The Wistful and the Good: Cuthbert's People, #1

1 The Ship

Elswyth sat on the clifftop looking out over the bright sea. There was a steady onshore breeze blowing, stinging her eyes and tossing her hair out behind her. She refused to wear the wimple that should have covered her head and neck, for young men’s eyes would follow her hair as it bounced and swayed and danced. Young men’s eyes were a novelty and a delight. Not so long ago, a child’s smock had hung from narrow shoulders straight downward to the ground. But now a woman’s dress flowed over curves like the tide flowing over smooth stones. Young men’s eyes followed the curves. Whenever she walked through the village, the young men would pause in their tasks, like seagulls hanging on the wind, eyes hungry for something beneath the surface of the wave.

Nor was she shy about looking at the young men. In the autumn, when the harvest had called every able body, man, woman, child, noble, free, and slave, into the fields from dawn till dusk, she had gloried in their broad backs, the flow of their muscles under the skin, the salt sweat of their tanned faces. And in the quiet of the evenings, she had found herself delighting in the thought of lying beside this one or that in the soft new-cut grass, and of the rasp of a calloused hand upon soft flesh.

But she was not for them. She was a thegn’s daughter, and promised long since to an ealdorman’s son. Young men’s eyes had no right to follow her. Her thoughts had no right to stray to hard hands or soft grass. There could be no starlit tryst on new-mown hay for her.

But the eyes of the young men were not her only delight. From where she sat, her eyes could follow the great curve of the horizon, the restless boundary between sea and sand below, the roll and swell of the tide, the curve of the sea grass, bent before the wind. These too were a delight, though the same blustering wind tried to tear her embroidery frame from her fingers and whisk away her threads to catch among the bracken and the gorse.

For the hundredth time she glanced upward, and this time, at last, she saw it. A flash of white, far out in the band of haze between sea and sky. A sail. Her frame and her needle fell into her lap as her eyes yearned outward toward a horizon that was empty once again.

This is how it is when you first see a sail. It will appear for a moment when the ship crests a swell and the light catches the sail just so. And then it will be gone, perhaps not to be seen again for minutes, or perhaps never again. Few eyes would have caught that first flash, or known it for what it was. But Elswyth knew, and in that moment of recognition her breath grew still and her heart raced as the world grew large around her.

Elswyth loved ships, every rope and spar, every plank and sail. She loved the smell of the pitch that lined the seams. Her eyes followed the curves of a ship. Her hands longed to touch, to follow the rise of the curving prow, the round fullness of the stern. She loved the way a ship cleaves to the swelling of the waves, its urgent energy under the force of wind or oar, its rise and fall as it mounted and drove from crest to trough of the ocean swell.

And she loved the young men who sailed in ships, with their strange voices, their hard, strong hands, their red sea-weathered faces, their sheepskin jackets stiff with salt and smelling of both land and sea and the marriage of both. She loved the tales they told, of wild rocky northlands with their soaring peaks and deep fjords, of the sun-scarred south, where winters were green and summers brown, and men and women rested on the great verandas of stone-built palaces in the heat of the day. Everywhere they travelled, it seemed, was sharper, more vivid, more extreme than Northumbria, the soft country she was born to with its low hills, cool summers, and damp winters.

Once, as a child, she had asked why they came here at all, to which the answer was, For trade, my darling, and to see the pretty girls. At which she had pouted and said, But you always leave us behind! And they always would leave her behind, for her fate lay elsewhere, in the ealdorman’s hall in Bamburgh. As the wife of Drefan of Bamburgh, she would rule over a great hall and host kings at her table. And yet, one glimpse of a sail and her heart was soaring, over the horizon and away.

Again a flash of white. She rose, letting her embroidery frame fall into the work basket at her feet. She shaded her eyes as she strained at the horizon. A square white dot danced into view along the line between sea and sky. She took an anxious step forward, careless of the nearness of the cliff edge. Her right foot caught her work basket and sent it tumbling over the cliff face toward the distant sands below, threads of green and gold and blue scattering to the winds.

