Born of the Sun (56 page)

Before he went to bed, Sigurd sought out Niniane. This time she sent Crida away and the two of them were alone together in the small bedroom that had been meant for one of the royal princes. “You know what is happening?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“It will be over tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She looked at him gravely, her small, lovely head held proudly on its long, slim neck. He had always loved the way she carried her head. “I heard also that Ceawlin offered you pardon,” she said.

“Yes.” His face was strained; the skin over his cheekbones seemed too tightly stretched. “He did.”

“Why did you not take it, Sigurd?” Her voice was soft.

“I cannot. Niniane … I cannot desert my father … not now.”

She looked at him and then she nodded.

“It is my fault, Niniane,” he said wretchedly. “I know that. All my fault. If I had not come to Bryn Atha when I did, Cerdic might still be alive.”

She went very pale. “Sigurd.” She swallowed and tried again. “Ceawlin offered you that pardon after he learned about Cerdic. He does not blame you.”

“And you? Do you blame me?”

She gestured, as if she were pushing cobwebs from in front of her face. “I blame you. I blame myself for not realizing what it was he was thinking. I blame the sentry who shot him. I blame Cerdic for being so foolhardy. I keep thinking if only I could roll back time, make it that night again, could stop it from happening. But I can’t.”

“No.” His voice sounded hopeless. “No, we cannot turn back time.”

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

“Niniane … I know I have no right to ask you this, not after Cerdic. But … will you look after my children for me? Edith is … well, you know Edith. She loves them but she is not very sensible.”

Her eyes widened and she searched his face. “Sigurd …” The tip of her nose was white with strain. “Even if you fight tomorrow, Ceawlin will still forgive you. You must know that.”

He forced himself to smile at her. “I know that. This is … just in case.”

“Of course I will look after your children. So will Ceawlin. You need have no fears for them.”

“Thank you. You are … you are very good.”

He thought he had kept his voice perfectly normal. But she stared at him and the pupils of her eyes dilated and he knew she understood that he did not intend to come back from the battle. She reached her hands out toward him. “Sigurd … my dear …” and she came to lay her cheek against his shoulder.

He circled her body lightly with his arms. The child she carried pressed against him. The bones of her shoulders and narrow back were so small and light. He let himself touch her hair with his lips before he stepped back. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, even opened his mouth to say it, then did not. It was too late for that as well.

“Good-bye, Niniane,” he said, dropped his hands from her shoulders, and went out the door.

It was raining the morning the Battle of Torfield was to be fought. Cutha led some two hundred men—his thanes, Sigurd’s thanes, and Aethelbert’s East Anglians—out of the gates of Winchester shortly after dawn. The cold gray morning matched the mood of Cutha’s war band. Most of the West Saxons who marched to Torfield that day had fought with Ceawlin. They knew what he was like in battle. They did not relish being on the opposing side, and they knew they were outnumbered.

The rain was lessened to a fine mist by the time they reached the appointed site. There, drawn up in battle formation on the far side of the flat, grazed-down field, were the lines of the king’s war band. The figure of Ceawlin himself was clearly visible to all of Cutha’s men. The king was astride a large gray stallion, walking the horse up and down the lines of his men. He appeared to be chatting with them.

It was the first time Sigurd had seen Ceawlin since he had turned against him. The eorl had not been one of those to line the walls of Winchester a few days back. He looked now at that tall, lean figure, that familiar blond head, and the whole back of his throat seemed to close down. Then Ceawlin turned and scanned the groups of Cutha’s men who were forming into battle lines of their own. The king’s head suddenly ceased moving; he had found what he was looking for.

Ceawlin’s eyesight had ever been unusually keen. Sigurd had no doubt that the king had spied him, was even able to see the expression on his face. The distance was too great for Sigurd to see Ceawlin clearly, but there could be no doubt as to the direction of the king’s gaze. Sigurd raised his head and looked back somberly. Then, in full view of both their armies, Ceawlin raised his hand in a gesture of greeting. Sigurd’s own hand rose slightly, feebly, then fell again to his side. He could scarcely see for the tears that suddenly blinded his eyes.

“Sigurd, you will have the right.” It was his father’s voice, and he shut his eyes hard, opened them, blinked, and turned around to answer.

