For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  Ashild almost bit back the words she had come to utter. Yet there might be no better time. She was alone now with Sigewif, a rare enough occurrence. The Abbess never left Oundle, which compassed her entire mortal world; she was in some ways a mountain unto herself. One must go to her, and here Ashild was.

  “Reverend Mother,” she began, “I have news of my own changed estate.”

  At once Sigewif’s countenance altered, the smile creasing her eyes softening to an alert openness, the hand which had rested upon Ashild’s now lifting it in her own.

  “Tell me, my child,” she invited.

  “When Ceric journeyed here… we knew each other.”

  The expression the Abbess bore had not shifted, making it almost more difficult for Ashild to go on.

  “I will have his babe in Spring.”

  A slight parting of the firm lips was the only sign Sigewif gave of any surprise. Her arms opened, sweeping Ashild into an embrace. Ashild, her cheek against the softness of the nun’s white veil, was for a long moment enveloped in that scent of camphorwood and resinous incense that Sigewif carried about her person.

  Now the Abbess stepped back, and using her distinctive gesture with Ashild, placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

  “Did you declare yourselves wed?”

  Ashild drew breath before making answer.

  “We did not.” This was stated without shame, or any trace of boast. What she would say next was of high import, and it was also the truth. “Ceric named me wife more than once during the night, and the next day as well. And my mother and brother now know, and take joy in both fact… and result.”

  With any other young woman Sigewif would have asked a second question, to ascertain if she considered herself wife to the man to whom she had given herself. It was not caution which stopped the Abbess from doing so with Ashild, but respect for the girl’s own self-contained character. Sigewif kept her eyes upon Ashild’s face as she considered her.

  “I think you fully wed in the eyes of God, and the law,” the Abbess answered. “The Church is man’s making, a symbol of His actions here on Earth. And its blessing an extra boon, which can be conferred when next you and Ceric meet.”

  The Abbess had more to add, and did so with a returning smile. “Ælfred will take joy in this pairing,” she predicted.

  Sigewif thought of another monarch, long dead, one who had once ruled Anglia. Edmund had been felled by Danes. To now have a union between Saxon and Dane at such a high level as was the joining hands of Ceric of Kilton and Ashild of Four Stones might have been beyond his ken after the years of bitter conflict he had known. Yet she could guess how welcome it would have been.

  “As would my brother,” she ended, planting a kiss on Ashild’s brow.

  The bronze bell in the church tower rang, signaling the first chime of twelve, and calling the party to the door of the sanctuary. As they rode here the mist had settled, almost gem-like, as the finest of droplets on the tunics of men and the horses’ coats, and mantled like dew the oiled tarpaulin covering the waggon. It now thickened to a drizzle. Ælfwyn and Burginde, having gazed out upon the dull skies from the weaving room before they left, were prepared, and had laid by a light-weight woollen cloak to shield the couple as they made their pledging. As the party walked to the broad stone step of the church, the drizzle hardened. Hrald and Dagmar were in the lead, and as they reached the step and turned to face those assembled their chagrin at the worsening weather could be read in both their faces. Hrald had imagined exchanging vows with Dagmar under the brilliant Sun which had graced his first visit to Oundle with her, not a pelting rain.

  Burginde grinned at Hrald, and looking at his face made merry answer.

  “Nay, ’tis good luck,” she assured them both with a hearty laugh. “Rain on the heads of those clasping hands brings many babes to come.”

  Good luck or ill, before the couple got too wet, Jari and Asberg, along with Kjeld and Haward, unfurled the woollen length over their heads and held it taut as makeshift shelter.

  Hrald had given thought to what he would say. No couple need utter more than the words, “I marry you,” one to the other, to make their union binding. The young Jarl wished for more than this. He looked out at the faces of his mother and sisters, of Burginde and the Abbess, and at Asberg and Jari and Kjeld and Haward shielding him from the rain, then let his eyes flick back at the rest of his escort, gathered behind his family. Then he turned to face his bride.

  “Here at Oundle on St Matthew’s Day, I, Hrald of Four Stones, take you to wife, Dagmar, daughter of Guthrum. I will protect your body with my own, and preserve ever the bond we create today.”

