For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  The horse-thegn rose at this honour, all eyes upon him, and took the seat which Cadmar had occupied. Amendments, great and small, were made within the ranks of a hall following the death of any lord or lady. It was the first Edwin made.

  Edgyth, Lady of Kilton, took up the ewer to pour out wine at that funeral feast. Tears welled in her eyes. She moved around the high table, pouring out for her son, for Dunnere, for Worr and Wilgyfu and every other man and woman seated there. She had always done this task together with Modwynn. Now she must do it alone. The vacant space where Ceric should be sitting yawned far wider than the salver lying there.

  Worr, greatly troubled, spent the night in the bower house, awaiting the return of Ceric. He did not come. At dawn he took his horse and went out. A fog had rolled in overnight, and settling on the tops of the grasses formed the lightest covering of early frost.

  Worr hardly knew where to start. A lone man on foot was the hardest track to find and follow. Out Kilton’s gates, where so many trod day in, day out, with numberless horses and beasts, no single track could be discerned. He rode, skirting the margins of the forest beyond the village, asking himself, if Ceric came here, where would he go? Worr whistled, with no real hope of answering response. Finally in the afternoon he spotted a man returning with his cows from the wood. The man looked up at him in surprise. “I am seeking Ceric,” Worr told him. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not today. Yesterday. He went into the forest, before noon. About – there.” The man pointed.

  Worr looked at the spot and marked it.

  “Did he carry anything?”

  The cowherd thought, then shook his head. “He had no pack.”

  Ceric had walked into the forest with nothing more than what he wore inside the chantry. No cloak, no weapon save his seax.

  “I thank you,” Worr said.

  He rode to the place the man had pointed out and stood gazing at the thicket before him. A light track could be discerned, the size of that made by a trotting fox. He turned and looked back at the now distant hall. It was almost a direct line, as if Ceric had walked out from the gates and kept going, leaving the road where it bent around the orchards of apple and pear trees to pass through them into the greenwood.

  Worr tied his horse and entered the forest. He pressed forward through the thick undergrowth, branches and leaves clutching at him, hitting his face. His eyes scanned both up and down, looking for the results of footfall, for broken twigs at shoulder height, those few signs bearing witness of the passage of a man. A day had passed, but Ceric may have walked through here.

  He lost the track when it crossed several, slightly larger trails, those made by deer. He stood for a while looking about him. The ferns at his feet were still bright green, their curling fronds just growing rigid at their tips. Rocks nestling in moss lay wet from the rising ground water; at dawn they would have been mantled with frost. Some of the trees above him were shedding the first of their yellowed leaves. The wheel of the year, a law unto itself, would turn, pulling the rest of those leaves onto the ferns which would themselves crisp and die. Surrounded by this mellowing verdancy Worr could see and hear nothing of the realm of man. The hall of Kilton and its pleasures and sorrows felt far away. He heard himself inhale and exhale, and the distant call of a bird.

  Worr made utterance into that stillness.

  Ceric, Worr breathed. Gone to the forest, to live as a wild man.

  Chapter the Eighteenth: To Gotland

  HRALD had planned to sail at the break of Spring. With fair winds and no trouble the voyage to Gotland might be made in a fortnight. Necessity urged him to make the trip, and circumstances allowed it. Haesten and his men had seemingly withdrawn from Anglia, to perhaps shelter in Mercia or Wales; none at Four Stones could know. Haesten had swept through both Anglia and Wessex, harassing and despoiling, but never building enough of a coalition amongst other war-chiefs to conquer either. Guthrum’s son Agmund, contesting his claims, had retreated to his own halls, awaiting the passing of Winter. It was not peace which settled over Lindisse, rather an uneasy silence, but it allowed Hrald to absent himself for his needed journey.

  The ships to carry him to that island bourn posed a problem. Hrald had destroyed without regret the two fine war-ships of the men of Haesten who had invaded Saltfleet. Now he had need of such, and sailing in two ships granted greater safety. A single war-ship on the prowl would not attempt an attack, not when with canny manoeuvering it could itself be entrapped. It would need to be two or more ships under a single command that they need fear, and Hrald was willing to risk they would not come upon such this early in the raiding season.

