For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  Though fruit and flowers grew there, the heart of the plot was a large herb garden, for the leafy things therein were used not only to lend savour to food. The base material for easing the ills of body and mind sprang from that well tended soil. From its scented confines the nuns plucked and dried single plants, known as simples, and from an array of many, compounded their healing remedies. Abbess Sigewif knew the properties of each and every plant, root to stem to blossom. The young of Four Stones could recall being at her side as she cut or pulled herbs to take to her writing chamber so she might draw with her fine hand those best for relieving chest pains or soreness of the throat.

  Ashild could guess that Hrald would value a few minutes wandering its paths alone with Dagmar. It was in her power to grant this, and she did. At the furthest end of the garden sat the brewing house, giving Ashild perfect reason to absent herself.

  She turned to the young nun. “Bova, will you please show Inkera and me your brewing garden?”

  Bova’s hands rose to her throat in happy surprise. A few moments later nun, Ashild, and Inkera were far from earshot.

  Dagmar smiled at them as they moved off, then turned and looked back at the church. Hrald felt that it, and all of Oundle, had a strong and positive effect on his guest. She gave a small sigh, one which to him signalled contentment. When she turned back to him the smile was still there upon her lips. Despite her regal bearing, and her beauty, he felt at ease with her. He had to fight the urge to say, “We will be wed on this stone step, and then all who have gathered to witness will come in to celebrate Mass together.”

  He could not say this, despite her earlier prompting at Four Stones when she had jested about how tall their offspring would be; but he was thinking it. Because he could not say this, he did not know what to say.

  Dagmar smoothed the way. “It is all more wonderful than I had guessed.”

  “Do you think so?” was his hopeful and happy response.

  “Yes. Inkera would say the same. St Mary’s is not so beautiful.” She again turned her eyes to the church. “And the treasure therein…”

  For answer Hrald only nodded. As proud as he was of his mother’s many benefactions to Oundle, he knew boasting of them was unseemly. But some acknowledgment of Dagmar’s praise was needed. At last he said, “My mother was glad to give it.”

  She nodded herself, and went on, sharing her thoughts with him. “The gemstone necklace and bracelets… Ashild is Yrling’s daughter. Would not she have wanted them?”

  At this Hrald must smile. His sister enjoyed wearing her circlet of gold on her brow, on those occasions on which she had donned it, but the glittering multi-coloured gems on that golden set were not things he could picture Ashild wearing.

  “Or perhaps she favours ornaments of a more simple nature,” she offered.

  “Yes, that is it,” he agreed. Once again he thought how easy she made it to speak with her. She could almost give voice to his thoughts.

  Her eyes now travelled past the tended beds of herbs and flowers, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges of box, or edged by freer lines of waving lavenders. Leeks and onions, cabbages, turnips, beets, carrots, skirrets and other vegetables were also there. These were backed by the timber wall dividing the garden, against which apple, pear, cherry and damson trees had been trained to grow. This divider was nearly the height of the palisade wall protecting Oundle. As a barrier it served to block the sight only, and did not wrap around to enclose either space. When monks and brothers crossed to the church they could glance into the nuns’ garden, yet did not. Dagmar realised it was more symbol of separation than separation itself. Yet as a physical barrier it hid the comings and the goings of the respective halls. She had seen the brothers’ hall when they rode in, and now asked Hrald about it.

  “Have you been to the other side, the hall of the men?”

  He nodded. “Many times. As a boy when I visited and we passed the night, I would stay with my mother on the nuns’ side, but when I grew older I would stay with the brothers.” He paused a moment. “Once I spent several days living there amongst them.”

  “As an act of devotion?” she wanted to know. Sincere interest was in her voice, and her eyes.

  Hrald did not wish to say that it had been more an act of contrition. The cause for his riding here then, and the painful confusion he had felt, was too readily recalled. Gunnulf’s attempt at seduction had been followed by his own sordid coupling with a kitchen woman. The former incident had deeply dismayed him, the latter greatly shamed him.

  As he paused, Dagmar supplied an answer. Her voice, low and even, carried in it no note of prodding, but of real attention.

