“I do not know. I may – I may not have the calling for Oundle, as once I thought I might.
“If you had gone to Kilton,” she finished, “I would have followed you to Wessex. But we will not speak of that, now that we have a babe to think of.”
It was only later that this remark, made in an unguarded moment by her mother, struck Ashild. She wondered why her mother would have forsaken all else here, to follow her to Wessex. But she forgot to ask why.
Winter approached. The hardening weather brought no further incursion nor report of invading force to Four Stones. The borders of Turcesig also lay quiet, like those of Four Stones monitored by doubled teams of watch-men. The mud, sleet, and snow of Winter often assured that the long dark months were those that knew the greatest peace. Bad weather, short days and scarcity of food stores made the movements of men, horses, and supply waggons the more onerous. Attacks were not unknown; the Danes had scored one of their greatest victories in driving Ælfred from his royal hall over the twelve days set aside for the Yuletide observance. Hrald’s father had told him of that great action, carried out against many halls in concerted but eventually fruitless effort to overrun Wessex. And from Ceric himself Hrald had heard of the deadly attack on Kilton at the same time, an assault so bloody that small boy as he was, he never forgot it.
The lack of riders bearing news could not of itself bring comfort; Four Stones and Turcesig seemed an island in its support of maintaining the Peace between Anglia and Wessex, and Hrald and Asberg could know little or nothing of the leanings of the war-chiefs whose halls dotted the rest of Guthrum’s former Kingdom. Hrald’s winning of Turcesig, already an act of great moment, took on enhanced significance in his stand to defend what had been so dearly bought.
Of Haward’s hall and its sixty men, Hrald could not be sure. Haward should have a doubled bond with him; Hrald had dealt fairly with him in honouring the pact he had struck with Thorfast before his death, and now Haward’s cousin was the Lady of Four Stones. Yet his confidence had been shaken in Haward’s admitting of Agmund’s men to his hall. He and Asberg and Jari had discussed it at length. Neither of the older men made excuse for Haward, but they allowed that a daunted Haward might feel compelled to receive the men of his powerful cousin, and listen to his arguments. It was a misstep not to be repeated, but to Hrald it felt a disloyalty difficult to overlook.
Given the uncertainties, Yule festivities would be limited. In past years Thorfast and Haward had attended at least one feast at Four Stones, and the family of Four Stones been invited to the brothers’ family hall in return. This Winter solstice, no such invitations would be accepted or extended. Even Asberg and Æthelthryth must stay at Turcesig, for none in charge of a hall wished to be away a single night at a time of vulnerability. And the need to conserve food, always uppermost during Winter’s scarcity, had taken on additional meaning after the single night the entire village had taken shelter within the palisade. Should the village be denied access to their beasts, their fowl, and their cold-hardy vegetables still in the ground, the hall’s stores would quickly be depleted. Such could happen if the enemy appeared with little or no warning and folk barely escaped with their lives to safety behind the planked walls. None welcomed the necessity for a muted Yule, least of all Dagmar, who looked forward to presiding at her first as Lady. But when her mother-in-law privately approached her on this, stressing that it must be her decision, Dagmar readily accepted the suggestion to curtail the feasting to ensure more secure weeks ahead.
“I am sorry I know so little about the running of a hall,” she confessed. Indeed, Ælfwyn understood that Dagmar’s mother had fulfilled that role for but a brief span of years before being supplanted by another, when Dagmar was yet a small child.
“No one is born into such knowledge; it is gained by watching, and practice,” Ælfwyn assured her. “We will make our feasting merry none the less,” she promised, then added, “Your judgement in this will make Hrald proud. The men may regret the lack of a whole roast ox, but a boar’s head will still grace the high table.”
That night when they entered the treasure room Dagmar told Hrald that she and his mother agreed on the wisdom of a subdued celebration. “I will do the best I can, to make sure the hall does not feel too great a lack,” she told him. Indeed, she and Ælfwyn had already consulted with the head cooks, who from long experience feeding the hall had many tricks to enhance everyday fare. “We will not roast an ox, but the browis will be thick with it, and it will serve for at least two meals,” she repeated.