  Four Stones was land-locked, and now its Jarl needed ships. He had none amongst his men who were shipwrights, and those of Jari’s age who had sailed with Yrling and Hrald’s father were now older. Styrbjörn, second in command of Turcesig, had answer. He would go to Jorvik, there to hire ships. His cousin was a shipwright long established there, and would know good ships and the better captains. Hrald would need a partial crew for each, a steering oars-man and star-reader, and as few men as it took to sail the craft down to Saltfleet, where Hrald would meet them.

  One of his first acts was to forbid Jari the trip. The spear-wound to his calf had healed, leaving nothing but a puckered scar, and the body-guard protested this charge. “I need no protecting, Jari,” Hrald told him. “You are needed here, for the sake of my mother and sister. And my nephew. If you would serve me, stay and serve them.”

  Jari grumbled, but must agree that leaving Kjeld in sole command was too heavy a burden. Though it denied Jari the adventure and the chance to see Sidroc, he would share command with the younger man.

  Styrbjörn would procure ships and essential crew for the voyage. The rest of his crew Hrald would choose from those eager to join him. The journey was laden with danger, from waves, winds, and raiders, yet the tack his father had taken, of leaving early in the season, would spare him the worst attentions of the latter. Storms they might meet in abundance, and the soundness of the ships and skill of their steering oars-men was paramount. Those men of Four Stones who joined him would have as reward the adventure to boast of, and the chance to trade anything they brought with them to Gotland. The island was known for the richness of its goods flowing from the East, from Samarkand and beyond. All Hrald’s men had praise-worthy weaponry and silver. These they could trade for rare stuffs such as silk and precious oils, spices too. When Hrald announced his intention in the hall, many men rose to their feet, vying to be taken on the journey. Those who wished to go would hazard all. There was no use repeating to any the dangers they would face, not to men who could be killed here on his lands, keeping watch.

  Jari warned him that the tight quarters of a ship could make enemies of friends, and to allow only those men slow to anger to sail. Hrald chose able warriors of even temperament, keen to return with their lives and the goods they had received in trade. He wanted archers with him, and selected six skilled with the bow, including Askil. A well-timed arrow could kill from a far greater distance than any thrown spear, as Askil had proved at the battle in which he killed Three Plaits.

  Despite the forethought with which he planned, Hrald made ready to leave almost as if it were a last parting. There was in all of his preparations a sense of final fare-well, as if he would not return. There must be.

  Over the Winter Hrald had spent much time with Cerd. The boy was coming two, prattling away, and happy in all things. When he spoke Hrald’s name it still came out a growl, which brought a smile to his uncle’s lips. Cerd loved to be taken up in Hrald’s arms and be held like a soaring bird over his head, where the child could see things he could not from the ground or even from the arms of Ælfwyn or Burginde. He learnt the dusty mysteries of the tops of the cross beams in the kitchen passageway this way, his little hand swiping across them, pulling back fingers black with years of soot. Cerd hooted in laughter, until Burginde saw him thrust his fingers in his mouth, at which point she plucked the b
oy from his uncle’s arms with a tut. The child had just enough time to lay his hand upon the nurse’s cheek, anointing her with the grime he had discovered.

  Cerd’s hair was that bright coppery hue of his father’s, but his eyes were that of his mother, settling into a deep grey-blue. And Hrald thought the boy saw the world through Ashild’s eyes. Certainly they flashed stormily when denied anything he wanted. And, like his mother, the child would often find a way to gain what he wanted, regardless of cost to himself. Also like Ashild, he had a bold winsomeness in how he accepted reprimand, which often times made his grandmother’s eyes mist in remembrance of Cerd’s mother at his age.

  Styrbjörn had been dispatched north to Jorvik, and returned with the tidings that two drekars would arrive at Saltfleet, crewed with six men each. They should sail in at the first full Moon after the Feast of St Cuthbert, that day of equal day and equal night. Those who recalled the Old Gods also knew it as the day on which Idun, the keeper of the God’s golden apples of youth, was celebrated. Hrald and his men would meet them there.

