Born of the Sun (45 page)

He thrashed about in the bed in his anguish. He could not go on like this. He would have to do something. He would have to be quit of those two. There was no other way. He would take Edith and the children and leave Winchester. The other eorls had done so; why should not he?

He would tell Ceawlin on the morrow.

He thought of the look of bewilderment he knew he would see in Ceawlin’s eyes. Woden help me, he prayed. What am I going to say to him?

In the morning Sigurd learned that Ceawlin had taken his two older boys hunting, so he had to wait. He went instead to see his father.

“I have decided to live at Wokham,” he said to Cutha. “Ceawlin granted me the lands when first he became king, and I have scarcely ever been there. It is time for me to take up my duties as an eorl, see to my own land and my own people. I owe it to my son.” It was the speech he had prepared for Ceawlin, and he looked now to see how it fared with Cutha.

His father looked first surprised, then thoughtful. Cutha’s brown hair was streaked with gray, but his thin dark face had aged surprisingly little in the years since Cynric’s death. At the moment, Sigurd thought, he himself probably felt older than Cutha looked.

“I think that might be wise,” Cutha answered at last.

Sigurd was surprised. He had expected an argument.

“Have you told Ceawlin?” Cutha asked.

“Not yet. He is out hunting with Cerdic and Crida. I will tell him this afternoon.”

Cutha’s blue eyes were shrewd. “He won’t like it. You know how he relies on you, Sigurd.”

Sigurd did know, and the knowledge made him feel wretched. “His sons are getting older. It will be well for Ceawlin to learn to turn to Cerdic and not to me.”

“Yes …” said Cutha. “And I will still be here.”

Sigurd forced a smile. “It will be best for Edith and the children for us to go to Wokham. It is time for me to think of them.”

“Tell that to Ceawlin,” Cutha advised.

“Yes,” Sigurd said. “I will.”

It was even harder than Sigurd had anticipated, telling Ceawlin he was leaving Winchester. The sight of Ceawlin riding in from the hunt with his sons brought back such forceful memories of the days when he and Ceawlin were boys and would steal out of Winchester to go hunting together. How happy they had been. How carefree.

Yet memory played tricks, he thought after a minute. The happy boyhood he was picturing had in fact been clouded with treachery, with the shadow of Edwin’s hatred and Guthfrid’s enmity. It was the friendship between him and Ceawlin that shone so crystal clear; the rest of Winchester had been muddy with strife and rivalry, struggling in the turbulent wake of an aging king. But the memory of their boyhood was still vivid in Sigurd’s mind as he went to see Ceawlin to tell him of his decision to leave Winchester.

He went to the king’s hall and found Ceawlin sitting at the table eating bread and cheese and drinking beer with his two eldest sons. The three were laughing when Sigurd came in, and Sigurd saw a flicker of resentment cross Cerdic’s face as his father’s friend approached the table. It was not often that his children got Ceawlin to themselves, and Sigurd was sorry to be the one to intrude upon what was obviously a treat for Cerdic and Crida. But it could not be helped.

“Ceawlin,” he said, “I must speak with you.”

“Of course,” Ceawlin replied. He waved a hand to one of the chairs. “Sit down.” His voice was both casual and commanding.

Sigurd came around and sat down next to Crida. Perhaps it would be easier to do this in the boys’ presence. “I am going to take Edith and the children and go live at Wokham,” he said baldly.

Ceawlin quirked an eyebrow. “You do not need to ask my permission to visit your manor, Sigurd. If you feel the need to go to Wokham, then

go.”

“You don’t understand, Ceawlin. I am not talking about going for a visit. I am going to live there. Permanently. I am not coming back to Winchester.”

Ceawlin put down the beer he had been about to drink and turned slowly to look at Sigurd. His face was very still. “Why?”

Sigurd could not meet his friend’s eyes. “Your other eorls live upon their manors. It is time for me also to look to what is mine. I owe it to my son.”

“You are not one of my ‘other eorls,’ ” said Ceawlin. His voice was very quiet. Then, “Cerdic and Crida, you may leave us.”

“Yes, Father.” The boys recognized the note in Ceawlin’s voice and got instantly to their feet and left the hall.

Ceawlin waited until the door had closed behind them before he said, “What is the matter, Sigurd? Is it Cuthwulf ?”

