For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  Hrald stepped through the last of the trees, shivering as if it were Winter. The line of horses on the far side of the road was not half what it had been when he had entered the wood. That eerie half-silence which followed a battle lay over the field, one broken by the jingle of metal being pulled from belts, and the gladsome call of solitary voices discovering some special item of worth in their battle-gain.

  These were his men who bent over the inert bodies they plundered. He stood there, looking over them, grateful for his own life, and for their win. A horse appeared, Asberg’s, and he saw his uncle press the animal towards him.

  “Hrald!”

  They embraced, then the older man held the younger at arm’s distance in question.

  “I followed Onund into the wood. I killed him there,” was all Hrald said. He lifted the dead man’s naked sword in his hand.

  “Jari will be glad of that,” Asberg granted. He put his hand on Hrald’s forehead, flicking away dried blood and studying his wound. “You will have an early brow-furrow, nothing worse,” he judged.

  “Jari – how is he,” Hrald asked.

  “He is on his way to Four Stones, with the rest of the wounded. They went ahead, with more than half our men.

  “Abi was hit, an arrow in the back of the leg.”

  Hrald shook his head. “I should not have left him.”

  The boy’s father had answer. “He will boast of this first wound.”

  Hrald lifted his eyes to the far trees, where he knew Ashild had been hidden.

  “Where is Ashild,” he asked next.

  “Riding with the wounded, I am sure. They may even get there tonight.”

  “How many did we lose,” Hrald asked.

  “About a score dead, and half as many wounded. We will know more when we are back.”

  Asberg recalled the man who had been with Ashild.

  “But Byrgher – Byrgher is dead.”

  Hrald closed his eyes.

  Byrgher was a good man, one who had served with Yrling and then Hrald’s father. Hrald had entrusted Ashild to him, thinking it a lighter duty, and now he was dead.

  “How did he die?”

  “We were caught between the Danes of Haesten, and the men of Wessex.”

  “Wessex?”

  His uncle told him of Eadward’s arrival. The fighting had by that time cooled, but the arrival of the thegns of Wessex had spared Hrald more losses. His uncle had not seen Ceric amongst his men.

  “But Eadward took the Danes we captured,” Asberg went on.

  It was clear he was not fully reconciled to their loss. “They were ours to kill and I would have, every one. Eadward wanted them for his King, as hostages for ransom. He had been trailing Danes who had built a fort near Lundenwic, and came across ours from Saltfleet instead. Still, he wanted those who lived. Eadward paid us well enough for them. He gave us all their weapons and jewellery, their purses too. And we have the Saltfleet horses back.”

  Asberg gave thought to what further he could tell. “The Danes he took – they were led behind his men, with ropes around their necks, and hands tied. It will be a long walk for them.”

  Aided by moonlight the men of Four Stones made their way back to the hall. They came in shifts, the largest contingent first, those of the wounded and their escorts. Ælfwyn had feared seeing either child amongst their number, yet the fact that none of those returned had seen Hrald since the beginning of the action did not reassure her. She and Burginde and the other women of the hall were occupied enough tending to those who limped in between other men, or whose heads, arms, or legs had been cut by steel or bruised by impact. Jari’s wound was washed and dressed in the hall by his wife Inga. The spear tip hit the meatiest part of the calf, sparing the cords of the ankle; he should walk without limping when it healed. After several cups of mead he was ready to hobble between two strong men to his own timber house with Inga.

  Young Abi’s arrow puncture was washed in betony water and dressed by Burginde. Striking as it did the back of his thigh, the whole leg was painful and stiff, and the boy must lie on his belly to relieve it. He took it well, regretting only his dropping of Hrald’s battle-flag.

  It was not until Hrald and Asberg arrived after dark with the last of the men that Ælfwyn knew her daughter was missing.

  Hrald read it at once. Night had fallen, but small fires in iron pots cast their yellow light about the work yard. His mother ran to him, tears of joy in her eyes to behold him. Her hand rose at once to his brow. Then she mouthed his sister’s name.

  “Ashild,” she told him. “She is not here.”

