In The Name Of The Mother

Chapter 1September 689 AD Cynethryth peered over the prow and gasped at the lashing foam that soaked her frock to leave it clinging tighter – if that were possible – to her swollen belly. The sea air, even on this mild late-summer's day, left her shivering as it added to the chill of the seawater permeating her linen dress and shift to the skin. “Daughter, come down here, at once!” The rest of the warrior's words were lost to the breeze in an incoherent muttering but she caught `in your condition'. Little did she care for any discomfort, so her glance at the coast of her beloved Wiht more than compensated. Nearing her confinement – she was eight months into this pregnancy – Cynethryth had feared her child would not be born on the isle. Indeed, when she had followed her husband to Rome, she thought never to see Wiht again. As their ship approached the inlet to her birthplace at Cerdicsford, her emotions tumbled and whirled like the chopping waves where the tide met the river. She almost tumbled too as she picked her ungainly way to the steadying arms of her father. The joy of beholding Wiht and the anticipation of reuniting with her dearest friend, Rowena, could not overcome the grief, still raw, of her loss of Caedwalla, whose child kicked mercilessly inside her womb. How cruel a wyrd had taken him from her after so few precious nights together, but at least she would see something of him again in the face of their offspring. Aelfhere, concerned for them both, took off his cloak and wrapped it around his trembling, headstrong daughter. “The ship'll not berth the sooner for all your staring over the bows, my angel.” He enfolded her in his strong arms and she snuggled against the man who had raised her in childhood. She had wounded him by disobedience over her betrothal, but their past differences, set aside, had brought them closer than ever. She basked in the fact that he had received the message of Christ in Rome, accepted baptism, and, without thinking, called her his angel. Aelfhere's emotions too, although less intense, were contrasting. His love of Wiht, no less strong than hers, and of Cerdicsford in particular, meant his spirits rose at their approach. But what would greet him? His possessions were now fallen into the hands of Caedwalla's – the conqueror's – man Guthred, from what his daughter had told him. Would he have to renew hostilities to wrest back what was his? He glanced down at the bedraggled red-gold hair of his only child and praised – who, the Lord Jesus or Freya? – who had blessed him with a grandchild for his old age. Ashamed at his spiritual ambivalence, he could not meet the adoring gaze of the dark grey eyes full of tenderness that turned up and scanned his face to gauge his sentiments. “What manner of man is this Guthred?” “A good man, father, a friend.” “No friend of mine.” She pressed closer to him, and the unborn child, as if to reprove him, kicked against his side. Cynethryth groaned and her father held her tighter. “Yon's a warrior you're carrying, dear heart. He nigh on kicked me into the sea!” “And what if he's a she, father?” “In that case, she'll be as reckless, wilful and winsome as her mother.” Their laughter, precious in its complicity with the unspoken sense of forgiveness, broke off as the ship nudged against the wooden quay, causing Aelfhere to brace himself, tightening his hold on her. “Home at last!” But there was an edge of unease in his voice. He helped Cynethryth over the side of the ship where willing hands, belonging to familiar faces grinning into hers, hoisted her onto the quay. “Cynethryth!” A woman's voice rose above the general stridency assailing her ears. “Rowena!” Island life suited her friend, who bore down on her in the full bloom of health. Rowena had always been pretty with her pale hair like burnished copper and almond-shaped eyes of sage green, but Cynethryth had never seen her so comely. “Look at you!” Rowena rushed to embrace her. “Oh, you poor thing! You're soaked through. Come with me before you catch your death of cold! There's a fire in the hall and we'll get you some dry clothes. How many months is it? You must be due soon!” Aelfhere smiled at their retreating backs. Had he lost her already? Not that he had time to fret. In an instant, old acquaintances, bondsmen and friends surrounded him, all revelling in his unexpected return. Standing two hands taller than the tallest and keeping in the background, Guthred studied the reception of the returning lord of this homestead and formulated his own greeting. It was not long before the two men faced each other, aided by the insistence of Alric, a thegn from an outlying farmstead, who guided Aelfhere to come face to face with the new lord. “So, you are the father of Cynethryth. Lord Aelfhere, is it not?” Taken aback by the unexpected sincere friendliness of the tone and the title freely given, Aelfhere accepted the proffered hand and clasped it. “Come! You must be weary and cold. Let us join the womenfolk and drink together.” “Willingly.” This greeting exceeded Aelfhere's rosiest expectations. His spirits lifted but as he inhaled the familiar air of home and drank in the sights and sounds so much missed, his thoughts went to Baldwulf, Hynsige and Wulflaf, faithful comrades, each perished for love of him – how his heart ached at their absence, but he shrugged off morose thoughts as he stepped into the warmth of his hall. “Father, wonderful news! Rowena is also with child!” Aelfhere turned to Guthred and stared into the grinning face. “It appears we have cause to celebrate. My congratulations!” Two paces behind them followed Alric and Ewald, delighted to renew their old friendship. Aelfhere heard the thegn say, “I didn't know whether you'd survived the journey to Rome but we tended your woodland and your house is still in one piece!” Amid the general festivities, prolonged into the evening when servants produced a splendid meal of shellfish and fresh crab, and much ale and recounting of tales, Guthred spoke in a low voice to Aelfhere. “Lord, my wife and I have oft spoken about your likely homecoming.” Aelfhere's pulse quickened, so this was it! Was it to be war or peace? His eyes roamed over the bulging muscles of the Saxon, younger by many winters than himself. His gaze switched to the two redheaded women so happy and intimate and an icy hand clutched at his heart. Was happiness to be snatched from one or the other? “I enjoy living here and have the respect of the folk.” Guthred hesitated to gauge the effect of his words, but apart from a slight narrowing of the other's eyes, nothing. He pressed on, “The truth is, this is your home, these are your lands and your people, but I would not wish to leave the isle.” “What is to be done?” Aelfhere was glad nobody was paying attention to their conversation. This was not quite true because Cynethryth, from the corner of her eye, had noted the unease in her father's bearing and could see he was fighting to keep his temper under control. She prayed he would not ruin their heart-warming homecoming as she gazed into the sparkling eyes of her friend and tried to keep up her end of their chatter. “I had thought, Lord, I could swear fealty to you, and in return, you might find me land for a home.” Aelfhere relaxed and in a spontaneous gesture took the hand of his new thegn. A mighty warrior in his service, what more could he have hoped for? “The best farms are taken, Guthred. But I have an idea. Cerdicsford is an island within the isle and part of this island has another area as yet unclaimed. There is a headland to the west and it will need tilling but the land is fertile and easily defended. From the tout there is a clear view over the sea. It serves for an early warning of invasion: hence its name Toutland. You will be Thegn of Toutland, what say you? We can ride out to view it on the morrow. When you decide we'll have the announcement and another feast here. The menfolk will help you build your hall, and for sure, one or two will want to work the land.” Cynethryth's anxiety passed as she saw the two men in cordial agreement. How wonderful it was to be home! If only Caedwalla had been here to share it with her. For the thousandth time she cursed the sword s***h that had never healed and that had taken him from her. But she swore she would keep his child safe and it would lack for nothing.