He didn’t know how to go on from there. Guinevere and Alswytha both stood in front of him, looking stubborn and a little ashamed. But neither of them made any attempt to answer him. Suddenly, the alto with the black hair peeked at them from behind Geraldus’ shoulder. She nibbled at his ear a second and just then appeared to notice them. She grinned and stuck out her tongue. Both girls broke into laughter.
Geraldus rubbed his ear and looked gloomily from one to the other.
“Oh, no,” he moaned in mock horror. “Not both of you!”
Chapter Twelve
Geraldus thought they looked like twilight and dawn. Alswytha’s straight silver hair and pale-as-snow complexion oddly complemented Guinevere’s rich gold tresses and tanned cheeks. He was correct, too, in supposing that they could grow to be friends. Warily at first and never with complete trust, the two girls developed a relationship that was as close to friendship as either had ever come with a girl of her own age. Guinevere had occupied her early years with her unicorn and had needed no one else. Alswytha was the only daughter of a warrior king and was not allowed much acquaintance with other girls. Her home was filled with swords and spears and leather caked with sea salt. She had spent much of her childhood in a world of dreams.
So they could understand each other and enjoy being together. But there was a last chasm that could not be bridged. To Guinevere, Alswytha was a friend. She was loving and gentle. Her Latin had improved to the point that she hardly ever made a mistake in grammar; her manners were refined and better than those of many of the people who sat down to dinner each night at the castle. But she was still a Saxon. She was the invader, the heathen. She was the symbolic villain of every horror story Guinevere had ever heard. Now and again Guinevere would forget, but a phrase, a gesture would bring it back to her, and she would pull away. Alswytha’s pride felt this deeply and for this reason she too kept Guinevere from coming too close.
The others in the castle hardly bothered to find out about her. They assumed she didn’t understand a word they said and made no attempt to teach her. The horror stories were good enough for them. When it was made clear that she was under Guinevere’s protection as well as Sidra’s, she was not treated as badly as she might have been. Men like Mauron and Cheldric considered Saxon women to be spoils of war and leered at her openly, making low-voiced comments that would have been clear to her from the tone even if she had not understood the muffled words. Alswytha knew that only a slender thread of respect and discipline kept them from paying more overt attention to her. In public, in the dining hall or courtyard, she was proud and aloof, but when she found it necessary to go alone from one part of the castle to another, through the long dank corridors or into rooms filled with shadowy cold alcoves, she frankly ran, looking from side to side constantly, like an animal pursued by a predator.
The women of the castle found her a ready subject of gossip, which they greeted eagerly, there not being much else to do in the winter. They sniffed at the cut of her clothes, which showed her ankles, her barbaric and ostentatious amount of jewelry, her disdainful way of looking at them, “for all the world as if she thinks we are the captives and she the mistress,” someone would say.
“No doubt she is used to being somebody’s mistress,” another would slur softly over her embroidery. “We have heard about Saxon women and their free ways.”
“It makes me ill to be under the same roof with her,” a fosterling from a northern estate muttered. “And her brother! Have you seen the way he looks at us? I saw him ogling me openly the other day and I felt as if he could see completely through my clothes! I was so upset, I couldn’t eat the whole day!”
She shivered in horrified delight.
“Someone should tell Sidra that he should be kept away from us,” another fosterling suggested. But apparently no one wanted to be the “someone” to tell her, so the conversation circled on to other complaints and worries and back again to the Saxons in their midst.
Alswytha was Guinevere’s shadow, except for an hour or two every day when she sat with Ecgfrith. She worried about him. He made no effort to learn about the Britons. He hardly ever moved from the corner in which Sidra had put him. The complaints, taunts, and insults rolled around and over him. They sounded to him like the growling of bears or the grunts of wild boars. He paid no attention. He had no desire to learn their language. It would please him greatly when they were forced to learn his. He knew the day would come. Look at them, he gloated. Prideful, stupid, clinging to their heritage as if stale history and the ashes of their ancestors could make them any greater than they were. Ecgfrith was sure that once they were gotten from their horses, these Britons who called themselves Romans would be too weak and clumsy to withstand the superior numbers and organization of his people. Everything he saw at the castle confirmed his opinions. Why, the clod who slept next to him could hardly stagger into his bed each night.