Ceawlin had the greater number of men, but half of them were coerls, untried in battle. Cutha’s men were all professionals. This was a point that Cutha made to his troops once again as he prepared to raise his banner. “Do you want it to be said that you were beaten by a pack of farmers?” he asked his men, his raised voice ringing with scorn.

“No!” the answer came back dutifully.

“Hit them hard enough and the ceorls will break and run,” Cutha said. “Then will we be masters of Wessex.”

Who would be King of Wessex was a question he had not yet had time to decide.

On the opposite side of the field Ceawlin too was rallying his men. He himself was leading the center, with Penda on his right and Bertred on his left. His battle formation consisted of two lines of thanes, four lines of ceorls, and then two more lines of thanes to discourage any attempt by the ceorls to turn and run. The rear lines were commanded by Ine and Wuffa.

“Follow your battle leaders,” Ceawlin said. He spoke from horseback so he could be seen by all the men. “We outnumber them by at least a hundred men. Just keep pressing forward and the victory will be ours.” He looked up and down the lines once more. Then, “I want the eorl Sigurd taken alive. Cutha and Aethelbert are to die, but not the eorl Sigurd.”

There came a rumble of assent from the thanes.

“Very well. Then we are ready.” Ceawlin grinned at his men and at that moment a ray of sun broke through the clouds. “Woden has sent us a sign!” he cried, and dismounted to take up his arms. The king’s army sent up a battle roar that was heard a mile away. Then Ceawlin gave the signal to advance.

Cutha’s men came on to meet him. The two war bands clashed, the strengthening sun gleamed on sword and shield, and the battle began.

Ceawlin’s ceorls, none of whom had seen battle before, none of whom had been trained for battle, wavered a little at the first shock. But Penda and Bertred charged directly into the ranks of the opposing army and their thanes followed with gusto. The ceorls, pressed from behind by the rest of the thanes, who were shouting encouragement and obviously eager to engage their swords, suddenly caught fire. In the very center of the fray, laying about him with deadly skill and petrifying ferocity, was the king.

Ceawlin, Cutha thought as he caught a glimpse of the dominant figure on the field. Then the king’s army surged forward irresistibly, the sheer weight of numbers pressing Cutha’s men back and back and back again. Cutha too was in the front line. He deflected one sword blow, then another. Then he was surrounded. A sword was raised, came down on his head, and Cutha fell to the ground. The oncoming mass of men trampled over his body as they overwhelmed the traitor’s troops.

Sigurd did not see Ceawlin. He was a warrior himself and knew his task was to break the king’s charge before it could gather momentum and feed upon itself. He had to get through to the ceorls, shake them, make them run.

It was surprisingly easy for Sigurd to get through the line of thanes. It was not until he was deep in the middle of Ceawlin’s army that he realized his men were not behind him. Ceawlin’s thanes had let him through, but not his men. Sigurd’s brain, always cool even under the press of battle, understood immediately what had happened. Ceawlin had given orders that he was not to be harmed.

He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t face Ceawlin after all that had happened. He looked around him at Ceawlin’s ceorls. They did not know who he was, assumed at the moment that he was one of the king’s thanes. Sigurd raised his sword.

“May Woden take you and all of Ceawlin’s men!” he snarled to the startled man beside him. The ceorl shouted a warning as he raised his own sword. The ceorl behind Sigurd saw what was happening and slammed the eorl on his leather-protected shoulder with his spear. The farmer was an ox of a man and the blow drove Sigurd to his knees. The eorl was still for a moment, seemingly dazed, making no attempt to protect himself. While he knelt there, vulnerable, the first ceorl slashed open the artery in his unprotected neck.

With Cutha down and Sigurd lost, Aethelbert was the only opposing leader still on the field. They were losing, he could see that. But his hungry heart could not accept the thought of another defeat. Better to die on the field, he thought despairingly, than go home vanquished to East Anglia once again. Valiantly he raised his sword and pressed on, even as his men melted away and Ceawlin’s men closed in around him.

In less than half an hour the Battle of Torfield was over. The once-peaceful field, where sheep had grazed all summer, was littered with the bodies of the slain. Cutha’s slain. Ceawlin had lost but twenty men.