  “Or perhaps curiosity, to see what their lives were like?”

  He was grateful. “Yes,” he told her. It was not strictly true, but he had in fact absorbed what he could from those few days spent in almost silent contemplation. “It was strange, and at the same time much like Four Stones. Men living together, focused on one goal, but needing to contribute to the daily life of the hall, as well.”

  She seemed pleased with the thoughtfulness of this response, for her smile broadened, and she nodded her head in understanding.

  I can tell her things, he thought. Even things I could not share with any, I will be able to share with her…

  He thought of Ceric, and his sister. He did not know if this was one of the things Ceric felt for Ashild, a sense of openness which somehow led to inner safety. But the ease at which Dagmar had put him, almost at once, grew steadily. The attraction he had felt on first seeing her led now to a blossoming certainty. This is the woman I care for, and who will care for me.

  Sigewif had not dissembled in saying she and the Lady of Four Stones had the affairs of the abbey to discuss. Ælfwyn’s benefices extended to the welfare of elderly nuns and monks, the care of the lay folk of Oundle who served the foundation, and even the freeing and establishing in farm work or trade of the last of Oundle’s slaves, accomplished several years ago. Though the Abbess, prioress, and the two priests administered these many benefactions, silver was needed to carry out their execution. Oundle, as isolated as it was, was far from self-sufficient, and though it occasionally received gifts from other sources, had of necessity relied on the generosity of first the Lady, and now also the young Jarl of Four Stones for its growth and continuance.

  As Ælfwyn had walked with the Abbess past the garden, she found her eyes falling to a bed of blossoming bushes. Which was the rose from which Raedwulf plucked that single bud, she wondered. Where was that bud now, where was the man… her thoughts could stray thus only as long as her feet trod the garden paths. Then she and Burginde and the Abbess were within the latter’s writing chamber.

  Sigewif did not today belabour the description of accounts nor condition of the treasury. On this visit a cursory report would suffice; the young people would be awaiting them.

  The Abbess had been reviewing a parchment with her guest, one on which she had charted the various bequests and gifts received in this half year, and how these had been brought to bear for the benefit of the poor and aged. She now set this aside.

  Sigewif folded her hands, fixed her eyes on her guest, and uttered a single word.

  “Dagmar.”

  Ælfwyn smiled, and nodded her head. She was unable to prevent a soft sigh from escaping as she did so.

  The Abbess was known for a habitual firmness of manner. Her tone now was more of exploration, than decision. “We can not help but be sympathetic to her circumstances, even as we remain unsure about her character.”

  Ælfwyn was in full agreement with this statement, and full of admiration for the concision with which it had been delivered. In her first letter to the Abbess, written shortly after Guthrum’s elder daughter had entered their ken, she had detailed all Asberg had learnt about the girl, and some of what she herself felt.

  “She is lovely, I cannot gainsay it,” Ælfwyn began. “But Hrald… he is so young.”

  “There is a tenderness to him, o
ne which I hope he possesses always,” Sigewif agreed.

  Burginde was sitting off to one side, and now her mistress glanced to her. The two of them had often discussed the advent of Guthrum’s daughter in Hrald’s life, and Burginde had used just that term to describe him. Ælfwyn’s look now granted speech to the nurse.

  “Tender, he is,” Burginde summed, with a respectful bob of her head to the Abbess, “and though he be a Jarl, no weapon can protect a tender heart.” She added something, almost as an afterthought. “Ashild be the hardy one.”

  Sigewif took the final comment as seriously as the first. “Yes. Just as Judith was.” The Hebrew heroine, undeterred by her tribe’s despair under attack, would allow no interference in her secret plan for victory.

  This unexpected mention of Ashild gave her mother a pang. Here, in the quiet of the Abbess’ chamber, she wished to unburden herself to Sigewif concerning her daughter’s condition. She would not; it was not her story to tell. It must be Ashild’s choice as to when and to whom she would share it.

