"We must be nearing midday," Leofe said, watching the position of the sun in the sky.
Alfrún followed her gaze. "That's right. And here I thought we'd have finished before noontide!" She grinned and motioned over to Leofe. "We don't have much left to visit. Come!"
She started up the path behind the longhouse. Leofe could only see one house built up the hill, the small building mostly hidden by a thicket of trees. She froze, stomach churning at the sight of it. Animal skulls were hung at the front of the hut, while pieces of bones rattled through the open door. Lord, the people Leofe had met today had been so kind, so normal; she'd almost forgotten she was in a village full of barbarians and heathens. She took a step back, inhaling sharply.
"What's wrong?" Alfrún asked.
"I…" Leofe quickly thought of an excuse. "Shouldn't we go eat something, first? Aren't you hungry?"
"Well, yes," Alfrún said. "I was just wondering where—"
"Alfrún!" A boy came rushing from the top of the hill. His hair was closely shorn at the scalp, but Leofe could see it was the same red-gold hue as Alfrún's wild curls. They also shared the same mischievous blue eyes. For some reason, he held a thick branch in his right hand. "There you are! Valka's been wondering where you were!"
Alfrún eyed the branch, then crossed her arms. "Valka? Really?"
"Well… you know!" The boy made a vague gesture. "She had me running all morn, looking for this and that!" He threw up his hands in the air. "I don't know as much about plants as you do, sis! I lost interest and…"
"…went to practise your 'swordplay'?" Alfrún completed.
"Well," the boy said, cheeks reddening, "if I ever want to beat Knud and Eira, then I need to get better, right?"
Alfrún exchanged a look with Leofe. The latter could only shrug.
"Oh, wulfling," Alfrún said, with fond exasperation. "That's why I gathered all Valka needed earlier this morning. I left a basket by your bed, along with some of these berries you love so much. Didn't you see it?"
The boy's face slackened. "Oh. Oh. I woke up late, and you weren't there and—"
Alfrún laughed, before clapping him on the back. "It's fine. Just get the basket to her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind the delay."
Ulfric nodded. Then, he looked toward Leofe. "I haven't seen her around. Who's she, sis? Another guest for the wedding?"
"She's new to town, and—" Alfrún shot Leofe a sidelong glance. "You haven't told me how you got here, actually."
"I…" Leofe began, stomach twisting. She could still see the face Beorhtric had made when Eivor had stabbed him. Could still smell the stench of dead bodies clogging her nose. She was glad to be out of their grip, finally, but… "There's no story to tell. At least not an interesting one."
Alfrún frowned at the inconclusive answer. Her brother, however, only said, "I'm Ulfric! Nice to meet you!"
Leofe did not return his bright smile. "So… you two are brother and sister? You share the same parents?"
"Well, yes," Ulfric said, as if to say, what other kinds of siblings are there? "People say we look the same, but I don't see it." He puffed out his chest a little. "I'm much more handsome, of course!"
"What is your story?" Leofe asked. "How did you come to live in Ravensthorpe?"
"Oh, now there's an embarrassing one," Ulfric said, sheepishly. "Me and my sis, we came from East Anglia, you see? We used to hide in the woods near Cedd's altar, and that's where—"
Eivor dropped a few coins in the bowl in front of Cedd's stone, bowing her head in silent prayer.
Oswald of Elmenham had told her of this supposedly sacred spot, saying that people came here to ask guidance from the wise bishop who had given this stone his name. The young thegn had then added, more quietly, "Some say it used to be a place to worship Woden the Wanderer. But I must say I don't put much stock in these old stories."
Oswald might have cast aside his people's old gods to worship that Lord on his cross, but Eivor was not so foolish as to disregard the powers the ancient deities still held over this land. She would have preferred to offer a sacrifice of some kind, but she would soon have to return to Elmenham for the evening feast. Eivor stood, hoping the ancient god of this shrine—this "Woden"—would be pleased with her meagre offering.
She was only a few paces away from the stone altar when she heard soft footfalls, and the clink of coins being passed from hand to hand. Eivor whirled around—but found no one behind her.
Her offering to Woden was gone as well.
