Born of the Sun (10 page)

What could she do?

She had thought often of running away, but there was nowhere and no one to whom she could run. The Britons in the area around Winchester were all securely under Cynric’s thumb. There was no one who would shelter his son’s runaway bride.

She had thought of trying to get home, but she had been certain they would catch her before ever she made it. Now there was no longer even the possibility of trying to get to Bryn Atha. Coinmail had been forced to make peace with the Saxons and she evidently was his peace offering. She could not expect him to take her back; he would not be able to keep her presence a secret. Cynric was planning to give land grants to the eorls who had followed him faithfully during his career of conquest. That was why the war band had stayed north for several weeks after their victory at Beranbyrg; Cynric had wanted to look more closely at the territory. Within too short a time there would be Saxons settled near Bryn Atha. There would be no refuge for her there.

All that was left to her was prayer.

She was still sitting in the sunshine ten minutes later when Nola came to find her. “Fara wants you, Niniane. Ceawlin has cut himself and it needs to be sewn.”

Niniane put down her spindle and her wool. “All right,” she said. “I’m coming.”

Ceawlin was seated on a chair, with Fara standing behind him holding a cloth to the side of his face, when Niniane came in. Fara looked up. “Oh, Niniane. We have need of your skill, my dear. This cut is very deep and needs to be sewn closed.”

Niniane came over to the chair where Ceawlin was sitting and turned his face up so she could look at it. The cut was deep and jagged and had missed his right eye by a fraction of an inch. “You were lucky, Prince,” she said.

“I know.” His sea-blue eyes were narrow with irony. “Can you really sew it up?”

“Oh, yes. It might leave a scar, though. It is very deep.”

He shrugged. “Do the best you can. My mother says you are the most skilled of all the women.”

Niniane turned to Fara. “Have a lamp brought over here if you please, my lady. It is better than these candles.”

As the lamp was being brought, Niniane went to the basin of water that had been set on the table to wash the prince’s wound and, picking up the soap, began to wash her hands. She soaped carefully and dried them on one of the cloths stacked there. Then she went over to stand behind Ceawlin. Fara moved out of the way and Nola put the threaded needle into her hand. She took the prince’s chin into her other hand and gently pressed his head back against her. “It is important that you remain still,” she told him

“Yes. I know.”

He closed his eyes and rested his head against her breast. She smoothed his hair back so it would not get into the wound. His hair was very thick and clung to her fingers like silk. It was the color of moonlight, she thought. The weight of him against her was oddly pleasant. She thought, suddenly, that she would not be so frightened if it were Ceawlin she was going to marry.

She frowned at her own thoughts and bent to look more closely at the cut. Then, holding the skin carefully together with one hand, she stitched the jagged edges of his torn flesh together.

She could feel his body tense as the needle went in and out through the sensitive skin of his face, but he never moved. He stayed still as stone under her hand until she had finished. Finally she looked up at Fara. “That is the best I can do, my lady. There will be a scar, I fear, but at least he still has the eye.”

Ceawlin moved his gilt-fair head from her breast and looked up. His face was pale under its tan, the striking blue-green eyes heavy. “Thank you, Princess,” he said. “You are a skillful needlewoman.”

The three of them were alone at the table; the rest of the women had retired into the corner or had gone outside. Niniane nodded and began to put things back into Fara’s workbox.

“How did this happen?” Fara asked her son in Saxon.

“I told you. Bayvard came down in the woods and I was thrown. I tore my face on a root that was sticking up in the path.”

Niniane continued to put the workbox in order and listened to the conversation between mother and son. Over the course of the last year she had come to understand Saxon very well. She had concealed this knowledge, however, pretending to speak and to understand only a few common words. Her instinct had been to keep to herself any small advantage she might be able to find in this place where she was so alone and unprotected. She had not let even Fara know how fluent she had become.

Fara was going on, “Bayvard is very surefooted. What brought him down?”

There was a long moment’s silence. Then Ceawlin sighed. “Sigurd found a vine stretched across the road. It was tied from one tree to another.”

“I knew it.” Fara’s voice was shaking. “I knew he was behind it.”

“There is no proof of that, Mother.”

“I don’t need proof to know who tied that vine! Nor do you.”