He cautioned Alswytha against letting anyone know how good her Latin had become. Guinevere and Geraldus didn’t matter. He wanted her to listen to everything and repeat to him all the rumors, all the gossip, all the information he could get.
“But why?” Alswytha asked. “Even if we do not know how strong their army is and where they are going, we are still prisoners here. There is no way for us to warn our father. Even if we could, he has sworn a blood oath on our lives that he would remain in the territory granted him through the treaty with Vortigern.”
Ecgfrith frowned at her. “Don’t be absurd, little sister. Do you think an oath is binding when made to them? They were fools! Do you know that Aelle swore, not by our gods, but by that of these Christians! As if that were more threatening and of greater strength. Our father has planned to rule this entire island one day, and we will share it with him. He will not be stopped or intimidated by oaths and hostages. I will not be so bound, either. I have sworn a much more sacred oath to escape from this place at the first chance.”
Alswytha was frightened by his talk. She was well aware of how shamed he had been to be turned over meekly to the enemy; to be unable to fight when all his life he had been trained for nothing else. She was afraid that he spoke the truth about his father and she knew then how little he valued her life.
“Ecgfrith,” she begged. “You mustn’t think of trying to escape. How would you get away from here? This castle is stone upon stone with only a narrow passage back to the land. There are a dozen men who guard the gates and more who watch the ocean from the towers. How could you avoid being spotted and killed?”
“Perhaps there is a way. Your haughty friend Guinevere manages to go and return with no one the wiser. If I could find the path she takes to the shore, I could leave that way. It would be tricky for the first few minutes, but those guards are watching for ships far out at sea. They will not notice a man swimming right under their noses. If I swam only a few miles up the coast, I could make my way back to our encampment. Our father is not far from here. All I need is the chance to get to him.”
“He has not returned to our hall? But then he has already broken trust. How could he do that?”
“Alswytha, haven’t I explained it to you? There was nothing to break. I have thought of a way in which this Arthur can be defeated. Don’t you want to be revenged for our defeat at Mons Badon last summer? I know where they are weak. I must return and report this.”
“You would leave me here alone?” her voice trembled.
“Not for long. I promise to return for you. You won’t be harmed. You are practically one of them already. You speak their language. You have friends. I would take you with me, but you are not a strong enough swimmer. You would never survive the icy water. Please my sister,
me leofre
Alswytha. Believe me. This is our only hope. You must help me. Follow Guinevere. Find out the path that she takes to the shore. That is all. I would dive from the cliffs but the rocks are all around. I must find a safe place to enter the water. Then soon, when the storms are not so fierce, I will go, and sooner than that, you will be returned to us.”
Alswytha finally agreed. But she was troubled. In her own way, she was as naive as Guinevere. She believed in the sanctity of an oath. She could not see that it mattered what one swore by. All the old tales were full of solemn oaths. Everyone knew that an oath breaker was an outcast from all decent people. Ecgfrith said that it was invalid in this case because the oath was made by a god that was not theirs. She wanted to believe him, but it bothered her greatly. She wondered if the other thing he had said was true, that she was almost one of them. She didn’t feel that she had changed. But if her father had done this terrible thing, did she want to remain with her people? Her head began to ache as she climbed the steps to her room.
She noticed through one of the chinks in the wall that Guinevere was returning. She was hurrying across the courtyard, wrapped against the mist in a long, woolen cloak. Although her face was hidden, an escaping gold braid proclaimed her identity.
“Where has she been on a day like this?” Alswytha wondered. “She hates to be out in the wet.”
She shook her head. Guinevere had clearly been somewhere beyond the walls of the castle. The bottom of her robe was damp. This must be what Ecgfrith meant. But there was nothing there but the ocean beating upon the rocks. Why would Guinevere go down there?
“Perhaps she just needs to be alone, anywhere,” Alswytha thought. “She has often said that she hates having all these people about her.”