Her anger quickly dissipated when she heard giggles in the distance. The little thief—or thieves?—had left footprints aplenty. They led into the nearby woods. Eivor followed the tracks, though she took her time, giving her quarry enough of an advance. She could still hear them laughing.
Finally, she caught a glimpse of them through the thicket of trees. The two children were clad in tattered clothes, and they wore no shoes. When they turned to look at her, little faces creased with mirth, she could see green paint smeared across their cheeks.
"We've been found!" exclaimed the girl.
"Aw!" cried the boy "Retreat, retreat!"
The girl stopped running, instead looking up at Eivor with endearing insolence. Eivor immediately fell in love with that mischievous, fox-like face. Suddenly, she longed for simpler days spent playing in the forest with the other children of Heillboer; they had spent days pretending to be ferocious warriors or playful woodland spirits until the sun burning over the horizon called them home. Then, Eivor and her companions would return, red-cheeked and giggling, to a warm hearth, and to the warmer embraces of their loving mothers. It was bittersweet, recalling those happy moments.
"Play with us!" the girl said, motioning over to Eivor. "Come, to the land of St. Martin's! It is shrouded within an eternal twilight!"
"You live here?" Eivor answered. "Where are your parents?"
"Questions, questions!" said the boy. "Those can wait. Let's go up first."
They brought her to their hideout, a wooden platform built between the sturdy branches of a tree. Eivor climbed after them, then sat primly, as if she had been invited to a king's hall.
"Welcome to St. Martin's Land, weary traveller!" the girl announced, and Eivor had to bite her cheek not to smile too wide.
"I thought we got away, sis!" the boy said with a pout.
"Your hands and feet are swift, children," Eivor said, "but your stealth needs work."
"Aw!" the boy exclaimed. "We were so close!"
The girl shushed her brother's complains with a hand gesture. "We will give you what we took, traveller, but first... you must listen to our story! Once, a long, long, time ago, in a faraway land, there was a sister—"
"And a brother!"
"I was getting there! But yes, and a brother. They lived happily in the Land of St. Martin all by themselves with delicious beans."
"Lots and lots of beans! And cake!"
The girl's face grew grim. "But now, life is harder... There are no more beans, or cake, and we have to take what is not ours."
The boy stared at his feet, evading Eivor's gaze. "We're not bad children, just hungry."
"Sorry, large walker," added his sister.
"There is no shame in surviving," Eivor told them. "And there is nothing you should not do for family."
"You're wise, large walker," the boy replied.
"Here, take my silver," said Eivor. "You were going to anyway. Buy what you need. Only steal if you cannot afford it."
The boy's eyes went wide. "Really?"
"This is what 'large walkers' should do. Provide for 'small walkers'."
"Thank you," said the girl, "but I do not think we deserve this…"
"You don't deserve to live like this either. Spend the silver wisely."
The siblings exchanged a look, and the sister nodded. Her brother stood up, approaching Eivor with outstretched hands.
"Here, large walker!" he said, giving her something—a round object as small as a coin, attached to a thin chain. The image embossed in the ivory depicted a man holding a staff.
"A necklace?" Eivor asked.
"Yes, it's St. Martin's seal!" explained the boy. "You're welcome here anytime, large walker. You're one of us now."
"Who is this 'Sanctmartin'?" That was a strange name, Eivor thought. Then again, all the Saxons she'd met had strange names.
The boy shrugged, looking at his sister. She rolled her eyes.
"He was a soldier who cut half of his cloak to give it to a poor beggar who was cold," she said. "He became a bishop afterward."
Those words stirred something in Eivor. Without knowing it, she had acted like the man in the girl's story. No wonder the boy had been moved to give Eivor what must have been a precious memento.
"Mother used to cook a goose on Martinmas for us!" her brother added eagerly. "A whole goose! Can you imagine?"
This time, Eivor could not stifle her smile. "It must have been delicious."
The boy sniffed a little, looking downward. The girl continued to stare at Eivor, though her eyes seemed a bit misty.
"Visit us, okay?" the boy asked, with a pleading gaze. "Maybe next time, you could be the one to tell us a story."
"I will," Eivor promised. "Take care now, small green walkers."
"—then, we met her later, at that wedding," Ulfric continued. "You remember, sis, that king's wedding—"
"I know," said Alfrún. "How could I ever forget?"
