The Amber Road

XXII

The Islet of Nerthus, South of Varinsey

Kadlin thought about Dernhelm. To begin with, in the first months after he had gone, he had been in her mind all the time. She had thought she would go mad. She had been very young, her life in confusion: the hastily arranged betrothal to Holen, leaving her family to live over the sea, her pregnancy, the painful birth, nursing the infant Starkad, trying to adapt to the role of mistress of a strange hall. All those things had played their part, but not accounted for the whole. It was wanting you that made me sick … the hollowness at heart. Over the many subsequent winters she had thought of him less often. His memory had become like an heirloom or the image of a household spirit; most of the time it remained locked away in a cupboard or dowry-chest. Now and then she had taken it out, turned it over and viewed it from different angles, each time to be surprised almost by its powers of evocation. Now he was coming home.

The lowing of cattle announced the approach of the goddess. Men and women laughed, children played in the sunshine. The festival of Nerthus was a time of rejoicing, a time of peace, when all iron was locked away. It was a moveable feast. The priest in charge of the sacred grove had announced the epiphany more than a month in advance. It gave time for the news to travel, for celebrants to journey from far away to the tiny holy island. There were Aviones, Varini, Myrgings and others from the Cimbric peninsula. Farodini and Langobardi had travelled from the mainland, Hilleviones from Scadinavia. There were many Angles, of course. And there were a few Brondings, Wylfings and Geats, all men. Unsurprisingly, Unferth and his son Widsith had not appeared, but it would have been hard to turn away the people of the tribes which had fallen under their rule. Time out of mind, those on the islands had worshipped the goddess. With everyone else, they had handed their weapons over to the priest. Morcar had argued that if they were to be allowed to participate at all — a thing he opposed — they should be searched. Oslac had said that submitting them to such indignity would be unprecedented. In the absence of their father, the cyning Isangrim, the decision had been made by the priest. The island was inviolate; no man could be so sacrilegious as to think of bearing arms in the sight of the Earth Mother.

The cows could be seen, dappled coming out of the shade of the grove. The chariot they drew flashed with gold and silver. A cry went up as the goddess was seen. She shimmered, glorious in silken vestments. Kadlin felt her heart lift. It was impossible not to accept that the deity inhabited her statue. It swayed slightly as the chariot rumbled along, as if animated from within. Men and women raised drinking horns, called out things of good omen. Children ran, squealing. Only the slaves walking behind the procession remained sombre, as well they might. Later, when Nerthus returned to her grove, the slaves would wash her in the lake. And then they would die.

Kadlin was soothed by the presence of Nerthus, the bringer of all good things. The goddess had brought much that was good into Kadlin’s life. Her first husband, Holen of the Wrosns, had been a good man; tactful enough not to question his new wife’s virginity, strong enough to ignore the rumours about the paternity of the infant she had given birth to in his hall. Holen had treated Starkad as his own. Kadlin smiled. Holen had been strong in other ways. She had appreciated his vigour in their bedchamber, and not just there. At the one Nerthus ceremony they had attended, he had led her away from the crowds. In one of the woods nearby, he had hauled up her skirts and taken her, fast and urgent, against a tree. The danger of discovery had added to her excitement. Their time together had been all too brief. When the news came that Holen had fallen fighting the Aestii away in the east, her grief had been unfeigned, as deep as when Dernhelm was sent away.

On Holen’s death, despite her unhappiness, she had done what was right. Starkad was only three winters old. The talk about his paternity would always have cast a cloud over his rule of the Wrosns. Having sought the cyning Isangrim’s permission, Kadlin had sensibly arranged for Holen’s brother Hrothgar to take the high seat.

Kadlin had had little desire to remarry. Holen had been generous. Along with the traditional oxen, bridled horse and shield, spear and sword, he had included several estates in her dowry. With those and the lands settled on her by her father, she could have lived independently in comfort. She could have raised Starkad. As a woman of means, if discreet, she could have taken lovers of her choice.

