Adela of Ismere The Prologue

Prologue

The storm had raged from dusk until dawn. Thunderbolts and forks of
fire rained down from an iron sky, killing grazing cows where they
stood, splitting trees in two and setting thatched roofs aflame. It was
a bad omen, and the villagers of Ismere muttered that they were paying
well for whatever sins they had committed as they scurried around,
trying desperately to extinguish the fires that were destroying their
homes. But as quickly as they threw water upon the flames, more ignited
elsewhere on the buildings, and soon the night air was spangled with
burning debris, buffeted upwards into the sky by the wind. Twelve
cottages were razed to the ground and another eight lost their
roofs.

In all thirty-two people lost their lives that night, fifteen bodies
having been pulled from a single dwelling. A cold sweat, born of mortal
fear ran down the backs of all who witnessed the grotesquely burned
remains of what had been an entire family. The decision was made to
sacrifice twelve lambs and four oxen to Woden, the god whose wrath was
fearsome, but whose benevolence was great when he was pleased. Someone
from the village had offended him, they said, for he was not to be
pacified easily. Ingwen, the herdsman said that he had seen the
Christian priest, Kenhelm in the act of desecrating a pagan grave
earlier in the day, and before long the shocked villagers began to
complain that he was the sinner who was to blame for the wrath of their
god.

Just before dawn another rumour began to spread. There would have to
be a human sacrifice - the ultimate gesture of humility to the almighty
god, who was clearly unwilling to accept the paltry gifts thus far
received. The villagers nodded their heads in common accord.
Distasteful as it was, it was all they could do. They would choose one
of the British slaves. All that remained to be decided now was which
one.

As the first fingers of dawn slanted over the rounded hill tops to the
east of the village, there was a sudden, blood-curdling clap of thunder
that sent the dogs and cats scuttling under benches and tables. In the
hills the wolves howled with fear and ran for shelter in the
undergrowth. Then all was silent. It was over. Woden was at peace with
his worshippers once more. A sigh of relief shuddered through the
village, and the slaves in each household fell to their knees and
offered prayers to their merciful creator who had spared them.

But there was little peace in two of the households of Ismere that
morning. In a chamber of the house of Biddulph, the woodworker, three
women were working hard, oblivious to the storm. Two of them were
British slaves, the elderly Wynne, captured in a raid in Powys when she
was a child, and her bastard daughter, Guddrun.
"It won't be long now," said Wynne. "Quick, girl, throw some more
mayweed onto the fire!" She began to chant the birthing charm as the
young girl gathered the feathery leaves and made three hurried turns
with her body, before casting the leaves upon the glowing brazier at
the foot of the bed pallet. Then the old woman stopped chanting and
peered between the legs of the moaning, writhing woman on the pallet.
"I can see the head!" she exclaimed. "Quick, Guddrun - make sure the
honeysuckle hasn't blown away from the door!" The girl ran outside and
relief flooded her plain, squat features. It hadn't. No evil spirits
had entered the house. She turned to go back inside and the cry of a
lusty infant filled the still morning air. The gods had blessed them.
It was a perfect boy. His mother, Hildr, had herself, pulled him out of
her body, for at the moment of his birth, Wynne had cried out something
in her native tongue and had dropped like a stone, onto the beaten
earth floor of the chamber. Her thin body convulsed once - and then no
more, as she exhaled her final rattling breath. It was a good omen,
said Hildr. Wynne had sacrificed herself so that the child would
receive her wisdom and strength and be a powerful warrior.

Guddrun bit through the umbilical cord with her teeth and then
gathered up the bloodstained bedding, which she threw onto the fire
with the afterbirth. Only when it had burned to ashes could she summon
the male servants to remove the body of her mother. She felt no
sadness, for Wynne's death had strengthened the infant, and would
improve her own status in the household as the daughter of the woman
who had given her life for the child. When she had placed fresh bedding
under her mistress, and had washed and swaddled the child, she went in
search of Biddulph. She found him outside, on his knees, giving thanks
to Nalliwa, the Goddess of the Dawn, for the safe delivery of the
boy.

Biddulph rose and entered the chamber, where his wife was sitting up,
nursing his first son. A soft, golden down covered the child's head,
and he saw that its eyes were blue, like his own.
"He will be a great warrior, for he has been blessed with the strength
of a human life," said Hildr, proudly.
"His name will be Conrad," said Biddulph, bending down to stroke the
soft head. Then he turned to go. He would kill one of the pigs, for
there would be much feasting that day.