  Tired as he was, Hrald straightened as if jolted awake. His eyes turned round the hall yard, to rest on Mul, standing in the dimness of the stable doorway with Bork, solemn and wide-eyed at his side. Mul looked at Hrald, and shook his head. The big white horse had not returned for a rubdown; the paddock, full of returned horses, lacked his ghostly form.

  All were questioned. None had seen her in the groups of returning men. Had she left, alone, and somehow got turned around on her way back to the hall?

  Byrgher, the last to have seen her, had been killed at Asberg’s side. The fear that she had been discovered by the marauding Danes and taken prisoner was foremost. It was also something Hrald could not accept. Ashild was mounted the entire time, and would have bolted if danger drew too near. And he felt sure she would have resisted, even unto death, her capture.

  Hrald allowed the villagers to return to their crofts. They streamed out, thankful the immediate threat seemed over, and grateful at the prospect of their own humble hearths and beds.

  Few at Four Stones slept that night. Ælfwyn had washed the shield rim cut on Hrald’s brow, and wrapped a narrow band of linen about it. Lying on his bed in the treasure room, his eyes returned over and again to the corner of the room where the raven banner his sister made for him had stood. Where are you, Ashild, he asked himself. Where are you.

  In the bower house, Ælfwyn and Burginde need comfort little Cerd even as their own fears grew. The first night without his mother passed without event for the toddling boy. Tonight, however, he was fretful, and when they held the child he seemed to be looking over their shoulders, searching for her.

  Just after dawn Hrald and Kjeld and a few picked men got ready to ride after her. Asberg would command Four Stones; he had sent word to Æthelthryth and Styrbjörn of his promised return to Turcesig as soon as Abi’s leg wound allowed.

  They were saddling their horses when the whistle rang out from a watch-man on the palisade. Hrald’s hand stopped at the girth strap as he listened. Bork, at his horse’s head, kept his eyes on Hrald. It was a single shrill note, a call for Hrald. It was only used as urgent summons. A moment later the wide gates yawned open.

  Hrald stepped through the opening into the broader gloom of dawn. His mother and Burginde were at his side; his little sister Ealhswith had charge of Cerd in the bower house. Asberg and Kjeld stood at Hrald’s right as they waited. The rest of the men who were to ride crowded behind to see who had occasioned the call to their Jarl. Other men and women of the hall and yard joined them, a throng who had spent a restless night, awaiting answers.

  The village was just wakening, and on its road in the distance they saw a white stallion, surely Ashild’s; but moving so slowly, ever so slowly. Another rider came next the white horse, leading a riderless third. The crofters already stirring in their wattle-fenced plots stood staring at the horsemen. They were women and children at cooking and egg-collecting, men who held a few sticks of fire-wood, or those readying to take a tool in hand. They all stopped what they were doing. Some left their crofts and began following behind.

  Ælfwyn clutched at her son’s arm, and Burginde rocked forward on tiptoes as if it might help her discern the truth of what approached.

  Ceric and Worr had ridden through the night with Ashild’s body. They were guided by moonlight, and the need to bring her back to the home she loved. Now they approached the gates of that home, leading a d
oleful procession. At every croft they passed, the folk thereof, open-mouthed in awe, joined them.

  Their horses paced slowly towards the opened gates. Those awaiting them saw the rider on the white stallion to be Ceric. His helmetless head showed his coppery-gold hair, grown long. It lay upon his shoulders, tangled but bright in the growing daylight.

  He had his arm around a smaller figure before him, its arms hanging down with a straightness denying any coursing of blood under that pale skin. As the stallion neared all could see the raven banner, turned now so that it flew, gaping beak upward, upon the figure’s back.

  A whimper came from Ælfwyn’s throat, a strangled sound, as faint and bloodless as looked the hands that hung from the body Ceric embraced.

  The horses grew closer, and stopped. Hrald had been rooted to the ground, held by his mother’s hand on his arm. He now moved up to the stallion. The two men, one on foot, the other mounted, were close enough to speak. The toll exacted by the past two days was written on their faces. It was weariness beyond bodily exhaustion, a deeper sickening exacted by what they had witnessed, and what they had done. In the face of Ceric was something more, the mark of torment.

  Ceric, pressing Ashild’s body against his own, looked down at Hrald.

