She was wearing the yellow gown his mother had given her, with an over-gown of deep blue. Her long dark hair was held back by the white kerchief she had been working on the day they had met. The coloured thread work she had embellished it with had grown over the weeks, so that the border was a riot of blue and green interlacing. Her hair fell over her breast, at times obscuring the gleaming brooches at her shoulders, other times parting enough so that the metal glinted through the dark strands.
This is my wife, Hrald told himself. All his young life, ever since he had been old enough to care, he had been chaffed by older men about the pick he would have of beautiful women. He had not quite imagined one so desirable as Dagmar, and now she would be his.
She was now before him, and an idea struck him, one he voiced in almost hushed tones.
“I would like you to see the treasure room,” he told her.
Her lips parted. She knew it served not only as treasury, but as bed chamber.
“It shall be our room,” he said.
She placed the wool Burginde had given her on the table, as Hrald turned back to the door.
He returned the key to the iron lock and twisted it. He pushed open the door and led the way inside. It was dim within, and the dullness of the rain outside made it the dimmer. She could smell the linen wick he must have just snuffed out, and his first act was to move to the table in the middle of the room, and strike out sparks from flint and iron to light the still-warm cresset sitting there. Once lit, he moved and closed the door behind them.
She stood by the table, taking in the room. It was not large, but the height of the walls and the number of chests and casks, neatly arranged, gave the air of a vast storeroom. Like the timber walls of the hall proper, the wood planks had been lime-washed, making the most of the light from the lone window, and that cast by the flickering yellow flame of the cresset. Hrald felt no small measure of pride as her eyes rose and fell as he pointed out which chests held weaponry and of what kinds, which held silver in coin, which hack, and where the ornaments of that precious metal were stored. Almost every chest had its own separate key, kept ready on a black iron ring hanging on one wall, and Hrald moved to it to open a few.
He opened one large chest, built of wood, covered over in deep brown leather, and strapped with brass. It was filled to the brim with what looked like sheep’s fleece. He lifted the one on the top, which rested flat, fleece side down. The deep volume of the chest was almost filled with swords.
“These are the best of my store,” he told her. “Won by my father, and by his uncle, Ashild’s father. It is this from which I chose my own sword.” He tilted his head to that weapon, hanging in its scabbard upon the wall.
His smile deepened. “And it was from this chest I selected the blades to go to Haward.”
Dagmar had not been told the exact terms of her bride-price, but knew the worth of a fine sword. Looking down at the workmanship of those within, she felt a ripple of satisfaction that her value had been gauged in these noblest of weapons.
He replaced fleece and lid, and seeing her gaze shift to the war-flag which stood hanging from a shaft by the massed spears, spoke of it.
“Ashild made that,” he told her, and went and picked it up, and swung it about over their heads so she might see the raven fly.
“It is fine work,” she praised.
“I have not yet fought under it,” he said, setting it back against the wall. He gave a short laugh. “Ashild has. At least her horse carried it behind her, when she rode to defend Oundle.”
From there they both turned. Hooks and shelves hung from the wall by the bed. A polished silver disc hung there, so smooth and flat as to throw a true reflection of those who gazed into it. There was one of copper in Asberg’s house, which made the viewer look golden, but Hrald’s returned a truer vision. The shelves held more of a personal nature, his comb of carved apple wood, leathern belts, a bronze basin, a rolled stack of linen towels. The broad bed itself was also there, against one wall, and they faced it now. It was laid with an extravagant fur throw of some kind, long fur of white and grey and near-black.
She moved to it, and then reached out her hand to touch its surface.
“Is it wolfskin?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, and with a slight laugh added, “and like a wolf it sometimes sheds.” He came to it as well. “It is very old. My mother’s mother made it for her bridal night, when she came here.”
“It is still beautiful,” she murmured. It was coarse under the hand, not soft like fox, but its sturdiness must have helped preserve its warmth over the years.
