For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  “Just watching them fly is thrill enough,” Dagmar remarked. They had slipped their birds’ hoods back on, and were now turning back to the hall. She rode side by side with Hrald, while Ashild took the chance to ride ahead of them, giving them time alone.

  He smiled at her words, the smile deepening as he kept looking at her. It prompted her to ask him why.

  “My father. I thought of him. These goshawks we fly were his gifts.”

  “A kingly gift,” she answered, smiling back at him. “Your father,” she went on. “Haward told me what he could about him. He has been gone a long time.”

  He nodded. “More than half my lifetime. When I was a boy he went to Saltfleet. There he was captured by the tribe called Idrisids. They live hundreds of leagues to the South, near a place called Fes. They have their own Gods, and are rich slavers. But he escaped, and made a life for himself, a good one, in the Baltic.

  “I spent nearly a year with him on Gotland, with his wife, and twinned children.”

  She could read how meaningful this time had been to Hrald. Her hours alone with her own father had been scant enough. She dared asking the next, aware of the boldness of her query.

  “Why did he come back?”

  Haward had told her that Sidroc had appeared in time to witness the duel in which Hrald killed her cousin Thorfast, but she knew his being there for this was but an act of Fate. Something pressing must have drawn him here, to make such a journey.

  Hrald drew a long and slow breath before he answered.

  “He had heard, even on Gotland, about the arrival of Haesten. He came to see…” He paused, not knowing how to go on. “He came to see if I could truly serve as Jarl.”

  He let his eyes rest upon her face as he said this, and she took a moment, looking back into his own eyes of dark blue.

  “And he saw that you could, and were,” she confirmed. She spoke with earnest warmth, as if she herself attested to his fitness to lead. From her lips it was neither flattery nor praise, but a show of quiet confidence in his ability.

  He was taken by it. She seemed to have the same faith in him his father did. Thanking her did not seem right, but as he nodded he hoped she read his gratitude.

  Next day was the Sabbath. On each such day the family of Four Stones attended private devotion at the house of Wilgot the priest, then followed him to the stone preaching cross outside the palisade walls. All of hall and village would assemble there, standing before the carved face of the cross, and Wilgot would repeat the Mass, offer the sacrament of communion through the breaking of bread, and deliver the homily he felt most beneficial to the souls of his listeners.

  This morning, as was their custom, the family of the hall gathered on one side of the preaching cross, standing in respectful silence as did the rest of their folk. Today they were joined by the daughters of Guthrum, who stood between Ashild and the Lady of Four Stones. Dagmar and Inkera had never been regular in attendance at the Church of St Mary at Headleage, going only when their father did during his lifetime, and after his burial ceremony, not at all. Dagmar had felt awkward and uncertain within the priest Wilgot’s small house, carefully watching for cues as to when she should begin to kneel, or bless herself in a gesture she felt she performed ineptly. The tongue of Rome was near to utterly foreign to her; she had heard it in the droning masses offered by the priest at St Marys, and in his mumbled blessings, but other than a few words she was ignorant of its meaning. Seeing with what promptitude Hrald and his sisters and mother responded to every line of Wilgot’s maundering preaching was a strain almost greater than her fear that she be asked by the Abbess of Oundle to write something on a parchment and so exhibit her hand. Now the exercise was extended in this second service, in which the eyes of all of Four Stones were upon her. To address the assembled folk Wilgot used both the tongue of Rome and that of Lindisse. Dagmar could attend more, and nod her head when warranted, but could not control her thoughts.

  She feared she had been found wanting in front of Sigewif. Now by the preaching cross she had openly admired on her first visit here, she regretted prolonging this second one. It was a growing sense that the longer she was with the family of Four Stones, the poorer she fared. She fastened her eyes on the pale grey stone of the cross, carved on both sides with interlacing spirals. On the front face of it was also carved the likeness of Christ, hands and feet pinned, the mouth opened as if in surprise of his own crucifixion. The eyes were sorrowful enough, deeply incised, and larger than any man’s ever were. Some master carver had wrought this; such work could only issue from the hand of an artisan of both ability and faith. The material was as noble as his conviction. It was new work, no older than the Lady of Four Stones’ own presence here. The incised lines were still sharp, fresh, and unmarred. The solid substance of this stone cross was like Four Stones, or even Hrald himself. It contrasted sharply with the wooden statues she had seen at Oundle, which she knew had been old before they were carried there by the Abbess. She felt herself like one of those painted saints, which should be admired from afar. One did not wish to come too close and see the flaws, the cracks in the wood.

  As the service drew to a close she let her eyes shift to those standing directly opposite. She recognized some folk of the hall yards, the serving woman she and Inkera had been granted, and the stableman Mul, she thought he was called. He was there with his wife, as lean and spritely looking as was he, and their sons. Another boy unlike the others stood with them, the one Mul had brought their horses with to the hawk cote yesterday. The child was staring at Hrald with a look of mingled awe and hope on his thin face. Then she saw the boy’s gaze move to Hrald’s mother. As Wilgot gave the final benediction, the boy broke from where he stood by Mul’s sons. He ran to Ælfwyn, stopped short before her, and pulled something from his belt, which he extended in his hand. It was a single blue windflower. The Lady of Four Stones smiled as she took it.

