Ermengilda's Kitten
By
Michaella
Ermengilda
climbed off the tall horse. Her slippers crunched on the frozen snow, and a
sweet breeze tugged her hair free of its net. With a groan of cold, Aunt Mildred
tied the horse to a tree and hurried after Gildy through the Scots pines.
Mildred walked with stiff tread, but Gildy danced. “Dearheart,”
the aunt called. “You are walking too fast. You will fall in the snow and catch
your death of cold. Careful on the bridge!”
Gildy
scooped up some snow, formed a ball, and threw it at Mildred. “Mildred, you are
too fussy.” She wiped her wet hand on her soft red cloak. She turned her face
to the wind, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air, which was rich with the
pines. “Isn't the wind beautiful?” Mildred buried her near frozen hands
in her clothes. “I think it very cold.”
“I
like cold wind. Warm wind makes you sluggish, but a chill wind puts fire into
you, and makes you feel you are really alive, and it is a good day to be
alive.” Ignoring Mildred she laid down in the snow and made angels. Mildred
sighed, and sat down on a clear patch beneath a tree. Gildy crept behind her,
and shook the branches of the pine, dropping snow on her aunt's head. Laughing,
she retreated from Mildred's wrath across a low stone bridge. There she had
played all through the spring and summer. Whenever she had wanted to get away
from the smoke and laughter of her father's longhouse she would come here, to
sit by the brook and think, or gather yellow cowslip and burnt orchid.
Now, the
world was blue and white and gray and...orange? A fluffy orange ball lay in the snow some feet
away. Now, it moved, and meowed. A kitten! Gildy approached, and held out her
hand. It stretched a long neck toward her, shivering. She ran her hand down its
spine and felt every bone. She picked it up around the middle, and it did not
fight her. Tucking her cloak tight around her, she held the kitten close. “Oh,
you look so cold and hungry. I will keep you, and no one needs to know.”
“Ermengilda,
what are you doing over there?”
“I'm
coming.” She held the kitten under her cloak and meandered back to Mildred.
“What is the matter?” The kitten scrambled around, and sunk tiny claws into
Gildy's chest. “Nothing is the matter. Are you ready to go
back home?”
“Oh
yes, yes I am. Ow!”
“Are you alright?” Gildy twisted her body, trying to dislodge the claws from her clothes without dropping the kitten. “Just a stitch in my side. Can we leave?” A clatter of hoof beats rang on the road behind. Mildred screamed and threw Gildy on the ground. “Danes!” She drew her sword and placed one foot on Gildy to keep her down. Gildy arched her back so as to not crush the kitten beneath her. The clattering stopped, and a bridle jingled. “What are you doing in the snow?”
Gildy looked up from beneath her aunt's foot. A black horse stood before her, champing its bit. And on the horse was a man. His saex was at his side, and he wore his helm. He pulled off the helm to reveal the kind face of Gildy's uncle Cynefrid. “What are you doing?” Mildred yanked Gildy to her feet. “We thought you were the invading host.”
Cynefrid smiled through his thick beard. “They have not come this far yet. And will never, if King Æthelred can start winning battles.”
Gildy squeezed the kitten by the scuff of the neck. If only it would stop clawing and meowling. “Why do you come here, uncle? I thought you were waging battles in East Anglia alongside Prince Alfred.”
Cynefrid stared at the bulge in her cloak that was the kitten . “Your father invited me. I want to meet your sister's husband.” “He is one good man.” Mildred had gone back through the pines to get their horse.
“Gildy, what is meowing in your shirt?” Gildy retrieved the kitten and showed it to Cynefrid. “I found a kitten. I will keep him.” Mildred returned with Hrodgar the bay. Gildy put the tiny orange kitten in her uncle's huge hand. “Take him to my home. If I carry him I am afraid I will drop him, or Mildred will see him. I am coming, Mildred.”