  The Abbess’ thoughts continued. Under her nun’s veil Sigewif had the mind of a military strategist. It forced her to ask herself who or what could hurt this girl, where was the weakness here, who could compromise her. She wrestled with such thoughts, deeming them unworthy, for at the same time her higher self believed that one’s inner nature was always above such assault. God made all new, expunged all flaws and faults, and we struggling mortals must support each other on our paths to perfection. Yet here, on the Earthly plane, and most of all in the marriage contract of a powerful man, caution was warranted. As unjust as it was, a woman’s repute was too easily damaged, her virtue disparaged. Should Hrald wed amiss, mayhem could result.

  “There is something about Dagmar,” she said at last. If she allowed herself pride in anything, it was fairness, and she wished to be fair to Guthrum’s daughter. The girl’s self-assurance seemed to be all on the surface, with no well-spring as its source. In her scant time with her she felt the girl was far from candid.

  “It is hard to say just what,” Sigewif admitted. “She lacks forthrightness, though Ashild’s own self-possession and openness may be colouring my judgement. But there is something guarded about Dagmar.”

  “Or something she is guarding,” mused Ælfwyn.

  Chapter the Third: Nothing to Bring Him

  BY the time they reached Four Stones in early evening, Hrald had succeeded in persuading Dagmar to remain a few further days. Why need she and Inkera head back to Haward’s hall on the morrow, when there was so much more to see and do at Four Stones, he posed. He wished to take her hawking, and with a meaningful look at Ashild, proposed they also visit the valley of horses so that the sisters might see the fine bloodstock of the place.

  Dagmar paused long enough considering this offer that he feared he had overstepped. Yet he had reason to believe her seeming interest in him was well founded; she had accepted his invitation to go to Oundle and had even cut short her trip to Inkera’s uncle in Cruland, so she might return to Four Stones the sooner. Now she had further strengthened his hopes by accepting his offer of an extended stay.

  That night, sitting next Dagmar at the women’s table, Ashild could not but note Dagmar looking at the high table, and at Hrald. Does she picture herself there, at his side, she wondered. Yet she must admit Dagmar’s eyes were no bolder. If anything there was a wistfulness in the young woman’s gaze, a look she blinked away with a smile when she grew aware of Ashild’s own eyes upon her.

  As they rose at the end of the meal Dagmar asked Ashild if she might speak to her mother. Before the hall quieted each evening every bronze cup was numbered and locked away in chests lining the kitchen hall passage, just as those of silver were secured in the treasure room. Ælfwyn and Burginde themselves oversaw this counting, and as Dagmar indicated her willingness to help, both she and Ashild joined in, laying the rinsed and wiped cups in the straw layers filling the chests as their numbers were checked against the notches on a tally stick.

  Dagmar’s joining in on this simple yet vital domestic chore was lost on none of them. Indeed, in the torch light of the passage, with serving folk still moving behind them, it was impossible not to imagine a future in which the keys unlocking these chests hung at Dagmar’s waist. The fact that Hrald lingered at the hall end of the passage, smiling upon the tall young woman as she bent to nestle yet another bronze cup in the waiting straw, coloured Dagmar’s cheek, making her glad for the dimness of the place. She glanced in his direction, the serene smile she often wore deepening for a moment. Her sister Inkera stood not far from Hrald, chattering away and comparing necklaces with two girls who also sat at the women’s table.

  When Ælfwyn twisted the key in the final chest, she turned to Dagmar with her thanks. The Lady of Four Stones had been told on the road home that Guthrum’s daughters would extend their stay by a day or two; her son had turned his horse back to her waggon with gladsome eyes to tell her so. And it was of this Dagmar must ask further favour.

  “If your Lady would be so kind,” she began, “I have only two shifts with me. And this one I have muddied the hem of in Oundle’s garden.”

  She said no more; her words carried their own hesitation, and hope. Dagmar owned only two good gowns, and had them both with her. Few women owned more than a handful of gowns, and none were expected to have many. For the women of the Danes, the mixing of shift and contrasting over-gown could result in many pleasing and fresh combinations, expanding the life of a few pieces. Yet she wished she had a third over-gown or shift, to help vary her look, as would be expected from a woman of her estate.