What was it? Anglish, Pict, Norsk? It was a Norsk ship she longed for. But it was also Norsk ships her father feared. The ship she longed for was a knarr, a broad-bellied trade ship. The ships her father dreaded were longships, ships of war. Nothing but a knarr had ever come to their beach. Elswyth had never seen a longship. But the news was that a dozen Norsk longships had raided the holy island of Lindisfarne two weeks since, murdering dozens and carrying off much treasure and many slaves. Her home in Twyford was only a day’s ride south of Lindisfarne and her father, like every coastal thegn kept anxious watch for Norsk ships, though no other made his daughter his sentinel.

She longed for a knarr, for not only would a knarr bring wine and gemstones and silver—to trade for the dull necessities produced by her father’s manor—it would also bring new songs, old friends, and tales of Spain.

Ah, Spain! Her heart was full of the young men who sailed to Spain, who got drunk on the wines of Spain, who lounged on verandas with the dark girls of Spain. Was this a ship that had been, that would go, to Spain? Did it carry men who had been, who would go, to Spain? For a moment, all the longing in her heart was fixed on Spain.

The sail was plainer now, no longer disappearing into the haze along the horizon, and sometimes she could glimpse the line of the hull. Whether it was a longship or knarr, she still could not be sure. But she was certain of its course now. By the quarter it came from and the line it sailed, it was coming from Norway, and it was heading for their beach.

Anything on the horizon? her father asked.

She had heard him coming up along the cliff path while her eyes had stayed fixed on the horizon. She could always tell his footsteps. An old wound made him favor one leg and she could hear it in his steps, a slight scuffing as his right foot rotated mid step.

There, she said, pointing at the square white dot that at that moment danced into view along the line between sea and sky.

Where? he asked, cupping his hands around his eyes as he gazed out over the sea.

You won’t see it yet, Father, she said. The holy island of Lindisfarne itself could have floated by half a mile off their beach and her father would not have seen it. But Elswyth could see a ship long before anyone else could make it out among the glare and the shimmer of the distant light.

Is it coming this way? he asked.

Yes, she said. It was over there the first time I saw it. Now there. That heading will bring it to us.

Is it Norsk?

I can’t quite make out the shape of the hull yet. But coming from that quarter, who else would it be?

Just one ship?

I’ve only seen one so far.

Longship or a knarr?

I’m sure it must be Uncle Harrald, she said, straining her eyes to see if the ship was broad or narrow. But the ship was too far off.

He did not come last year, child, her father said.

Not a child anymore, Elswyth said, automatically.

He has come spring and autumn every year since you were a bairn. But last year not at all. And not this spring. He never did come in high summer. By this time of year he should be in Spain.

I can see the hull now, as it crests. I do think it is his ship. It must be Uncle Harrald.

You’re sure it’s just one ship?

She searched the horizon again, shading her eyes against the glare of the bright sky and the sting of the onshore wind.

I see no other ships, she said.

Then if it is not them, if it is a longship, I can at least meet them strength to strength, her father said. Today you have proved yourself a good sentinel, child.

Not a child.

I will go down and call the men from the fields. Run and find me as soon as you are sure of who it is.

He bent and kissed her on the top of her head. She turned and embraced him swiftly, her soft cheek brushing against his stiff beard. She was alarmed, suddenly, and she could feel a touch of panic in her father as he pulled her to him.

If it is a longship, he said, tell the first man you see and send him to tell me. Then go to the hall and get your mother and your sisters and the other women and get them up the road as fast as you can. And find someone to ride to Alnwick with the news.

I’ll ride myself, she said.

No child.

I’m not a child. I can ride as fast as anyone, and it saves time if I don’t have to find someone to go, and tell them the message, and then tell them again because they didn’t listen properly the first time.

I need you to help your mother.

Why take a man from your battle line when I can take the message?

Even if you are not a child, the road to Alnwick is not safe for a woman riding alone.

There hasn’t been a brigand seen on that road in four years, Father.

Aye, but it was a poor harvest, and these are famine months, until the next harvest is in, for any man who did not take proper care. There are desperate hungry men about.

If I meet one, I will shout out that there are vikingar chasing me. The fox does not steal the wolf’s supper.

I don’t have time for this argument.

No, you don’t, Father, so don’t be stubborn.

Her father raised his eyes and implored heaven with outstretched arms. Alright, you may ride. But since you are not a child, for Cuthbert’s sake, put your shoes on.

Elswyth might wear a woman’s dress, but she still went barefoot like a child. She did not like her feet to be parted from the earth, or to have the bother of taking shoes off every time she wanted to put her feet into the sea or the river.