Two hours later they rode up the hill to the long house of Cynemaer Ealdraed, Gildy's father. It was black against the sunset, but the top of the roof gleamed gold. Gildy swung off her horse and ran to the back door. The sounds of singing floated through the door, along with the odor of roasting meat. Her older sister, Leofdaeg, approached with quick steps. Leofdaeg glittered with ornaments and necklaces, and her golden hair hung free.
“Where have you been? Cynefrid arrived long ago.” She began brushing Gildy's tangled hair with her fingers.
“Mildred insisted on taking the long route.” She felt as if her hair would be yanked out by the roots.
“Come.” Leofdaeg seized Gildy's wrist with her slender hand and hurried her to the mead hall. Gildy could only hope that she would be as beautiful as Leofdaeg when she was eighteen. A great cheer rose when the girls entered the hall. Father's housecarls raised their glasses and called out, “Leofdaeg!” The color burned brighter in Leofdaeg's cheeks; she adored being adored by all. She passed around goblets of mead and a three gold torques, before sitting down beside her new husband on the high bench.
Gildy crawled up on Uncle Cynefrid's lap. He had been her foster father for her first seven years, and she still felt closer to him than her own father, whom she had only known for five. Father sat on his little throne at the high end of the hall, looking very much a fierce ealderman of Mercia. The warrior was still in his eyes, as he looked down at his men clustered on the benches around the hearth. “Brother,” he said, turning his gaze to Cynefrid. “How does battle with the Danes fare?” “Bad, bad. Æthelred lacks the greatness to combat our enemies. Look to his younger brother for that. He is the real hope. Besides, the Danes keep coming. As fast as we defeat them, more arrive on our shores.”
“Hmm.” If Father had not lost the use of his left leg in a hunting accident, he would join King Aethelred on the coast as fast as a housecarl could drain a mead glass.
After dinner, Cynefrid reached down to the helmet between his feet and pulled out something warm and fuzzy. “I fed it some milk, and tidbits of meat. That kitten can eat.”
Gildy held the kitten and stroked it. She snuggled against her uncle's chest and hummed, looking at the firelight, and petting her kitten. The next she knew, she was being carried to her room by Mildred. The kitten! Where did it go? Gildy did not have it, so where was it? Oh dear... Mildred tucked the sheepskin over her, kissed her, and left. She climbed out of bed, walked with curled toes across the cold dirt floor to the door, and peaked through a crack. The men were quiet, for the scop played his lyre and chanted stories of dragons and warriors. The orange kitten sat in Cynefrid's lap, gazing wide eyed at the splendor of of the house of Cynemaer Ealdraed. She opened the door just enough to fit her face through, and looked at Cynefrid intently. After a while he noticed, and brought the kitten to her.
She carried it with her back to her little bed and laid on her front, listening to the story. She drifted away to sleep, and her dreams were filled with handsome heroes, terrible winged monsters all going by the name of Dane, and one tiny orange kitten.
“Are you alright?” Gildy twisted her body, trying to dislodge the claws from her clothes without dropping the kitten. “Just a stitch in my side. Can we leave?” A clatter of hoof beats rang on the road behind. Mildred screamed and threw Gildy on the ground. “Danes!” She drew her sword and placed one foot on Gildy to keep her down. Gildy arched her back so as to not crush the kitten beneath her. The clattering stopped, and a bridle jingled. “What are you doing in the snow?”
Gildy looked up from beneath her aunt's foot. A black horse stood before her, champing its bit. And on the horse was a man. His saex was at his side, and he wore his helm. He pulled off the helm to reveal the kind face of Gildy's uncle Cynefrid. “What are you doing?” Mildred yanked Gildy to her feet. “We thought you were the invading host.”
Cynefrid smiled through his thick beard. “They have not come this far yet. And will never, if King Æthelred can start winning battles.”
Gildy squeezed the kitten by the scuff of the neck. If only it would stop clawing and meowling. “Why do you come here, uncle? I thought you were waging battles in East Anglia alongside Prince Alfred.”