  He lifted his left hand now, and took her own in his.

  “I choose you above all women. And before my friends, I marry you.”

  He felt her hand tremble in his own, and indeed, her dark blue eyes were all the more lustrous with welling tears.

  He watched her steady herself with a breath, and gave her hand the slightest pressure in support.

  “I, Dagmar, daughter of Guthrum…” She almost faltered here, under the force of his eyes which were fastened on her own. She dropped her eyelids and said the next. “I marry you, Hrald of Four Stones.”

  She could not equal in grace what he had said to her, nor even echo it; his words had already slipped away from her, leaving only the impress of their beauty.

  It mattered not to Hrald. He placed his right hand over those already joined. He smiled at her, a smile which found root deep in the recess of his heart, and beamed forth over his young face.

  He turned to those watching, and lifted in salute the clasped hand of his wife in his own.

  A cry went up, of gladness from the women, and bellowing good cheer from the men.

  The door was pulled open, and all filed within. The church was already brim-full, for nearly all the community of nuns and monks awaited them, lacking only those too infirm to attend. Hrald’s grandmother Ælfleda stood in front with the oldest of the consecrated sisters, and her daughter and granddaughters processed to her side, where she warmly took their hands. The rite of Mass was chanted by Oundle’s two priests, and the sacrament offered and received the first time by Hrald and Dagmar as a married couple.

  Ashild, standing there next her mother and Ealhswith, felt a strange wash of sensation. Her hair and gown were damp, and though her hands were almost cold she felt as if her body might be steaming. It was the smoking incense, she knew, being swung with vigour by the younger of the two priests in its brass censer, filling the crowded sanctuary with a smell that evoked burning heartwood and the rare oils that sometimes were brought from the trading centre of Jorvik for her mother.

  She glanced at her mother from the tail of her eye. What was she thinking, standing there, looking upon her son who had just wed and truly would enter a man’s estate. Did she shed thought for Hrald’s father? Ashild looked to Hrald, standing on the men’s side. His eyes were cast down, but he looked as though he attended fully to the words of the priest. She guessed only his father’s presence could make this day the better for him.

  Sidroc. He and her mother had no fine hand-fast such as Hrald had; Oundle was still mostly a ruin when they made pledge. The fact of her own coming child made her remember that Sidroc had wed her mother knowing she would bear Yrling’s babe. Just as her own father perhaps never learnt of her, the father of her own babe did not know of its coming. She and Ceric had no true hand-fast, no secret marriage, despite the assurances of Burginde and Sigewif. Ceric had called her wife, but she had not been able to call him husband.

  She had been struck by her brother’s words as he pledged to Dagmar. He could give himself utterly, and he had. Here she stood at his hand-fast, where he and his new wife were attended with honour, witnessed by the chief men of three halls, and hosted by an Abbess, sister to a King.

  Such was not to be hers. She had turned her back upon it. She had never craved the honour and acclaim of being a powerful noble’s bride; it w
as easy to set that aside. Yet she had tipped the scale all in her favour, and the injustice of it pricked her like a spur. Hrald’s words returned, more plea than accusation, “Then you leave Ceric with nothing. He can have neither you, nor the child.”

  The Mass ended, the elder priest giving his benediction in the tongue of Rome. Bova was there in the back of the church, nearest the door, standing with the younger nuns on one side, while the most junior of the brothers stood on the other. She beamed at Hrald and his bride, bowed her head to a smiling Ælfwyn, and when she saw Ashild, again pressed her hands to her heart.

  Nuns and brothers returned to their daily offices, while the men and family of Four Stones, Asberg and Æthelthryth, and Haward gathered in Sigewif’s hall. First the couple must be ushered, with their nearest of kin, into the Abbess’ writing chamber, to sign their names upon the parchment registering their union. A narrow tray of freshly-cut goose quills awaited their selection, and the Abbess’ quill knife, sharp as any razor, awaited he or she who wished to make a custom cut to form the nib. The tiny pot of brown-black ink was waiting, and Hrald took up a feathered quill, dipped it in the pot, gave it a tap against the rim to shake off any excess, and then in his finest hand recorded Hrald of Four Stones. He looked down at his work, and then with a smile passed the quill to Dagmar.