"Eivor went to a king's wedding?" Leofe asked, dumbfounded.
"Well, yes," said Alfrún. "He's here, you know. The king. We saw his children this morning."
"What?" Leofe could not believe her ears. A king was here, an honest-to-God king, a man chosen by divine will to rule over others? When Leofe's parents had spoken of royalty, it had seemed as if these blessed individuals belonged to distant stories, not the humdrum existence of small people such as herself. What other sort of fabled characters Eivor had met on her journey? Woodland spirits? Angels in disguise? The pope?
"Oh yes, there'll be guests from all across England," Alfrún continued, as if that was absolutely normal for royalty to visit a simple, tiny village in the middle of nowhere for a pagan wedding. "It will make Eivor so happy to see her old friends!"
"Well, I want to meet them too!" Ulfric said. "Like the reeves of Lunden! Or the Jarl from Hemthorpe! Pity the Ragnarssons are gone. I'm sure they would have so many interesting stories to tell!"
"Who are they?" Leofe asked.
"Only the greatest warriors Midgard has ever seen! Father used to tell us tales about their father, King Ragnar." Ulfric made some motions with his stick, lunging and slashing the air as if it was a sword. "One day, I'll be as great a warrior as they were!"
A shadow fell over Alfrún's face. "I don't think Ivarr the Boneless had any stories worth telling…"
"Why do you say that?" Ulfric asked.
"You remember when Eivor returned from—" Alfrún stopped suddenly, biting down her lip. Ulfric looked at her in puzzlement. Not long after, her smile was back, though Leofe was perceptive enough to see it for what it was: a practised expression made by an older sibling used to comfort their younger sibling with sweet half-lies. "Anyway, shouldn't you be going?" She went to push him on the back. "Go, go, go! Valka needs these supplies today, not tomorrow!"
"Oh, you're so pushy!" the boy grumbled.
"Would you rather if Dwolfg found the berries and ate them before you?"
That got Ulfric going. "Tell Valka I'm sorry!" he called as he rushed down the path. His sister crossed her arms, shaking her head.
"Little brothers, am I right?" she said to Leofe. The latter did not answer, only thinking of her own brothers. Aldred and Edric had been pests—but they'd been her pests, and the best partners-in-mischief a girl could ask for. Aldred had been crying when she'd left, while Edric had screamed insults. Their parents hadn't told them why Leofe had to go. Edric had surely believed his sister had abandoned them willingly. Leofe's heart ached at the thought.
Alfrún was looking at her strangely. "Let me show you something," she said, after an uneasy silence. She led Leofe deeper into the woods, where they found a pond in which flowed a small waterfall. Alfrún crouched next to a bush, plucking something out of its branches.
"Blackberries!" Leofe exclaimed at the sight of them. God, it had been so long since she had eaten any. She and the twins had so often used to search for berries at the edge of their father's plot of land. It had been their little secret, one of the many she had shared with her rascal little brothers. Leofe was filled with a bittersweet feeling at the thought.
"Why," said Alfrún, eyes twinkling, "I think that's the first smile I ever saw gracing your lips!"
They sat by the pond, eating berries with some bread and cheese Alfrún had brought. It was no feast, yes… yet this simple meal was more delicious and comforting than any food she'd shared with Beorthric and his men. The place was lovely as well, and Leofe felt almost lulled to sleep by the peaceful sounds of the water lapping into the pond. The sun even peeked out of the clouds for a moment. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Leofe relaxed.
For the first time in over a year, she did not fret over her future.
Alfrún turned to look at her. Her teeth and mouth were all purple from the berries she'd eaten. The sunlight caught in her hair; each stray curl seemed haloed in fire. Her grin was a little silly. Leofe felt the heat coming to her cheeks and—no, she told herself, looking away, not again. God, she was stupid, so stupid to make that mistake again. Leofe hugged her knees, burning with shame and self-hatred.
"Ah, now, this is the life," Alfrún said, stretching her legs, then her arms. "I love the village, but sometimes it's nice to be away from all that hustle and bustle, isn't it?"
"It a lovely spot," Leofe agreed in a mutter.