For some reason, Alswytha was reminded of Ceorl. She smiled and then sighed. She wished he were there to help her make a decision. He always managed to make her problems clearer and her decisions easier. And he had been so kind to her, even though he was so miserable, especially during those horrible months after her mother had left and the burden of being the hostess in the hall had fallen to her. He had kept her from despair when all the men were gone and the business of running the household was too much for her. He had hated the crush of people too, and told stories of times when he had traveled alone, just for the joy of solitude. It was strange that of all the people in her father’s entourage, he was the one she missed the most. She blushed as a memory came to her of a comment she had overheard.
Two old serving women, distant aunts of hers, had been cackling over their soup by the fire. They hadn’t noticed how near she was and didn’t bother to lower their voices.
“I don’t like the way she looks at him,” one brayed to the other. “There’ll be trouble from that, letting a slave in the hall at night.”
The other agreed. “Aelle would flay him alive and beat her well. But now, I remember my own youth. There was this smith . . . There may be nothing to it anyway. Alswytha always did have a weakness for wounded things.”
That had been over a year ago and Alswytha still cringed at the unbidden remembrance. She had tried to be more careful after that but those careless words had made her realize how much she did care for this wounded creature that had been brought into her house. Now that she knew what Ecgfrith was planning, she longed for him even more.
“I hope I may live to see him again,” she whispered.
Guinevere came in then, radiant and breathless. Her own exultation was such a contrast to Alswytha’s mood that she asked what was wrong.
“Has anyone been annoying you? I will see that they stop it at once.”
“No, Lady Sidra has seen to it that no one ever speaks rudely to me,” Alswytha hedged. She didn’t want to tell Guinevere that she had been homesick for a slave. “You are very kind. I was only remembering my home. I miss my mother.”
Guinevere sat down next to her and put her arm about her.
“I know. I miss my family, too. Soon, I am sure, you will be released and you will see her again.”
“No, I won’t. She’s gone. I’ll never see her again.”
Guinevere was embarrassed by her clumsiness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that she might have died. I . . . I . . . didn’t mean to . . .”
Alswytha looked at her with a puzzled expression. “I must not understand your language well enough yet. I did not say she had died. I said she was gone. She went back to her own homeland, across the
hronrad
, the road the whales follow. She lives now in her brother’s hall.”
“How could she leave you and your brother?” Guinevere wished she had held her tongue.
“It’s not that she didn’t love us,” Alswytha bridled. “She wanted to pay the
weregeld
, for me at least. But there was no money left from her marriage portion, so my father paid her my price and she left without me. She could not abide here any longer. She hated it. My father is a good man. I am very fond of him. But he cares only for battle and would not allow my mother her work.”
“Her work? I don’t understand what you are saying.”
“My mother is the finest crafter of gold in our clan. She made this for me, see? And this bracelet.”
Guinevere had noticed the bracelet before. It was an intricate lacy piece of jewelry, made of dozens of separate coils all wound together, with spaces in between the joinings. They all seemed to be twining toward one place, and looking closely she realized that the coils were meant to be the necks of swans; their beaks and eyes appeared over and over in a line on one side. It was very fine work. Guinevere had never seen anything like it—but still, her mother?
“Why would your mother want to be a craftsman? It doesn’t seem a suitable occupation for a woman of her rank.”
“That is how my father felt, I don’t know where he got the idea. Perhaps from your people. In the great halls of our homeland such a person is highly honored whatever their rank. It is a talent which only a few possess. Her brother was happy to accept her into his home. But here . . . So, after my other brothers were killed in the fighting and my little sister died of the winter fever, she said she would have no more of this place and she sailed back. I’m glad she went, for she was very unhappy, but I do miss her.” Guinevere was silent. She was trying to sort out this strange idea of a woman of rank who made jewelry and found it more important than her husband or her duties. It bothered her, as if she feared that Guenlian might suddenly express a desire for blacksmithing. She turned it round and round in her mind but, since she could find no answer that appealed to her, she dismissed the whole idea and changed the subject.