  Few could write, and the union of couples was only recorded if they were of special parentage, and connected in some way to a foundation such as Oundle, where men and women learned in reading and writing had need to document issues of inheritance and property. If bride or groom could not sign themselves, they might make a simple mark by their name, written out by one possessing the scribal art.

  Dagmar, taking the quill in her fingers before the eyes of those surrounding the writing table, paused. Her eyes rested on Hrald’s signature, bold and firm letters nearly as well formed as those of the Abbess herself.

  She dipped the nib into the tiny pot, gave it a slight tap, then lowered it to the creamy parchment. Dagmar, she pressed. She lifted the quill over the sprawling word. As it hovered, a droplet of ink rolled from the nib, splashing down upon the end of her name. A blot.

  Dagmar could not stop the whispered, “Nej!” that sounded under her breath.

  Hrald, watching her cheek colour, gave a small laugh, one dismissing the flaw. When the ink dried, Sigewif could use her scraper to amend the blotch, flicking away tiny shavings of the excess ink. He took the quill from his wife’s hand, returned it to the tray, and then again lifted Dagmar’s hand in his own. They led the way to the body of the hall.

  It was time for the bridal-cup. It was Bova’s ale they lifted, regarded by most who had tasted it as the best brew in South Lindisse. She was not there to hear them praise it anew, but to Hrald the fact that the young brewster was a link to his father Sidroc and the island of Gotland brought an added pleasure as he raised its foaming creaminess to his mouth.

  The ride back to Four Stones was slowed by rain and attendant mud, but even this could scarce dampen the spirits of those who looked forward to the awaiting feast. Hrald, riding steadily on between his uncle and Jari, was not thinking of the waiting food, though he was aware of his hunger, nor of the gaming that would follow, but of the night’s end, when he would step into the treasure room for the first time with his wife awaiting him.

  The whistled calls which greeted the party from the ramparts of Four Stones were made raucous by the hooting of many men who had joined them upon the parapet, and their bantering jests raining down on the head of the bridegroom.

  By the time all assembled in the hall, a keen expectation for the coming food and drink had reached a fevered pitch. It was fully dusk, and every torch projecting from the timber columns had been lit, every table laid with oil-filled cressets. With all in their best clothing, and adorned with silver and some with gold, the flickering light danced over knife hilt and necklace, brooch and arm-ring. At every table serving women held jugs of ale, and upon the high table was set the silver bird ewer the Lady of Four Stones ever poured from. In the kitchen passageway, kitchen folk were lined up, bearing their laden platters. All was in readiness, all present, save for the Jarl, his mother, and his bride. Burginde too was absent from her customary seat at the women’s table, and when she came bustling in from the side door, she went not to it, but the door of the treasure room, on which she gave a sharp knock. Hrald stepped out and moved to the great carved chair which was his. Burginde sat down next Ashild, and as she did, the side door again was opened, and Ælfwyn walked in, with Dagmar at her side.

  They walked with measured step to the high table, the hall quieting as they did so. They reached a grinning Hrald where he stood. Ælfwyn’s slender hands went to the silver ewer. With deliberate action she picked it up, and turning to her daughter-in-law, placed it in her hands. Dagmar nodded, and turning to Hrald, filled his gold-trimmed cup, A shout went up, an exulting cheer. Dagmar blushed; all near could see this, even in the low light, but her lips formed a smile. She next poured out for Ælfwyn, then for Wilgot the priest, then Asberg and his wife Æthelthryth, rare visitors these days to this board, then Jari and her cousin Haward, and after this the rest of Hrald’s picked men who sat at this high table.

  She made circuit of its length, then returning to her husband’s side, filled her own cup. It was one new to her, a gift from Ælfwyn, silver, with her name inscribed on its rim. As she did this first act as the new Lady of Four Stones, the serving folk had been filling the proffered cups of all. Hrald raised his cup. He lifted it first to his new wife, and drank deep, and then to all gathered in his hall.