Hrald smiled at her. It was clear she had given thought to this, another proof of dedication to her role in managing the resources of the hall. He took her in his arms and kissed her, pressing her against his body as he did so. Their bed was just behind them, and soon they would be in it. Of a sudden he remembered his father in this room, looking at the bed, and teasing him with the prediction that one day soon Hrald would bring his wife to it.
“My father told me something when he was here in this room with me,” he said. “He hoped that my wife would be as good a woman as my mother.” He kissed her again. “And you are.”
The wheel of the year turned. The revelry of Yule, even without extended feasting, brought its welcome ease, for just as the dark loam awaited new abundance, folk now paused and rested from their ordinary tasks. Snow fell after Twelfth Night, a dusting on the furrows of the waiting fields, as if awakening all in signal to resume their work. Winter wheat, already long past sprouting, stood undaunted above the rime of white. By Candlemas the lengthening of the days was marked. The watery sunshine of the month was cause for gratitude. Soon the soil would warm. More frost and even heavy snow might come, but the Sun rose higher each day, and stayed longer in its arc across the sky.
Ashild was large with child, and knew that three or four more weeks would bring her to childbed. She had no fear of it, only impatience. She wanted the child here, to be delivered of the burden of bearing it, but most of all, she wanted the child in her arms.
Her mother, freed from most of the needful tasks of the hall by the advent of her daughter-in-law, took pleasure in the production of swaddling bands and tiny shifts for her daughter’s coming babe. These were of undyed linen, while Burginde worked up small blankets of the softest wool from thread she insisted spinning and weaving herself. Ashild created a sling from an oblong of lightweight wool, one with which to tie the babe to her side. It was dark blue wool, the hems embellished with coloured woollen thread work in red and yellow. One forenoon when Dagmar sat with them, stitching up a new tunic for Hrald, Ælfwyn could not help from hoping that soon Dagmar would be working on her own babe’s swaddling cloths. She must not ask nor hint, to do so brought bad luck; but she hoped and trusted she and her son would sometime this year share news of their own coming joy.
One afternoon Hrald, Jari at his side, was headed to the valley of horses. Mares pastured there who were ready to foal were by custom led back to the second stable in the hall yard, where the foals would drop under the watchful eyes of Mul and oftentimes Ashild. Mul had pulled more than one breeched foal safely from its mother, and the mares’ stable and adjoining paddock was free from the threat of marauding wolves.
This morning one of the men from the long house at the valley had ridden in, to tell Hrald that not one but two mares had dropped foals overnight. Hrald would go look at the newborns, and if the youngsters seemed steady on their feet, lead their mothers, their young trotting alongside, to the stable awaiting them. The day was not bitterly cold, but the dampness in the air and sharp wind blowing across the cloud-scudded sky reminded one it was still Winter. If the foals could not today withstand the distance, Hrald would have one of his men take them into his croft until they could.
After he and Jari rode off, another two horses approached the hall from the village road. One was a pack horse, led by a man clad in a hooded scarlet cloak trimmed with marten fur. He was accompanied by an escort of three of Four Stones’ watch-men from the road, who ha
d ridden in turn with the stranger to the next stage and handed him off. They came to the gates, which opened for them.
Dagmar had been out in the kitchen yard conferring with the bakers about their need to build a larger oven. She was now crossing the yard to enter the hall and go to the weaving room. When the gates opened she was not far from where the stranger and his final escort trotted in. One of the watch-men pressed his horse forward to her.
“Your kin, from Headleage, with a marriage gift for you from Helva, Guthrum’s widow,” was what he said.
Dagmar’s lips parted. She looked past the watch-man to the stranger, who sat his horse. He looked across at her and then with one hand pushed back the hood of his cloak. Hair of bright gold lay upon his shoulders.
