refuge.
Auriane knelt by the nearest of them and handed the weapons down to Athelinda. Then she lowered herself into the earthy dark, finding with her feet the notches cut into the soil and clinging to roots as she descended. She pulled the frame in place, then dropped the rest of the way. The rank smell of many bodies enveloped her. She settled between Athelinda and a mead cask. No one spoke. Speckled light filtered through the interlace of hazelwood branches above. After a time Athelinda held a skin of mead to the baby’s parted lips—he must not awaken and cry now. Arnwulf seemed to drink in his sleep.
Auriane gradually discerned Hertha’s resolute profile in the half-light. Her grandmother sat rigidly erect on a small wooden bench, holding her counting stick before her like a spear, in stiff denial of her helplessness. Auriane saw something pathetic in those relentlessly judging eyes, the beaked outline of that commanding nose, held up like a small blunt weapon against the world. Set before her grandmother was a chest filled with the treasures of a lifetime. Hertha was remote from them and it was more than silence; it had the quality of one who readied herself for death. Indeed, Auriane saw, she even wore her finest cloak and the saffron-dyed dress that she meant to be buried with, and her arms glowed with her richest rings. Auriane found it almost brought her to tears, even though Hertha never had any love for her.
“What of Charis?” Auriane whispered finally to her mother. Charis was Theudobald’s wife. “And the baby?”
“No one has seen them,” Athelinda replied.
Hertha addressed Athelinda in a whisper that Auriane knew she was meant to overhear. “For the weal of us all, she should marry one of Wido’s sons. Nothing but sorrows will come from that child.”
“I will not speak of this now.” Athelinda’s sharply whispered reply concealed a note of pleading.
Mother does not put her down soundly enough, Auriane thought miserably. I know she fears Hertha, who knows the magic of raising the dead, but she should not bow down. And how dare Hertha speak of me and not to me, as if I were a dog.
“Nothing but ill, I say,” Hertha whispered on as if Athelinda had not spoken. “Why not use her to make a peaceful alliance? I feel sorry for Witgern…. He knows he’s getting a wife fouled with a water-demon’s blood and dares not protest.”
“I will not listen to this!” Athelinda whispered with more spirit.
Soon I will burst into flame when Hertha talks so, Auriane thought. I do not care if she curses me nine times and I die. Why has she always despised me so? Mother, I think you know more than you tell.
Hertha could never let Athelinda’s words be the last. “Our haughty chief’s daughter thinks to refuse, I’ll wager. Once again, she escapes up a tree. Once again, Athelinda, you’re too much the feather-hearted fool to use the axe.”
Unknown to Hertha this last taunt worked against her purpose, for her words reminded Auriane of the generosity of her father’s love. Once when Auriane was seven, she had scrambled up a pine tree to escape Hertha’s birch rod, and for a day she refused to come down, struggling against hunger and exhaustion so she would not fall out of the tree. Hertha had shouted threats until she became hoarse and finally sent for Garn, a field thrall, to cut down Auriane’s tree with an axe. But Athelinda dispatched a messenger to Baldemar, who left a victory feast and came at once, arriving at the same time as the axe. Auriane was ready to go down with the tree. But Baldemar rode up with fifteen slightly embarrassed Companions and coaxed her down with a wise word or two. Hertha shouted at him to punish her, saying Auriane had trampled the seed corn, galloping over it with her pony—which she had not—and helped a thrall escape whom Hertha planned to thrash with her birch rod, which was true. But Baldemar forbade it, and Auriane always remembered his words— Better a
Auriane knelt by the nearest of them and handed the weapons down to Athelinda. Then she lowered herself into the earthy dark, finding with her feet the notches cut into the soil and clinging to roots as she descended. She pulled the frame in place, then dropped the rest of the way. The rank smell of many bodies enveloped her. She settled between Athelinda and a mead cask. No one spoke. Speckled light filtered through the interlace of hazelwood branches above. After a time Athelinda held a skin of mead to the baby’s parted lips—he must not awaken and cry now. Arnwulf seemed to drink in his sleep.
Auriane gradually discerned Hertha’s resolute profile in the half-light. Her grandmother sat rigidly erect on a small wooden bench, holding her counting stick before her like a spear, in stiff denial of her helplessness. Auriane saw something pathetic in those relentlessly judging eyes, the beaked outline of that commanding nose, held up like a small blunt weapon against the world. Set before her grandmother was a chest filled with the treasures of a lifetime. Hertha was remote from them and it was more than silence; it had the quality of one who readied herself for death. Indeed, Auriane saw, she even wore her finest cloak and the saffron-dyed dress that she meant to be buried with, and her arms glowed with her richest rings. Auriane found it almost brought her to tears, even though Hertha never had any love for her.
“What of Charis?” Auriane whispered finally to her mother. Charis was Theudobald’s wife. “And the baby?”
“No one has seen them,” Athelinda replied.
Hertha addressed Athelinda in a whisper that Auriane knew she was meant to overhear. “For the weal of us all, she should marry one of Wido’s sons. Nothing but sorrows will come from that child.”
“I will not speak of this now.” Athelinda’s sharply whispered reply concealed a note of pleading.
Mother does not put her down soundly enough, Auriane thought miserably. I know she fears Hertha, who knows the magic of raising the dead, but she should not bow down. And how dare Hertha speak of me and not to me, as if I were a dog.
“Nothing but ill, I say,” Hertha whispered on as if Athelinda had not spoken. “Why not use her to make a peaceful alliance? I feel sorry for Witgern…. He knows he’s getting a wife fouled with a water-demon’s blood and dares not protest.”
“I will not listen to this!” Athelinda whispered with more spirit.
Soon I will burst into flame when Hertha talks so, Auriane thought. I do not care if she curses me nine times and I die. Why has she always despised me so? Mother, I think you know more than you tell.
Hertha could never let Athelinda’s words be the last. “Our haughty chief’s daughter thinks to refuse, I’ll wager. Once again, she escapes up a tree. Once again, Athelinda, you’re too much the feather-hearted fool to use the axe.”
Unknown to Hertha this last taunt worked against her purpose, for her words reminded Auriane of the generosity of her father’s love. Once when Auriane was seven, she had scrambled up a pine tree to escape Hertha’s birch rod, and for a day she refused to come down, struggling against hunger and exhaustion so she would not fall out of the tree. Hertha had shouted threats until she became hoarse and finally sent for Garn, a field thrall, to cut down Auriane’s tree with an axe. But Athelinda dispatched a messenger to Baldemar, who left a victory feast and came at once, arriving at the same time as the axe. Auriane was ready to go down with the tree. But Baldemar rode up with fifteen slightly embarrassed Companions and coaxed her down with a wise word or two. Hertha shouted at him to punish her, saying Auriane had trampled the seed corn, galloping over it with her pony—which she had not—and helped a thrall escape whom Hertha planned to thrash with her birch rod, which was true. But Baldemar forbade it, and Auriane always remembered his words— Better a
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