Ballista unlaced his helmet, took it off. ‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. It is with loyal and true intentions I have returned to Hedinsey. My bench-companions are from many lands; Romans and Olbians from the south, a Vandal, two Heathobards, a Rugian. Tarchon here is from Suania in the Caucasus, Muirtagh of the Long Road from Hibernia, Wada the Short is from the Harii.’
There was a stirring in the ranks, but the young warrior did not unbend. ‘If you are who you claim to be, I was a child when you left.’ He gestured.
An older warrior stepped forward, peered at the newcomer. Ballista peered back.
‘Ivar Horse-Prick.’
‘Dernhelm, you little fucker.’ Encumbered by shields and weapons, they embraced. ‘It is him, even uglier than when he left.’
A cheer came from the warriors. Not all joined in.
‘Why have you come?’ The young warrior’s tone was still unwelcoming.
Ballista looked at him measuringly. ‘I do not know you.’
‘I am Ceola, son of Godwine. The atheling Morcar has entrusted me with the defence of this shore. Your father is not here.’
‘I know that. If you will give me a horse, I will go to see my mother in Hlymdale. When I return, we will sail to Varinsey to see my father at Gudme.’
Ceola considered this. ‘Your men will remain here. They will cause no trouble, or you will answer for them. Ivar Horse-Prick will accompany you.’
Ballista and Ivar Horse-Prick rode knee to knee through the open, gently rolling countryside. The sun was warm on their backs. Cattle grazed in the meadows, the winter wheat was just showing green. Their path wound inland past wet depressions fringed with alder. The mounds of the burial ground loomed on the horizon. Ballista had recounted his long journey from Olbia to the Heathobards helping to repair the Warig, and two warriors of that people joining the crew. Nothing had happened in the final two days’ sailing to need comment.
‘It has always been the way,’ Ivar said. ‘Young warriors with a name to make want to follow a war leader of reputation.’
Ballista smiled. ‘Young Ceola did not seem in a hurry to join my hearth-troop.’
‘He is your brother’s man,’ Ivar said. ‘Your father is old; Morcar makes many appointments. Ceola is too young to be among the duguth. His father the eorl Godwine is a good man. You remember him?’
Ballista grunted.
Ivar Horse-Prick laughed. ‘I forgot. Godwine did not approve of you or Eadwulf Evil-Child. And he was jealous of Froda. We were all jealous of Froda.’
Men were working among the burial mounds. Ballista reined in to watch. The chamber was nearly finished. The long sides had been revetted with overlapping vertical planks, shored up by struts. The labourers were forming the short walls by fitting horizontal timbers behind the ends of the construction.
‘Heoroweard,’ said Ivar.
‘How?’
‘Of course, you would not know.’ Ivar shook his head. ‘At the Nerthus ceremony. Some Brondings, and a few Wylfings and Geats — Morcar said they should be searched, your brother Oslac and the priest argued against it — they had concealed knives. Paunch-Shaker died fighting. He will be in Valhalla.’
‘Who else?’ Ballista’s chest was very tight.
‘Two young warriors; you would not know them. A few others took wounds, Oslac among them — nothing serious. Two of the Brondings were taken alive.’
‘Was Kadlin there?’
Ivar gave him a sharp look. ‘Yes, she got to the boats.’ Ivar looked away. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘Her son Aethelgar fought well. Oslac’s boy is growing into a fine man.’
Ballista looked down into the grave. ‘I had hoped to see Heoroweard Paunch-Shaker this side of Asgard.’
As they came near Hlymdale, much was the same, as if the years had counted for nothing. Smoke rose from the halls. That of his father stood far the largest. They dismounted inside the stockade. Grooms led their horses to the stables. The piggeries still stood to the left; the thatch of their roofs slumped, as he remembered, lines of green moss growing across them where the ties ran. Swine snouted, busy in the sunshine. As in his childhood, the mud was flat, closely pocked by their sheds, rougher, more churned further out by the wattle fences.
‘Come,’ said Ivar Horse-Prick. ‘You have not travelled all this way to look at pigs.’
They walked up past the forge. There were new buildings, but, sensibly, none had encroached on the domain of the smith. The grass was springy under his boots, again as Ballista remembered. The wind whistled through the lime, beech and hazel of the wood backing the settlement.
The great hall of the cyning Isangrim was empty except for a couple of serving women. The lady was not expecting visitors. She was with her women in the weaving hall.
The day was mild, and the door was open. It threw a rectangle of bright light into the building. There was the click and shuffle of the looms; the smell of wool and charcoal. Ballista stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The women formed themselves in his vision from the gloom. They sat on their stools before the frames, their fingers paused as they regarded him.
His mother’s hair was grey. Otherwise, she looked unchanged. She sat, tall and stately among her women. A brooch gleamed with garnets and gold at her breast.
Ballista knelt before her, put his hands on her knees. ‘Mother.’
She put her hands over his. ‘Dernhelm.’
He looked up. Her face had more lines, yet was the same. Her eyes were moist, nevertheless she smiled calmly. His father had often said she was self-controlled beyond other women, far beyond his other wives. Ballista thought of his own wife. Julia had the same quality.
‘You are filthy from the road.’ She told one of the women to bring water. ‘How old are your sons now?’
Ballista had to think. ‘Isangrim has twelve winters, Dernhelm five.’
‘Do they look like your Roman wife?’
‘No, they are fair.’ Ballista felt like crying.
‘They are well?’
‘Yes, the last time I saw them.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two years ago, in Ephesus.’
His mother had to swallow, marshal herself before she could speak again. ‘It is hard to be far away from your children. You left your family safe?’
‘In Sicily — safe, the gods willing.’
‘The old Caledonian slave Calgacus?’
Ballista had to fight not to break down. ‘Dead. Killed last year.’
‘You avenged him?’
‘Not yet.’
The woman returned with a bowl and towel. Ballista washed his face and hands, and dried himself on the middle of the towel. His mother took it from him. ‘How uncouth you have become. Others will have to use this towel. You are not among the Romans now.’
Ballista acknowledged the mild rebuke with a dip of his head. He knew then how much he had changed.
‘You will be hungry,’ his mother said. ‘You always were. When you have eaten, we will talk.’
They ate in the great hall. Ivar Horse-Prick consumed an immoderate amount, even for a northerner. Ballista told his mother how her brother Heoden did, how things went among her people, the Harii. She admired Battle-Sun, her brother’s gift to his foster-son. Afterwards, Ballista and his mother retired to the privacy of his father’s chamber at the rear of the hall, upstairs under the eaves. There were different wall hangings, a couple of new chests. The rest was the same: the huge, dark-wood carved bed, some of his father’s favoured weapons. Ballista threw open the shutters, letting sunlight flood the room.
Suddenly, his mother hugged him fiercely. Stroking his hair, she sobbed. Ballista held her, his own tears hot on his cheeks.
She stepped away, drying her eyes. ‘It has been a cruel parting. Twenty-six winters. I prayed, but often doubted I would see you again. You are bigger, your teeth and nose have been broken, but you are much the same.’