Two dragons, p.1
Two Dragons, page 1
part #10 of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Series
Two Dragons is the ninth book in The Circle of Ceridwen Saga by Octavia Randolph
Copyright 2022 Octavia Randolph
ISBN 978-1-942044-33-8
Book cover design by DesignforBooks.com. Photo credits: Castle, iStockphoto©vcstimeless; landscape photography, photo-manipulation, Anglo-Saxon manuscript design (inspired by Sutton Hoo gold belt buckle) and dragon illustration (inspired by Historia Regum Britanniae manuscript depicting two dragons) by Michael Rohani. Latin by Octavia Randolph. Maps by Michael Rohani.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests beyond this, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions” at octavia@octavia.net
Pyewacket Press
The Circle of Ceridwen Saga employs British spellings, alternate spellings, archaic words, and oftentimes unusual verb to subject placement. This is intentional. A Glossary of Terms will be found at the end of the novel.
For Beth Altchek, who cures elf-shot, and Libby Williams, who tames fire-drakes
Two Dragons
Octavia Randolph
Contents
List of Characters
Two Dragons Maps
Chapter the First: The Green Man of Kilton
Chapter the Second: The Lost Way
Chapter the Third: Into the Hands of God
Chapter the Fourth: Yrling
Chapter the Fifth: Offerings
Chapter the Sixth: Three Kingdoms
Chapter the Seventh: Seek Further Afield
Chapter the Eighth: Pega of Mercia
Chapter the Ninth: To Win a Bride
Chapter the Tenth: This, And Nothing Else
Chapter the Eleventh: Jarl and Wife
Chapter the Twelfth: Flight
Chapter the Thirteenth: The Dragon-Ship
Chapter the Fourteenth: Their Own Folk
Chapter the Fifteenth: None More Fitting
Chapter the Sixteenth: Broken Sword
Chapter the Seventeenth: I Will Do My Part
Chapter the Eighteenth: A Circle of Gold
Chapter the Nineteenth: The Hand-fast Bowl
Chapter the Twentieth: Two Women of Cymru
Chapter the Twenty-first: The Life of a Man
Chapter the Twenty-second: Reclamation
Chapter the Twenty-third: The Welsh Girl
The Wheel of the Year
Liturgical Hours of the Day
Anglo-Saxon Place Names, with Modern Equivalents
Glossary of Terms
Notes to Two Dragons
Acknowledgements
About the Author
List of Characters
Ceric, son of Ceridwen and Gyric, grandson of Godwulf of Kilton
Worr, the horse-thegn of Kilton, pledged man of Ceric
Edwin, Ceric’s younger brother, Lord of Kilton in Wessex
Edgyth, Lady of Kilton, widow of Godwin, mother by adoption to Edwin
Dunnere, priest of Kilton
Begu, a woman of Kilton
Eorconbeald, captain of Edwin’s body-guard
Hrald, son of Ælfwyn and Sidroc, Jarl of the Danish keep of Four Stones in Lindisse
Yrling, son of Ceridwen and Sidroc
Ælfwyn, Lady of Four Stones, mother to Hrald, widowed of Yrling; marriage dissolved with Sidroc
Burginde, companion and nurse to Ælfwyn
Bork, an orphan boy, taken in by Hrald
Ealhswith, daughter to Ælfwyn
Eanflad, youngest sister to Ælfwyn
Jari, a warrior of Four Stones, chief body-guard to Hrald
Kjeld, second in command at Four Stones, and body-guard to Hrald
Sigewif, Abbess of Oundle
Bova, consecrated nun and brewster at Oundle
Asberg, brother-in-law to Ælfwyn, in command at the fortress of Turcesig
Æthelthryth, sister of Ælfwyn, wed to Asberg
Raedwulf, Bailiff of Defenas in Wessex
Æthelred, Ealdorman and Lord of Mercia, son-in-law to King Ælfred
Æthelflaed, Lady of Mercia, daughter of Ælfred and wife to Æthelred
Pega of Mercia, ward of Æthelflaed
Mealla, companion to Pega, a maid of Éireann
Haward, a young Danish war-chief
Wilgot, the priest of Four Stones
Tilbert, steward of Geornaham, under the protection of Four Stones
Dagmar, daughter of the late Guthrum, King of the Danes in Angle-land
Vigmund, a Danish warrior, former body-guard of Guthrum
Heligo, King of Dane-mark
Haesten, a war-chief of the Danes