  “Bork. I thank you,” she murmured. She had asked Wilgot to baptise the boy the day after his arrival at the hall, and with his new family’s help, he was learning Christian ritual. As she held the proffered blossom, Ælfwyn looked past the child to Mul and his wife. Her action made the boy turn his head as well, to see Mul gesture him back with a lift of his hand. Mul’s smile for the boy was almost one of reassurance, yet the stableman bobbed his head at the Lady of Four Stones as if asking her indulgence.

  “That child,” Dagmar asked Hrald, as they began walking through the gate. Mul and his family had gone on ahead, as it was the custom for Ælfwyn and Hrald to remain after the dismissal, should any of their village folk wish to speak with them.

  Hrald’s first answer was a deep exhalation of breath. “His father was killed by my men, after he attacked us on the way to Haward’s hall. I lost one man, a good one. It was the day I met you.”

  Dagmar’s own surprise was sounded in her low gasp. After a moment of reflection she spoke again. “Now he can scarce keep his eyes from you, and your mother.”

  Hrald shook his head. “He feared I would kill him.” He turned his eyes away a moment, far above the palisade wall. “As if I would kill a boy.”

  He had not mentioned this incident before, and with reason; it had been a blot on a day that had otherwise been marked with success, for he had gone on to Turcesig and fairly won the warriors of that place over.

  “He lives with Mul now, and works with the horses alongside his boys,” Hrald went on. “For the first time in a long time he has enough food.”

  Shortly after Bork’s arrival Mul’s wife had told Hrald that when she had first taken the boy to the kitchen yard, he began wolfing down his food in such haste that she took it from him lest he retch it up. She fed him smaller portions, but the boy had already too much inside his shrunken belly, and it came up again. She gave him broth after this, and then warm browis, a spoon at a time, until he fell asleep leaning against her on the bench.

  They were nearing the stable now, and young Bork stood in the dimness of its opening, looking out
at them, his eyes large as he watched Hrald pass.

  “You have made him part of the place, given him a family,” Dagmar summed. “He will do anything for you, now, and when he is grown,” she predicted. “And for your mother.”

  That afternoon the young people rode up to the valley of horses. Inkera stayed behind, but Ealhswith begged to go, and Ashild rode side by side with her little sister, ahead of Hrald and Dagmar. Jari and another warrior trailed behind. Even given the short distance from the hall, and riding deep within the borders of Four Stones, Jari would take no chances on this passage. Since Guthrum’s death and the arrival of the war-chief Haesten to these shores the watch along the well-worn road had been doubled. Hrald’s whistled warning of their approach was met with a shrill response from those secreted in the trees.

  The great timber longhouse came into view first, where the unmarried men assigned here lived. Its thatched roof was even then being replenished, and upon one end of the gable a gang of young men worked side by side beating in handfuls of dried rye straw so that they might sleep dry through the Winter. For the first few years of the Danes’ occupation of Four Stones this longhouse had been the only feature of the valley, save for the horses pastured here, but over the years a hamlet of crofts had sprung up around it. When ships bearing the wives and sweethearts of Yrling’s men began arriving, a number of his warriors settled here, planting vegetables, herding sheep and cows, raising pigs and fowl. Some of these men who had served under Yrling and then Sidroc were no longer in active duty to Hrald now that he was Jarl. Their sons had taken their places, and might be now living within the barracks of the longhouse, or serving within the palisade. There were never fewer than forty men barracked within the longhouse, a number augmented by those who lived in their own crofts dotting the former greensward surrounding it. All these were set here to secure the great treasure of Four Stones, its horses.

  The small valley, well watered with its own broad stream, served as a natural paddock for the beasts kept there. The lush grassland supported well over two hundred head. A dense wood ringing three sides allowed the animals to roam within its cool confines and browse on forest growth without straying far. An open-staved fence kept the horses from the road, and spared from their trampling the blue-flowered flax plants blanketing either side of it.

  They reined up, and just stood their horses, looking. A few choice stallions had small paddocks of their own, as did mares close to their foaling time. But the bulk of the mares and geldings mingled freely in the vast open grassland.

  Hrald never came here without a small thrill of pride arising in his breast at the number and quality of the animals. His father had told him that Yrling was skilled with horses, and had set about almost from the first to raise the best he could. Hrald knew he looked at over twenty years of careful breeding and culling. The rest was the result of the blessing of Fate and the richness of the soil. He glanced at Dagmar, who seemed transfixed at the sight. She became aware of his looking at her, and turned to him.

  “Sometimes my father would speak of the days before I was born, the desperate search for horses, stealing all they could,” she began. “What he would think of yours…”

  She began to ask a question, then realised she must already know the answer. “He had seen these, of yours,” she mused.

  “Yes. Guthrum’s first visit was when Ashild’s father still ruled here; my father told me. He must have come many times after that, as well as those visits I recall.”

