For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  His own body went slack. He felt her noble heart had at last shattered from a surfeit of sorrow. The shock of Cadmar’s death was great; the shock of his killing Ashild the greater. He bore the blame for the final, unbearable blow.

  His sword was still in his hand. He placed it at the foot of her bed. It was the sword of her husband, Godwulf. When she was but a girl he had presented her with his troth ring on its hilt. Now it lay as guardian and sentinel at her feet. He knelt down at the bed side, and bowed his head so that it touched the coverlet her hand lay upon. Edgyth came, and Edwin, and many others.

  Just past noon a distinctive horn sounded outside Kilton’s palisade, signalling a message from the King. All halted in the needful tasks they had taken up following the death of the great Lady of Kilton. It was not message, but special messenger himself who rode through Kilton’s gates, in the guise of Raedwulf, Bailiff of Defenas, riding from Witanceaster and the King. He was surrounded by a considerable escort, ten men and five pack horses.

  Prince Eadward had returned to Witanceaster with the woeful tale of Ashild’s death. He did not know if her brother Hrald had also fallen, for Eadward and his men had quitted the field before he appeared. Whether Hrald lived or not, the King had been forced to give thought to the matter of potential reparations to the family of Four Stones. One of the King’s men had killed the daughter of the hall. Under the terms of the Peace forged by Ælfred and Guthrum, all men in Wessex and Anglia shared the same wergild, according to rank. Left unrecorded was the wergild of their women. The King might make a gift, a handsome one, in reparation, yet Raedwulf felt the crude grossness of such. Four Stones was rich. It did not need Ælfred’s blood-payment. Yet the fact remained one of his men had killed Ashild. Some gesture of condolence must be made.

  Over the past fortnight Raedwulf’s thoughts had kept returning to the mother of Ashild, and the grief she dealt with. One night had the bailiff known with Ælfwyn of Cirenceaster. Since that night she had receded almost as far away as she had been in his youth, when he first saw and loved her. Yet she had given herself bodily to him, and wore his ring. He wanted her to wife each and every day. Now, with the grave loss she had suffered, she had slipped further from him. Her daughter Ashild coming here to Kilton to wed Ceric had been her way to him in Defenas. Ashild was now dead.

  He would give much to go to Ælfwyn, or at least, send message. But he could not imperil one of the King’s riders for a personal missive. If the King himself had message for the Lady or the Jarl, his own could go along with it. He would risk his life to travel to her, but could not do so without leave from his King. He could not ask for such, not in this state of war, when he was needed by Wessex.

  The bailiff had ridden hence to Kilton to learn what he could, and to deliver the King’s request.

  As he approached the walls his eye was caught by a broad square of white fabric hanging down upon one of the closed gates, a sign of deep mourning within. It was for Cadmar, he thought.

  Ceric was there within the gates to meet him. The bailiff knew he had been on extended duty with the Prince, and given the disastrous act which had taken Ashild, he fully expected Ceric to be shaken. He did not think to look upon what he judged a shell of his former self.

  They embraced; Raedwulf must attempt to lend comfort to so haggard a young face. He must also deliver the formal condolence from the King before he could speak as a friend.

  “Ælfred grieves for you. And for the family of Four Stones.”

  Ceric had not given thought to how Ashild’s death had affected the King’s hopes for an alliance between the great hall of Anglia and his own. The answer was clear in Raedwulf’s face. It had injured it irreparably.

  Ceric brushed away the water in his eyes.

  “My grandmother is dead. Her burial is tomorrow.”

  The colour drained from Raedwulf’s face.

  “Lady Modwynn,” he breathed. He looked stunned, an expression rarely found upon the face of the King’s advisor.

  “I knew of Cadmar’s loss,” he offered. “But this…” The bailiff could not go on.

  Cadmar dead, Ashild killed. Now the great Lady of Kilton. At least both her grandsons lived. There was one thing none in Witanceaster had learnt, the Fate of the Jarl of Four Stones. He asked of it now.

  “Hrald… did he survive?”

  Ceric gave a nod. His answer made fresh the horror of that battle. “After I brought her home, he carried Ashild’s body into their hall.