  During the last few days before he set out, Hrald went to Oundle, riding with only Jari at his side. He left the older man in the monk’s hall with a pot of ale before him, and betook himself alone to the church. He wanted to spend time at the tomb of his sister.

  Afterwards the Abbess welcomed him into her writing chamber. Before he left he must see the gift which had been received.

  “Ælfred, King, has just sent a rich offering to us here, to honour the memory of Ashild,” she began.

  First she took from her table top a small flat object, not much larger than the palm of his hand, encased by two thin pieces of wood laced into a leathern sleeve to protect what lay within.

  “This missive came with it, a message from Witanceaster. It is for the Lady Ælfwyn.”

  He uttered his thanks, and slipped it into his belt.

  Then Sigewif took from a wall recess something of dazzling white. It was a small casket of walrus ivory, pieced together from the precious stuff, and held in place by a framework of bronze. It was no work of antiquity, Hrald could see this. The ivory was perfect, uncracked, newly carved. The ivory panels were incised with winged celestial beings on the front, flanking the key latch. Sigewif turned the box in her hand that he might see the larger panel in back. It showed a gowned figure kneeling, and a man standing over the figure with a raised sword. The long hair of the kneeling figure touched the ground; it looked a woman. Tears were falling from the man’s face as he gripped the blade, tiny raised beads of ivory raining down upon the one who knelt. Hrald touched the carving. His eyes asked the question.

  “Jephthah’s daughter,” the Abbess said, her voice almost a whisper. “He made a vow to God on the battle field. In exchange for victory, he would sacrifice the first creature he met when he returned home. It was, alas, his daughter.”

  She went on, considering this tragic turn.

  “Unlike the sacrifice involving Abraham and Isaac, God does not always stay the hand that holds the sword.”

  Hrald had need to close his eyes a moment.

  “The King sees meaning in all things,” she observed. “And the casket was crafted by the monks at Ælthelinga expressly for his gift.”

  The casket alone, worked of rare material and carved with great skill, was a rich gift. Then the Abbess lifted the domed lid.

  It held a giant nugget of gold. It sat within, gleaming dully in ruddy splendour, an uneven orb with its hollows and fissures adding to its wonder. Hrald’s lips parted in amaze. It was as large as the largest plum, or a small apple.

  The gift struck him, not only for its value, but for its raw state. The gold was unworked, natural, ready to be transformed.

  The Abbess read this in his face, and agreed. “Yes,” she said, “it is ready for a higher form, just as Ashild was.”

  Then the Abbess laid her hands upon his head, blest him, and kissed his brow.

  On his return to the hall Hrald told his mother of the gift the King had sent. Ælfwyn was full amazed at the tale of the golden nugget, and the priceless casket that housed it. Then he presented her with the letter.

  “This came with it. The King’s note for you,” her son said. In fact the Abbess had not called it such; had named it merely a missive from Witanceaster, but Hrald had linked gift and letter nonetheless.

  “Thank you, Hrald, I will read it in my bower. The King’s gift, and now his letter… I must think about all that is happening around our Ashild.” She smiled at him, a smile of wonder.

  She had meant to save the letter for the end of her day, when she might read it by cresset light, with no demands of the hall awaiting her attention until she again awoke. But carrying it there, feeling its slight weight in her hand, she felt a strong desire, even unto an urge, to open it at once. The letter had travelled many a day to reach her, but if it concerned Ashild and Oundle, it would bring needed pleasure to her this moment. She snipped open the lacing at one end and pulled off the leathern casing. The thin slats of wood opened to reveal a slip of parchment, with but a short message inked upon it.

  Her eyes fell first to the bottom of the few lines. It was not from the King. It was not from Ælfred.

  MY LADY ÆLFWYN

  I live still, in service to our King, and in hope of again standing before you. No words of mine can assuage the loss of so striking and noble-hearted a woman as Ashild. Yet were I in truth before you, I could hope my arms would lend their strength and support. If God grants me continued life, you shall know those arms.

  Press this to your breast, that I may feel your warmth.