Ceridwen, Mistress of the hall Tyrsborg on the island of Gotland, wife to Sidroc
Eirian, daughter of Ceridwen and Sidroc
Sidroc the Dane, formerly Jarl of South Lindisse
Tindr, a bow hunter, and Šeará, his Sámi wife
Rodiaud, youngest daughter of Ceridwen and Sidroc
Eskil, a warrior of the Svear
Gunnvor, cook at Tyrsborg, and Helga, serving woman
Rannveig, a brewster on Gotland, mother of Tindr
Gudfrid, cook at Rannveig’s brew-house
Berse, weapon-smith on Gotland
Hrald, father of Sidroc, and Stenhild, his Gotlandic wife
Gwydden, a Welsh priest, correspondent of Dunnere
Dwynwen, a noble maid of Ceredigion, in Wales
Elidon, King of Ceredigion in Wales, uncle to Dwynwen
Luned, a woman of Wales
Two Dragons Maps
Chapter the First: The Green Man of Kilton
Kilton in Wessex
Late Summer The Year 895
CERIC lived as a wild man in the forests of Kilton.
He had walked from the crowded chantry in which his grandmother Modwynn, Lady of Kilton, lay under her pall, shrouded and ready to be lowered within the earth under a slab of stone. He had walked out, and gone on walking. He had passed through the hall yards, nearly deserted in this time of great grieving, then through the palisade gate, which was quickly opened for him. Free of its protective barrier, he gained the road, and trod on.
His feet had hewn to an almost undeviating line from those gates, a straight path which left the road at the orchards, and continued on through the pear and apple trees. Fruit, still largely unripe, hung in clusters from those trees. He did not turn his head to regard them as he moved forward. Here were the limits of the orchards. The forest loomed before him, a wall of green. He saw these things, took them in enough for his body’s response to them. He pushed his way through the undergrowth and scrub beneath the trees, where mature leaves were even now feeling the withdrawal of their life’s fluids. Soon they too would drop.
He went on, forging a track where there was scarcely one, planting his feet where the slender paws of foxes had padded. His face was slapped by leaves snapping back from the branches he pushed through. His hair was pulled, his tunic and leggings raked by twig and thorn, yet he felt it not. It was sound he was aware of. As he moved, the scrape and rustle of engulfing verdure surrounded him. He pushed deeper in. The birds of the forest, which if not in the full throat of their Spring carolling and nesting, yet made themselves known to each other, calling, hidden deep in the expanses of the still-sheltering trees. They made note of the intruder. Their chirps and snatches of song replaced the mournful chanting of the priest Dunnere, the ringing of the tiny and shrill bells from the altar, and the muffled sobs of those who had stood with Ceric inside the chantry.
He stopped still within a small clearing and let the birds speak. They were all that filled his ears. He felt his own animal heart begin to calm, his breathing slow, the clenched jaw release. He stood a long time, then pressed on.
Mosses were thick under his booted feet, the brown rocks covered with bright lichens. A tiny brook appeared, a rill snaking its way through a fringe of marsh woundwort, the watercourse pierced by nodding green spikes of arrowhead. He stared at it, the water glinting under the patches of sunlight escaping the trees high overhead. Kneeling, he dipped his hand to it, and carried a dripping and faulty handful to his dry mouth. He lowered his head and dropped his face to its coldness, that he might fully drink.
Then he slept, lying on his back amidst the ferns. His sleep was deep and heavy, stirring only when the Sun was dropping low and the air already chill. He lifted his head, blinking at the greenery in which he lay. He let his head fall back, and stared at the dark undersides of the leaves above him until his eyes again closed.