Her eyes followed the pattern of pelts where they had been pieced together, admiring the skill in which they had been joined, and her hand turned a corner over, to see the loomed backing of soft grey wool. The bed was plush, with several featherbeds, she guessed, and the pillows sheathed in linen cases at the head looked equally soft.
This will be my bed, she thought.
Another thought followed, that of the men returning to Four Stones. What if they tell Hrald things which make him change his mind…
She turned, and took a step back, so that the backs of her knees were against the edge of the bed. He was right there, and it took a mere look from her to make him close the slight distance between them.
She lifted her chin and brought her mouth to his. Their lips touched, not the grazing caresses they had exchanged since the day of their betrothal, but a meeting, firm and with intent.
His hands rose up around her, and he clasped her to him. Their mouths clung with the kind of passion Hrald had only guessed at, and when she opened her lips and slid her tongue into his mouth he clutched at her, at once on fire with urgency. He moved his hands down her back to rest in the hollow at her waist, and pressed his hips to hers.
She did not flinch, did not pull away, and his mounting excitement as they kissed and kissed again was such that if he did not open the distance between their bodies he feared losing control of his own.
He pulled himself back enough to breathe her name. She kept her own hands wrapped about his shoulders, but enough space was there that his eye fell upon the door.
His mother or Burginde could walk in, at any moment. His mother had the second door key and Burginde oftentimes took it to perform some errand here.
“We must stop,” he murmured. He could scarce speak, but looked to the door. Her eyes followed his.
“There is a bar,” she whispered. Her eyes had fastened on the length of iron which could be shot across the oaken planks. No key could overcome that. “All you need do is slide it.”
He felt stunned, and exhilarated, all at once. It forced him to study her face, which looked as fetchingly lovely as it had a moment earlier. But he must ask. “Do you mean it?”
“I do mean it,” she breathed, her lips forming the slightest of smiles. She moved to go deeper into his arms again.
But he had not closed his eyes, and was looking over her shoulder at the door. The woman he would wed was ready to give herself to him. The hot thrill of his bodily yearning for her was almost too much to overcome, but he tilted his chin up and away, looking at the roof timbers. He did not want it like this. Dagmar was a maid of noble blood. He was proud to have won her, and wanted all to be proud as well. He wanted to stand on the step of the church of Oundle before his mother, and Abbess Sigewif, and the two priests thereof, and have them witness their union. Even should he bar the door, they would be discovered if his mother or Burginde tried to enter. Their first act of love must not be done hastily, and in fear of discovery. The sordidness of his frantic encounter with the kitchen woman rose in memory, and he beat it back.
He wanted no ugliness attached to this woman he loved, and no shame cast upon his desire for her. They had overcome the limitations of her lack of dowry, and he wanted no taint on her moving forward. He wanted them to be blest in the eyes of the Church, and in the eyes of those who loved him. He wanted the hand-fast ale, and the feast which would follo
w here at Four Stones, and wanted to enter this room with his bride awaiting him, that they might discover each other in the glow of honour and deserved ceremony.
He stepped away from her, with real regret.
“Hrald,” she whispered. She did not care if they were discovered. She remembered the wool she had left upon the high table. If either his mother or Burginde came down into the hall and saw that wool, it would as good as tell them she must be inside with Hrald. And she did not care. She only knew that if she gave herself to him now, this hour, he would not cast her aside, regardless of any tales her mother might tell in a drunken rage. Her giving of herself would mean his utter commitment to her, and she need not fear he retract his offer of marriage.
“I love you, which is why I stop,” he answered. “I love you, Dagmar.”
It shook her out of her self-absorption, and out of her fear. She looked at his face a long while before she could speak. She lowered her eyes before him, her heart more open than it had been in years. May I be worthy of you, she told herself.
The day of the union of Hrald and Dagmar drew nigh. His riders had returned from Headleage with no ill report; they had found Bodil, mother of Dagmar easily enough, and though she evinced surprise at he who her daughter would wed, accepted the small box crowded with silver with little remark. Kjeld, who had been entrusted with speaking to the lady, thought her almost too eager to dismiss him, for she held the carved wooden box to her bosom as she gave thanks, and then with a rapid movement of her chin reminded him of the door he had entered to deliver it.