Dagmar was for a moment struck dumb. The watch-man who had approached her was wheeling his horse, awaiting her approval and his dismissal.
“Já,” she told him. “I thank you.” It was not only the chill of the day that made it hard to feel her lips move.
The escort nodded, and the three of them rode out.
The golden-haired man in the red cloak was now off his horse. He went to the pack animal and from one of the two saddle bags pulled a leathern bag the length of his forearm.
He walked to her; she could not move. She saw the folk of the yard moving behind him, saw Mul and his son take the horses. Then the golden haired man was before her.
“Dagmar,” he said. He was not smiling, but his pleasure in seeing her was clear.
“Vigmund,” she breathed.
Dagmar scarce knew how she said the next, for she felt the wind knocked out of her. Yet her words came.
“My husband has just ridden off, to check on some horses. He will return later.”
She looked about her. They could not stand here, she must take him within.
She lifted her hand, and he followed her through the side door. It was the closest to the treasure room and that is where she led him. No matter that there were women within the hall, standing by the fire-pit spinning. She led him past the iron hoops holding spears in readiness, past the embroidered raven hanging on the wall, and then past Hrald’s split and battered shield hanging next it. They faced the treasure room door. Dagmar’s fingers went to her waist and the ring of keys there, and she slipped the needed one into the lock and turned it. She left the door cracked open the slightest amount, telling herself there was no shame attached to an open door.
Vigmund walked in, placed the leathern bag on the table, and at once reached for her. He pulled her to him with the practised draw of one whose arms have often sought their lover. His mouth was upon hers an instant later.
They kissed with the kind of urgent passion only parted lovers know, a thirst for each other’s taste, smell, and touch that drove them both. He was almost devouring her, his mouth pressing against her own until she was gasping. She clung to him, unable to believe his return, as it seemed, from the dead. The sense of bodily yearning and possession she had known with him flooded her being. For these first few moments she would not resist, could not resist. Her hands went to his hair, and in a gesture she knew well, she let her fingers comb through it, a webbing of gold. Then she brought her hands to frame the golden beard upon his cheeks. In answer his own hand moved from her back, and he gave himself enough distance from her that he could cup one of her breasts. Even through the wool of her gowns her nipple hardened under his hand.
When she could free her mouth she spoke, full wonder in her voice.
“How are you here?”
“Your brother Agmund lifted the decree of outlaw against me – for a price. I was free to return, to come back. For you.”
She stood, still in his arms, shaking her head, and trembling at his words.
“I am wed, it cannot be,” she told him. But her mouth, having uttered these words, sought his own. To kiss him again after so many years, to feel the strength with which he held her, to know he still desired her, was like the filling of a well. Yet after another kiss, she placed her hands upon his chest to hold him off. Tears pricked her eyes as she spoke.
“I am wed, to a Jarl,” she repeated.
Vigmund would not let her go, and had answer for this.
“He will not be Jarl long. I hear he is yet a boy. He will not hold this fortress. You will be a widow soon, when Haesten sweeps through. What will happen to you then? Haesten will award you to one of his chief men.”
The sureness with which he spoke raised terror at this spectre.
“Will it – will it come to that? Will Haesten win?”
She looked about the dimness of the room, frantic with thoughts of Four Stones overrun. It had fallen once, to a force far smaller.
She could not stop her trembling, but must ask of him the next.
“And you – who will you fight for?”
He shook his head, a single, decided action.
“I will not be here to fight,” he told her. “I am once again a King’s body-guard, in Dane-mark. I have recovered my silver where I hid it; that was what I needed. I will take you with me. That is what I came back for, the silver, and you.
“I have brought you Helva’s gift, as I said, my ruse to allow me entry here. And my plan is this. You will ask leave to travel to Headleage, to thank Helva in person, to see Inkera – any excuse he will believe. He will send you with a troop of men, but far less than are here. Once at Headleage it will be easy to slip away.”