  “She is buried at Oundle.”

  Raedwulf lowered his head. “Which her mother had risen from the ashes.”

  They spoke thus while still standing in the forecourt of the hall, Raedwulf’s escort off their horses and waiting, the thirsty beasts eager for water. Others of the hall were coming to greet him. Wilgyfu had appeared, Worr also, waiting patiently and at a distance.

  “Go to them,” Ceric told the bailiff. “Go to them.” They must celebrate their lives.

  Later that day Raedwulf sat down with Edwin and Ceric in the treasure room. Edgyth, now fully Lady of Kilton, was late in joining them, but took her place with quiet dignity at the table.

  With the preparations for the funeral of Lady Modwynn tomorrow the bailiff could hardly broach the topic he had been sent to discuss. Yet all knew nothing but an urgent message would have brought him from Witanceaster.

  “Tell us why you are come,” Edwin asked.

  Raedwulf responded to this query with equal simplicity.

  “The King has need of silver. Wessex will repay the debt as soon as Haesten is expunged from the land.”

  He must name the amount now, and did so after a pause reflecting its size.

  “Three hundred pounds. If it can be spared.”

  It was a huge sum. Edwin had been with his grandmother when they had buried much of the hall’s store of silver for safekeeping. It had been lowered in fifty pound increments, each placed in leathern bags and then a chest of wood for easy retrieval. He knew where each one was. He knew that Modwynn had often loaned or given funds to shore up the defences of Wessex. Now he could supply this. Edwin was Lord, the silver his to loan. He looked to Ceric and to his mother. Their faces seemed to confirm what he knew. The King would not ask unless the need were dire.

  “We will get it for you, now,” he told Raedwulf.

  That night Edgyth knelt at the side of her bed in her bower house. She had offered her prayers, those for herself, and most heartfully for her mother-in-law. Still she knelt there, thinking of her life and reflecting on its path.

  The needful tasks of the day had extended her waking hours far beyond those she usually knew. This near-endless day had begun early. She had come upon a shocked and silent Ceric at Modwynn’s bedside, calmed the frantic serving women, summoned the priest Dunnere to the death bed. The elaborate funeral feast had been planned and its execution begun. And there had been a sacred duty to perform. Together she and the two serving women had washed and wrapped the body of Modwynn. To finger the shroud enlivened with vines and blossoms she had drawn and helped her mother-in-law embroider felt a sorrowful fulfilment to much labour. Yet she recalled the many pleasant and even happy hours they had spent, working on it, as they discussed matters of the hall, and their hopes for Ceric and Edwin.

  For years both women had lived with the hope that Ceric would bring Ashild of Four Stones to Kilton as his bride. For the sake of Ceric both had great affection for her already, and Raedwulf’s high opinion of the girl’s energy and intellect lent surety that she would prove a benison to all. Edgyth and Modwynn had spoken at length of how her arrival would not only allow the elder Lady of Kilton to step back from her myriad duties, but infuse the hall with needed freshness and vigour. Edwin must wed, certainly, but Ashild’s presence would be warranty against torpor until he brought a capable young wife to the hall upon the cliff.

  Ashild was not here and would never be here. Modwynn was dead and Edgyth was alone as Lady. The latter loss, given the generous span of Modwynn’s life
, was expected; the former most unnatural. No one could know or guess how long it might take Edwin to procure a suitable wife, or when Ceric could once again bethink himself of seeking one.

  Tonight at her bedside Edgyth must lower her head the more. After one night of love Ashild had presented Ceric with a son and heir. It added to the incalculable forfeit of Ashild’s loss. That the child might never see Kilton was just now beyond dwelling upon.

  She gave lingering thought to Ceric, for whom she truly feared. His haunted eyes never knew rest, and the skin around them was shadowed by exhaustion. He needed sleep, badly, and she feared he was stalked by the night-mare. She could compound a potion to help him safely find rest, and as soon as his grandmother was interred she would make offer to him. She closed her eyes, thinking of the day ahead, and its demands upon her. She drew a deep breath.

