Chapter Nine
Etton, near Peterborough, Mercia,
August 1067
Aediva shoved the full weight of her body against the heavy wooden gate, skidding in the mud as she finally dropped the iron locking bar.
Then she turned and ran. Back up the hill, back past the abandoned houses and scattered belongings dropped in the desperate rush to escape, back towards the Thane’s hall that stood, circular-shaped and slightly raised on a mound in the centre.
At the entrance she stopped, windswept hair tumbling over her face like a hazel and honey-flecked veil, glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if expecting to find an arrow aimed at her throat.
How long did they have? How long before the Conquest reached their door?
An hour if they were lucky.
Not long enough.
Then she blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by a steely determination. The Normans might be coming, but she had another, more urgent crisis to deal with first.
Breathless, she charged into the hall, skirting around the still-smoking central fireplace before bursting headlong into the birthing chamber.
‘How is she?’ She dropped, panting, into the straw by the bed. ‘Is the babe any further along?’
Eadgyth, the midwife, shook her grey head sadly. ‘Not yet. She needs to push.’
‘But she’s been pushing for hours!’
Aediva chewed her lip anxiously, still weighing their chances of escape. How could it be taking so long? How much more could Cille’s small body take? Every moment of delay brought the Normans closer towards them. Every moment increased the risk of capture, or worse. But Cille’s baby seemed in no hurry to be born.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. All we can do is wait.’
Wait! Aediva caught her breath, trying to stave off the rising tide of panic, the feeling that her whole world—the Saxon world that she knew—was collapsing around her head. First Leofric, then her father and now Cille. Not to mention Edmund. The last year had brought so much heartache and suffering, surely she couldn’t lose her sister as well?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of that morning: the dull thud of Cille’s swooning body, the terrible slow spread of blood through the rushes. News of the Norman soldiers’ approach had finally shocked her into labour, albeit not before time. The babe was already dangerously late, but Aediva had thought her older sister still asleep, not listening as she’d ordered their people to pack up and flee east, towards the Fens, one of the last strongholds of Saxon resistance. If it hadn’t been for that shock, they might all have escaped.
‘They’ve gone, then?’ Eadgyth handed her a cup of mead.
‘Aye.’
She took a long draught, listening to the heavy rumble of carts in the distance, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d made the decision on Cille’s behalf, just as she’d made every decision since their father’s death that last winter, taking over the day-to-day running of the village while her sister prepared for her confinement. Not that Cille had shown even the slightest interest in her inheritance. Since her unexpected arrival in the spring she’d seemed a mere ghost of her former self, barely talking let alone taking charge.
Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?
Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?
She only hoped she’d done the right thing.
She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.
A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?
‘Take care of the baby.’
The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.
‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’
‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged,
