Herreboro
They had been coming into the hall for some time, sharing mead and feasting, and Cynric, squeezed his wife around her waist. This gathering was not forbidden, but it was not completely approved, and it was new. Not only was it new, it was the old new again. In the center of the forest clearing a fire burned before the old rough carving of Wode. It was not delicate and beautiful like the images of the gods and saints in the monasteries, but rough with the power of nature, little touched by the artisan’s hand, more a thing with the imprint of magic and vision than the civilized art of the monasteries and the religion that had come to them from the South.
“We forgot who we were,” Cynric declared, “and the one thing the Dayne brought when they came conquering was our memory. When they came to these shores and ruled us, ruled us in power, it was because they still held the power we forgot.”
The Dayne had come with their dreadnoughts and with their seidmann and their thunormenn, the priest of power and thunder and lightning, the mighty men of magic whom all Sendics had once revered. They had come with the old gods and their coins, while Svig and Sweyn ruled, they bore the images of Thaynor’s Hammer, of the spear of Wode, who they called Father Vadan, and of the sun boar, represented as a curved line with curved rays spurring from it, that belonged to Lord Farr.
“Sing us a song,” Thahalan encouraged Cynric.
“A song, Cynric! A song!”
Cynric had always been someone shy of his skills, quiet in everything but his speeches, handsome, easily redfaced, straw haired, blue eyed, earnest. He nodded.
“If someone gives me a harp I’ll give you a song,” he promised.
“Daddy, sing!” Ingrid called.
He beamed at his little girl, and his wife pulled out a chair for him to sit down and sing while Fervil brought the great old harp to him.
Cynric sat down before it, and began to move his fingers over the harp.
“Widely is flung, warning of slaughter,
the weaver’s-beam’s-web: ’t is wet with blood;
is spread now, grey, the spear before,
the woof-of-the-warriors which Valkyries fill
with the red-warp-of-Randvér’s-banesman.
Is this web woven and wound of entrails,
and heavy weighted with heads of slain;
are blood-bespattered spears the treadles,
iron-bound the beams, the battens, arrows:
let us weave with our swords this web of victory!”
“Thou art a lucky woman,” the old woman called Grid said beside Signy, and the plump woman, looking upon her husband, decided that, though Cynric was fair to look at, this woman knew very little of the day in and day out business of her marriage, and should be quiet.
“Goes Hild to weave, and Hiorthrimul,
Sangrith and Svipul, with swords brandished:
shields will be shattered, shafts will be splintered,
will the hound-of-helmets the hauberks bite.”
When the Dayne had come, no one had been glad of them, though many high families with them made allegiance. Signy remembered the tales of her father from the time when her family had come over with Sweyn, and she remembered how, though all in North Hale had stood solidly behind the House of Wulfstan, when it was known that the only Wulfstan who had survived was Edmund, and that Edmund was more Dauman than Hale, that he had not hesitated to kill all other Wulfstans, and had himself forsaken the name, a change began in the Two Hales, and the further north one went, the more the change was apparent. The further northeast one was, the more Dayne families remained after the accession of Edmund. The Hale, who had been on their way to becoming something different than their relations across the sea, who were always making that difference known, began to change again, becoming more like their cousins by the day.
This sitting about the fire, singing the old songs under the rough carved image of the old gods, was nothing less that frith, a word they had almost forgotten, peace, humility, friendship, unity, simple duty to one’s own, the cultivation of that community under the light of the gods.
Now someone new came into the circle, into the stang, the gathering made holy, and as they looked up, Cynric stopped singing. Most of those with him were in simple dress. The more expensive dress was considered Daumanish or even southern, but here was a handsome face from childhood, still in his armor, a cloak making a splash of bright blue. His short dark hair was stylish, and even attempting to look earnest, his face was still boylike, innocent, ready for a laugh. Cynric looked up and laughed.
“Kin,” the new arrival called, “I come with a message!”
“Cousin, finish the song!” Cynric commanded.
Meryk pulled off his mailed gloves. “Can’t you see I’ve just come from a long ride?”
“If you do not sing,” the girl Ingrid told him, “No message.”
“Fuck!” Meryk cried, threw his gloves down and walked fully into the midst of the gathering. He was in full mail as he sat down and Signy wondered what his message would be.
“But you play, Cynric, for I never learned the harp.”
The two very different cousins looked at each other, and began.
“Wind we, wind we the-web-of-darts,
and follow the atheling after to war!
Will men behold shields hewn and bloody
where Gunn and Gondul have guarded the thane.”
Now Meryk took over, closing his eyes, his head going back a little. He never completely closed his mouth, and despite his good looks, there was something rabbitish about his teeth and long nose, but it only made Signy a little more tender to her husband’s cousin.
“Wind we, wind we such web-of-darts
as the young war-worker waged afore-time!10
Forth shall we fare where the fray is thickest,
where friends and fellows ’gainst foemen battle!
Wind we, wind we the web-of-darts
where float the flags of unflinching men!
Let not the liege’s life be taken:
valkyries award the weird of battle.
Will seafaring men hold sway o’er lands,
who erstwhile dwelled on outer nesses;
is doomed to die a doughty king,
lies slain an earl by swords e’en now.”
Meryk lowered his head like one out of the spell, and there was clapping all around while Cynric squeezed his cousin’s arm affectionately.