Niniane slowly folded cloths, listening with an expressionless face. “No,” said Ceawlin at last. “But what can I do about it, Mother? He has no compunction about trying to murder or maim me, but I am not so lacking in feeling for my father as he.”

“It would kill your father, to have one son slain by the other.”

“I know that. There would be no way out for him: not blood vengeance, not wergild. Only grief. That is why I must stay my hand.”

“You almost lost your eye!”

He shrugged.

“I have been thinking,” Fara said. “Perhaps you ought to leave Winchester, Ceawlin. Perhaps your father might be persuaded to give you a grant of land by the Aildon hills.”

“Leave Winchester! You must be mad, Mother.” Niniane looked up to see him staring at Fara in astonishment. “What would I do outside of Winchester? Everything I have been brought up for is here. What on earth could I find to do in the Aildon hills? Farm?”

“But, Ceawlin, what else is there to do?” Fara sounded almost desperate. “You cannot stay here until he kills you! And that is what it will be. You know that!”

“He won’t. He is afraid of my father. So is Guthfrid.”

“Your father will not live forever.”

“Well, I won’t leave while he lives, that is for certain. So stop this foolish talk about the Aildon hills.” He smiled at her and then bent to kiss the top of her head. “I won’t let him kill me, Mother. I promise.” Next he turned to Niniane and said in British, “Thank you once again, Princess.”

Both women stood in silence and watched him walk out of the hall.

“What is wergild?” Niniane was speaking to Hilda, one of the Saxon girls who dwelt in the bower. They were working together on the looms that hung at the end of the women’s hall. Behind them was a bustle of activity as the tables were readied for supper.

Hilda did not look surprised by the question. During the past year they had all become accustomed to Niniane’s ignorance.

“Wergild is the price of a man,” she answered now in a British that had greatly improved since Niniane’s introduction into Winchester. Hilda was a tall, broad-shouldered blond of easygoing temperament. Next to Nola, Niniane liked her best of all the girls in the bower.

“The price of a man?” Niniane repeated, not understanding.

Hilda elaborated. “The fine owed for the life of a man. It is quite clearly prescribed in law: so much for an eorl, so much for a thane, for a ceorl, and so on.”

“But by whom is this fine owed?”

“By the man who took the life, of course. The murderer.”

“The murderer?”

“Naturally. Who else should pay it?”

Niniane threaded her bobbin through the shed, alternatively bringing the heddle rod back and forth, her hands working automatically, quite independent of her brain. “Let me see if I understand. If a man murders another man, then the murderer must pay a fine to the king?”

“Not to the king, Niniane. To the victim’s family.” Hilda picked up the old blunt sword which they used to press the weft.

Niniane frowned. “And is there no other punishment? All a murderer must do is pay a fine?”

Hilda carefully pressed the weft upward to make it even. “Oh, no. Wergild is paid only if the victim’s family is willing to take it. Most of the time they are not.” She put down the sword and turned to Niniane. “It is looked down on a little, the acceptance of wergild in place of vengeance.”

“Vengeance? What do you mean by vengeance?”

“Blood vengeance, what else.” Then, as Niniane still looked unsure, “As soon as a murder is committed, the victim’s family incurs the duty to avenge the death against either the murderer or his family. It is a religious matter, you see. It has to do with the sacredness of blood kinship.”

“You mean they must murder the murderer?”

“Yes.”

“But that is mad!” Niniane’s lands had fallen quite still. “Such a feud could go on for generations!”

“Many have,” came the placid reply. “It was because of a blood feud that Guthfrid came to Wessex to marry Cynric. The marriage was a way to end it, you see. That is one way. The other way is for one family to accept wergild. Then the killing is over.”

“And what if the victim’s family does not want either vengeance or wergild?”

“That would be unthinkable,” said Hilda. “Such a person would lose all honor.”

Niniane had been among the Saxons for long enough to recognize the sacredness of honor to them. Once again she began to thread the weft through the shed. “If loyalty to kin is of such utmost importance,” she said slowly, “what happens if one family member should kill another family member?”

“By the code of kinship, a man is forbidden to kill or to exact wergild from a kinsman.”