This he did not convey to Hrald, nor the disordered state of the house, the floor wanting sweeping, the alcove hangings left parted so that the tumbled bedding and cushions were open to his view. She was in every way a surprise to Kjeld, and not a pleasant one, for given Dagmar’s beauty he had imagined a handsome woman as her mother. This haggard beldame, gaunt yet with a puffy face, stale of breath and with stringy hair falling down from a head wrap tied askew, bore little apparent relation to she who would soon be the Lady of Four Stones. Kjeld had not expected Hrald to question him about her, and was caught off guard when he did, only repeating that as ordered he had placed the gift into her own hands, and that she expressed gratitude in receiving it.
Hrald, grasping for more, asked, “Is she tall?”
This was at least a fact Kjeld could confirm; she was indeed tall.
Hrald knew Guthrum had not been himself tall, and so Dagmar’s height must have come from her mother. When Hrald went and found his mother and Dagmar, these were the two things he could repeat, their gift had been welcomed, and Kjeld had remarked that Bodil was also tall.
Ælfwyn had not known that her son had sent to Headleage earlier than she had asked, and her eyes were upon Dagmar as Hrald conveyed the news. They had both heard the whistled notice of returning men, but busy as they were in the weaving room had not gone down to see whose arrival it heralded. Dagmar’s eyes grew wider as Hrald began to tell of Kjeld’s return, but his easy manner allayed her concerns. Indeed, Ælfwyn had placed her hand over Dagmar’s in reassurance, as Hrald turned and with a smile, left them to their stitching.
The Feast of St Matthew dawned, that harvest day of equal day and night. A fog which had been gathering over the reaped fields the day before thickened into a mist which bedewed every russet stalk. The warmth of the brown soil made the mist roll and drift like steam above a rusted cauldron, and the silver grey fingers of the sky slipped and shifted above it. The nuptial party would set out early to Oundle, with the goal of the bridal pair’s vows being said under a noon Sun. One waggon would suffice to convey Hrald’s mother, sisters, and bride. Burginde of course would witness as well, but Hrald’s aunt Eanflad was happiest left at Four Stones. Asberg and Æthelthryth would come directly from Turcesig to Oundle, just as Haward, Dagmar’s sole kin, would from his own hall.
Wilgot too was there, astride the quietest horse which could be found for one as unskilled at riding as he. The priest had no slight reasons to envy Oundle, and had hoped Hrald would exchange vows at the hall’s stone preaching cross, or at the door of the near-chapel his own small house served as. Yet he understood the high moment of the occasion, and was unwilling to miss being there at Oundle to witness. Their sojourn there would be brief; ceremony, the said Mass, a cup of ale taken, and the return to Four Stones, where the kitchen yard had been in preparation for three days for a feast not seen in many a year.
The same thirty men who had served as body-guard upon the first foray to Oundle rode with them. Hrald on his bay stallion rode next Jari, on his prized chestnut. Both men were attired in their finest clothing, and indeed every man of them had taken care in dressing this day. The deep blue linen tunic Hrald wore was one woven and sewn by his mother, and of the finest thread that Burginde, still the best spinner amongst them, could roll from her plump fingers. His dark leggings were set off by leg wrappings of brown leather, and his low boots were new, of walnut-dyed leather, fastened with toggles of silver. About his right wrist was his wide cuff of pure gold, a gleaming treasure of the precious stuff.
His bride, sitting between Ælfwyn and Ashild, wore a new gown of dove grey, upon which lay an over-gown, also newly sewn, of muted blue. The subdued shades lent a chasteness to her garb, one made the more flattering by the fine cream-coloured veil of silk Ælfwyn had presented her with, as head wrap. Never had her pearl-set bronze brooches had better accompaniment, and the doubled strands of crystal and silver beads hanging from them lent a dazzling yet quiet richness.
