For Me Fate Wove This

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For Me Fate Wove This Page 41

by Octavia Randolph


  The ride was a pleasant one, taking the waggon along the trading road, along which all folk raised their hands in greeting to them, then turning up the first of the short lanes leading from it. They rolled over meadows and then along woods roads, noting the signs of an ever-deepening awakening in the warming soil. Great clusters of browned ferns crunched under wheel and hoof. The curled tips of their new growth were beginning to emerge, ready to spring into feathery fronds blanketing the forest floor. The mosses, brilliant green year round, now sported tiny flowers of white, and in every grassland and pasture clusters of yellow or blue ground-hugging blooms winked in the fresh green.

  They did not fly the goshawks that day, though Hrald went into the cote with Ring to admire them. But they walked with the hounds and watched Ring as he worked with them, giving Hrald thought to do the same himself back at Four Stones.

  About ten days into their stay, some of Hrald’s men took the captured ship out, determining to circle the rocky island. Those wishing to see the whole of Gotland crewed it, captained by Öpir, so that they might boast of having seen all the coastline of the fabled isle. Thorvi went with them; he had been to Gotland before and knew farms at which they might buy a number of the large and deeply curved sheep horns which would be much admired for drinking at home. These were abundant here, and cheap as well, for even the ewes bore these formidable weapons.

  Yrling, hearing of this, was eager to make the trip. He was not allowed, as Hrald did not want to forgo even a few days away from Tyrsborg, and the boy could not go unless in his older brother’s keeping. “Soon – this Summer, maybe – you will take Dauðadagr out, and circle the island yourself,” Hrald suggested.

  “Já,” Yrling admitted. “I will be captain, and Juoksa will be my second and mind the sail. Father and Tindr will need to row!”

  Hrald laughed at him, and tousled his shaggy hair. Yrling had never quite cleansed the tar from some of the strands, and had taken the shears to them, leaving him with the ragged look of a thrummy sheep. The two brothers were this day almost alone at Tyrsborg, as Sidroc had ridden to see his captain, Runulv, about the upcoming voyage of goods they planned to send to Paris, and Ceridwen and the two girls were down with Rannveig.

  “Let me show you my spear work,” Yrling said next. “I practise every day.”

  Hrald had seen this with his own eyes, and indeed, the many pock marks on the stable wall gave further testament to the boy’s diligence. Sidroc had even hammered up another layer of boards to protect the wall itself from their joint practise.

  When Sidroc honed his throwing skills, he would draw an oblong shape upon that wall, roughly where the torso of a standing man would be. This was not enough for Yrling. He took a lump of wood charcoal and with sooty hands drew the entire outline of a man, one of his arms up, and holding his own spear at shoulder height.

  There was a range of spear-lengths and weights, and Hrald joined him in his practise, throwing from both a standstill and a run. Yrling had good aim, his brother could see that, and also power when hurling the spear from a run. He also took some little pride in his ability, naming the part of the drawing he would aim for, and sometimes crowing in glee when he hit torso, arm, or leg, or came near. Not all the spears lodged deeply enough to stick in the boards. Some hit and then fell, but such a throw would be enough to fracture a shield or puncture an unprotected body. Of those that stuck, they must pull the shafts out after two or three spears hung there, lest the next spear hit those already protruding, quill-like, from the planks.

  After a while they let the shafts already in their hands slide through their palms to rest on the ground. They stood there, catching their breath, when Yrling looked up at Hrald.

  “Will you spar with me?” he asked.

  Hrald gave thought for just a moment. “Já, we can spar.”

  He was sure his father did the same with Yrling, who in response ran into the stable and returned with two ash poles. They went together into the hall, and got their shields, Hrald’s hanging by his sword belt, Yrling’s from the wall in his alcove. They slipped them on their left arms and took up the practice poles. The tips were just blunt wood with no iron spear-point, the safest way to learn spear-skills. But it was enough for Hrald to see his younger brother’s facility with the weapon.

  The boy was of course fast on his feet, given his lightness. Even better, he was canny with his judgement. Their father had taught him well.

  “My Uncle Asberg would be proud of you,” Hrald told him, after Yrling had made a solid touch to Hrald’s right leg.

