Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(19)
Bercthun whistled and said, “Look at that. Reminds me of whitecaps off the lake.”
“See?” said Ceolwen, “Norholt is not the only land worth seeing. Cuthbert does not know everything about everything, after all.”
The young warrior laughed. “As you say, lady.”
He hardly spoke in the presence of his lord. This was as many words as Aelfhild had heard from him in the whole journey. His voice was as earnest as his face; she did not imagine he was much of a gambler. One look at those eyes and even a child could call his bluff.
The wind carried with it the smells of spring, heavy with cloying pollen that set their throats to itching. Pale dust gathered in eddies on the river and left a yellow-gold stain on the sides of the boat as they passed.
Ceolwen took the chance to ask questions of Bercthun. They knew nothing of his life. He was reticent to speak at first, but none alive could withstand Ceolwen for long. She did not stop until she got her way.
“My father is an ealdor, lady, he has fought for lord Cuthbert for many a year. He is back in Wynnthwait at the Eorl’s hall now. I promised not to let him down, and Gods help me but I do not plan to.”
“We are all just folk here, Bercthun. You may call me Ceolwen.”
“Yes, lady.”
Aelfhild held back a laugh. The poor boy was clearly out of his depth, sweat beading on his forehead as he avoided Ceolwen’s eyes. She came to his aid.
“Are you an ealdor, too?”
“No, still a dreng, until I stand in the shield-wall. There have been no proper battles since the Eorl took me in. But I am ready.” He looked crestfallen. “I did kill a bear, though,” he added, attempting to make it sound like an afterthought.
Aelfhild and Ceolwen spoke at the same time. “What?”
Bercthun lifted a necklace of hooked claws out from under his shirt. “It was taking sheep from one of the Eorl’s villages. Da and I tracked it down with spears, he pinned it and I put one through the roof of its mouth.” His chest looked to be in danger of bursting.
They passed the claws around. Ceolwen nodded and smiled, but Aelfhild could tell when her mistress was feigning interest. Life amongst the nobles in Cynestead afforded ample opportunity to practice that skill. Aelfhild’s interest was more genuine. The claws were glossy and still warm from Bercthun’s chest. She could get a sense of the power in those bestial paws just from the weight on her palm.
Something twinged inside her; pity or a sadness akin to it. Here was a beast that had lived, truly lived—running down prey, rending flesh, roaring over its domain—reduced to a jangling totem on a string. It reminded her of Ceolwen, sitting there in her dirty nightdress. And of all of them, to a certain extent.
She handed it back and was glad to be rid of the thing.
Floating down the broad waterway, Bercthun set about teaching them how to read the lay of the river. Aelfhild took the steering oar and Ceolwen sat atop the rowing bench, while Bercthun crouched in the prow, pointing out the way the water split around submerged snags or flattened out over hidden rocks, showing them where the water sped along and where it flowed slowest. They met only one other soul on the river. An old man in a frayed tunic and broad-brimmed cap poled a barge of freshly hewn timbers down the river, pushing off the muddy bank with his pole in leisurely sweeps. Drifting past, they could hear the man humming softly to himself. He never so much as glanced their way.
There were few other signs of life on the water, save for ducks and sparrows, or the occasional splash as a fish jumped and broke the surface.
As dusk fell, they made camp on a hillock near the water’s edge. They hid their boat in the reeds not far from the water and camped atop a broad knoll, beneath willow trees heavy with the golden flowers of spring.
Dinner was meager and eaten cold. Dried fish, Aelfhild grumbled to herself. She was happy to have it, and she had been happy to have it earlier in the afternoon, but the stuff was hard to enjoy. Its pungency was matched by its general resistance to teeth, so chewing it provided ample time to reflect on the flavor and texture, which she found less than satisfying. But chew she did.
The night sky was cloudless, and as they ate, Aelfhild and Ceolwen took turns pointing out the constellations in the stars they remembered from their childhood lessons. The Smith’s Anvil spun high in the north, its tip an eternally fixed point by which sailors and wanderers found true north. The Wolf rose above the horizon to the west, locked in eternal pursuit of its quarry, the Boar, which was already well into its great eastwards arc through the mottled sky. Directly above their searching eyes was the Spindle, where the Weaver sat as she spun the threads of fate. Swans, crows, shields, and sickles mixed together with shapes and outlines the names of which neither could recall.
The two moons floated next to one another just above the distant line of the horizon, pale half-orbs of blue and white light in the darkness.
Bercthun cleared his throat. “Do you know the story of how the moons came to be?” he asked.
Aelfhild had heard the story countless times as a child, but she loved the old tales. Each one was customized to the teller and differed in the details or the phrasing. Ceolwen must have felt the same. “We would be glad to hear your telling of it, Bercthun,” she said.
Their fire had died down to barely glowing embers, crackling gently within its ring of stones. An owl hooted across the river, and Aelfhild imagined the bird leaning in to listen to the story.