“There is no reckoning his worth, Lady,” Mul told her, as they watched the fine, dark-muzzled head lower to the stubble.
And no way to gauge what will happen, Ashild thought in response.
At the feast that night Ashild, gowned in her dress of red wool, sat, as she ever did, at the women’s table. She was aware at times of Thorfast’s eyes upon her, as he sat next Hrald. She saw her mother smile at her guest, gracious as always. She knew Hrald laughed and jested with Thorfast as if his visit was of no special consequence. She also saw her brother seemingly recollect why Thorfast was really there, saw his young brow cloud as he looked over at her. She smiled her reassurance at him, one she did not herself feel.
As she lay awake in bed that night images filled her mind. The great stallion browsed in the paddock in the little moonlight; a prize with her name on it. It still surprised her. It was compliment to her skill as a rider, and acknowledgement of her true interests. It showed Thorfast had thought long on what to offer her, an honour itself. But there was as well a kind of cunning in the thought behind this gift. Thorfast meant to flatter her by it, to underscore what she thought of herself. She saw that.
The image of rustling, shimmering silk next entered her brain, a golden pile lying safe in a chest in her mother’s bower house. Ceric had brought her a gown, to delight and adorn a woman. A silken gown, that would also give him pleasure to see her in. Wearing it, she felt older, more stately. And she could not forget how his face changed when he looked at her; he looked a man. There was a difference in these two gifts, and not a small one, she felt.
She lay there, waiting for sleep. She shifted, and the heavy silver hammer of Thor slid between her breasts. It sometimes hurt her in her sleep, digging into her tender flesh. Yet she could not take it off, as she did the small golden cross each night. She closed her hand over it instead, feeling the rounded metal edges of the hammer-shape through the roughness of her palm.
In the morning she was invited to join her brother and his guest at hawking. Mul had the new stallion ready-saddled, and as he busied himself with Hrald’s and Thorfast’s mounts Ashild placed her hands upon the beast. Its slightly snorting breath and the warmness of its muscles told her something. She looked to Mul, as his head appeared over the saddle on Hrald’s horse he was cinching.
“You have run him,” she accused, with a smile.
“That I have Lady,” he confessed. “He be fit for you. Mind his strength, though.”
Mul loves me, she thought, wants no harm to come to me, just as he loves his boys. She had at times in her young life known she was cared for by those who served her at Four Stones. This morning Mul’s small gesture of concern filled her chest with a wave of aching gratitude.
There were two mounting blocks by the stable wall, and with the stallion she need use the higher of them; he was that much bigger than her mares and geldings. She was already mounted and riding the animal about the paddock when Hrald and Thorfast joined her. They opened the gate for her, grinning, and she trotted out and held her horse as they swung up themselves. She felt her face warm once again at Thorfast’s smile, and was glad when they started for the falcon house.
Once again she took the female falcon to her wrist. It was now fully trained, and when the three of them reached the fields flanking the stream it easily knocked a fat and fluttering partridge back onto the ground. Hrald’s hawk too downed a bird, but they stayed long before that Thorfast carried made a strike. It flit after a lurching starling, only to be distracted by a ruddy-coated squirrel that leapt suddenly within view. It closed its talons on neither. At last it made a kill of one of the many blackbirds that sprang from the tattered grasses.
They rode back, their cheeks reddened with the cold and fresh air. The wicker basket at the side of Hrald’s saddle carried the prey each had taken. Ashild found herself between the two men, their horses walking at an easy pace. On hers she was as tall as she had ever been. They spoke little; now that the hunt was over she felt lost for anything to say.
At last Thorfast spoke.
“He goes well?” he asked, indicating the stallion she rode.
“Very well,” she agreed. “And steady, too, when your bird dipped low after the squirrel.”
Thorfast’s own horse had shied at that, and he nodded his head. A moment passed, one during which she knew he was still looking at her.
“Steady is good,” he noted.