  She would miss Modwynn sorely. The two women had been united in so much. The younger woman had never sought praise, but had taken deep if unspoken pleasure in the fact that Godwulf had singled her out amongst potential brides for his son. It was true Edgyth was rich, but Modwynn had told her after Godwulf’s death that it was her unaffected charm and gentle wit which had made her stand out. The fact that she and their son Godwin shared an almost immediate attraction to each other made the decision easy. Modwynn had valued her for the way she seamlessly took up her duties here, always seeking to relieve her mother-in-law of the more onerous tasks, which she attempted to perform with modest and prompt alacrity. From the onset of her years at Kilton, Edgyth had shared Modwynn’s skill and interest in the healing arts, a skill which Edgyth had greatly expanded from her extended stays with the sisters at Glastunburh. Most cherished between the women was their love for Kilton’s men. She seemed to naturally understand and share the deep appreciation Modwynn held for the distinct qualities of Godwulf, Godwin, and Gyric.

  All three men were gone. Modwynn had need to guide Kilton through a long period of being lord-less while they awaited Edwin’s majority. Edgyth had done all she could to aid her in this difficult task. In these later years her desire had been a return to Glastunburh. That holy convent awaited her, and was where she had sought refuge during the several uncertain times in her marriage. Once Edwin was wed she would retire there to take the veil. That was her goal, and in many ways what she had felt born for. No calling sounded so loudly as this, to devote herself to the herbal plants in its gardens, and then in the scriptorium, to record and preserve what she knew of healing. She wished also to lose herself in prayer and meditation. It was tonight a goal further away than ever.

  She was now truly Lady of Kilton. This was the role cast for her, and while she walked the Earth she would fulfill it to her utmost. Her own health was not strong; there was some weakness to her heart, she could feel it when it raced and then almost seemed to cease beating. Until it ceased entirely she would serve Kilton.

  She crossed herself now, too tired for further tears. She trusted Modwynn would be speedily received into the bosom of Christ, and that His Mother would welcome her as Modwynn had offered welcome to her when she came as Godwin’s bride to this shining hall.

  Ceric had not slept a full night since the death of Ashild. The night before his grandmother’s funeral was one wholly without sleep. He had tried to lie down upon the dragon bed, but the painted eyes above the gaping mouths of the dragons rising over his head leered at him. He felt trapped by them, closed in, almost smothered. He rose, lit the cresset on the table, and sat there, studying the shadows the flickering light made as it danced upon the walls, and the dragon posts themselves. He sat watching them until his head dropped in a stupor upon his folded arms. A night-mare came, a fearsome one, and carried him off on her back, while still awake.

  He was on the field of battle in Anglia, running after a figure carrying a battle-flag of a flying raven. He saw himself reach down to a ground littered with weapons and snatch at a throwing spear. He heard his horrified scream against his own act as he tried to stop himself. Yet he flung the spear. The figure he aimed for turned to him. It was Ashild, watching with wide grey-blue eyes as the spear sailed towards her, to lodge in her breast and kill her.

  He started, jolted upright in his chair, trembling in terror at her terror. She did not know, she did not see, he kept repeating. She was alive, and then she was dead, without awareness of how it happened.

  He walked the small confines of the room, repeating this to himself, until dawn crept through the casement.

  Without thought, and yet with great care, he dressed himself. He took from the chest his finest clothing, a dark green tunic and brown leggings woven by Edgyth and embroidered by his grandmother. He combed his hair so that it fell with the slightest wave to his shoulders. He wore no jewellery, his hands and wrists were bare of silver or of gold, but his bright-hilted seax spanning his belly proclaimed its deadly worth.

  He went with all to the bower house, and there saw the slender shrouded form of Modwynn, gloriously wrapped in the embroidered linen that she and Edgyth had laboured over. She had already been laid upon a carrying board, and Edgyth, with eyes still flowing, gave her nod to the men who would carry her to the chantry. They were Edwin and Ceric and Worr; and as special tribute to his long service, Garrulf the scop, who had filled the great hall with his song for three decades. The Bailiff of Defenas, as emissary of the King, and friend to Modwynn, came next, escorting Edgyth, Lady of Kilton.