  “She was carrying a battle-flag. I threw the spear.”

  Stunned silence greeted this admission, the shock of the report closing the throats of the hearers. The void in all mouths seemed to vibrate with it. That stillness was followed by a wail of lamentation sweeping over the gathering. It swelled the wrenching cry of loss into a howl of rage, storming against a Fate that had cut short this young and vital life.

  Hrald moved closer, and lifted his arms to receive the body of his sister. With Ceric guiding, he pulled her from the horse. Hrald took her in his arms as if she were a small and sleeping child, the plait of her hair hanging down, as did her left arm. Her knees were gracefully bent in the crook of Hrald’s right elbow.

  Ceric slipped from the horse and faced him. Through his sunburn, his face was nearly as white as that of Ashild.

  “I killed her, Hrald. I killed her. You must kill me. You must.”

  Hrald closed his eyes.

  Burginde stepped forward. She came to Ceric and placed her arm around his waist, and spoke to him as if soothing an injured child.

  “Come,” she told Ceric, “come into the treasure room.”

  There was firmness in her coaxing, and Ceric walked with her. Ælfwyn was at her daughter’s head, her hand upon Ashild’s cold brow, as Hrald carried her into the hall. They reached the treasure room. Burginde took Ælfwyn’s keys from her waist and let them in, with Worr, Asberg and Kjeld. The nurse moved to the table and took up the two cressets upon it. Hrald came forward and laid his sister on the bare wood planking of the trestle.

  Ceric at once went to Ashild’s left, and took her hand in his own. He looked down on it, then to those he faced. “She is my wife,” he told them. He opened his hand enough that they might view hers. There on her ring finger was a broad golden band.

  It took all Ælfwyn’s resources to keep herself upon her feet. She must give one order, and she gave it now. She looked to Kjeld.

  “Please to go to Oundle, with waggon and full escort. Bring Abbess Sigewif.”

  The hours that passed in that room as they awaited the Abbess slipped by almost unmarked. The first to knock upon the oaken door was Wilgot the priest. Those within found themselves sinking to their knees around the table, as if it were an altar. He brought with him his vial of holy oil, and anointed Ashild’s smooth and pale brow, stamping the sign of the cross with his thumb as he uttered the blessing of the final sacrament in the tongue of Rome. He made blessing over all of them, then departed until the Abbess should arrive.

  Worr and Asberg left, the first to care for the horses and to clear his head; the second to speak to Jari and to see Abi, also under the care of Jari’s wife Inga.

  The sole window high on the wall showed the passage of a Sun lifting, pausing, and then beginning to decline. Burginde brought food and drink. The food remained untouched, the drink, broths and ale, was swallowed haltingly.

  At times Ælfwyn, Ceric, and Burginde just wept at the sight of the body. Ceric sat on a chair at Ashild’s side, holding her hand. Hrald stood, almost unmoving, looking at her, heart bursting though dry-eyed, as of yet unable to give outlet to his grief through tears.

  Why had he allowed her to go? He was implicated in her death as surely as if he had placed that spear in the hand of Ceric.

  No one else was permitted in. Burginde came and went, including a long spell with Ealhswith in the bower house, when she told her of the loss. Ealhswith wished to come to the tressure room at once, but Burginde promised the girl she could see Ashild once the Abbess had arrived, not before. Until then she must take good care of Ashild’s son, for love of her sister, and the boy himself. With that admonition she dried the girl’s tears with her apron, and taking up Cerd in her arms, brought the boy and Ealhswith up to the weaving room, where the girl’s Aunt Eanflad, her gentle soul as yet unknowing the tragedy beneath her, welcomed her to spin as she stood at her loom.

  Within the treasure room Ceric did not move from Ashild’s side. Burginde had urged him to drink, yet though his mouth was dry, he felt unable to swallow. Something was happening to his bodily senses. At times he felt he could scarce hear what was being said around him, but perhaps no words were spoken. He would close his eyes, which felt as dry as his mouth. When he opened them the room seemed to expand and contract in his line of vision. His hand holding that of Ashild’s was reaching on beyond its natural length across some ever-growing chasm of dim and diffuse light.