  “What does he do at Four Stones?”

  “He was second in command there, under our father. I have won a second fortress, called Turcesig, not far from Four Stones. It was a garrison built by Guthrum, King of the Danes in Anglia. Asberg is now in command there. Father always told me that Asberg is one of the best spear-men he had ever seen. He trained me, and many others there.”

  Hrald’s thoughts leapt for a moment to Asberg’s work with Ashild, and he went on in a lowered voice. “All of us benefited from his training.”

  “I want to train with him,” the boy decided.

  Hrald had no ready answer. “Father is good with his spear-work as well,” he said, tilting his head at the many deep pockmarks on the oblong target. “Else you would not be so good yourself. And Gotland is peaceful. Raiders come here, but to trade.”

  “Nothing happens here,” was Yrling’s retort. He picked up one of the tipped spears and threw it, hard, at his target, where it lodged in the head of the charcoaled man.

  Ceridwen was laying Hrald’s newly-washed clothes on his alcove bed one day when he walked into the hall. She smiled at him. “Your mother sewed this, and I know from the fineness of the linen thread that Burginde spun for it,” she said, as she patted one of his tunics. On her wrist was the silver disc bracelet his father had worn at Four Stones when Hrald was young.

  He smiled back at her and came to stand by the next, empty alcove, which had been that Ceric had slept in when they lived here.

  His mother looked at it too. “I have not seen him since you two left Gotland together.” Her face held a wistful sadness.

  Ceric had not yet been quite Yrling’s age when they left. Looking at the tall young man before her she could only imagine how her son had grown. She wished to speak of him now, and wondered if Hrald had things he wished to tell her. She lifted her hand to the table, and the waiting benches there. They moved to it and sat down.

  She was right. Her mention gave Hrald leave to speak of Ceric, something he had been almost hesitant to do, lest it bring more pain. He told her of the two trips to Four Stones Ceric had made, the first in a time of peace, five years past. “Ceric and Ashild saw each other, grown,” he remembered. “He brought us all gifts, a ring shirt for me, a golden pin which was yours for my mother, bracelets and necklaces of silver for my little sister and aunt.”

  Her face lit at the mention of the pin. “Was it a circle of gold?”

  “Yes. That one. It meant so much to her, knowing it was yours. She wears it often.”

  Ceridwen closed her eyes in pleasure at the thought.

  “For Ashild, Ceric brought a gown of pure silk, golden-yellow.”

  Her lips parted. “It was your mother’s,” she began.

  “Yes, and then yours,” Hrald said. “Ashild wore it that night, at the welcome feast.”

  Ceridwen could almost see Ælfwyn’s astonishment at seeing the gown again. Ceric would not have taken such a rich gift out of courtesy; in quality, this was a true betrothal gift.

  “He told me then he would wed Ashild. Or try to.” He gave a short laugh at the memory.

  He went on to tell how news of Guthrum’s death reached them near the end of the stay, and of the letter Ceric had left behind telling Ashild he would be back for her.

  “He told me that, too,” Hrald recounted. “When I was helping him arm in the treasure room. He told me he would be back in two years to wed her.

  “B
ut the Peace collapsed, and he could not come. He sent a letter with a priest. Ælfred wanted the marriage, but forbade Ceric to travel. The Bailiff of Defenas had solution, that Ashild should be escorted to the Wessex border, and be met there by Ceric and his men.”

  “The King endorsed the union,” Ceridwen repeated.

  “Yes, and later when I saw the bailiff he said the King was adding to the treasure Ceric would offer for her.”

  They both were quiet after this.

  “The Bailiff – that is Raedwulf, Worr’s father-in-law,” she remembered. She had the warmest affection for Worr, and good memory of the bailiff, a man of high good looks who had come at least twice a year to Kilton.

  Hrald nodded.

  “Still, Ashild would not agree to leave, at least not then. I knew she had regard for Ceric, and knew he loved her. But she told us she needed to stay at Four Stones.

  “The second trip – that was when they were man and wife.”

  His eyes rose to the rafters. It was a gesture of his father’s Ceridwen had seen Hrald do many times, when he was thoughtful. Now Hrald looked at her once more. He could not hide the pain in his next words.

