himself thinking. Rhys appeared to be watching the fly with utter absorption. The insect lighted on the table and Rhys’s strong, callused hand came down like lightning. The buzzing stopped. Rhys looked at Gereint and said, “It is time to return to Wessex.”

The temper of Wessex was sullen. Cutha felt it when he went into Venta, felt it in the inimical stares of the merchants who sold to Winchester as always but with a surliness which was new. Ceawlin, Cutha was coming to realize, had been a very popular king.

Aethelbert was restless. His warrior soul lusted to meet Ceawlin once more on the battlefield and he was frustrated and angry by the absence of his enemy. Witgar was not happy either. The continued absence of the West Saxon eorls told him all too clearly that so long as Ceawlin was still at large, he would be king in name only.

Cutha was unhappily coming to the conclusion that his victory had been almost too easy. Sigurd’s betrayal, which had driven Ceawlin from the kingdom, had left Wessex in a state of uneasy suspension. There had been no battle, no decisive trying of strengths, and consequently no clear victor. Ceawlin’s presence, even in exile, was proving to cast a very long shadow.

Consequently, Sigurd’s defection to Cutha, which had seemed such a great coup at the time, seemed less and less a triumph as the months went by. It had left Wessex in this ungovernable state, for one thing; and it was obviously preying on Sigurd’s heart, for another. It was all too clear to Cutha that his son could not forget that he had betrayed his friend. Nor did Cutha’s repeated assurances that he had done so in order not to betray his father seem to soothe Sigurd’s agony of mind.

Cutha suggested that Sigurd return to Wokham, but his son refused to leave Winchester. Sigurd was afraid for Ceawlin’s sons; Cutha knew that well enough. And he had reason to fear, as Cutha admitted to himself in his more honest moments. When he had first plotted to overthrow Ceawlin, Cutha had not for a moment envisioned what would necessarily be the fate of Ceawlin’s sons. Or if the thought had crossed his mind, he had resolutely pushed it away. But now the boys in the princes’ hall were all too obvious, all too present. All too popular. Perhaps, Cutha began to think, perhaps Witgar’s granddaughter could marry Cerdic.

His mind resolutely refused to contemplate what Aethelbert and Guthfrid would think of this change in plan.

Then, to make matters even worse, Nola had told him that Niniane was expecting another child. Gods, Cutha thought, why could Ceawlin not have been like Cynric? Six children … six heirs to Wessex. He could not even begin to contemplate what he was to do with Ceawlin’s six children.

The heat in the hall and the smell of the food were making Niniane feel nauseated. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and said to Cerdic, who was seated next to her at the table, “I am going outside for some air, Cerdic.”

He looked at her with worried eyes and she forced herself to smile at him. “I shall be fine; I just need some air.”

He smiled back, although his eyes still looked worried. “All right, Mother.”

It was hot outside the hall as well; the air was heavy and still. Niniane looked hopefully at the sky, searching for signs of rain. There were men in the courtyard, walking purposefully from one hall to the other. Niniane looked at them, her face blank. Cutha’s men. Aethelbert’s men. Witgar’s men. Enemies.

The door of the king’s hall opened and a man came out. Niniane recognized him instantly. Sigurd.

The day was so stifling, so airless. She felt the sweat on her forehead, between her shoulder blades and breasts. Then the air went dark.

“Niniane!” Sigurd was beside her, his arm around her waist. She sagged against him and he lifted her up into his arms. “You are ill,” he said. “Let me take you inside.”

“No!” She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again. “No, Sigurd,” she said more steadily. “I cannot go back into that stuffy hall. Just let me sit down outdoors for a moment.”

He looked around, searching for a place to take her. Then, “There is a breeze near the dueling grounds,” he said.

Her small head, pillowed now against his shoulder nodded. “Can you walk?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “Carry me.”

She kept her eyes closed as Sigurd walked with her around the hall in the direction of the dueling grounds. She felt immensely weary. It was not wrong of her to rest for a few minutes, she thought, to savor the strength of strong arms around her, a broad shoulder under her cheek. She could not lean thus on her sons; for them must she be strong and confident. But she was so frightened … so lonely … so very, very weary. And it was just for a moment.

“Here we are. Do you want to sit on the grass for a while?” Sigurd asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That would be nice.” Sigurd put her carefully on her feet and she folded to the ground in a graceful billow of skirts. He stood there looking at her, his mouth very grim. She patted the ground beside her, and slowly, almost reluctantly, he sat down as well.

For months now he had been avoiding Niniane. She would hate him, of that he was sure. And certainly she had made no attempt to seek him out, sequestering herself in the princes’ hall with her sons and Alric, leaving only to go occasionally to the women’s hall for a visit with Nola. He did not want to hold speech with Niniane, or with Ceawlin’s sons either. He was in little doubt as to what they thought of him; how could he be, when he thought the same of himself?

So he sat cross-legged beside Ceawlin’s wife on the grass and braced himself. She had wanted to speak to him, that was obvious. There was no other reason he could think of that would account for her behavior just now. But she said nothing, just sat with slightly bent head regarding the sunburned grass on which she reclined. “Are you all right?” he asked after a minute, his voice harsh to his own ears.

“Oh, yes.” She raised her head and looked at him. “Just feeling the heat, that is all. I am with child again,” she added, as if the news were of no importance.

He felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. “Oh, no,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her eyes looked almost gray as they regarded him soberly. “Ceawlin did not know what was going to happen in Wessex,” she said.

He could feel himself color. He wanted to look away from her, but he could not. She wouldn’t let him, he realized, was holding him captive with those steady smoke-blue eyes. “Do you know where he is?” she asked.

“No.” There was a small silence while they sat there side by side, eyes locked in a strange kind of duel. Then, “I thought you would know,” he said.

“We had little time to make plans.”

He tore his eyes away and put his hand on the grass to push himself upright. Her own hand shot out to cover his and hold him there. He froze, eyes on the small narrow hand that was holding him. She was wearing short sleeves in the heat, and he could see clearly the delicate bones of her wrist, the soft silky skin of her inner arm. “Sigurd,” she said, and her husky voice sent a shiver up and down his spine. “Don’t