“No!” Sigurd stared at him in surprise. “This has nothing to do with Cuthwulf.”

“I see.” Ceawlin ran a hand through the short hair on his forehead. “Then I don’t understand, Sigurd. Of course you are perfectly free to do as you wish; you know that. Wokham is yours, and if you wish to live there, then that is your decision. But … I don’t understand.”

Sigurd stared into those familiar blue eyes and a sudden surge of love rushed into his heart. This was not Ceawlin’s fault. And he knew his friend would miss him sorely. There was no forbidden love torturing Ceawlin’s heart to mar the friendship he felt for Sigurd. No, of course Ceawlin could not understand. And not understanding, he was hurt.

Gods! He seemed to spread misery wherever he went. Sigurd put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. “It is just … Ceawlin, I cannot bear to be around Niniane any longer!”

There was absolute silence. Finally Sigurd raised his head. Ceawlin was very pale, and as Sigurd watched, his thin mobile mouth twitched once at the corner. Yet the eyes that met Sigurd’s were steady. “Once I suspected that you might … but, hammer of Thor, Sigurd, that was ten years ago!”

“And have your feelings changed in ten years?” Sigurd asked bitterly.

The corner of Ceawlin’s mouth twitched once more. “No. No, they have not.”

“So you see, it is best that I go.”

“Has she … does she … ?”

Sigurd’s laugh was not pleasant. “Niniane does not know there exists another man in the world but you, Ceawlin. You have seen how I feel, my brother, my father … gods, perhaps even my wife … but not her.”

At last Ceawlin’s eyes dropped. Sigurd stared with pain at the face of his friend, more familiar to him than was his own. “I wanted to marry her. I never told you that, but I was going to ask my father for his permission. And then came those intrigues of Guthfrid’s, and you two were forced to leave Winchester …”

“I did not know.” Ceawlin’s voice was muffled. His long lashes, so much darker than his hair, lay against his cheeks, hiding his eyes. “Sigurd. I do not know what to say to you.”

“There is nothing to say.” Sigurd stood up. “When I came here I was not going to tell you this, but then I saw that you would not believe any other reason I gave you.” He rubbed his forehead as though it ached. “In truth, Ceawlin, when I saw you ride in with your boys, I was put in mind of our own boyhood and I thought I owed you more than a feeble excuse.”

“Sigurd.” Ceawlin rose to his feet also. His eyes were purely turquoise. “Do you hate me?”

“No!”
He took a step forward and then Ceawlin’s arms were around his shoulders. ‘“Never that,” Sigurd said shakily.

The two men stood thus for a long moment and then Ceawlin’s arms dropped. “Go, then. And if you ever feel you can come back, know that you will be welcome.”

Sigurd nodded, not trusting himself to speak, turned, and almost fled from the room.

The December night was bitterly cold, and all over Winchester men sat close to their hearths trying to keep warm. The enormous hearth in the great hall burned with two fierce fires and the king’s-hall thanes clustered close, mending their gear or carving in wood and talking desultorily of this and that. Most of the eorls’ halls lay empty save for Cutha’s and Bertred’s. Bertred had been in Winchester just that afternoon in order to consult with the king about Cuthwulf, whose manor lay near to Bertred’s and who had been more restless than usual this autumn. Bertred was not in his own hall this night, however; he was in the king’s hall with Ceawlin and his family.

Cutha sat with his own hall thanes and stared at the fire burning so brightly on his hearth. He was feeling old, old and alone. He had done what he wanted, had made Ceawlin King of Wessex, and this night he sat and wondered what he had got out of it. Both his sons were exiled from Winchester, Cuthwulf because he was at odds with Ceawlin and Sigurd … For over two years now Sigurd had been at Wokham, nor did he show any signs of planning to come back.

And himself? On the surface, his position in Winchester had not changed. Ceawlin had not taken any of his duties away from him, any of his honors. But all of Wessex knew that the only true power lay with the king, and with those who had the king’s ear. And these last two years Cutha had slowly been forced to the humiliating realization that his was not one of the voices that counted with Ceawlin.

In truth, he had never enjoyed the same position under the son as he had under the father. It had been
his
son, Sigurd, who was Ceawlin’s right hand, who had Ceawlin’s trust. Now that Sigurd was gone, Ceawlin had ceased to make even a pretense that Cutha was a power in his government.