  The food appeared, in brimming bowls and still-warm wheaten loaves and platters both shallow and deep. Some held scores of boiled eggs seethed in butter and rolled in ground and toasted nutmeats. Cheeses of both sheep’s milk and cow had been cured in the cool spring house in the yard, then smoked over beechwood chips, and were offered up with the loaves. So many fowl were roasted that each might have half a bird to glisten on their salvers. The minced meat of two oxen was spooned into eager mouths, stewed up with barley and apples, the fruit giving the whole a sweet tang. Forest mushrooms, fried in butter, gave earthy richness to the firm oaten biscuits they were spooned over. The abundance of eggs and milk allowed puddings, some baked with stoned plums and others with dried cherries made plump by soaking in wine.

  Up to this night Hrald had, as all single men did, eaten from a single salver. Now he shared his food from a doubled one, as did all blest with living spouse.

  Ashild, sitting at the women’s table, had in honour of the night placed upon her brow the circlet of gold her brother had awarded her. She looked across at him. Last night Dagmar had sat here next Ashild; tonight, as was fitting, she was at her husband’s side. Hrald had a chair made for his wife, similar to the one his mother sat in. It was of walnut, with carved back and arms, and his mother had woven and stuffed a cushion for it of the same dark blue wool which adorned the treasure room chairs. Ashild was taken by Dagmar’s handsomeness, how well she looked sitting there at the high table, wife of a Jarl. The bride was smiling, sometimes laughing, as she talked with Hrald and her mother-in-law. Ashild had to force her eyes away. It struck her almost with a pang, their happiness, though she begrudged them not one moment of it. Rather, she wished the night would go on forever, so that this first blush of joy might see no end.

  After the meal, mead was passed, swirling golden and slightly sweet into their cups. Ashild had eaten enough, and had no thirst left; she wished to rise and go to the bower house. She could not, she must stay until the bride be seen safely within the bridal chamber. First there must be the merriment of games, as dice and counting pieces were brought forth, and men made ready to arm-wrestle. Ashild settled on her bench and gave an unwitting sigh, one heard, for she felt Burginde’s plump and strong arm wrap her shoulders and squeeze her in support.

  “This will be yours, when you go to Ceric,” she promised of the celebration. “This, and more, for Kilton outshines all in
riches.”

  Ashild would not rob Burginde of this belief, and only smiled her response.

  As the evening went on, Ælfwyn fell into her own musing. Her own hand-fast with Yrling rose in memory. She recalled coming down the creaking wooden stair, Ceridwen before her, the gown of red silk she had donned, and that of green wool Ceridwen wore. The face of the grizzled and wandering brother who had uttered a prayer over her head was still clear. She remembered that Sidroc, sitting next Ceridwen, wore a tunic of blue, and that when Toki took up his harp and sang she must grudgingly admit the quality of both. There had been men who juggled, and dice games which Yrling left her side to play. Most of all she remembered the walk to the treasure room door, and Ceridwen and Burginde readying her for her wedding night, and the first time she would know a man’s caress.

  Tonight the hand-fast revelry would not overly extend the evening. After a surfeit of ale and two cups of mead, the older men were glad to begin breaking down the tables and climbing into their alcoves with their wives to make way for sleep. The younger men lodged in the second hall just across the work yard, and were sent away by their Jarl with a cask of mead to be tapped there.

  Ashild rose too, and went with Burginde to where Dagmar sat. She kissed her new sister-in-law and her brother too, and bid them good night. Lacking female kin, her mother and Burginde would lead the bride to her new chamber. Ashild smiled on all, grateful she could leave. The noise of the hall was muffled as soon as the side door closed behind her. Stepping into the cooler air of the stable yard, she drew a deep breath. Her white stallion was there in the paddock by the rail, ghost-like in the dark. She went to him, and reached up her hand to pull at the forelock from behind his furred ear, as she knew he liked. He nickered in response, the big head bobbing. She did not wish to think of how he had come to be hers. She did not wish to think of anything just now, and only hoped she would be granted sleep as soon as she laid her head on her pillow.