He spent all night there, by dawn sleepless and shivering from cold. He lay curled in his own arms, his cheek pressed against damp moss. The twittering of a bird, quite near, made him open his eyes. He lifted his head enough to see a redstart splashing in the rill before him, slapping its tail and ducking its beak as it bathed.
He was wet from the dew which had settled on him, and stiff from the clenched position of his sleep. He rose to his hands and knees, an act that made the redstart take wing. His mouth was again dry, and he drank deeply of the brook.
Sitting back on his heels, he studied the water in its swift but narrow channel, saw damselflies drop and lift above it. The Sun moved over his head
Ceric, he thought. They are calling Ceric. The elder son of the hall.
He turned his head from side to side, as if looking for himself.
He sat listening, and not moving. The horn fell silent.
His eyes dropped to the bracken of the forest floor. He cocked his head, taking in the sweep of the ferns’ strong and arching spines, letting his eyes rest upon minute droplets of dew which glittered along their serrated edges. He plucked at some moss and placed it in his mouth, a green and woolly taste. Almost within his grasp grew a wild rose, its petals long fallen, leaving behind firm ripe hips. Looking upon them, he stood and moved to the rose where it clambered along the trunk of a declining oak. He stood, slowly pulling off the swollen orbs, and chewed them one by one. He ate several, and again lowered his face to the cool water, to clear his mouth of the sharpness of the gritty seeds. He slept.
When he awoke again the Sun was lowering and the air already chill. He sat up and looked about him at the enclosing trees. There was a broad pine, its heavy boughs low to the ground. He went to it, placed his hand upon the red and rough bark of the nearest bough. His other hand went to his seax, which he drew. He cut four thick and spreading boughs, their long needles dense enough to trap some of his bodily warmth when he pulled them over himself that night.
Ceric slept once more at the side of the small rill, the murmur of its flowing water barely sounding above his own breathing. He was still cold, but the pine needles spared him from the dew fall. Their resinous scent filled his nostrils.
Calling night birds awoke him, late-departing nightjars and the low and solemn hooting of an owl. At dawn he lay staring up into the grey sky revealed through the trees above. He pushed aside his night’s prickly bedclothes, his hands sticky from the sap which had run from the severed ends of the pine. Standing, he turned slowly in the trampled ferns. A horn sounded, the same call he had heard the day before, a call for Ceric. He began to walk towards the sound.
The horn ceased, as did his footfall towards it. He stood still, his eyes fixed along the slight track before him, then turned and headed back to the rill.
He spent the day stretched out upon, and then under, the pine boughs he had cut. He lay gazing upon the action of the water as it wound along the tiny brook, opening his eyes wider when any bird dropped down to drink. Before it grew dark he pulled more of the drying rosehips and chewed them, their tartness filling his mouth and making it water. In the morning he again heard the horn. Rising to the summons, he began to make his way along the track, following the sound. He pushed his way along. As he grew closer he heard a new sound. A bird was singing as well, almost as soon as the horn ceased sounding, a blackbird. He knew that call. Again the horn blew, clear and insistent, calling for Ceric, or announcing him.
He kept coming, drawing nearer. It grew louder. A horn, calling for Ceric. The call of a blackbird, after.
Following the funeral Mass for Modwynn, Lady of Kilton, the horse-thegn thereof had spent an anxious night in the bower house where Ceric had lately stayed. Worr was disappointed in his hope; Ceric did not return. Worr had then ridden out, skirting the perimeter of the wood ringing the southern boundary of Kilton’s common pastures. A cowherd told of having seen the elder son of the hall, entering the trees the prior day. The slight path could only be discerned by one as skilled at tracking as Worr, and had brought him to more and larger trails, those used by deer. Worr had whistled then, that blackbird call he and Ceric had used for years. He stayed a long while, in hope of an answering whistle, which did not come.
The horse-thegn retraced his steps, pulled himself upon his waiting mare, and travelling in nearly a straight line, reached the palisade wall of Kilton. Lady Edgyth met him at the gate. It was clear she had been watching for him, and her gentle face, already worn with sorrow, could not conceal the depths of her concern.