"A friend of mine showed it to me," Alfrún said. "He taught me where to find the berries. And how to fish too."
There was a hint of wistfulness in her tone. What had happened to her friend, Leofe wondered?
"In exchange, I taught him about the plants here," continued Alfrún. "See those leaves? That's sage. You can use it to reduce the pain from those cramps when you're on your cycle. And over there, you can find some primrose, to make salves, and valerian, to help with falling asleep."
Leofe's eyes widened slightly. "How come you know all that?"
"My mother taught me a little. Our seeress, Valka, did the rest. That's her house on the top of the hill."
A seeress. Leofe tried to hide her dismay. There was a witch living in this village. No wonder her home had looked so frightening. Leofe vowed to never cross the woman—sorceresses in stories were powerful creatures, cursing kings and simple folks alike on a whim. She could not stifle a shiver.
"You're…" Leofe hesitated, licking dry lips. "You're pagan?"
Alfrún glanced at her. "As opposed to what?"
"Well, I thought you believed—your brother mentioned your family celebrating Martinmas when you were children. I thought you were Christian."
"We did celebrate Martinmas," Alfrún said. "I believe in God." (Leofe stifled a sigh of relief.) "I believe in many gods." (At this, Leofe nearly choked.) "Great gods, small gods. A god in the sky, a god in the sea, a goddess bringing life to the fields…" She turned to Leofe, blue eyes shining with startling intensity, and pointed at the pond. "There's a god there too. A nature spirit, keeping the water clean and pure for the denizens of the woods—and for us too. There are gods in every blade of grass. Gods in the trees. In the forest encircling the town. Why should they be denied respect and reverence?"
"Because God made them for us?" Leofe argued feebly. God had commanded Adam and Eve to rule over the animals in the land. This lesson was one of the few she remembered from the masses they held every Sunnadaeg.
"Did he?" Alfrún challenged. "People in these lands were given—and denied—help from the spirits far long before the Christian god came to these shores. I respect Him—but I respect other, older powers as well." She laughed. "Seems only fair to me that everyone is given their due, right?"
Leofe could only respond to that strange statement with a frown. She could hear her mother's sermons, could see the disdainful look the priest of Wesberie would have given at those words. Her scowl deepened.
"Is something wrong?" Alfrún asked. "You seem…"
"Are you Saxon or Dane?" Leofe said, bluntly. The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. And yet, she'd been dogged by doubt all day. Leofe's heart beat faster. Yes, she needed to know. Needed to know if the girl next to her was—was what, exactly? Leofe could barely speak the words in her mind.
Alfrún was silent for a moment. Then, she said, in a strange, forced tone, "Am I Alfrún or Aelfrun, you mean? Is my brother Ulfric or Wulfric?" Her lips were curled in her usual grin, but the blue eyes were not smiling. "An interesting inquiry, though I must say: is that the question you really should be asking?"
Leofe opened her mouth to say, of course, but she closed it at the last second. The Danes had ravaged Mercia, burning crops and murdering good, honest Christians everywhere they went—but Alfrún and her brother had played no part in those atrocities, had they? They had been children when the war of conquest had raged across Mercian soil. Leofe pressed her mouth into a line and said nothing.
"Another thing you should ask is: should it matter?" Alfrún continued. "What if I was Dane? Would you spit in my face, then, and refuse to speak to me afterward?"
"All right," Leofe grumbled, "forget I ever asked…"
Alfrún's face softened. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, then said, "What happened to you, exactly? Are your parents…"
Leofe stood up quite suddenly. "I told you. It's not important," she said, voice flaring. A year's worth of pent-up emotion was sweeping over her—Beorthric had been horrid, but at least he'd been forthcoming in his awfulness. So far, everyone in this village had been so nice and—and it didn't make any sense! Those northern barbarians had set Mercia ablaze, gleefully murdering and enslaving Leofe's people while taking their lands for their own gain. Why had they taken Leofe in if not to use and abuse her as Beorthric and his cronies had done?
"Why?" Leofe nearly screamed. "Why are you all doing this? What does Eivor want to do with me? What does she want to do with all of you?!"
Alfrún remained calm in the face of Leofe's anger. God, it made her feel even more foolish; she could hear Beorthric's grating laugh, could hear him say, stupid child. You will never learn.