He began to pull her to him once more, but she resisted.
“I cannot think… I have loved only you. But…” She hid her face in her hands.
His dismay was voiced in his next words.
“You refuse me now, when you were the cause of my outlawing?”
“Me?” Dagmar’s astonishment could not be the greater.
“Your mother then, in her spite.”
Again, she was stuck dumb. Her eyes searched his face, looking for his meaning. The reluctance with which he went on made clear his distaste, even disgust, at what he must say.
“She was the jade of the body-guards. Her lust, and the drink, put her beyond shaming. We all knew she would lie with us, and when Guthrum still lived, we feared refusing her, lest she make up some tale of assault and go to him.”
Dagmar felt the blood drain from her face. Her mother, a slattern. And with men half her age, men whom she could harm.
She felt near to swooning, he must see this, but he would finish.
“I had long heard of her appetites, but she had never before approached me. You and I were already…” he shook his head. “I rebuffed her.
“My punishment was my outlawing.”
She felt the floor rise, and began to sway. He caught her, and held her the firmer.
“Now you know the truth. In Dane-mark we will be man and wife. As we are now.”
He drew her close again, wrapping his arms about her, pressing his palms into the small of her back, holding her to him.
Hrald, having reached the orchard groves and ridden beyond, bethought him that he had promised to bring a spear to present to the son of one of his men at the valley of horses. The boy had just reached weapon-bearing age, and Hrald would give him a spear from the treasure room store. He turned the head of his horse, and he and Jari trotted back.
He would be inside but a moment, and Jari stayed mounted in the stable yard, awaiting his return. Hrald walked though the side door and behind the high table. As he neared the treasure room door he saw it stood ajar. He pressed it open, expecting Dagmar within.
She was there, but she was being held by another man. He was a warrior older than Hrald, kitted out with a bright-hilted sword, and wearing a fur trimmed mantle. They stood at three quarters to him, Dagmar’s back nearest to he who looked upon them. Their mouths were locked as they kissed each other. The man’s entwined hands were clasped at the small of her back, pressing her to his loins, in the unmistakable hold of those who have been intimate.
It was just the way Hrald himself had held her,
as they readied for a night of love.
Hrald could not blink, and could not move, as he studied them. He was crushingly aware that she and this man had been lovers.
The man opened his eyes and saw Hrald. He took a step away from the woman he held. Dagmar gave a gasping call, too low in pitch to a be shriek, but audible still.
“Hrald! I thought…” but her words faltered.
For a long moment Hrald could say nothing.
“What did you think?” he asked.
The man with her had already pulled his sword.
Hrald did not. He looked at the naked blade the warrior held.
Is that all you understand, Hrald asked inwardly.
“Who is he?” he demanded of his wife.
She feared to speak his name, and her throat had tightened so that no sound issued from her parted lips.
Hrald would not speak again until she answered. She swallowed to free her voice.
“Vigmund, of my father’s body-guard. We knew each other at Headleage.”
“I see you knew each other,” Hrald repeated.
The hollowness of his tone said as much as his words.
She had been no maid upon the night of their wedding. Her feigning maidenhood on their bridal night was a deceit for her benefit as well as his own. She had concealed her knowledge, and buoyed his own innocence of the act of love. A rush of rippling embarrassment joined the stunned anger churning in his breast. Young as he was, he had been played almost as a cuckold, and the sting of this discovery felt a cold and lethal poison in his veins.
She had no answer, and he went on.
“And you brought him here.” To the treasure room, the place where their bed was, where they slept. He thought the room utterly defiled.
The dread in Dagmar’s eyes overwhelmed her shame.
“Hrald, hear me,” she pleaded. “Vigmund – I thought him dead; he had been outlawed. That decree has been lifted by my brother. Vigmund came to take me to Dane-mark. It was shock, and fear that made me…” she cast about for words to express that which she could hardly explain to herself.
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