He swung off his mount and dipped his head in respect to her.
“Nothing?” Her single word was more hope than question.
“I may have found a track he made. A cowherd pointed it out to me; he watched Ceric walk into the trees, past the orchards.”
Some light flickered in Edgyth’s eyes, and her hands rose, as if in hope he might have more to tell.
“Right now I will gather a few things, his mantle, some food, a blanket, so if he stays another night in the open he might have them.”
Her parted lips asked the question her eyes were also asking.
“There is no knowing when he might return to us,” he conceded. They began moving deeper into the work yard, nearer those private dwellings of the family of Kilton, and the bower house intended for Ceric as a married man.
“I will take a horn as well,” Worr continued, “that he might hear my call.”
Edgyth was nodding agreement to all he said. “Yes. He will be hungered. And cold.”
Edwin, the young Lord of Kilton, was now stepping from the door of the hall. He looked at Worr, returning alone, and at the pale cheek of his mother Edgyth. He came to them, falling in at his mother’s side as they gained the bower house door.
Edgyth had locked it after Worr had ridden off that morning; the sword of Ceric, once borne by her father-in-law Godwulf, hung on a wooden peg by the bed. It was not only its golden hilt and trim that made the blade of incalculable worth. It was heirloom of two Kingdoms, Mercia and Wessex; two great Kings, Offa and Æthelwulf; and heirloom both of Godwulf, Lord of Kilton and his Lady-wife, Modwynn. It was this last who had carefully reserved the weapon for Ceric, and it was from her lap it had been awarded to him, at his sword-bearing ceremony, his symbel, years ago.
Edgyth was now Lady of Kilton, and she unlocked the door. Ceric had not locked it behind him when he had gone to the funeral Mass for his grandmother Modwynn. She and Worr had found that second key lying upon a chest later that mournful day. From the day he had been granted it Ceric had always kept it carefully, secreted in the slit within his belt. On that day he had left it, and all else, behind. She had given the key to Edwin.
Ceric’s fine mantle of heavy green wool was hanging from a peg near his abandoned sword. Worr went to it, while Edgyth crossed to the large wooden chest on the other side of the dragon-crowned bed and began pulling forth tunics, leggings, a fur-trimmed hood, and other clothing. Worr was now at work with the leathern packs, still upon the broad planks of the oak floor. They were those he and Ceric had returned with, and he saw they had not yet been gone through or unpacked. This alone concerned Worr. Ceric had been taught, by both Cadmar and by himself, to take care of his kit, both on the road and upon his return. This entailed sorting through the contents, removing those things in need of cleaning or repair. Ceric had always taken care in doing so. These packs were untouched.
Edgyth had laid the clothing she selected on the coverlet of the dragon bed. Her eyes rose a moment to the bedpost nearest her. This bed and its watchful dragons had once been her own. Godwin had it made for their wedding, and in it she had passed from maiden to wife. In it she had also bled away many a stillborn babe. She turned from it to Worr.
“I will go to the kitchen yard, and fill a bag with food.”
Edwin now spoke. He had been watching both Worr and his mother at their work, watching and wondering at the wisdom of their actions.
“Is it not better to let his hunger drive him back?”
Worr rose from where he crouched. The horse-thegn was possessed of a natural steadiness of nature, but the stresses he had been under these past few weeks made it hard to mask his own concern for Ceric.
“To force a runaway child home, yes. But this – this is different.”
“Such might drive him back to the hall,” Edwin posited.
Worr gave answer. “Or kill him.”
The horse-thegn waited a moment before going on. “Ceric has been forced to live from the land before, granted with more kit and with companions. It is his fitness to do so now I think of. A man can live in the wilds, if he has skill and desire to survive. It is this last I fear for.”
There was more than a note of urgency in Edgyth’s response. “We must do whatever we can to keep him alive, and strong,” she proffered. She was looking at her son as she said this, looking at him and anxiously awaiting a sign of his accord. Edwin lifted a hand in a gesture of helplessness, but gave a nod.