  Ælfwyn glanced a moment to the hem of Dagmar’s skirts. There was too little light to see any soiling, but she smiled anyway.

  “Burginde will wash it for you,” came the ready response. She did not trust her own gowns with the washing women and their wooden bats, and would extend this courtesy to her guest. Ælfwyn was further aware that she could lend her one of her own gowns. She had one of yellow which might well suit. It would be short on Dagmar, but with an over-gown upon it as addition, would be fine. “I will give you a gown to serve as shift; it will be brought to you early tomorrow,” she promised.

  Dagmar appeared next morning at the hawk cote attired in the borrowed gown, over which she had layered a sleeveless over-gown of rusty red. It was a happy pairing, bringing out the tiny flecks of golden brown in her blue eyes. She was alone in meeting Ashild and Hrald there. Inkera was not sporting, and was instead spending time amongst a few of the thegns’ daughters with whom she had already made fast acquaintance.

  With six birds, two keepers were needed for their training and care, and the men handed the three young hawkers each a leathern gauntlet for the right wrist. Hrald was glad to see Dagmar pull on the protective sleeve with familiar ease. The hawk cote housed four falcons; the two goshawks were in their own separate cote, and he went in to fetch them himself. Dagmar followed Ashild into the larger hawk cote, remaining just inside the door as she watched Ashild approach the birds. The cote was round, of wattle and daub, lime-washed inside and out for brightness. Small as it was, the pierced openings beneath the conical roof kept a free flow of air, and the straw upon the earthen floor was raked out and changed daily, giving the place a freshness far beyond that of a fowl house. Four falcons perched upon branched upright wooden supports, and Ashild went to the largest of them. Ashild cooed to the bird. Its head swiveled and the bright yellow eyes fastened on her. She ran the back of her hand along its brown speckled back, then slipped the tiny leathern hood the hawk keeper had given her upon the sleek head. The bird well knew her, and hopped from its perch with little more than a click of Ashild’s teeth, and the touch of her leather-guarded wrist against the falcon’s clawed feet.

  Outside again Hrald emerged from the smaller goshawk cote. The bird on his wrist was a dappled silvery grey. Even hooded it seemed alert, and he brought it to Dagmar with a grin.

  “You will fly the female, as my sister does,”
he told her, inclining his head to his sister with her female falcon. He gave a short laugh. “Even without a brood to feed, they are often the better hunters.”

  As he passed the bird to Dagmar’s wrist he kept smiling. What would my father think of her, he could not help but ask himself. I would he knew that I court a daughter of Guthrum, and go hawking with her, carrying the birds he brought me…

  Hrald went back for the male. He had flown only these two birds since their arrival at Four Stones, and sharing them now with Dagmar made the day the more singular.

  Mul the stableman had arrived, leading Hrald’s bay stallion and Ashild’s mare. At his side was a thin boy leading the horse Dagmar had ridden from her cousin’s hall. The boy bowed his head at Hrald, the look on his face so solemn and respectful that even Hrald’s returning nod and smile could not soften the child’s searching countenance.

  He and his sister and Dagmar passed the birds to the hawk keepers so that they might mount, and then again took the birds upon their wrists for the short ride to the tall grasses beyond the orchard groves.

  Ashild, with her favourite falcon on her wrist, the young brown female, thought of using that same bird when she and Hrald went out hawking with Ceric. It felt half a lifetime ago. She could not let her thoughts stray there; she was here to act as chaperone. A brief and wry smile passed her lips, remembering that Hrald had done the same for her on that faraway day.

  It was fine being out, the morning sky a brilliant blue, the grasses they rode through nodding their ripening seed heads in the breeze. The very fineness of the day and growing warmth of it may have doomed the hawking, for few birds were to be found. They flushed a hare which Ashild’s bird was after at once, but the creature, with vast bounds, vanished into a thicket of brambles before the falcon, talons foremost, could reach it. Likewise both goshawks had a single chance to capture a bird on the wing, Hrald’s a blackbird which speedily joined a circling mob of them, confusing his raptor, and Dagmar’s, making rush at a songbird which found shelter amongst the heavy hanging pears in the orchard.