Two children stand shoulder to shoulder, seemingly small in the towering heights of the halls of the home in which they abide, and made even more so by the pacing of the man before them. Dark skies are revealed through windows cracked shut, and the long hall is lit by many hearths and candles for some warmth and light. Lain across a nearby chair is a once-beautiful tapestry of gilded weaving; now the stitching is torn through, frayed seams bursting from where it was sliced.
The boy is hanging his head as his father paces back and forth in front of them, but the girl’s brows are furrowed into an expression of defiance, or at the least, annoyance. As her uncle continues his ranting--”I should have known better than to trust you unsupervised in the home”--she steps forward and speaks up.
“Lord Ceolfrid, the fault is mine!” Aeshaeidr declares, gulping as the lord comes to a halt, and looks to her with what can only be described as acute frustration. She takes another breath, steadying her posture as her blonde locks tumble free from their braid about the back of her head. “It was my mistake your tapestry got torn,” she repeats more calmly, even though her voice shakes as she sees her own parents join that of her cousin’s within the hall. “It will not happen again. My apologies, my lord.”
The lord sighs heavily, about to continue with his ranting, before his brother (the girl’s father), steps forward and puts a hand on Ceolfrid’s shoulder.
“Come, Ceolfrid,” says Aedelheard, turning his brother away from the children as their wives approach to handle them. “They are young, they are children; such things happen, as you know…” Her father’s voice becomes fainter as they depart, leaving in their wake the mothers.
Lady Hilda does not speak; her countenance taut and nose held high, dark locks pinned atop her head. She merely tilts her head for Ceolrith to follow before departing herself after the men. Although Ceolrith hesitates to follow his mother, looking to his cousin, the other woman merely shakes her head.
“Go with your mother, child,” says Yrsa, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. “I must speak with my daughter.”
Ceolrith furrows his brows at his cousin before darting after the distant purple gown of Lady Hilda. Aeshaeidr turns at the gentle wave of her mother’s hand, and the woman takes a brief moment to pin her braid back into place. “Lady Hilda wove this exceptionally,” says the Northwoman in a tone appraising, “though it must be tight on your head. Let me loosen it.”
As her mother pulls loose the tight strands of the braid, she continues to speak in a gentle tone. “So… what happened to the tapestry?” Yrsa asks, casting a raised brow towards the now-ruined woven work. “Am I correct from overhearing the Lord Ceolfrid’s ranting that it was the end of a blade that sundered it; both from the ceiling and from itself?”
Aeshaeidr is quiet; she stays still as her mother affixes the braid once more. It was no longer so heavy on her head. She turns to look at the woman, her wide eyes resolute. “Yes, mother, ‘twas a blade.”
“Mm,” is all that Yrsa’s gentle tone offers, and she gently puts a hand on her daughter’s back to guide her further along towards the door. “Walk with me, child. I wish to speak to you outside of the halls of your father’s brother.”
“But it is raining,” protests Aeshaeidr as they walk, recalling the reason why the pair of cousins were resigned to playing inside in the first place. The thought of being out in the damp and wet does not appeal to the girl, and she wrinkles her nose in distaste.
Yet her mother is not one to be dissuaded when her mind is set; they pause at the door just long enough for Yrsa to affix their cloaks upon their shoulders and pull their hoods up before she takes her daughter out into the chill spring rain. Immediately Aeshaeidr grasps for her mother’s hand, seeking some warmth in the cool air as they make their way down the muddy path from Ceolfrid’s abode. The sky is overcast and dark, setting a heady gloom over the town.
“It was a most honorable thing you did,” Yrsa eventually speaks, once they have been out long enough for their green cloaks to appear black from the streaks of rain that cling to them. “To lie for your cousin in such a way.” Only a chuckle escapes her lips at Aeshaeirdr’s expression of shock, though she gives not her daughter the chance to protest.
“Yes, yes, I know you lied, as does Lady Hilda, I am sure. Nothing escapes her sharp gaze. Despite your best efforts, your dear cousin is not so good a liar as you… which worries me,” Yrsa sighs, a crease of concern suddenly marring her brow. “For I did not teach my daughter to lie.”
Aeshaeidr looks away from her mother sheepishly, allowing her gaze to watch raindrops hit the peaty ground of the path. “I did not wish Ceolrith to be in trouble with his father once more,” says she, “for Lord Ceolfrid always seems to be cross.”
“That is for Lord Ceolfrid is always cross, be it for one reason or another,” Yrsa replies in kind with a tepid smile. “Yet, were there not other choices before lying? For what does Ceolrith now learn from this?” She allows a few moments of silence from her daughter before answering. “He learns that he will have no consequences--though your cousin is gentle in heart, and I doubt that he will make such a habit of this. Yet… daughter of mine, there are those who would.”
Aeshaeidr feels her lips fold out into a pout. “What other choices did I have, mother, that would not have resulted in the Lord Ceolfrid’s ire?”
Always ready with an answer was her mother, as the Northwoman looks long into the distance, as though she could see past the towering wooden walls of Harwick. “Could you not have told the truth; that ‘twas Ceolrith’s blade what split the tapestry? You are so quick to jump at what you think is unjust, child, but the fault was his for wielding his sword in the hall. Could you not have offered to repair the tapestry? Or to assist Ceolrith in whatever punishment was to be his? Is that not more than fair?”
Aeshaeidr parts her lips with a scowl to refute her mother’s claims, but the wisdom of the elder woman was not lost on her, and instead, she sighs. Her cloak sticks to her shoulders as they slump, an action that does not go unnoticed by Yrsa.
“Stand tall, child,” she rebukes in a tone soft, nearly drowned out by the rain. “For not all that I have to say is chiding.” Yrsa waits for her daughter to correct her posture before she continues. “Despite the dishonesty of your actions, your intentions were noble--yet intentions are easily lost in matters of deceit. Be careful that you know whom you are lying for, that their character does not reflect poorly on you in the end, or that you find yourself scorned by them.”
“What I want you to learn, Aeshaeidr,” Yrsa sighs, worry creasing her forehead as she continues. “Is the knowing between when to lie, and when to not. That is a hard distinction, but one you best learn early. For, like today, it can be uneasy to discern. For I say you must lie only with noble intentions… and when the consequences are less than if you should just speak the truth.” There is a pause as the two look out from the hill where Ceolfrid’s abode sits slightly above Harwick before she repeats herself.
“What did I teach you about lying, child?”
“When to do it,” Aeshaeidr says gently, “and when to not.”
…
‘What did I teach you about lying, child?’
Her mother’s words echo in her ears as she races down the same path as she had those many years before, though this time with the spiteful eyes of Lord Ceolfrid upon her back. Blood races in her ears to the same rhythm as her boots hitting the muddy ground.
She throws herself atop her father’s overo horse, the steed whinnying alarm at the haste of his new rider’s actions. Aeshaeidr casts a glare back to the homestead of her cousin’s family, a new answer to the question settling in her mind.
‘That I should not get caught.’