Her father hugged her and kissed her on the top of her head and then set off running down the cliff path. He had a strange gait as he ran, every tenth step becoming a skip, as if he were a child. And she knew that he winced with that step.

2 The Unsuitable Child

Edith, Lady of Twyford, had never lost a child. She knew no other woman over thirty who could say the same thing. She had five daughters living and a sixth child making her awkward and clumsy. But there are other ways to lose a child besides death.

In her fifth year, Elswyth, her eldest daughter, had disappeared and had not been found for a week. Then a Norsk trader who had called to pick up a shipment of wool returned to the beach with Elswyth perched on the prow, full of the glow of adventure, and oblivious to the agony her absence had caused to her parents, her family, and the whole village. They had suspected that she had stowed away on this ship, for her disappearance had been noted shortly after it departed. Some had even whispered that she had been kidnapped. The Norsk were known to trade in slaves, and Edith, who had herself been born a slave, had feared that Elswyth would end up a novelty in the markets of Cordoba.

And though she had never gone so far again—Edith had never again let any ship, pack train, or farmer’s wagon depart the village unless her hand was on Elswyth’s shoulder—Elswyth, now fifteen and on the cusp of marriage, was still lost to her much of the time. Today she was up on the clifftop somewhere, having persuaded her father that he could free a man for the fields if he let her keep the watch. She had taken her work basket with her, promising Edith that she could work on her embroidery and keep lookout at the same time. It would be so boring just staring at the sea all day, she had protested. I’d fall asleep if I didn’t take something to do. I’ll work on my embroidery and just glance up now and then. But this was nonsense. Edith knew well that Elswyth could stare at the sea day and night and never grow tired of it.

None of Edith’s other daughters seemed so anxious to be away from her. Daisy, the youngest, was in her arms, spitting out the milk porridge that Edith was shoveling into her mouth in hopes of completing her weaning. Daisy was growing sharp little teeth and Edith was desperate for a respite before the child within her arrived. Daisy would not even leave her mother’s breast, let alone her hall and her heart.

Poor mad Whitney, the next youngest, a child of blissful love and eternally restless feet but neither speech nor understanding, was running in circles around the hall and would soon collapse exhausted into Edith’s arms and then fall asleep in the dust at her feet. Whitney would run long, but never far.

Moira, chatty Moira, was with her grandmother, learning to spin and gossiping endlessly as she did so. What need had Moira of distant lands when she found so much gossip—and so many to share it with—all within sight of the hall?

Diligent Hilda would be on her favorite bench beside the hall, where the light was best, her needle busy in her hand, a growing strip of impeccable embroidery declining from her hands as she worked, oblivious to Whitney’s endless circling, to the dogs and chickens that wandered about, to the coming and going of the slaves, to all the din and bustle of the village. What need had Hilda of wandering, who never raised her eyes to the horizon?

But Elswyth, her eldest, her favorite, her image, her source of greatest joy and heartache, the child of whom she prayed in secret, whenever sickness came to the village, God, if you must take any, don’t take her. That child had her eyes, her thoughts, her heart ever over the horizon and away.

Elswyth had a beauty that any young woman might envy (and that poor plain Hilda did most grievously envy), a ready wit, a positive glut of charm, the ability to draw attention to herself and to excite affection in the coldest heart (even Hilda loved her). She was to be married after the harvest to Drefan of Bamburgh, the son of an ealdorman, who had doted on her like a big brother and had shown her great care and affection all through their childhoods. And yet Elswyth had a wistful heart, always consumed with longing, a longing that could never be assuaged, for it had no one true object. Give Elswyth wings and she would long for gills. Give her silver and she would long for pearls; sunshine and she would long for rain; autumn and she would long for spring; spring and she would long for winter. Elswyth would live a life of wealth and honor in Bamburgh Hall. She would have a noble husband and bear him fair and healthy children. She would lack nothing that any woman of sense could desire. And yet her heart would ever break with wistful longing, and sometimes it almost made Edith weep to think of it.

Her reverie was disturbed when Attor, her husband, thegn of Twyford, appeared, hurrying awkwardly down the path that led to the cliff top. Attor had grown too old to run for pleasure.

Not again! she called out to him as he shuffled by.

He turned aside from his path and came to her. She says it may be Norsk.