The rebels had not lost as many men as they might have had Ceawlin allowed his thanes to pursue their fleeing opponents. But the king had held his eager men back. Ceawlin never allowed blood lust to cloud his judgment, and he knew that, with Cutha and Aethelbert dead, the leaderless men were harmless. Further, they would be looking for a new lord. Far better to give mercy and add to his own following.

It was Penda who came to him as he stood surveying the blood-soaked field and taking a drink from the horn a thane had given to him. “Ceawlin …” Penda’s face was grim. “Ceawlin, they have found Sigurd.”

He knew. Just looking at Penda’s face, he knew. Fury shook him. “I gave orders he was not to be harmed!”

“It was the ceorls, Ceawlin. They did not know who he was. They had never had any occasion to see him.”

The fury left him as quickly as it had come. He dropped the drinking horn to the ground and rubbed a hand across his mouth. A muscle twitched uncontrollably in his cheek. “Take me to him,” he said.

It was Bertred who brought the news of Ceawlin’s victory to Winchester. “Cutha is dead,” he told Niniane and her sons as he met with them in the princes’ hall. “Aethelbert too.”

“And Sigurd?” Crida asked when his mother said nothing.

“Sigurd was killed as well,” Bertred replied. “Ceawlin had given orders that he was not to be hurt, but he got in among the ceorls and they did not know who he was.”

“But where is my father?” Ceowulf asked in bewilderment. “Why has he not come with you?”

“Ceawlin sent me on ahead to secure things in Winchester.” Bertred spoke to Niniane, not to the children. “Word is to be sent to Venta of his victory as well. Tomorrow morning Ceawlin and his war band will ride through Venta and into Winchester.”

“A victory procession,” said Crida with satisfaction.

“Yes.” Bertred looked at Ceawlin’s silver-haired son. “Your father thinks it important to make a show, emphasize his victory, and allay any fears and insecurities that may be left in people’s hearts.”

Crida nodded solemnly.

“He wishes you to ride beside him, Prince Crida,” Bertred said then.

Crida’s eyebrows rose in a familiar gesture. “Me?”

“Yes.” There was no smile on Bertred’s face. “You are his heir.”

Color stained Crida’s fair skin and he looked to his mother. Niniane put a hand upon her son’s arm and said quietly to Bertred, “Crida will accompany you whenever you are ready to leave, Bertred.”

Bertred nodded. Then, his voice helpless and aching, “Niniane, I am so sorry about Cerdic.”

“I know.” Her voice was kind and very composed. “Thank you.” She looked at Crida. “Come along with me,” she said. “Before you leave, I am going to wash your hair.”

Bertred spent an hour speaking to Ceawlin’s thanes who had been held prisoner by Cutha, then went into Venta. He returned from the city in midafternoon, collected Crida, and went back to Torfield to rejoin Ceawlin. After Bertred and Crida had gone, Niniane walked slowly across the courtyard, and for the first time since she had left it to go with Ceawlin to Bryn Atha, she entered the king’s hall. She stayed but a few minutes before she left and walked to the women’s hall to seek out Nola.

Within half an hour the king’s hall was being torn apart to be cleaned. The wooden floors were scrubbed, as were the benches, the table, and the chairs. The bed was stripped, the old straw burned, and the bed remade with sweet fresh straw covered by clean linens. The rugs and furs, Niniane had taken outside to be beaten and aired. She even had the hearthplace stones scrubbed. Niniane and Nola supervised the handmaids, and it was dark before the job was finished. Niniane’s back ached with tiredness and her legs could scarcely hold her up, but as she sat her sons down at their father’s table to eat a late supper, the satisfaction she felt was worth the fatigue. Her house was her own again.

The dead had been taken off the field by the time Crida arrived at Torfield, and the cookfires were burning cheerfully. Ceawlin was talking to a group of Sigurd’s thanes who had come in to surrender to him, when someone came to tell him that his son was in camp.

Crida was standing by Bertred’s side, his slim, boyish frame looking very vulnerable next to the bigger man. Ceawlin called his son’s name and the boy turned, his face suddenly lighting. “Father!” He took a step forward, then stopped himself. If he had been a few years younger, Ceawlin thought, he would have run to throw himself into his father’s arms.

“It is good to see you, my son,” Ceawlin said and, putting an arm around Crida’s shoulders, gave him a quick, rough hug. “How is your mother?”

“Brave,” said Niniane’s son.