Born of the Sun by Joan Wolf

him: not blood vengeance, not wergild. Only grief. That is why I must stay my hand.”
    “You almost lost your eye!”
    He shrugged.
    “I have been thinking,” Fara said. “Perhaps you ought to leave Winchester, Ceawlin. Perhaps your father might be persuaded to give you a grant of land by the Aildon hills.”
    “Leave Winchester! You must be mad, Mother.” Niniane looked up to see him staring at Fara in astonishment. “What would I do outside of Winchester? Everything I have been brought up for is here. What on earth could I find to do in the Aildon hills? Farm?”
    “But, Ceawlin, what else is there to do?” Fara sounded almost desperate. “You cannot stay here until he kills you! And that is what it will be. You know that!”
    “He won’t. He is afraid of my father. So is Guthfrid.”
    “Your father will not live forever.”
    “Well, I won’t leave while he lives, that is for certain. So stop this foolish talk about the Aildon hills.” He smiled at her and then bent to kiss the top of her head. “I won’t let him kill me, Mother. I promise.” Next he turned to Niniane and said in British, “Thank you once again, Princess.”
    Both women stood in silence and watched him walk out of the hall.
----

Chapter 7
    “What is wergild?” Niniane was speaking to Hilda, one of the Saxon girls who dwelt in the bower. They were working together on the looms that hung at the end of the women’s hall. Behind them was a bustle of activity as the tables were readied for supper.
    Hilda did not look surprised by the question. During the past year they had all become accustomed to Niniane’s ignorance.
    “Wergild is the price of a man,” she answered now in a British that had greatly improved since Niniane’s introduction into Winchester. Hilda was a tall, broad-shouldered blond of easygoing temperament. Next to Nola, Niniane liked her best of all the girls in the bower.
    “The price of a man?” Niniane repeated, not understanding.
    Hilda elaborated. “The fine owed for the life of a man. It is quite clearly prescribed in law: so much for an eorl, so much for a thane, for a ceorl, and so on.”
    “But by whom is this fine owed?”
    “By the man who took the life, of course. The murderer.”
    “The murderer?”
    “Naturally. Who else should pay it?”
    Niniane threaded her bobbin through the shed, alternatively bringing the heddle rod back and forth, her hands working automatically, quite independent of her brain. “Let me see if I understand. If a man murders another man, then the murderer must pay a fine to the king?”
    “Not to the king, Niniane. To the victim’s family.” Hilda picked up the old blunt sword which they used to press the weft.
    Niniane frowned. “And is there no other punishment? All a murderer must do is pay a fine?”
    Hilda carefully pressed the weft upward to make it even. “Oh, no. Wergild is paid only if the victim’s family is willing to take it. Most of the time they are not.” She put down the sword and turned to Niniane. “It is looked down on a little, the acceptance of wergild in place of vengeance.”
    “Vengeance? What do you mean by vengeance?”
    “Blood vengeance, what else.” Then, as Niniane still looked unsure, “As soon as a murder is committed, the victim’s family incurs the duty to avenge the death against either the murderer or his family. It is a religious matter, you see. It has to do with the sacredness of blood kinship.”
    “You mean they must murder the murderer?”
    “Yes.”
    “But that is mad!” Niniane’s lands had fallen quite still. “Such a feud could go on for generations!”
    “Many have,” came the placid reply. “It was because of a blood feud that Guthfrid came to Wessex to marry Cynric. The marriage was a way to end it, you see. That is one way. The other way is for one family to accept wergild. Then the killing is over.”
    “And what if the victim’s family does not want either vengeance or wergild?”
    “That would be