In the great Hall of ?lfwin, the Ealdormann of the village, a second
birth was taking place. But this one was proving difficult, for the
child had turned in the womb. The slaves were doing all they could to
banish the evil spirits, which had invaded the house - but to no avail.
Norwyn, ?lfwin's wife, was screaming in agony, and blood was soaking
through the straw onto the floor beneath.
"Get Kenhelm!" she gasped, at last. Kenhelm was the Priest of Ismere,
who had been sent by the Christian Church to try to convert members of
the Pagan village to its strange religion in which one God replaced all
others. Norwyn had ranked amongst his successes, though her husband had
proved unyielding in the faith which he harboured for the pagan gods.
He had tolerated his wife's beliefs in a tight-lipped way, although it
had caused many serious disputes between them. When he heard that
Norwyn had sent for Kenhelm, therefore, he was reluctant to grant the
request, fearing that his own gods would be offended. But Mogred, the
servant who had delivered the rest of his children with a natural skill
born of instinct, was adamant that neither Norwyn, nor the unborn child
would survive the night, even with all the pagan prayers and magic
potions. And so, with nothing to lose, he sent a servant to the home of
the Priest with the command to come immediately. The breathless servant
arrived at Kenhelm's humble cottage, only to find him huddled under a
table, whimpering like a frightened puppy. The villagers had pelted his
house with stones, he said, though he had no idea why they were so
enraged. They had shouted abuse, and now he was afraid to go outside.
But ?lfwin's servant had no interest in the Priest's tales of
woe.
"You will have more to fear should you not come with me straight
away," he said through clenched teeth, and hoisting him to his feet, he
steered him firmly in the direction of the Hall.

In the glow of the brazier, Kenhelm said prayers to his Almighty, and
made the sign of the cross over the screaming Norwyn. He forbade the
slaves to utter a word in case it offended his God, and he ordered the
removal of the weeds, herbs and pieces of iron that adorned the
birthing pallet. But it was no good. Even when he lay face down on the
floor with his arms outstretched and begged his Lord to show mercy on
the poor woman, there was no change in her condition. At last, Mogred
took a knife.
"We shall have to cut out the child," she whispered, "or it will die,
and my lady with it." Kenhelm stood up and chanted his prayers in the
strange language that the Romans had used a century before, though they
could barely be heard over the tortured screams of the woman on the
bed. Deftly, Mogred made the incision, and lifted the bloody child from
Norwyn's womb. As she fumbled to grasp the cord, the infant nearly fell
from her arms, and Kenhelm, unthinkingly, reached out his hands to
support the child.
"You have touched it!" cried Mogred, in anguish. "You have touched it
before the cord is cut! It is doomed! It is cursed!" she ranted and
raved so much that ?lfwin came running in to see what had happened. The
scene that met his eyes would remain with him for the rest of his life.
His wife, with her belly slit open, was lifeless, and staring,
wide-eyed at something unseen on the ceiling, the now severed umbilical
cord dangling from her motionless body. Mogred was blowing life into
the infant's mucus covered mouth, and he could see that its face was
blue. On the floor sat Kenhelm, his face buried in his hands and his
thin body wracked by sobs. Mogred looked up for a moment to spit on the
floor in Kenhelm's direction.
"'Tis all his fault," she hissed. Then she resumed blowing into the
baby's mouth. In a blind fury, ?lfwin dealt a savage kick at the
Priest, sending him rolling like a ball against the far wall of the
room.
"Get out!" he spat. "This is all your doing. You and your vile God!"
Kenhelm fled, sobbing wretchedly. ?lfwin bent down over his wife's
body. There was no more to be done for her now. As he rose, a weak cry
sounded from the bloody bundle in Mogred's arms. The child lived, and
it would take strength from its mother's death. He closed his eyes in
silent thanks to Woden, then turned to look into the face of his
daughter. He did not hear the cries from the other infant on the
opposite side of the village, which had begun at the exact moment as
those of his daughter. His heart was too full of love and sadness. The
child was beautiful, he thought, and so she deserved a beautiful
name.
"She will be called Adela," he whispered, "so that we shall forever be
reminded of the beauty of life. She will grow strong on her mother's
sacrifice, and she will marry a great man." Mogred nodded, her throat
constricted with unshed tears.
"We must find her a wet-nurse," she said. "Hildr's time is almost due.
Perhaps one of the other servants could go and ask if she would nurse
Adela, with her own newborn?"

And so it was that Conrad and Adela suckled at the same breast. And so
it was that the bond between them was forged, and would remain strong
and unbreakable for as long as they both lived.