  Sigewif arrived in late afternoon. She was ushered into the treasure room by Wilgot, who entered with her. She paused to take in the dreadful scene, and let her eyes rest, one to the next, on those clustered about the table. Tapers had been brought, two by Ashild’s shoulders and two by her feet, their linen wicks wavering a soft golden light over the room. Burginde had carried in long branches of rosemary, and this herb of remembrance lay surrounding the body. As the Abbess entered, Ælfwyn and Burginde rose, as did Asberg and Worr, who had returned. Hrald had never sat, as if on watch over Ashild. Ceric alone did not seem aware of her presence. He sat by Ashild’s side as he had for hours, and would not let go of her cold hand. Burginde went for Ealhswith and returned with her, keeping her hands crossed over her shoulders as the girl quietly wept.

  The Abbess moved to one end of the table, by Ashild’s head. Wilgot was at Ashild’s feet.

  Sigewif looked down upon the body before her. The unadorned tunic Ashild wore was of mid blue, her leggings simple, and of a darker blue. The plain leathern belt she wore was hung with a long seax in its hardened sheath, spanning her entire waist. Her everyday low boots of brown were on her feet. Her hair was set in one thick plait, now resting to one side of her head. Signs of soil and grass stains marked her clothing, but her face was as clean and composed as if she slept. Only the pallor of it spoke of death. The Abbess, looking down at her, must smile to see that active face so composed. She made the sign of the cross over her. Then she bent to kiss Ashild’s brow. She smelled the scent of the holy chrism the priest had crossed her forehead with, as he gave her final absolution.

  Sigewif inhaled that scent. She straightened up, and for the last time placed her hands upon Ashild’s shoulders. She addressed the room, and some higher power as well.

  “I claim the body of Ashild,” she told them, “to rest within the church of Oundle, which she ably defended.”

  No one had yet been laid beneath the stone floor of the new church Ælfwyn had endowed. Oundle had its own burial ground, outside its palisade. All had thought that burial within the small edifice would be reserved for the most august of Oundle’s community, for its priests, and for the Abbess herself. Now Ashild of Four Stones would become the first to lie there. The Abbess of Oundle proclaiming thus made it an order.

  Sigewif lo
oked over the stunned and sorrowing faces. Again, she smiled.

  “She is beyond our Earthly concerns,” she reminded. “Rejoice for her. Take strength in her strength.”

  Ceric lifted his face from where it was lying upon Ashild’s hand, and looked up at the Abbess.

  “You must relinquish her now, Ceric of Kilton,” she told him, the gentlest of commands.

  He found voice, though it be little more than a croak. “She is my wife.”

  “Live to her standard, and you may meet in Heaven,” she returned.

  Sigewif looked to Ælfwyn. “We will prepare her for removal to Oundle now.”

  At this Ceric broke down, sobbing; he was being told to quit the room, quit the woman he loved, and whose life he had ended.

  The Abbess had comfort for him in her next words.

  “You were perhaps a needed portal to eternal life for her. None can judge, in our Earthly frailty, what any of this means. Rejoice in what you knew together, and for her Heavenly abode. Take strength in her strength,” she repeated.

  The Abbess looked to Hrald. He came to Ceric with Worr. Ceric gave the hand he held a final, desperate kiss. Then the two men led him away.

  Ealhswith ran to her mother, who embraced her, kissing her face in almost desperate need. Then Burginde took her back to the weaving room.

  When the three women were alone, Sigewif took Ælfwyn’s hands in her own. “Burginde and I shall wash her body.”

  Though Ælfwyn looked glazed from shock, she contested this claim. “No, I must do it,” she murmured. Every particle of her body seemed to rebel over the fact that Ashild lay there upon the table, dead. The raw anguish of the loss was still mixed with disbelief, giving it a potency striking deep into her core.

  “You may be present,” the Abbess conceded. “Sit there as we prepare what we need.”

  A glance at Burginde had the nurse moving toward the door. When both Abbess and Burginde were without, Sigewif drew from the pack awaiting her on the high table a small pouch. She brought her head close to Burginde’s. “Here is a Simple to make her sleep. Crumble the leaves in this packet into warm broth, and give it to your mistress, making sure she drinks it all.”