"I did ask Eivor that question, once," Alfrún said, quite softly. "She answered as she does best. By telling me a story."
The wind was chill, but it was nothing to a northerner such as Eivor. This island beyond the sea was greener than anything she had seen in Norway—but also wetter. They had been in England for barely a moon's turn, and already she missed the crisp coldness of the winters in Fornburg. But the Nornir had spun the thread of fate on their loom, and the Raven clan had followed their Jarl to this strange new land, hoping to obtain the elusive treasure of freedom.
Sigurd had taken the longship and the crew north, to join the Ragnarssons in the war camp they had set across the town of Ledecestre. After making an oath of friendship with Soma, the powerful Jarlskona of Grantebridgescire, Eivor could finally join him. She was eager to meet up with the sons of the legendary King Ragnar. Stories said the brothers had amassed a great army to bring the Saxon kings to their knees. Eivor rode with great haste to join their midst—and thus ensure a place of choice for herself in the saga currently being written about their conquest of England.
So far, the Mercia countryside had been bereft of life. Woodland beasts kept to their forests, while most of the homesteads she'd seen had been clearly abandoned, some even showing signs of recent strife. This land had been the target of raiders for quite some time, it seemed. Eivor hoped the Ragnarssons would soon win their war, so there would be peace, at last.
Eventually, Eivor came upon a farmhouse, sitting atop a small hill. The fields were overgrown, with no beast grazing in the pens. Still, Eivor could hear a little voice pleading to someone. It seemed to be coming from near a grand old oak, branches reaching across the homestead like long grasping fingers.
"Hold tight," the child was saying. "Just hold on tight. Oh, please don't fall. The wind is strong, but you are stronger. Just hold on."
Eivor dismounted from her horse, attaching its reins to the fence. She approached the tree. A dark-haired girl, perhaps ten years of age, was looking upward. Eivor frowned, not quite understanding what the girl was doing.
"Careful, please!" the child said as Eivor came closer. "This leaf cannot fall."
Indeed, there was a single leaf in the branches above her head. It had held on for all of winter, then. Eivor nearly grinned at such tenacity.
"Stay back!" the girl cried. "Do not touch this tree!"
"All right," Eivor said, kneeling to speak to the child. "What is your name?
A little furrow appeared between her brows. "Mae…"
"My name is Eivor. Something about this tree important to you?"
"It's the leaves. My father said he would return home before they'd all fallen to the ground. And now only one remains."
Eivor looked upon the leaf. It fluttered in the wind; one good gust, and it would be gone from the branch. "And still no return."
"It's been six weeks…" Mae bit down her lip. "Six weeks since he's gone to Lincoln in search of work. I wish he stayed. Just one more season. He was so sure the fields wouldn't yield, but we could have tried!"
Eivor stood up. "All I can say for certain is that this leaf will fall. You should hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. That way, if your father never returns, your heart will not break. But if he does, you will weep with joy."
The girl's frown deepened. "Yes, but… maybe… maybe I'll wait just a little bit longer. 'Til the goats begin to bray, or… yes, just a little longer."
Gods, hope was the most poisoned of gifts, Eivor thought with a scowl. The child would be better off without it. She took up her bow, ignoring Mae's flinch as she shot the leaf.
"No!" the child cried. "You wicked devil! I told you not to do that!"
"It is for your own good, Mae," Eivor said with some steel in her voice. She had been served with harsh lessons in her youth as well—and had grown stronger as a result. The same would happen with Mae. "Your father would want you to carry on with your life, not waste it away like this."
Tears sprang from Mae's eyes. "Leave me alone! And never come back! I don't ever want to see you again!"
And she ran to her home, slamming the door behind her.
Eivor watched the house with furrowed brows, feeling an odd sense of conflict brewing within her. Then, she climbed her horse and went on her way. She did not want to make Sigurd wait for too long, after all.
Mercia was in the throes of spring when Eivor rode back to Ravensthorpe.
For this journey, she was accompanied by a rather interesting travelling companion. King Ceolwulf's son was quiet—far too quiet for a lad of his age. But Eivor found that it did not bother her so much. The boy spoke seldomly, yes, but his words were always measured, filled with wisdom beyond his years. Once he would acquire some much-needed confidence, young Ceolbert would surely prove a great leader, of simple folk and soldiers alike. He only required more time to grow into that role.