  The folk of hall and village had massed outside the stone church. The thegns of Kilton formed a doubled row, and stood with spears in hand, arms extended, spear-butts resting on Kilton’s soil, to form a passage-way for the dead and her grieving kin. The gathered women, whether thegns’ wives or goose-girls, wailed. Children snuffled in fear. Men who ploughed the great lady’s fields and sheared her sheep clawed off their caps and wiped their eyes. All looked upon the final transit of Modwynn, Lady of Kilton, as she journeyed to her resting place. She was carried to the trestle table awaiting her before the altar.

  The men of the family of Kilton took their place. In the front row, just behind Modwynn’s body, Edwin stood by the side of his mother Edgyth. Ceric on his right was flanked by the bailiff. Garrulf stepped to one side, needing to see all, hear all, so he might try to shape a fitting song for this doleful loss.

  Dunnere moved about the altar, praying, chanting. The air was filled with the blue smoke of incense. Ceric could not lift his eyes from the twining leaves and flowers on his grandmother’s shroud. He recalled praising her for her skill, and how she had so lightly shrugged off its purpose. Now she was still and cold, wrapped within that long binding sheet of linen.

  Soon the Mass would end, and she would be buried next his grandfather, the great Lord of Kilton. She had told him many times what delight he had taken in him as a babe. They had never had the chance to truly know each other.

  He thought of who else lay under these slabs of grey stone. The seax spanning his belly was that of his dead father, first cruelly maimed, and then taken by the fever. He knew without raising his eyes that the golden rings his mother and father had worn were there by the statue of St Ninnoc. That name had been given to his little sister, who died of the fever with their father. She too lay beneath his feet. He had no remembrance of her.

  The golden rings at the base of the statue made him think of that which his grandfather had worn as a youth, and which Modwynn had given him as protection. It was now upon Ashild’s finger, under that slab far away in Oundle’s stone church.

  Ashild. He lived, and she did not. He lived; his grandmother did not. Cadmar was dead, left under a carapace of rock he had helped build. It was all death. Yet he lived.

  The shrill brass chimes were being rung by the priest. Ceric stepped back from the front line of mourners, and slipped out of the church. Some thought him overcome by the service; he could wait by the door until it ended.

  He was not there when they all filed out. Edwin went to the bower house. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open. Ceric was not w
ithin. His gold-hilted sword hung in its scabbard from a peg on the wall. Edwin glanced about; all looked as if nothing had been disturbed. He returned to the chantry. Before the Mass had ended, a pall of plain linen had been lowered over his grandmother’s shrouded body, and its folds draping the table was the first thing he saw. His entry startled the workman, beginning to lift the stone. Their picks and shovels were ready, set against the wall. It horrified him, and he hurried out.

  Edwin went back, to the pleasure garden, turning his head and scanning the breadth of its rows of browning herbs and climbing vines. He stared at all before him in fear and wonderment. His heart was beating hard in his breast, a palpable pounding echoing the angry surf. The sea was rolling pitilessly on, white-capped, uncaring, and shrill seabirds floating overhead made mockery of his distress. He forced himself forward, to look over the edge of the cliff to see if Ceric had flung himself from its height. He could not voice this even to himself; Ceric would not do this, not commit so great a sin as to cast his own life away. Yet he must look. No body lay there amongst the rough and tufted rock growth.

  The men at the gates were questioned. All that could be learnt was that Ceric was seen walking through them; to what destination was unclear. The upset and tumult of Modwynn’s death had distracted all. Edwin tried to calm his racing heart. He need trust his brother would soon appear. Ceric would clear his head and return to raise a loving cup to his grandmother. For now Modwynn’s funeral feast must be held, and Edwin returned to the hall, filled to overflowing. He sat there next Lady Edgyth, the gap left by both Ceric and Cadmar almost unbridgeable.

  Edwin looked down the table. Worr had proved his worth to Kilton over many years. The void left by Cadmar must be filled. Of the new and frightening chasm caused by Ceric’s absence he could this moment do nothing.

  “Worr. Come sit at my right,” he invited.