“And now,” Meryk said, and even Signy was surprised that, quiet as he was, he did not need to lift his voice for the stang to grow quiet.
“Now this.”
Meryk reached into his tunic and pulled from under his cloak a brass letter cylinder.
“This came to me early this morning, by carrier.”
Cynric frowned and looked at Meryk.
`` “From Ambridge,” Cynric said.
“Fuck Ambridge!” someone swore.
Meryk ignored this.
“It is from Myrne,” Meryk said.
Cynric’s eyes widened.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Really?” Meryk gave him a weary eyebrow, cleared his throat, pulled the letter from the cylinder and read.
“Cousin,
I am sure more treachery than ever before is being launched in Ambridge. Only the other day, the Queen attempted to rape or even murder the new Abbess of Saint Clew and secure the Black Order for one of her kinswomen, and even now I am in the palace at Ambridge, betrothed to Allyn Baldwin.”
“What?” Signy began, buy Cynric’s face only hardened.
“He thinks to declare himself King after the death of Edmund, which makes me believe the death of Edmund is already in the works. He would use the strength of Herreboro and me as wife to make himself lord of the three Kingdoms. He has promised me the Queenship and I have accepted.”
“Hells!” Cynric finally said.
“I am on my way to Herreboro, but do not worry for me. I have written this letter so you know the only reason I accepted Allyn’s proposal was to reach Herreboro. In Herreboro I will marry, and I will even wed, but you must go to the village of Adden-by-Kester, for it is to this place I have sent Osric Wulfstan, son of Eoga, son of Edred last true king, and in Kester we shall be reunited.”
The whole stang was silent. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard.
“Eoga died without issue,” old Grid said. “His wife fled.”
“But she was pregnant,” another old woman said.
“Yes,” Grid said. “This has long been whispered.”
“More than whispered,” Ostan Henley said. “I had heard that she bore a child and it was raised in the West Country, many say by Ohean Penannyn himself.”
“I’ve heard the same thing.”
“We need to stop hearing,” Cynric stood up, “and get to obeying. When does Myrne need us in Kester?”
“As soon as possible,” Meryk looked up to his cousin, “to meet this Osric.”
Cynric nodded.
“Then we ride tonight.”
Essail
That night in the king’s apartments at Castle Sunderland, as the moon shone over the great city stretching to the sea, Morgellyn Athelyn, daughter of Anthal and Tourmaline, and Queen of Essail, composed a letter to her daughter the Princess Linalla. Across the room, to her left, behind the half open door, she could hear the wet cough of her husband, King Stephen. She turned to look at the open door and then dipped her pen in ink and wrote.
“My dearest daughter,
I hope this epistle finds you well. There is much to say which you may already know. Your Aunt Hilda, who is the only woman I know who on becoming a cloistered nun would come more to the fore than the shadows, is even now in Ambridge being hosted by King Edmund on one hand, but also having him lick her feet on the other. Apparently she uncovered a plot by Ulfin Baldwin to have her raped and illegitimized as Abbess—which she is now, so there will be no hearing the end of it from her pious mouth. She escaped intact—pun intended—and is allied to, of all people, Odo of Daumany, King Rufus’s younger brother. Now she is the most important woman in Inglad.
On the other hand, your dull as dishwater aunt Imogen is the most important woman in Rheged. Who would believe that glorious Idris would look on such a pale and frumpy girl and propose marriage to her? He must have done it with the hope of seeing one of his sons on the throne of Westrial, for I should doubt very much that Cedd will ever put a son on that throne himself. Anson is there with them, but not doing much of anything. He always was an awkward fit to the family. He is half Royan and I wonder if being in his own land will somehow make him less of… an Anson is the only thing I can think to say.
I have heard that you will be in Kingsboro for your uncle Cedd’s marriage to Isobel. She seems a haughty but uninteresting girl, pretty but in the matters of the mind too plain and innocent to survive being a queen. Perhaps she should have been a nun and Hilda a monarch. There are things about your uncle I have never fully discussed, but if this girl does not understand them, and I do not believe she does, what an unhappy reign she will have!
Morgellyn had stopped writing, for now the King’s coughing was so bad she could not ignore it. She went into his room to look over him, and when she returned, Eva was in her office.
“A moment,” Morgellyn said, raising her finger.
She pulled back her chair, sat back down, pushed back her long golden braid, and dipping her pen in the ink, continued.
Lastly and sadly, your father’s illness does not seem to have gotten any better. It really began in earnest on the way back from Raymond House after your grandfather’s funeral. Hopefully he will recover in time for the winter feast so we can all be at your uncle Cedd’s wedding together. These days he can scarcely stay awake through the day. He has even begun coughing up blood. Keep your father in your prayers and me as well.
Sincerely,
Your Devoted Mother.
As a whole new fit of coughing began, Morgellyn said, “Is the King’s wine prepared.”
“My lady—!” Eva began.
“Who are you?” Morgellyn snapped, “my maid or my conscience?”
“Not your conscience,” Eva murmured. “Clearly.”
“I should slap you.”
As the King’s cough spluttered from the room beyond, Morgellyn frowned and said, “Put twice the usual amount in the wine, but put a sedititive in it tonight. When you are done bring me the books of state.”
“Which ones?” Eva said when she paused at the door.
From her desk, the Queen looked at her servant wearily.
“The ones that explain the Regency.”