Unspoken was the rest of his thought, she knew: that he was also steady. Or perhaps she. At that moment she felt many things, but not steady.
She was glad when he turned his face again towards the palisade they neared. He would be here a day more perhaps, and would expect an answer. She did not know what it would be.
She felt she did not truly know Thorfast, had not the months of living and playing together with him as she had with Ceric. She had seen him more often in recent years than earlier ones. It was Hrald who knew him better, had hunted with him, spent time at weapon-play.
If Thorfast had not the striking colouring and good looks of Ceric, he had manliness, and was a full four-and-twenty. He was not so tall as Hrald, few men were; but he walked and moved with sureness. His brow was broad, the eyebrow ridge prominent, the nose large but straight, the jaw well-defined, his teeth even and white. His hair was like her own, a honey brown, lightened with a few pale streaks. Of his eyes she was not so sure; even being as close as she had been to him when he handed her the lead to the stallion, she had not looked long enough to judge. If he was not a man a maid would secretly gaze after, he was also not one whose looks could be disparaged.
They returned the falcons to their mews, and handed their yield over to a plump and smiling cook in the kitchen yard. Mul was at the stable to meet them, and held her stallion as she lowered her foot to the block she had used.
“I will be wanted in the weaving room,” she told them. It was not strictly true; all knew this was a visit unlike any others, and the day would not unwind like others either. But she took her leave, just the same.
Ealhswith ran to her when she walked within. “Next time you will let me come, and ride him too,” she pleaded. Ashild gave her a squeeze.
“You may sit on the saddle before me. Next time,” she promised.
Their mother was not there, only her Aunt Eanflad, working soundlessly at her loom. Ashild guessed the demands of another feast that night had called her mother away from her spinning and weaving.
In fact, the Lady of Four Stones was in the treasure room. That morning Thorfast had asked that he might speak with her and Hrald and his uncle on their return from the field, and they were ready for him. It was cold in the room, and three braziers of pierced brass had been filled with glowing charcoals and brought in to warm the place. If they did, perhaps none within the room were aware; their heightened alertness alone warmed them.
The four of them sat at the small table in the centre of the room, Burginde on a stool off by the long-neglected bed. Four cups of silver stood upon the table, with a carved silver ewer of ale. Ælfwyn poured out first for Thorfast, then for her son, and then for Asberg and herself. The handle of the ewer was wonderfully formed, a crane turning its long beak back over its body. It had grown slightly worn under Ælfwyn’s touch over the years, and its smoothness helped calm her.
Their guest needed no prompting to begin.
“I am aware another seeks Ashild’s hand. But he is away in Wessex. I am ready to act, and now.
“You know that Guthrum has given me Turcesig, and its nearly one hundred twenty men, and all the livestock attached to it. Haward my brother has our family hall, and the eighty good men there. Our rents from our father’s lands we have divided, two shares to Haward’s one, as I am older. These rents bring me nearly one hundred pounds of silver a year, and the rents from Turcesig more than double this.”
Asberg was nodding his head; it was a great sum. And Thorfast had no mother nor sister. However Thorfast ended up, Ashild would
begin married life as the lady of a considerable hall.
As if he had read her uncle’s mind, Thorfast went on. “You will agree Ashild will come to a hall of both comfort, and safety.”
“She comes from such, and will go to nothing less,” returned Asberg. He took another draught of ale, awaiting Thorfast’s next words. He had to admire their guest. Most men his age had fathers or uncles to bargain with, and for them, when it came to the buying of a wife. Thorfast must do so unsupported, and did it well. Asberg recalled he had been married once before, and felt that counted in his favour; he knew how to treat a woman.
Thorfast drew breath before his next words. “If you will, in respect, name her bride-price, we may see how it can be met.”
Hrald had sat silent, holding the footed stem of his silver cup loosely in his hand. Now Thorfast had made formal offer, as quickly as that. He found himself blinking his eyes. He looked to his mother, saw the slightly parted lips, her concern written plainly on her face. Too little had been said to proceed to the question of bride-price. And Thorfast had not yet spoken to Ashild.