Ashild wore her best gown, save that one of golden silk given by Ceric which lay within the chest in her mother’s bower house. She had worn that silk gown but twice; the night Ceric had presented it, and the night of the battle for Oundle, when her brother had rewarded her with a circlet of gold for her brow. This morning, sitting in the jostling waggon in a gown of pale yellow and over-gown of deep green, she briefly wondered when she might wear that golden gown, one fit for her own wedding, again. She could not help but feel the weight of irony that the second time she had donned it was in celebration of the death of Dagmar’s cousin Thorfast.
For her part Ælfwyn had selected a gown of rose pink, one whose linen had been dipped so briefly in the dye pot that it took but a blush of colour into its warp and weft. Her hand had gone to it within her chest of gowns almost without thinking; it was one she rarely wore, and one she knew, reaching for it, brought to mind the Bailiff of Defenas, for whom she had never had the chance to wear it. The budded rose he had plucked for her in Oundle’s garden may have been just this shade, she thought, smoothing her hand over her lap.
Though the day did not brighten as they reached Oundle, the rain held off. Once within the gates the party was welcomed by the Abbess and prioress into the hall. Asberg and Æthelthryth were already there, as was Haward, and after a welcome-cup, those assembled took a few moments of rest before being called to the church. The natural division between men and women during worship took form even here, for Hrald sat on one bench with his uncle and Jari, with the rest of his men ranged behind them on benches near the door, while his mother sat with his sisters and Burginde and Dagmar on a single bench by the portal to the Abbess’ writing chamber.
Hrald, sitting between Asberg and Jari, found it hard to speak to either of them, and equally hard to look over at Dagmar, whose hand was being held by his mother. Of a sudden his uncle cleared his throat, just loud enough to make Hrald turn his head to him.
“Hrald,” he muttered. The following pause was such that Hrald moved his head closer to his uncle, lest he miss what he said. At last Asberg went on. “Do you know how to treat a woman?”
Jari gave a muffled chortle, planted his hands firmly on his knees, and looked away. Hrald as much as felt his own cheek colour, for his face warmed. It was true they were now little together, but when they had met over the past weeks his uncle had said nothing to him about this topic. To do so now, moments before he was wed, and within sight of she who would be his bri
de, seemed a waggish drollery. He looked at his uncle, unable to hide his surprise. Yet he could see the man was serious, and thinking hard.
Asberg, having broached the subject and seen his nephew’s open-mouthed reaction, was thrown into his own confusion as to what to say. He settled on a comparison which while indirect, was yet clear.
He could only liken a bride to that most valuable of creatures, a fine horse.
“Think of a filly you aim to become a good saddle horse,” he instructed. “Just… be gentle. Easy hands.”
Hrald listened, and understanding that these few words were the sum of the directive, finally nodded.
Asberg, having delivered this message, stood up, as if restless. His eyes fell upon the bench where the women sat, and regarding the bride he now wondered if he need say anything. He had his doubts about Dagmar. Despite her showiness, her mouth might be harder than it looked.
While Hrald was sitting with his uncle, Ashild rose from the bench. Abbess Sigewif had retreated to her writing chamber, and Ashild now tapped upon the door. The Abbess’ resonant voice granted entry. Ashild closed the door behind her, to find Sigewif standing at her writing table. She gestured Ashild over with a smile. The parchment thereupon was already inked.
“The record of your brother’s wedding,” the Abbess told Ashild. “It will make the first page in the register I will build, of his union and offspring, to bind within the volume I began years ago when your mother re-founded Oundle.”
Ashild scanned the lines of small, well-rounded writing, that of the Abbess’ own hand, giving the name and title of Hrald of Four Stones, Jarl of South Lindisse, and that of Dagmar, daughter of Æthelstan, King of East Anglia, born Guthrum.
“They need only sign, following their pledging,” Sigewif ended. She placed her hand upon Ashild’s, and through its warm pressure conveyed her pleasure at this.
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