That’s what she said Wednesday. And last week. You nearly terrified those poor fishermen, meeting them on the beach with twenty spears. It will be months before we taste cod or lobster again.

She has better eyes than mine, Attor replied.

And greater fancy, Edith said. Since the raid on Lindisfarne, every scrap of sail, every floating log, every breeching whale or dolphin, had been taken for vikingar.

Still, better to be safe, Attor said. I will go call the men.

Edith put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Three boys came scampering at the command.

Run to the fields and tell the men that the thegn summons them, she told them. She held out a hand to her husband so that he could help her rise. You should not use that girl as a sentinel.

There’s not a better set of eyes in the village.

That may be, but she is to marry Drefan after the harvest, and I’ve much to do to make a lady of her yet. Can you imagine if, the day after she marries Drefan, Lady Cyneburg finds her in the mud behind Bamburgh hall, barefoot, playing pickup sticks with the slave children?

Cyneburg loves her.

Everyone loves her. That is her curse. But Cyneburg loving Elswyth and Cyneburg thinking Elswyth fit to succeed her as lady to the ealdorman of Bamburgh? That is a very different thing. For that she must be a lady—and not just when it pleases her. Cyneburg has not forgotten who she is. She has not forgotten that I was born a slave. There were days I washed her feet and served her meat, and she has not forgotten that, I promise you.

You’re a lady now, Attor said. And Elswyth always was.

But she looks more like those who serve in Bamburgh than those who rule. So in her dress, in her manner, she must be more a lady than any of them, than Cyneburg herself. But what is she today? A shoeless child pining for sailor men. And it is you giving her leave to do it.

It frees a man for the haying.

And is the haying worth losing her marriage over?

It was an old argument between them. Not a week went by without Edith asking her husband if some adventure or indulgence was worth losing Elswyth’s marriage over.

She’ll not lose the marriage, Attor said. Drefan’s smitten.

Smitten? Edith said. Of course he’s smitten. But what has smitten to do with the marriages of nobility?

I was smitten, he said, placing one arm around her and pulling her to him so he could kiss first her, and then Daisy, upon the head. Still am.

And what advantage did you have by it? It cost you thirty hides that Elene of Hadston would have brought you, your brother’s friendship, your mother’s love.

My mother loved the children.

She loved Elswyth because everyone does. She loved Hilda because she looks like her. She never loved me or forgave you. Blood debt or not, Kenrick and Cyneburg won’t throw so much away if they don’t think Elswyth suitable.

At that moment, the unsuitable child came tearing down the path from the clifftop, bare feet flying, hair streaming behind her.

It is Norsk! she cried as she ran towards them. It is Norsk, but I think it is Uncle Harrald. It is a knarr for sure. But perhaps I should ride to Alnwick anyway, just in case.

Ride to Alnwick? Edith said.

Father said I could ride to Alnwick if it was vikingar. To give the alarm.

Well you can’t, Edith said. She turned to her husband. What were you thinking? We would not have seen her for a month if you had given her leave and a good horse.

Of course you would, Elswyth said. Of course, it would be rude to ride to Alnwick and then not call on Uncle Leofwine and Uncle Osgar, and Eglingham is so close that I would have to go there too. But I would only be gone a week at most.

And four men taken from the fields to escort you.

No. Father said I could ride alone.

Just to give the alarm, Attor protested. Thegn Wigberht would have sent you right back with an escort.

If he could catch her, Edith said. You are not leaving this village, miss, till the ship comes to take you to Bamburgh after the harvest. And by then you must have your wedding dress complete.

But—

If the ship is Norsk, Attor said, then I must certainly meet them with spears, whether you think it is Harrald or not. He who had never flinched in the battle line wanted no part of war between his wife and daughter. He hurried off, with his awkward gait, to organize the men who were beginning to stream in from the fields.

You don’t really think I would ride away for a month and miss Uncle Harrald and Uncle Thor, do you? Elswyth asked her mother.

Edith looked at her daughter. Elswyth’s appearance provoked a frown that expressed not simply annoyance, but a deep and vexing puzzle. Elswyth was a lovely young woman, plump in the bosom, round in the hips, with a mane of glossy black hair. Her face was the image of Edith’s own. It was the face that Edith had once seen staring back at her from a still pool, when she was a slave and her face had been the whole of her fortune. It was a wholly Welisc face with not a trace of Anglish in it. On Edith, who had been born to Welisc slaves on the manor where she was now lady, that face had been enough to catch the eye of an Anglish thegn’s son. On Elswyth, Edith believed, it was a face that might have caught the fancy of an Anglish king, if only the opportunity had presented itself.

