Chapter Text
It was a beautiful day, a perfect May Day according to the monks and priests running the festivals and religious activities. Throughout England, from Yorkshire to the coasts of Kent, this first of May, 1052, brought out the happier spirits of the English people, giving rise to laughter and good cheer in a people long accustomed to harshness.
For two centuries the country had seen numerous Viking raids and invasions, all culminating in the invasion of 1013 by Sweyn Forkbeard, King of Denmark and the first Viking warlord to conquer all of England.
Forkbeard's conquest, apart from a brief restoration of the English royal family, ushered in an era of Danish rule over England, seeing increased immigration from Scandinavia and trade, becoming known as the North Sea Empire.
After Sweyn's death his son Canute became King of Denmark, England, and overlord of Norway, making him one of the most powerful rulers in Northern Europe, and he became one of England's most beloved monarchs despite his foreign origins.
By May 1052 the line of Sweyn Forkbeard had lost the English throne, it reverting back to the House of Wessex from which it was taken. The King at this time was Edward, known as the Monk King due to his vows of celibacy, stepson of Canute and grandson of Ethelred I of England, the KIng who Sweyn Forkbeard supplanted.
While not over by any stretch of the imagination the Viking Age in England had settled down, the Scandinavians living on English soil as much a part of the culture as their Anglo Saxon neighbours, and raids were few and far in between, the last serious Viking threat being in 1016 when Canute invaded to reclaim his father's conquered territory after Sweyn's death.
Danes and English intermarried and several prominent nobles in England were of mixed heritage, including the Bamburgh family who were Earls of Northumbria. Leofric, Earl of Mercia, who's grandfather on his mother's side, Athelstan, was a half Dane via his father Magnus, and several other notable nobles.
The King himself was half Norman, a direct descendant of Hrolf, a Danish Viking Chieftain who invaded Francia in 911, raiding the countryside and attacking Paris itself with allies before making a deal with the Frankish Emperor and settling down as Count of Rouen, a title that later evolved into the Duchy of Normandy.
Suffice to say that on that May day both Anglo-Danes, those of mixed heritage, and native Anglo Saxons joined together in celebrating the spring and the new harvest, giving thanks to God (and the Gods, for some Danes still believed in Odin and the Aesir) for their bountiful crops this year.
In Kent, on one old Roman road, three monks walked in unison, singing praises to the Lord, the Holy Mother, and the Holy Spirit. Jovial and cheery, the three men almost forgot themselves in their religious fervor but, when they reached a certain point their songs suddenly died in their throats.
On the opposite side of the road stood an ancient Roman villa, its once pure white marble stones now green, covered in moss from centuries of neglect. The men huddled together, whispering prayers of deliverance and salvation as they hurried on.
What they feared, or rather who they feared, was a woman named Hilda, long rumoured to be a Witch, a practitioner of forbidden Magic outlawed since the 7th century when the last Pagan King in England, Arwald of Wihtwara was killed in battle in 686 during an invasion of his Kingdom by the Christian King Caedwalla of Wessex.
Hilda was a Pagan, one of the last few followers of Anglo Saxon Paganism, the religion of the English before Christianity became the norm, and who worshiped the same Gods as her Danish neighbours just under different names and with slightly different traditions.
To her Odin was Woden, Thor was Thunor, the Goddess Freya was Frea, and Odin's wife Frigga was known as Frige, among other Gods and Goddesses she worshiped.
But despite the fear the monks showed Hilda was no threat to anyone, the woman simply did not believe in the Christian God and would not bow to the Church so lived apart from society, left alone precisely because she left others alone.
This did not stop rumours she consorted with the dead or played with Elves and other Supernatural beings. While it was all true, Hilda did not fear the dead or mistrust the Elves like the Christians. She embraced them all as natural parts of the universe.
Along with Hilda lived sixteen year old Edith, her niece and, unlike her aunt, a Christian. The differences in religion however did not cause hardships between them.
Edith was related to Hilda on her mother's side, but her father was none other than Leofric, Earl of Mercia. Both Hilda and Edith's mother, Godiva, were direct descendants of Alfred the Great through his daughter Ethelflaed, Lady of Mercia, and therefore distant cousins of the Royal House, descendants of Alfred through his son Edward.
Edith's maternal side also included Mercian royal blood as she, through Alfred's wife Elswith, was descended from King Coenwulf of Mercia and through him back to the first ruler of Mercia, Creoda, Duke of the Mercians under Arthur Pendragon.
Even at sixteen Edith's beauty earned her the nickname 'The Fair' and some in later years would call her Edith Swan Neck, but at this early stage she was little more than her aunt's helper in arcane arts and had little contact with English society at large, whether it be its upper echelons or the farmers around the villa.
On the second day of May Edith sat in the living quarters of the villa at her aunt's feet sewing a dress that had torn during some recent ritual, though she had yet to fully master the art of such delicate work.
Her aunt, sitting on a chair, supervised her, pointing out where she went wrong, how she could improve, and offered encouragement. Despite not living in society for so long Hilda retained the skills she learned as a young girl at the hands of governesses, passing them on now to Edith who, one day she always told her, would become a wife and mother and should know how to do such work, relying on servants was shameful in Hilda's eyes.