They had now reached the southern part of Mercia, and would soon turn east to make for Ravensthorpe. Eivor was eager to be home; the events she'd witnessed in Ledecestre and Repton weighed heavily on her mind. The Ragnarssons—especially Ivarr the Boneless—were not as she had imagined. And as much as she enjoyed Ceolbert's company, she could not say the same of his father. She and Sigurd had fled Norway to escape a greedy king's grasp, but now they found themselves ruled by a weak-willed man who had been given a crown by his erstwhile enemies. She did not know yet what to make of the situation. Perhaps Randvi's wise counsel would help shed light on the matter.
They approached a homestead, old and broken by years of disuse. Eivor frowned at the sight of the great oak extending its branches above the small house. Even though the other trees around it were already showing the bright green buds indicative of early spring, this one seemed barren, its branches as white as bone. She prompted her horse forward to approach it.
"What is it, Eivor?" asked Ceolbert. "You seemed troubled."
Eivor did not reply, only climbing down from her horse. She called out, "Mae?"
There was no respond. Eivor came closer to the house. The wooden door was nearly torn off its hinges. It creaked horribly with every gust of wind. Eivor suddenly felt cold. "Mae?"
Only the wind answered her in a mournful howl.
"…she died?" Leofe asked, rather quietly.
"Eivor found her inside the house," Alfrún said, with a grim nod. "She buried her next to the tree. Later on, she found out about the girl's father as well. He had drowned under a bridge on the way to Lincoln."
Leofe's heart thumped in her ears. She was filled with an emotion she could not name. "I'm sorry," was all she could blurt out. "I'm sorry—I thought—"
"That's how Eivor is," Alfrún said, shrugging. "She told us, 'large walkers take care of small walkers', and she fully believes it. Because otherwise…"
"That's not always how it is," Leofe said, mutely. She thought of her father, of her mother, of the whole of Wesberie… no one had batted an eye when her father had thrown her to the wolves—literally, in her case. Beorthric and his band had been more beasts than men, after all. "Large walkers don't always care about small walkers."
"I know," Alfrún answered, in a tight voice. "I know."
They sat in silence for a while. Leofe thought of the stories she had been told about the she-warrior who had saved her from Beorthric's clutches. She thought of the words Eivor had said to these children—the fledging she'd gathered for her nest. In my village, children are valued for the treasure they are. This is what 'large walkers' should do. Provide for 'small walkers'. Leofe wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. In the end, she did neither. She simply sat, hugging her knees, mulling over these thoughts. Above her head, the birds continued to chirp in the trees.
"As for your earlier question," Alfrún said, rather suddenly. "I would say, 'neither and both',"
"What?" Leofe blurted out.
"You asked if I was Saxon or Dane. I'm neither and both."
Leofe's brows rose in understanding. "Your parents… they were—"
"My father was Norse," Alfrún said, "and my mother was from East Anglia. My father was a merchant who settled in Northwic, years before the arrival of the Great Army. My brother and I were raised to honour both faiths. After King Edmund was killed, the whole kingdom was in chaos. Raiders from Geatland came to East Anglia and—" She sighed. "You can imagine the rest."
"I'm sorry," Leofe said again. "For this and—for everything." Her throat was tight. It was almost painful to let out her words. "All day, I've been treating you… horribly, and you didn't deserve any of it. I'm sorry."
Alfrún put a reassuring hand over her shoulder. "It's fine. All is forgiven. I understand what you've been through. I've been there, you see?"
Leofe managed a smile. "I know. I'm just… so angry all the time. And all I want is…"
"A place to belong?"
Leofe nodded. Tears prickled at her eyes. With a shaky voice, she let out, "I j-just don't want to be alone a-anymore…"
Alfrún smiled back. She stood up, extending a hand to Leofe. "Well, I'll stay with you, if you'll have me."
Leofe stared at her through her tears. The other girl looked so silly with her purple teeth. Leofe let out a laugh, eagerly grabbing her hand to stand as well.
They returned to the village hand in hand.