  “She stayed for my sake. I know this.”

  She reached her hand to his arm. “Hrald, you put too much on yourself. I only knew Ashild as a small girl. But from what your father told me, I know she was one who must make her own way, according to the urgings of her own mind and heart.”

  She had thought the next over, and said it with the firm certainty that only long pondering can bring.

  “I believe she had true regard for Ceric, else she would not have given herself to him, nor brought forth their child.

  “Our desires, and our bounden duties – they will not always yoke together, and act as a team.”

  The pull of the heart, and the duty demanded by the mind could easily take a woman in opposing directions. Ceridwen certainly knew this, as did most women.

  It brought Ceridwen’s thoughts back to Ælfwyn.

  “Your mother – how does she fare?”

  “She is grateful for Cerd. We all are. If Cerd had not been born – “ Hrald shook his head. “He is, as my mother often says, so like Ashild. Willful, clever, also loving and loyal.”

  The mistress of Tyrsborg had not moved the clay imprint of the child’s hands from the table, but had left it there at her place, almost as if the boy was joining them at every meal. Her fingers went to it now and touched one of the tiny prints. “Meeting him will be a joy,” she murmured.

  “I hope you will find a worthy maid to wed,” she finished, a bright hope she held for his future.

  He did not answer, only gave a nod. He could not tell her of his brief union; he could not hold two sorrows in his breast at one time, the loss of Ashild, and the faithlessness of Dagmar. All he could do was give a nod of assent.

  Chapter the Twenty-first: Paviken

  ONE night after supper Sidroc and Hrald arm-wrestled at the table. The days were rapidly growing longer, and it was just dusk. It was still too chilly to eat out of doors, save for some days when it was pleasant to sit in the growing Sun and take a cup of broth or ale in the afternoon, but the fire was always warm within the hall. Helga and Eirian were carrying out platters and bowls to the kitchen yard to be washed, and Ceridwen was there too, going over stores with Gunnvor. Rodiaud was already fast asleep in her alcove, unmindful of the rattling clatter of the men’s cups as their entwined fists thumped down upon the table. Yrling sat with them, cheering them on. Each man won some matches, but Sidroc was still able to best his son on most of their tries.

  Both men were still grinning when Yrling challenged his brother. Hrald looked at him and laughed, but set his elbow back on the table while Sidroc made way for his younger son. The two clasped hands, and in an unguarded moment Yrling almost flipped his half-brother’s fist to the board.

  “I was not ready!” Hrald laughed.

  Yrling looked at his brother over their still clasped hands. He spoke with perfect coolness. “You must always be ready. That is what father says.”

  Sidroc gave a low hoot of acknowledgment. “I have trained you too well,” he said, with a shake of his head.

  “Next time we will play for silver,” Yrling decreed. His eyes fell on the long knife Hrald wore at his hip. “Or for your knife.”

  Hrald considered the boy. He drew the blade from its sheath and placed it upon the table, at which Yrling’s eyes grew even wider. Sidroc too regarded it, his own eyes narrowing for a moment before looking at his elder son.

  “You have no need to play me for it,” Hrald told his brother. “Here,” he said, “it is yours.” He unbuckled the belt holding the scabbard and slid it off. He placed knife and scabbard on the table before Yrling.

  The boy was open-mouthed.

  “But you will have no knife.”

  Hrald shook his head with a smile. “There are many weapons aboard my ship. This one is special, from my own store at the armoury of Four Stones. I want you to have it.”

  Yrling picked up the knife and studied the hilt. Bands of copper and silver had been beaten into the guard and pommel, and the bluish steel blade rippled where the many layers of metal had been beaten together. Yrling slid the blade into the scabbard, and then on to his own belt, pulling off the small knife he wore. The new was almost too long for him; on the boy’s slender body it was like a sword at his hip.

  “Thank you,” he said, two words full of meaning.

  The granting of choice weaponry was something Hrald did often, but this was the first time he had ever taken a weapon from his own person and presented it to another. Yet the doing so felt natural; this was his own brother.

  “I recall that knife,” their father said.

  “It is one you collected, I think,” Hrald answered.