Edith stopped sewing and looked up at her aunt, seeing the troubled look in her face.
"What's wrong?"
She asked, her voice naturally soft.
The elderly woman, her once beautiful face now cragged with age, wrinkles and eye bags taking over from where once existed flawless skin, smiled down at her.
"Nothing my child. Continue."
"Did you have another vision, aunt Hilda?"
"Nothing you need concern yourself with dear."
Edith ignored this gentle chiding and pressed her,
"Please tell me."
Hilda frowned but relented.
"I've seen trouble coming to English shores. Bloodshed and chaos in the coming years."
Hilda got up from her chair, suddenly restless, and started walking about the living quarters.
"The land of the Saxon will face a threat greater than ever seen before. Not since our ancestors served in the army of Alexander the Great and fought against the Persian King have our people seen so big a foe."
Edith felt her heart quicken at this proclamation by her aunt, her mind racing trying to figure out what this could be about, what she was referring to.
"Only Woden may know what the future truly holds,"
Hilda said at last, finishing up her walking, sighing,
"But not even the Allfather knows all, nor Wyrd's Maidens. Only time reveals all."
Edith continued sewing now, but her mind and heart were lost in her aunt's words. In the past several years England had seen upheaval on a social level.
Earl Godwin of Wessex, a man of mixed English and Danish heritage, and a descendant of King Ethelred of Wessex, elder brother of Alfred, had been exiled alongside his sons Harold, Tostig, Sweyn, Wulfnoth, and Leofwine for refusing to carry out the King's justice in punishing the people of Dover for defending themselves against Norman aggression.
Godwin, a major player on England's national stage since the days of Canute, represented the Anglo-Danish interests in the English Court and fought back against Edward's attempts to Normanized the country.
But, Edith knew, there was another, darker reason why the Monk King hated the man. As a young man, after the death of King Canute, he and his brother Alfred were put forward as candidates to the throne, being the heirs of the native Royal House.
However Godwin and other Anglo-Danes, fearful of what restored native rule might look like, hatched a plot to eliminate the brothers and so secure the throne for Canute's son Harald.
Godwin lured Alfred into a false sense of security and while escorting the Prince to London the Earl treacherously kidnapped him, blinded him, and left the poor boy to die of his wounds.
Edward never forgave this murder of his younger brother and always sought ways to exact revenge on Godwin and his family, which he fulfilled in their exile.
But rumours from abroad suggested the former Earl, now in Dublin among the Irish Norse, was returning soon to England at the head of a vast army composed of Norsemen, Irish warriors, and anyone else interested in fighting for him.
If this force was real, and indeed invade the Kingdom, it could spell the end for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of souls who would be caught up in the battles that followed.
"In one vision,"
Hilda said,
"I saw the Earl and his sons cutting across the waves of the Irish sea, dozens of ships following. Godwin, his reddish hair blowing in the salty wind, looked hungry like a he-wolf, eager to rip and tear at the heart of England."
Edith's aunt closed her eyes and sighed.
"Whatever lies ahead, the Saxon people shall never be the same."
The older woman sat back down, saying no more.
An hour later the elderly woman asked the girl to grab her walking staff and black cloak. Edith did as she was told and helped Hilda put her cloak on.
The staff was an ancient piece, a Raven carved on its head, representing the two Ravens of the Allfather, Huginn and Muninn, who flew across the world each day collecting news and lore and at evening returned to Asgard to relay their findings to their master.
Huginn was Thought and Muninn Memory, the Raven sacred to Hilda and all those who believed in the Old Ways, both Saxon, Dane or Norse.
Hilda took Edith by the hand, much to her niece's surprise, and together the two women walked outside into the morning sun.
"I want you to meet someone, someone of great importance for both the future of Saxon and Dane."
Hilda said as they walked, their shoes making squishy noises on the dew covered grass as they moved towards the road.
"Who?"
"Patience. You will see him soon enough child."
The two walked the old Roman road, neither speaking. Edith wanted to ask where they were going and why but she sensed she wouldn't get a a straight answer from her aunt. Hilda, if she thought something too important, kept it to herself until it came to pass then, if she felt so inclined, would explain how she had known of said event but remained silent.
It was an issue Edith grew to hate but, out of love for her aunt and a sense of filial loyalty, she did not protest it.
Reaching the top of the road Hilda took Edith's hand and led her off it to sit down on the hill overlooking a green meadow.
"A beautiful day,"
The older one said, taking in a breath of fresh air,
"The gift of Woden and his brothers to mankind."
Edith smiled, her aunt's appreciation and respect to the Gods was one she admired even if she herself did not believe in them. She remembered many a night when Hilda told her how the world came to be according to the Old Ways.
Woden and his brothers Vili and Ve, cornered in by the Frost Giants led by Ymir, the father of that race, fought back, killing Ymir in battle. Together the three brothers crafted Middangeard, the earth, from Ymir's remains, placing it upon Irminsul, the World Tree that exists outside time and holds innumerable worlds upon its branches.