  RAEDWULF OF DEFENAS

  She stood, holding the letter to her heart with the palm of her hand, as tears of loving release streamed from her eyes.

  Hrald stood at the paddock rail at Four Stones, his gaze fixed on the white stallion of Ashild. It was the day before he and his men were to set off for Saltfleet, and he was filling his eyes with things he wished to remember. The horse was across the paddock, at the far rail, standing stock-still, just as he was. Hrald thought himself alone, until a hand was slipped in his. He looked down into the solemn eyes of Bork.

  “Take me with you,” the boy said.

  Hrald regarded him. It was the first sign of affection the boy had shown, and one of the few requests he had ever made. Hrald never forgot the first, made when Bork feared Hrald would slay him, and asked that he be buried with his father. But Hrald knew his answer, as surely as he had known his first.

  “Nej. We sail into a sea of raiders. Even this early we may have trouble.”

  Bork’s face showed no fear of such challenges. Hrald went on. “And you – you have a duty here, a considerable one. You care for my horses. It is a grave charge, and one given to you. You will check their hooves, every day. You must wipe them down, comb their manes and tails. You will ride each one in turn with Mul, to keep them in shape. I am trusting you to do this in my absence.”

  Bork’s eyes had grown the larger, listening. His Jarl was telling him of the importance of the tasks he was bound to fulfill. It gave them new meaning to the boy.

  “I will,” he promised.

  “You must also keep on with your writing practice, in your wax tablet. My mother, the Lady of the hall, will work with you. That is important to me.”

  Bork was less excited about this command, but nodded just the same. But Hrald was not done.

  “I will tell Jari to begin to train you with weapons, as well. One day you will serve as my man.”

  Bork’s head jerked back in wonder. The smile which spread from his mouth almost swallowed his face, it was so wide.

  Hrald’s parting was more wrenching than he imagined. His mother kept herself from open tears, but Ealhswith sobbed, and hung about his neck. He knew his leaving was hard, almost cruel, after the loss of their sister, yet go he must. Cerd had been in his grandmother’s arms but the boy had grown restless and eager to be on his own feet. He went running between Hrald and Ealhswith, who was now s
tanding, wiping her eyes, by her mother’s side. Ælfwyn placed her arm around the girl’s shoulders, and Hrald regarded them both. His sister this year would have Sixteen summers, and was become a young woman. She shared her mother’s looks. He smiled inwardly, recalling Ceric telling him Ealhswith would be pretty, and being also of more tractable nature, would be easier to marry off than Ashild.

  Hrald might not be here to do so; he saw this now. If he did not come back, his mother would find suitable husband for her.

  Burginde, having caught up Cerd to keep the boy out of the way of the horses, sniffed mightily. It was when Cerd reached his arms to him and shrieked out his name that Hrald must steel himself. He was already on his horse, and he tried to smile at the boy. He gave signal to move out, and the two score and ten men sailing with him touched their heels to their horses’ flanks. Three waggons laden with supplies rolled forward.

  They reached Saltfleet next day. From the road they spotted the two drekars awaiting them, tied to the wooden uprights of the pier, bobbing in the tide. A few men waited on the ships, and more upon the planking of the pier. The ships were close in size, one of twenty-eight oars, the larger of thirty-two, and they would have men enough so that every oar might be manned when needed. The sails of undyed linen and wool were neatly furled against the spars. There was no flash about either of the vessels, no dragons nor sea beasts rising from the prow stems, just a simple curling in of the tips. Yet they were new, stoutly built, well-caulked, and came with a ship-master of repute. As Hrald and his followers eyed the drekars, those stationed at Saltfleet came out to greet them.

  Aszur was the name of the ship-master and captain, a salt-toughened, bandy-legged man not much larger than a dwarf. He had a barrel chest, though, and a voice which boomed from it. He nodded respectfully to Hrald, and looked over the men the young Jarl had brought with him to crew the ships, armed with bows, spears, and swords. Aszur’s own men looked them over as well. They might be green at sailing, but they were practised warriors, skills which might be called upon, headed where they were. The ship-master did not seem displeased, and in a few days he could make of almost any man a good rower.