The position of her family had demanded she remarry. The Wuffingas stood second only to the Himlings on Hedinsey. Her late father and the cyning Isangrim had decided the two families should be more closely bound together. Conscious of her duty, she had raised no objection to marrying Oslac.

Kadlin looked across to where Oslac stood with her brother, Heoroweard, and her sister, Leoba. They made a striking group, all tall and blond, but very different. Oslac was powerfully built but slim. Heoroweard was vast and fitted his nickname, Paunch-Shaker. Leoba was the most unusual, a tall young woman dressed as a man. Kadlin got on well with her sister, but made no pretence of understanding her. What made a girl renounce the pleasures of men to become almost one of them as a shield-maiden was inexplicable to her. Kadlin had never had any ambition to fight. Her place was running a well-lit hall, decorously moving through the benches, acting as a peace-weaver. She liked jewels, fine things, pleasure. She wanted a man in her bed.

Oslac was a man in bed, every bit as enjoyable as Dernhelm or Holen. And Oslac was considerate in many other ways. He was open-handed, and he loved her. Yet he was not Holen, let alone Dernhelm. Oslac had always been in the shadow of the other sons of Isangrim: the beautiful, doomed Froda, the capable and strong Arkil, the wild young Eadwulf and Dernhelm, and his own full brother, the overbearing Morcar. Oslac was the quietest of the athelings; always thinking, reading Latin poetry and always consumed with worry.

Kadlin had been faithful to Oslac. She had given him no cause for concern. He had given her the son and daughter who stood by her. At nineteen winters, Aelfwynn was a beautiful girl, radiant like the sun, and Aethelgar, just a year younger, was already a fine young man, a proven warrior. The marriage had lasted, could be considered a success.

With the news that Dernhelm was travelling the Amber Road, much had changed. She knew Oslac was troubled. Much of the time he was yet more attentive, making love to her with something like desperation. But at others, he was withdrawn. Too often he was away, closeted with Morcar and his brother’s sinister familiars Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, and Swerting Snake-Tongue.

And all the time, Dernhelm was coming. She had to accept he would have changed. He would be older, much older. News travelled slowly up the Amber Road, but she knew he had two sons by his Roman wife. What would she do when she saw him? What would she say? Would she say anything? How could she tell him he had another son, and then in the next breath tell him that Starkad was a hostage far away in Gaul? Kadlin longed to tell him. She longed to see him. But she knew if she were given the choice, it would be Starkad coming home, not the father he had never met.

Sudden shouts through the sounds of merrymaking. A flash of steel. The screams of women and children. A man with a knife in his hand running towards her. Aethelgar stepped in front of Kadlin. The man thrust at him. Aethelgar failed to catch his wrist. The blade cut deep into her son’s arm. His blood was bright in the sunshine. Her daughter was screaming. Aethelgar doubled up, defenceless. The man drew back for the killing blow. He reeled sideways. Leoba hit him again with the heavy metal drinking cup. He went down. Leoba landed on top of him. Again and again she brought the cup down, smashing his face to a bloodied pulp.

Men were fighting. Others were running with the women and children. The chariot of the goddess had come to a halt. Her slaves were fleeing, seizing this opportunity to escape the terrible fate which awaited them.

Kadlin struggled to make sense of the confusion. The Brondings and the others subject to Unferth were massively outnumbered, but they had knives. Four of them surrounded Heoroweard and Oslac.

‘Get Aelfwynn to the boat.’

Kadlin struggled to take in what her son was saying.

‘The boat — you and Aelfwynn get to the boat. There are guards there.’

Leoba got up from her horrible handiwork. She had the dead Bronding’s dagger. She moved to help their brother and Oslac.

‘You are hurt,’ Kadlin said to Aethelgar.

‘Go, now!’ The youth sounded angry.

Kadlin put her arm around Aelfwynn’s shoulders, turned her to go.

Aethelgar wrapped his cloak around his left arm, and picked up the metal cup Leoba had discarded. When he was sure his mother and sister were moving, he ran after Leoba.

At the edge of the timber, Kadlin looked back. They were still fighting. She could see Aethelgar and Leoba. Oslac was still on his feet. But her brother Heoroweard was gone.