  “Já. From a ship my Uncle Yrling captured, as we headed to Angle-land.”

  Yrling looked at his father, awe-struck. Hrald had given him a weapon from a ship captured by the man he was named for. It enhanced the value of the knife ten-fold.

  Sidroc looked to his younger son. The knife, and ship, had been won by cunning. He thought young Yrling would show no shortage of this.

  “Now it is yours,” he told the boy.

  The Gods reward boldness, Sidroc knew this; but he knew also his older son’s gift was the result of affection, not a prize to a cock-sure youngster.

  “Wear it with the same honour your brother has.”

  “I should have a coil of new walrus-hide line waiting for me at Paviken, for Runulv’s ship. It will be ready by now, I think. We can ride there, we two, and collect it.”

  Three weeks had passed in Hrald’s stay, and the ride with his father was more than welcome. It would mean camping out overnight, and perhaps a night or two passed in Paviken itself. They would take a third horse for pack, to carry ample provender, and so they might have a tent to keep night rain off their heads.

  Yrling wanted to come, but Sidroc shook his head in denial of this hope. “You must stay here with Tindr and watch over the hall.” Put like this, it took some of the sting out of being left behind. The boy had taken to keeping his hand on the hilt of his new knife when he stood still, and did so now. “But tomorrow you can help us ready the horses,” his father said.

  Sidroc chose Eirian’s horse to serve as pack animal. Ceridwen’s mare was larger, but as Sidroc laughed, “She will not go for pack.” And Hrald had seen this himself, on the way back from Ragnfast’s when they had chosen the chestnut gelding. The dun must be in the lead, or at least at the head of his father’s stallion, on every ride out. Eirian’s gelding, though not much bigger than a pony, was placid and far easier led.

  Gunnvor baked extra bread in the morning, that they might take ample loaves, and boiled up a score of eggs. They would carry a small bag of barley, to make their own browis at night. She still had cabbages and fat turnips in the root cellar, and gave them one of each. She packed soft cheese into wooden crocks, and had as well a w
heel of cured cheese made by the mistress of the hall. As a last touch Gunnvor shaved a mass of smoked deer haunch into a piece of waxed linen. They had a twist of salt, as well.

  After the family had broken their fast next morning, father and son prepared to leave. Hrald’s pack was already hanging by a post of the paddock fence. Yrling and Tindr were out with the horses, awaiting them. Hrald came back inside the hall and saw his father, carrying his own pack from Tyrsborg’s treasure room. He had his sword belt in his hand, as well as the seax he wore every day which spanned his belly from its own belt. Hrald looked at the sword belt. His father just nodded at him.

  “Paviken has never been raided,” he told Hrald, as he began to buckle it on. “But the Svear and the Rus who come to trade – sometimes, a little show is a good thing.”

  Hrald understood, and went to his own sword belt, hanging untouched where he had left it the day he arrived.

  They would only be gone three or four days, but the parting was a small foretaste of that to come. Ceridwen and Sidroc had known their own leave-taking in the treasure room, but now Rodiaud, held by her mother, reached out to both her father and to Hrald, as if she wished to be taken up in their arms. Eirian had Flekkr on a lead, so he would not follow the horses. Even so the hound was excited, turning in circles, thrashing its furred tail, and giving out with yipping barks as if it were time to play. Yrling stood, feet apart, his right hand upon the bright hilt of his knife, and regarded the two on horseback. His father looked down on him, and spoke with great seriousness.

  “Keep all in good order until my return,” was his charge.

  Yrling pulled himself up to his full height and gave a nod as grave as his father’s words.

  They set off, with Eirian’s horse behind the black stallion Sidroc rode. They must head due west and slightly north, but began by gaining the trading road, which would take them to the inland route they sought. The first portion was that waggon road to Ring’s upland farm, but they quickly passed that turning and settled into an easy pace, the ever-lifting Sun warming their backs. The birds were active overhead, calling and darting, some still busy in their nest building, flitting with beaks from which straw or twigs streamed. The white birches held their graceful arms up, as if admiring the fresh greenery at their tips, and the larches wore a brilliant green as new needles emerged from their outstretched boughs.

 

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