means! Well said!” Auriane smiled with satisfaction as she imagined Baldemar thundering the words. “Father is right in what he said—Wido’s always the one to begin the disputes. But something is troubling here. The Romans have always encouraged us to war among ourselves. Why suddenly do they want peace between Father and Wido, and marriage, unless there is some common cause between Wido and the Governor?”
Athelinda set her broom upright and gave Auriane the forbidding look that would have sent Mudrin off whimpering. “Do not even speak those words. Wido is a scoundrel and a cattle thief but no Chattian chief has ever betrayed us to the Romans. That is different. Where is your pride in your people?” The sharpness in her voice awakened Arnwulf, who began softly to cry.
“I have pride, Mother. But you cannot escape from a trap if you do not know how that trap is made.” The cow butted her, taking advantage of the fact that she was not paying attention. “The Romans do not like to lose face. They would not give such an order unless they planned to enforce it.”
“That is why Baldemar is sending Witgern here at once. It won’t be a proper marriage, of course, you’re far too young, only an oath of promising—you’ll be married at the proper time when you’re twenty. But it will prevent the Assembly from marrying you to anyone else.”
Witgern here at once? Auriane thought, disliking the idea suddenly. She had nothing against Witgern himself, but Hylda’s words were beginning to stir in her blood like some slow-acting draught. Marriage to anyone had begun to feel like a fence about a wild place. But, of course, marriage to Witgern is what must be.
They pushed out four ewes, the last of the animals. And Athelinda noticed for the first time what lay in the yard next to Brunwin’s saddlecloth.
“Auriane, what is all that? Whose spear is that? What’s in that gamebag?”
“I killed one of the raiders.” She said it without enthusiasm; she no longer cared.
“Fria, Mother of us all, you could have been killed!” Her mother edged toward the enemy spear, then stood in silence, her expression strangely sad.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Nothing. I just did not expect this…so soon. No, don’t ask me what I mean. Everyone’s underground but you. Go now!”
“Mother,” Auriane protested, “if they do burn… here, father’s weapons must be gotten out.”
Athelinda made a despairing gesture. “My daughter is mad. That cursed sword in the cradle’s to blame for this. There isn’t time.”
“There must be time!” Auriane darted back into the hall and made her way to the high-seat, over which the weapons were mounted. She hesitated before the sword of Baldemar’s youth, with which he took his first man—she had always feared to touch it because she was taught that in it lived the soul of every enemy it had slain. As her hand closed round the bone handle, she was certain she felt a kick of angry life within. In one moment there was something strangely familiar in the weapon’s feel, as if she had been reunited with a lost limb. Then she took up the hunting spear with which Baldemar felled his first boar, and started for the door. But before she stepped out, she looked thoroughly about, from her sleeping-hides to the looms, to the dead hearth fire to the beloved walls, full of a sense of pinched and painful longing, not letting herself fully know it might well be a final look. Then she concealed Brunwin as best she could in the juniper bushes behind the cowsheds and hurried to the souterrain.
Because the hall of Baldemar had many dependents, two souterrains had been dug into the earth behind the mead shed. Each was cut deep and wide enough to shelter twenty people. Wattlework hurdles were fitted over them; these were carefully covered with brushwood to disguise their presence. In peaceful times these rectangular pits were used for storage, but in time of raids they became places of
Athelinda set her broom upright and gave Auriane the forbidding look that would have sent Mudrin off whimpering. “Do not even speak those words. Wido is a scoundrel and a cattle thief but no Chattian chief has ever betrayed us to the Romans. That is different. Where is your pride in your people?” The sharpness in her voice awakened Arnwulf, who began softly to cry.
“I have pride, Mother. But you cannot escape from a trap if you do not know how that trap is made.” The cow butted her, taking advantage of the fact that she was not paying attention. “The Romans do not like to lose face. They would not give such an order unless they planned to enforce it.”
“That is why Baldemar is sending Witgern here at once. It won’t be a proper marriage, of course, you’re far too young, only an oath of promising—you’ll be married at the proper time when you’re twenty. But it will prevent the Assembly from marrying you to anyone else.”
Witgern here at once? Auriane thought, disliking the idea suddenly. She had nothing against Witgern himself, but Hylda’s words were beginning to stir in her blood like some slow-acting draught. Marriage to anyone had begun to feel like a fence about a wild place. But, of course, marriage to Witgern is what must be.
They pushed out four ewes, the last of the animals. And Athelinda noticed for the first time what lay in the yard next to Brunwin’s saddlecloth.
“Auriane, what is all that? Whose spear is that? What’s in that gamebag?”
“I killed one of the raiders.” She said it without enthusiasm; she no longer cared.
“Fria, Mother of us all, you could have been killed!” Her mother edged toward the enemy spear, then stood in silence, her expression strangely sad.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Nothing. I just did not expect this…so soon. No, don’t ask me what I mean. Everyone’s underground but you. Go now!”
“Mother,” Auriane protested, “if they do burn… here, father’s weapons must be gotten out.”
Athelinda made a despairing gesture. “My daughter is mad. That cursed sword in the cradle’s to blame for this. There isn’t time.”
“There must be time!” Auriane darted back into the hall and made her way to the high-seat, over which the weapons were mounted. She hesitated before the sword of Baldemar’s youth, with which he took his first man—she had always feared to touch it because she was taught that in it lived the soul of every enemy it had slain. As her hand closed round the bone handle, she was certain she felt a kick of angry life within. In one moment there was something strangely familiar in the weapon’s feel, as if she had been reunited with a lost limb. Then she took up the hunting spear with which Baldemar felled his first boar, and started for the door. But before she stepped out, she looked thoroughly about, from her sleeping-hides to the looms, to the dead hearth fire to the beloved walls, full of a sense of pinched and painful longing, not letting herself fully know it might well be a final look. Then she concealed Brunwin as best she could in the juniper bushes behind the cowsheds and hurried to the souterrain.
Because the hall of Baldemar had many dependents, two souterrains had been dug into the earth behind the mead shed. Each was cut deep and wide enough to shelter twenty people. Wattlework hurdles were fitted over them; these were carefully covered with brushwood to disguise their presence. In peaceful times these rectangular pits were used for storage, but in time of raids they became places of
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