Hrald must speak, and he did.
“Ashild – she has not yet accepted you,” he said. Thorfast’s confidence that she would, or that her objections would be overruled, troubled him, and it showed in his voice. But Hrald knew enough maids had no choice in this matter.
Thorfast took it without insult. “She accepted the stallion, which, I need not say, will be hers whether or not she consents.”
This was true; a gift was a gift. Yet it was also true that a rich gift demanded another in return. Hrald and Asberg had already chosen the fine pattern-welded sword that Thorfast must be presented with.
Ælfwyn would speak now; all three men had done so, and she could without boldness enter in. She had been watching her guest with care. There was much of Thorfast that reminded her of Yrling; his directness, for one thing. Thorfast was more polished, to be certain. But looking on, and listening to him felt a faint echo of being in the presence of Ashild’s father.
Her voice was as low and gentle as it ever was to Thorfast’s ear; only Hrald and Asberg could detect the subtle strength behind its mild tone.
“Your gift was well-chosen to delight Ashild,” she told her guest. “But there are considerations we have not yet touched upon.”
Thorfast’s eyebrows raised slightly at this.
“You have not been baptised, Thorfast. Our faith is important to us.”
“O, but Lady, I was, as a boy,” he returned.
His tone was such that made it clear his relief at so slight an objection. If he is a believer, thought the Lady of Four Stones, he wears it but lightly. She had never seen in him, nor at his father’s hall, even a hint of true observance.
Ælfwyn let his answer stand unchallenged. She went on, slowly, but in the same low tone. “Hrald’s father Sidroc was part of the Peace that Guthrum made with Ælfred. That Peace has endured over long years, and Four Stones has thrived. As Guthrum thrived. And now, his nephew.”
Hrald was watching his mother’s face, and knew the courage it took for her to broach this. He did not want to make her ask the question which must be asked. He looked Thorfast in the eye.
“Will you honour the Peace, Thorfast?” he asked.
Asberg was enough taken aback to make a small sound of surprise. Thorfast gave a short shake of his head, but was ready with his answer.
“Guthrum is dead. Haesten has landed, ready to unify a great force. Surely he will strike in the Spring, or Summer at the latest. The time is now for us to join together, Four Stones and Turcesig. Together we can gather even more men – Agmund and other of my cousins – and either defeat Haesten, or share with him in the spoils of all Wessex, and all Angle-land.”
It was much to hear. Even Asberg found himself leaning back from the table, as if to slow the words and their meaning.
Hrald was trying to shape his next question when Thorfast spoke again.
“There will be war, either with Haesten if we do not join him, or Wessex if Ælfred decides to strike while we are in disarray.”
“The King of Wessex will not break his own Peace,” Hrald protested.
“That Peace was made with my dead uncle,” Thorfast reminded.
But Hrald’s father was not dead, and he would recall Thorfast to this fact.
“The Peace was made also by my father. I will not break what he signed in blood.”
This was said with enough force that all looked at him. Burginde, perched on her stool, winding wool thread, made a soft sound of assent, then shifted in her seat. She felt a flush of pride at Hrald’s words, one she knew his mother shared.
Hrald’s declaration proved a spur to Asberg’s thoughts. Sidroc had been gone for a decade. He and Jari had upheld the trust that Sidroc had placed in them, keeping Four Stones for his son. But Sidroc the man was grown distant in his recollection. Only Hrald had recent memory of him, and that now several years old. Asberg had never been a match for Sidroc’s powers of thought, and this he knew. He could not imagine how he would react to the new conditions they all found themselves in. Sidroc ever kept his word, yet was as shrewd as any. If he found need to change direction, he did so. And when pushed he could be ruthless. If he felt wronged, he would not fail to exact the utmost for the offense. Asberg had stood and watched as Sidroc had killed his own cousin, Toki.