  Dagmar looked to where Ashild and Ealhswith had reined up. The look of satisfaction in Ashild’s eyes as she scanned the herd could be read by anyone. Dagmar and Hrald watched as she turned her horse and led her sister on her pony to a separate paddock where some of the other ponies and smaller horses stood browsing with lowered necks amongst the lush grasses.

  “She will be ready for a larger horse, soon,” Hrald thought aloud. “Ashild will help her choose one.”

  This placed him in mind of the dowry he had once promised for Ashild’s hand. There was something he must ask Dagmar, something which they had not directly spoken of. It was not a topic easy to broach.

  “Your cousin Thorfast. Were you close to him?”

  An old image and its attendant sensations flooded her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. When she was seventeen, not long after Thorfast had lost his wife, she almost let him kiss her. She had scarce known his wife, but sorrowed for her loss for his sake. Thorfast had been a frequent enough visitor at her father’s hall at Headleage, and she saw how well disposed her father was to him. Yet she stopped Thorfast in his action. Another young man in her father’s train had already claimed her attention, as he was soon to claim the rest of her.

  It was only after the one she loved had been lost to her that her thoughts returned to her cousin. By now her father was ailing and many men both young and old were wrangling openly to be considered as heir to the Kingship of East Anglia. Thorfast made several trips to her weakening father, occasions on which she tried to place herself in her cousin’s way. He was cordial, nothing more. She was left wondering what they had spoken of behind that closed door in the weapons room of her father’s hall. And what, if anything, had Thorfast heard of her…

  She gave a short sigh, rousing herself from these thoughts. Hrald was looking at her, awaiting her response.

  “Not close, no,” she said, forcing a steadiness into her tone which she did not feel. “I saw him at Headleage of course. He was – useful to my father, who always liked him.”

  “And who gave him a holding as rich as Turcesig.”

  She nodded. And she had been left with nothing. She was more than certain Hrald knew this.

  She felt now distracted by her own thoughts. She realised she was tired as well, the kind of weariness that arises from the strain of scrutiny. And she felt something rare for her, frightened. She had had to be strong for years, and now she found herself almost mired in a sudden rush of confused fear. All was moving too quickly, placing too much in danger. She had come into Hrald’s life from nowhere, and had nothing to bring him, save for her father’s blood in her veins. Yet she had his regard for her, warm, and she knew, growing. Before she went further she must ascertain what she could, and now.

  She composed herself, and with a slight smile at Hrald gave a nudge to her horse’s barrel, turning him to ride at an amble alongside the stave fencing. Hrald followed. “Having asked a question of me,” she posed, “may I ask one for myself?” Her smile grew. “Or rather, for my sister, Inkera.”

  A smile of bewilderment formed on his lips. The girl was not even with them, but then that perhaps gave her sister the greater freedom to inquire for her sake. He nodded assent.

  “She is pretty, and lively,” she began. “I should like to see her make the best match.” She took a breath and reframed this. “The best match possible for her.” These last few words were added in a lowered tone, as if Dagmar referred to future concessions which might be necessary.

  Hrald was about to say that he felt such a spritely creature should have little problem amongst the men of estate here in Anglia. Almost as if she anticipated this, she went on.

  “I speak not of her prospects here, amongst Danes who knew our father, but further afield.” She slowed her words a moment, then went forward, with a note of near-apology in her voice. “You are Jarl here, and were raised to be so, and thus must have heard much of other Kingdoms. We as girls heard little. Could Inkera find a suitable match in Mercia, of which our father conquered half, or perhaps amongst the Welsh? Or best of all, in the Kingdom of Wessex, as that King has been our most able opponent?”

  Hrald’s mouth was open, in wonder, she felt, but she must go on.

  “They will be seeking well-born women of the Danes to wed,” she offered.

  But Hrald was shaking his head. She looked down, her fine teeth clamped on her lower lip for a moment in discomfiture.

  “I… I do not know,” he began, in a voice which showed how seriously he had taken her question
. “I wish I did. I have never left Lindisse, save for my journey to Gotland.

  “Mercia… Wales…” He shook his head. “The one place I know something of is Wessex, though seen it I have not. But my friend – my best friend – is Ceric of Kilton. It is a rich fortress there, and he is the godson of King Ælfred himself.”

  “And he is not yet wed?”

  She watched Hrald lift his eyes to the sky. She had seen him do this before, while collecting his thoughts.

  “He is not wed.”

  His pause was long enough to tell her he would not go on.

  “And how did you come to meet him?”

  At this he gave a short laugh, and ran his hand through his hair. “When we were boys he travelled with me to Gotland, and before that we had spent a whole Summer together here. Our mothers were friends. His mother is now the wife of my father.”

  Dagmar had from her childhood been exposed to enough labyrinthine relations that she took this in with a simple nod.

  “Would he wed such a maid as Inkera?”

  Hrald almost could not answer. At last he forced a few words out. “No. As charming as she is.”

  “Perhaps he has a brother?”

  “He does, his younger brother, who through adoption by his uncle is now Lord of Kilton.”

  “And he is yet unwed?”

  Hrald nodded. “As far as I know, yes. But he is young, no older than Inkera herself.”