Elswyth was clad in a summer dress of green linen with brooches befitting her rank, and a decorated belt with heavy copper terminals shaped like the heads of herons, which she wore high to emphasize her bosom. Yet she was barefoot like a child, and there were at least a dozen sticky burs clinging to her skirts and a posy of assorted and drooping wildflowers stuck behind one of her brooches.

Where are your shoes? Edith asked.

Why would I wear shoes in the middle of summer?

Because you are no longer a child. A respectable noblewoman wears shoes on her feet, winter or summer. And a wimple on her head.

There’s a ship, Mother.

Where is your work basket?

It’s Norsk! I can tell by the shape, by the way it sails. I’m almost sure it’s Uncle Harrald.

I’d be glad if it was, Edith said. But he has not come in two years. Wrecked and drowned, like as not. Such is the fate of sailors.

Of course they are not wrecked or drowned, Elswyth said. Uncle Thor would never let them be wrecked or drowned.

Uncle Thor is just a man. I know you loved him, darling, but you are a woman now and you have seen quite enough of death to know that people die, no matter how much we love them.

I know, Elswyth said, looking downcast for the moment or two that was all her nature was capable of. But not Uncle Thor. Not Uncle Harrald either. You’ll see. It’s their ship. I know it is.

Well then go put your shoes on and make yourself presentable to receive guests. Edith yanked out the posy of flowers that drooped behind Elswyth’s brooch, and threw it on the ground. She bundled Daisy into Elswyth’s arms while she pulled the sticky burrs out of Elswyth’s skirts. Then she took the baby back from her grown daughter and said, And put on a wimple too. You should not be parading your hair in front of sailors at your age.

Not till I’m married, Mother. You promised! Elswyth replied. But she said it over her shoulder as she ran off so that she was gone before Edith had a chance to respond.

Well, you’ve wasted enough for one day, Edith said to Daisy after Elswyth had disappeared from view. She wiped the child’s face and flicked the bigger lumps of porridge off the front of her smock, then surrendered the bowl to a small dog that had been nosing about hopefully.

In a year, Elswyth would likely have a baby of her own and Edith would be a grandmother. Would Elswyth find all her wistfulness assuaged, all her longing recompensed, in the urgent suck of her firstborn child upon her breast? Edith prayed so.

She walked around to the side of the hall to where Hilda sat, exactly where Edith had known her to be, on a bench against the wall of the hall, bent over her needlework. Hilda did not look up as her mother approached.

Your sister is seeing ships again, Edith said.

Okay, said Hilda, not looking up, her fingers not pausing as they guided her needle in its swift and agile passage through the cloth.

Take her, will you? Edith asked, thrusting Daisy in Hilda’s direction.

Hilda finished her stitch and secured her needle in a fold of the cloth, then folded the cloth neatly and placed it on top of the neat rows of skeins in her work basket, the colors ranked according to the order prescribed by God and revealed to mortal women in the rainbow. Only when this was done did she look up, rise, and take Daisy from her mother, positioning her carefully so that the remnants of porridge should not transfer themselves from Daisy’s smock to her own dress. There were several splotches of porridge on her mother’s dress. Hilda flicked them onto the ground then wiped her finger clean on the last clean spot on Daisy’s smock.

Sit down, Mother, she said.

I’ve been sitting. I’m sick of sitting. I hope it is a ship this time. It would be nice to have company.

Unless it’s vikingar, Hilda said. Vikingar are not good company. Daisy was squirming in her arms and reaching out for her mother. Hilda turned so as to face Daisy the other way, but the child simply squirmed around in her arms and reached for her mother again.

It’s not vikingar. Edith said. Why on earth would vikingar come here? We don’t have hoards of gold, like the monasteries, and what did we ever do to offend God?

You and Father… Hilda began.

Not that again, darling.

Brother Alun says that virginity is a pearl without price.

Your father and I did get married, thank you very much.

Afterwards… Hilda retorted. It was a point of endless contention for Hilda that while she had been conceived in wedlock, Elswyth had not.

At twelve, Hilda