“Yet, by the same code, he is required to do one or the other to avenge the dead.”

“Yes.” Hilda smiled, pleased that her pupil had comprehended at last. “That is why the murder of a blood relation is the most horrifying and unforgivable of crimes. It is impossible to avenge.”

“I see,” said Niniane and, finally, she did.

Niniane’s betrothal was celebrated the following day with a splendid banquet in the great hall of Winchester. Among the Saxons the betrothal ceremony far outshone the marriage rite, which was set to follow in two weeks’ time. The main features of the marriage were the giving of a ring and sexual consummation. The betrothal was less personal, more of a community occasion.

For their betrothal feast Edwin and Niniane were given the places of honor, Edwin at the king’s side and Niniane at the queen’s. Out-of-doors the rain was pouring down and it was dark and damp, but in the festive atmosphere of the hall the candles blazed, the food and drink were passed around and around, and the raucous humor got more and more obscene as the banquet progressed.

Edwin listened to the bawdy comment being made by the eorl who sat beside him and gave an appreciative laugh. Left to himself, he would have preferred a marriage with one of the great Anglo-Saxon royal families, but he knew Guthfrid was right to wish to prevent Ceawlin from marrying this princess of the Atrebates. It was smarter to marry her himself and thus keep the bastard from gaining a position that might prove dangerous in the future. She could always be got rid of once his father died.

In the meantime, it might not be unpleasant to have a wife. True, Niniane was not the kind of woman who normally attracted him. She was pretty enough, but too reserved. She had known for over a year that she would be his wife, yet she had never done anything to attract or to please him. Much too reserved. Well, once he had her in his bed he would teach her soon enough what kind of a wife he wanted her to be.

Beside him Cynric was signaling for silence. Then, as a relative quiet fell on the hall, the king called, “Bring in the gifts.”

The hall door opened and a line of slaves came in bearing the traditional gifts of the bridegroom to his bride. There was clothing, jewelry, a strongbox, linens and blankets, and a list of the domestic animals that were to become her property. The gifts were placed ceremoniously on the floor before the high seat. Then Cynric called forth three of his eorls to witness that these gifts had indeed been conveyed by Prince Edwin to the Princess Niniane.

The three Eorls duly swore their legal witness to the transaction and returned to their places. Then Cynric signaled for Edwin and Niniane to come and stand before him. The betrothal ceremony was always concluded by a kiss on the mouth, symbol of the union of bodies that would be consummated in the marriage.

Edwin looked down into the princess’s expressionless face. She was looking at his father, not at him. Stupid cow, he thought. She had been one year in Winchester and still she did not know Saxon. “We are supposed to kiss each other,” he said to her in British.

At that she looked at him. His dark eyes narrowed, he put his hands on her shoulders, and pulling her against him, he kissed her mouth with brutal thoroughness. The hall of half-drunk thanes roared its approval.

Niniane was trembling when finally he let her go. She kept her eyes down as she returned to her place beside Guthfrid and clasped her cold fingers in her lap to keep them from shaking too visibly. She tasted blood. Edwin’s teeth had cut her lip.

Dear Blessed Jesus, she prayed. Help me. The noise in the hall was deafening. Please, please, dear Lord. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her short nails cut into her palms.

“Try to look happy, you little fool,” said the queen beside her. “Remember you are to be a bride.”

Three days before the wedding of Niniane and Edwin was to take place, Cynric took a bodyguard and rode into Venta to give justice. Cutha went with him, to interpret and to advise. They were not gone two hours before Edwin challenged Ceawlin to a duel.

Duels were not uncommon among the Saxons. In Winchester, dueling was a prestigious way of ending rivalries and quarrels. It was considered both a recreation and a sport. The rules were strictly formulated to avoid serious injury although injury did occasionally occur. A duel was fought until the judge ruled that one of the participants had been officially disarmed. Then everyone usually retired to the great hall to get drunk.

There was no one in Winchester, however, who expected that a duel between the two princes would be at all usual. The bad blood between Edwin and Ceawlin went far beyond the kind of quarrel that was normally settled on the dueling ground. Both Guthfrid and Fara made attempts to dissuade their sons from an action that both mothers perceived as far too dangerous.