Asberg had sometimes wondered if during that contest the faltering Toki could not have been offered quarter. But Toki did not ask, and Sidroc did not offer. They had both witnessed the slaying of their uncle, Yrling, at the hands of Godwin of Kilton. Asberg had been there too. But Sidroc had run after the man, determined to inflect what damage he could on the rapidly departing Lord of Kilton and his men. Toki had watched and fled for his horse, calling those near him to follow him in his claim for Four Stones.
The enmity between cousins ran deeper still, back to their contest for the chestnut-haired maid that had arrived with Ælfwyn; back before that to the knife-slash to Sidroc’s face Toki had inflicted. Yet Asberg had seen Sidroc burn Toki’s battered body with great honour, piling it with treasure, and seen too him make sacrifice to Odin on behalf of his dead cousin. Asberg could not hope to guess how a man of such conflicts would decide the matter before them.
Hrald’s uncle broke the silence himself.
“We speak of war, but none can say if and when it may come. Ælfred may make a new Peace with Haesten; if that be so, Haesten will honour the Danelaw but come sniffing round to see which of the Danish keeps he can quietly overtake.”
Thorfast was quick to leap on this waggon. “All the more reason why Four Stones and Turcesig be joined through marriage. I will tell you what I told Hrald: together we are an army of our own.”
Ælfwyn could hold her tongue no longer. “Far better my daughter was away in Wessex, safe at Kilton!”
Thorfast snapped his head back at this, “Safe, Lady? Think you any place in Wessex will be safe if we cannot resist Haesten?”
He had spoken with more heat than he had meant. Even so, it must be said. He felt Ashild slipping away from him before he had ever asked her for her hand.
He tried another tack.
“Guthrum has daughters; my cousins. Three are yet unwed, and comely.” He said this coolly, a simple recounting of fact. He alone knew the additional fact: Guthrum had left them nothing in his will. They could be married off for the sake of their blood, but their brothers would need to produce suitable dowries.
Thorfast too had choices; his hosts sitting down with him knew that. Yet all at that table knew Ashild would bring great treasure to her husband. The pride of Four Stones demanded it, and securing Ashild’s place in her new home depended upon it.
Ælfwyn took a quiet and calming breath. She stood, and dipped the silver ewer over each waiting cup. She knew the bartering for a bride sometimes ended in bad feelings, even in blows. She would not do a disservice to her own daughter by muddying the wa
ters before the bottom could be seen. As she filled Thorfast’s cup, she smiled on him.
He lifted the cup to his lips, taking a mouthful of the good ale within, savouring it. He lowered his hand to the age-smoothed surface of the table, but kept it coiled round the cup.
“Have I leave to speak to Ashild,” he asked.
It was voiced not to one, but to all of them.
“I do not even ask to know what her dowry will be. I will ask for her hand without knowing it.”
This was so striking an offer as to be met with silence. Thorfast would enter blindly into his suit without knowing what Ashild would bring him. He went on, in firm assurance.
“My bride-price for her will be her weight in silver.”
From behind her Ælfwyn heard Burginde gasp. She herself could not speak. The sum was so great, the gauging of it so bald.
Asberg let a low whistle escape his lips. Ælfwyn looked to him, looked past her brother-in -law to her son. She could not tell if Hrald had taken offense, or was merely stunned at the amount Thorfast offered.
A long moment went by, in which Ælfwyn’s eyes were set on Thorfast. He was indeed like Yrling, in his boldness. And she recognised with a sobering pang that Ashild was far more like Thorfast than she was like Ceric.
Hrald straightened himself where he sat, and looked too at his guest.
“If she accepts you, she will arrive at Turcesig with fifty of our best horses,” answered her brother.
Chapter the Fourteenth: The Bride-price, and the Bride
THE four at that small table were now all standing.
“Burginde, please to bring Ashild,” asked Ælfwyn.
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