Oh, he was always amiable, always courteous. But that was not enough for Cutha. He felt within himself the urgent demands of his own talents, talents which he had no space to exercise within the confines of Ceawlin’s kingship.

It was not enough for him to be the ruler of his own manor, his own thanes and ceorls and slaves. It seemed to satisfy the rest of them, Ceawlin’s eorls who were content to rule their property and their tenants and send tribute to Ceawlin to signify their bondage to him. Cutha wanted power on a larger scale.

His dissatisfaction had come to a head this past summer, when Ceawlin had betrothed Cerdic to the daughter of the King of Sussex without even consulting him.

The insult still burned whenever he thought of it. True, there had been no actual ceremony, just an agreement that when Cerdic turned sixteen the betrothal would be formalized. But Ceawlin had not even told him until it was all accomplished!

The fire hissed and one of the thanes got up to stir the logs. Cutha looked broodingly around at the circle of his men. He had begun to weigh in his mind his own power, those who would cleave to him as opposed to those who would cleave to Ceawlin. He had talked to Cynigils, one of Cynric’s and Edric’s old eorls who had stayed with Ceawlin after Edric’s defeat, and Cynigils had some dissatisfactions with Ceawlin also. He thought, as did Cuthwulf, that Ceawlin showed too much favor to the British.

Outside, the wind howled, blowing from hall to hall, announcing with its noisy ferocity that once again winter had returned to Wessex. Those inside the king’s hall this night heeded it not, however, so intent were they on their various pursuits. Cerdic and Crida sat cross-legged before the hearth, absorbed in a game of dice. Ceowulf looked on and persistently begged to be allowed to play too. Finally Ceawlin heeded his third son’s pleas and, looking up from his conversation with Bertred, commanded the older two to let him join in the game.

“He
always
wants to do what we are doing, Father,” Crida complained.

This was indisputably true. There were but fifteen months between Cerdic and Crida and the two eldest boys were fast friends and constant companions. Ceowulf was three years younger than Crida and almost as big, yet his elder brothers considered him one of the little ones, relegating him to the company of Sigurd and eighteen-month-old Eirik. Ceowulf resented this bitterly and there was constant strife among the brothers as he tried to keep up with Cerdic and Crida and was as constantly rejected. Occasionally, however, one of his parents, usually his mother, took a hand and made Cerdic and Crida play with him, and so it was this particularly cold and windy night.

Cerdic relinquished his dice to Ceowulf with unusual graciousness and went to sit on a skin at his father’s feet. During the last year Ceawlin had been allowing his eldest son to watch as he went about the various duties of kingship. Cerdic would turn thirteen the following month and was very proud of the increased honor shown to him by his father. The legs he had to cross were growing longer by the month, but he folded himself onto the floor with the seemingly boneless ease of childhood and sat quietly, listening to the men talk.

“How many men has he gathered?” Ceawlin was asking Bertred.

“Eighty, I should say,” came the grim reply.

Ceawlin cursed and fell silent, staring somberly into the flames.

“Is it Cuthwulf, Father?” Cerdic asked tentatively.

“Yes.” Ceawlin did not look at his son, continued to stare into the flames. “He is forcing me to take action against him,” he finally said.

Bertred rubbed his head. “I don’t understand him, Ceawlin. Sword of Woden, what does he want?”

“I doubt that he knows. Cuthwulf does not think. He never did.”

“Cannot you get Cutha to pull the reins in on him?”

There was a long silence. Then, “I do not think so.”

Cerdic stared at his father. Ceawlin’s face was iron hard. The boy looked next at Bertred. The eorl’s pleasant face was no less serious than the king’s. “What of Sigurd?” Bertred asked, his voice diffident.

Ceawlin leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its high back. “Sigurd has already spoken to him.”

“I see.” Then, “What are you going to do, Ceawlin?”

His father’s blue-green glance rested for a moment on his face. For a terrible moment Cerdic thought Ceawlin was going to tell him to leave, but then his father looked at Bertred and said, “Make him leave Banford.”

Bertred’s eyes widened. “And send him where?”

“Back here, to Winchester. Where he will be under my eye.”

“Cutha will not like that.”

“Cutha either has not been able to control him, or does not wish to control him. He has left me no choice. I cannot have my eorls gathering their own war bands. A reasonable number of thanes to protect their borders is one thing. Eighty men is something else.”