The two sat enjoying the morning, a pleasant silence between them, when out on the road two riders emerged, one holding a banner.
On this banner was a white cross with an golden crown above it, the heraldic device of King Edward, who appeared immediately after the two riders who were, Edith guessed, his Housecarls. Men sworn to defend him until death took them.
The King, an unimpressive looking man nearing his sixties, looked frail and worn out. His white hair long, a contrast to many Englishmen who wore their hair short but Edward, in all the ways that mattered, was Norman, not English, and so this breaking of custom surprised no one.
His expression was serious as he rode, behind him came another man, this one much younger. Reddish brown haired, with an athletic body, he was handsome.
From where she sat Edith could hear the younger man speak to the King but he spoke in a language she'd never heard before. It was not English, she was sure of that, but she couldn't place it.
"A Norman."
Her aunt said.
A Norman, Edith noted. The man was speaking French then, though through a dialect birthed from the mixing of Danes and Franks.
The King, spotting the pair, pointed them out and said something neither woman caught.
"They'll come this way,"
Hilda said as if it were merely an observation,
"Be on your best behavior my dear."
Before Edith could speak she saw the men riding their way just as her aunt predicted.
She swallowed. Took a breath.
The King reined in his horse just as he reached the hill, his Housecarls and friend slowing up behind him.
"My cousins,"
He said in accented English,
"How does your day fare?"
Edward's smile was genuine, he was happy to see the two women who, unknown to most at court, he came to see from time to time.
Because, though a devout Christian, the King believed in Hilda's prophetic powers, but he disagreed on which God had given them to her.
Through these meetings he had grown close to Edith, taking on something of a grandfatherly role to the young girl when they met, and for her part she liked Edward well enough, but always found it awkward to speak with him due to his rank.
"Lord King,"
Hilda said with a quick bow of her head,
"It pleases me to see you."
"And I you, cousin. Edith,"
Edward turned his attention to her, his smile revealing his perfect white teeth, a feat matched by very few in England.
"It pleases me to see you again."
"Likewise my Lord."
"Have you taken to practicing the hymns I left with you?"
He asked, referring to three songs written by the renowned Northumbrian cow herd turned Poet Caedmon.
Edith shook her head.
"I'm sorry. My tasks for my aunt haven't given me time to study. Please give me more time and I will know them by heart."
"There's no rush child. Take your time and come to me when you know them. I'd enjoy hearing you sing them."
"Truth be told, cousin,"
Hilda said with a smirk,
"I have her memorizing the songs and stories of Woden and the Great Ones of Asgard far more than any Christian hymn. Our people's heritage must be preserved in all its forms."
"You did not speak untruly,"
The younger rider behind Edward said, moving up beside him, his eyes meeting Hilda's. Disgust plain.
"A heretic on holy soil."
"Do not speak ill of her,"
Edward said sternly,
"I never said such a word."
"No, but it is obvious enough."
"I honour the Gods of our forefathers, Christian,"
Hilda stared right back at the mounted man, her pose striking a confidence rarely seen in Christian women,
"I praise the Allfather. Spear Shaker. Woden, Father of Gods and Man. Who do you praise? Beyond your own vain glory?"
The man grinned mirthlessly, even as he called her a heretic he did not have the stomach to make a move against her. He feared her power.
"Peace, William."
Edward waved him off.
"Forgive the Duke of Normandy,"
The King cleared his throat,
"His zeal for our faith sometimes clouds his mind."
"The mists of ignorance can kill a man,"
Hilda said coldly,
"Beware of that, William the Bastard."
Edith never saw a man move so fast, once the Duke heard her aunt's slur he launched off his horse at her, but Hilda was faster. She stepped aside and used her staff to crack him right in the spine.
He fell on his face, Edward's Housecarls drawing their blades in case she made a move on him.
But Hilda stayed still, studying the Duke.
"You act rashly, without forethought. If mere words hurt you how will you handle what lies ahead?"
William screamed what Edith assumed must be curses in French into the grass. Edward ordered his Housecarls to help the nobleman up and back onto his horse, his back pain immense.
"Look on this man, my child,"
Hilda said, nodding towards the wincing William,
"This is he of whom I spoke earlier. Not much of a man now but, perhaps, should he overcome his stupidity, he will rise to heights even he can not yet fathom."
With this final statement the seeress turned and headed back to her villa, not bothering to bid her cousin farewell or beckon Edith to follow.
"Forgive my aunt, Lord,"
The young girl said bowing her head,
"You know how headstrong she is."
"I do,"
Edward frowned,
"I'm well used to it. Take care Edith."
"You as well my Lord."
She followed after her aunt but turned to watch the King and his host ride off down the road, the Duke weakly hanging on to his horse's reins. It would take him many days to recover from Hilda's blow.
In spite of herself Edith smiled, she was proud her aunt was the type of woman she was, one both motherly and, when duty demanded it, could take on the form of a warrior, striking down even a young nobleman like the Duke of Normandy.