Cynefrid stared at the bulge in her cloak that was the kitten . “Your father invited me. I want to meet your sister's husband.” “He is one good man.” Mildred had gone back through the pines to get their horse.
“Gildy, what is meowing in your shirt?” Gildy retrieved the kitten and showed it to Cynefrid. “I found a kitten. I will keep him.” Mildred returned with Hrodgar the bay. Gildy put the tiny orange kitten in her uncle's huge hand. “Take him to my home. If I carry him I am afraid I will drop him, or Mildred will see him. I am coming, Mildred.”
Two hours later they rode up the hill to the long house of Cynemaer Ealdraed, Gildy's father. It was black against the sunset, but the top of the roof gleamed gold. Gildy swung off her horse and ran to the back door. The sounds of singing floated through the door, along with the odor of roasting meat. Her older sister, Leofdaeg, approached with quick steps. Leofdaeg glittered with ornaments and necklaces, and her golden hair hung free.
“Where have you been? Cynefrid arrived long ago.” She began brushing Gildy's tangled hair with her fingers.
“Mildred insisted on taking the long route.” She felt as if her hair would be yanked out by the roots.
“Come.” Leofdaeg seized Gildy's wrist with her slender hand and hurried her to the mead hall. Gildy could only hope that she would be as beautiful as Leofdaeg when she was eighteen. A great cheer rose when the girls entered the hall. Father's housecarls raised their glasses and called out, “Leofdaeg!” The color burned brighter in Leofdaeg's cheeks; she adored being adored by all. She passed around goblets of mead and a three gold torques, before sitting down beside her new husband on the high bench.
Gildy crawled up on Uncle Cynefrid's lap. He had been her foster father for her first seven years, and she still felt closer to him than her own father, whom she had only known for five. Father sat on his little throne at the high end of the hall, looking very much a fierce ealderman of Mercia. The warrior was still in his eyes, as he looked down at his men clustered on the benches around the hearth. “Brother,” he said, turning his gaze to Cynefrid. “How does battle with the Danes fare?” “Bad, bad. Æthelred lacks the greatness to combat our enemies. Look to his younger brother for that. He is the real hope. Besides, the Danes keep coming. As fast as we defeat them, more arrive on our shores.”
“Hmm.” If Father had not lost the use of his left leg in a hunting accident, he would join King Aethelred on the coast as fast as a housecarl could drain a mead glass.
After dinner, Cynefrid reached down to the helmet between his feet and pulled out something warm and fuzzy. “I fed it some milk, and tidbits of meat. That kitten can eat.”
Gildy held the kitten and stroked it. She snuggled against her uncle's chest and hummed, looking at the firelight, and petting her kitten. The next she knew, she was being carried to her room by Mildred. The kitten! Where did it go? Gildy did not have it, so where was it? Oh dear... Mildred tucked the sheepskin over her, kissed her, and left. She climbed out of bed, walked with curled toes across the cold dirt floor to the door, and peaked through a crack. The men were quiet, for the scop played his lyre and chanted stories of dragons and warriors. The orange kitten sat in Cynefrid's lap, gazing wide eyed at the splendor of of the house of Cynemaer Ealdraed. She opened the door just enough to fit her face through, and looked at Cynefrid intently. After a while he noticed, and brought the kitten to her.
She carried it with her back to her little bed and laid on her front, listening to the story. She drifted away to sleep, and her dreams were filled with handsome heroes, terrible winged monsters all going by the name of Dane, and one tiny orange kitten.
4 comments:
I really enjoyed this! Love the historical details and names.
This was a lovely story. Ermengilda was so sweet and innocent, and at the same time not too much of an adorable little girl that she ceased to be realistic. Good job!
Very sweet story. You seem to know much about old Norse culture and names (when I looked them up on Google that's what it told me they were. :o)) Thank you for sharing.
I enjoyed the Norse setting and loved the heroine's name. The details were rich and varied. Keep up the excellent work, and thank you for sharing your story.
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