‘What do the runes say, Gifu?’
Elgiva knew already what they would say, but she needed to have it confirmed. The runes never lied. Carved out of ash, a tree sacred to Odin, and indelibly marked with ancient esoteric symbols, they would point the way as they had done before. Osgifu regarded her with a steady gaze.
‘Ask your question.’
Elgiva drew in a deep breath. ‘Shall I marry Aylwin?’
She waited, hands locked together, as Osgifu scanned the rune cast. The silence lengthened and her grey eyes narrowed, a sharp line creasing her brow.
‘Well? Shall I marry?’
‘Aye, you will be married, but not to Aylwin.’
‘Not Aylwin?’ Elgiva was puzzled. ‘Then who?’
‘I do not know the man.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I cannot tell. The upper part of his face is hidden behind the plates of his helmet. He wears a shirt of fine mail and in his hand he carries a mighty sword, as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.’
‘A warrior? A Saxon lord, then. Shall I meet him soon?’
‘You will see him soon enough.’
Thereafter she became strangely reticent and all of Elgiva’s questions could draw nothing more from her.
The mystery stayed with her but, as the days passed, she knew she could not wait indefinitely for some stranger to ride by and rescue her from all her problems. A woman alone was vulnerable. A woman with wealth and land was doubly so once it became known she had no protector. It was not unknown for such to be married under duress to an ambitious and ruthless lord with a strong retinue and no aversion to the use of force. She shivered. Better to wed a respected man who would treat her well and restore Ravenswood to its former self. It came to her that she must wed Aylwin and soon. Love was all very well in stories of high romance: real life wasn’t like that. Her brother had been right. It was an advantageous match. Perhaps, with time, she might come to love Aylwin. Certainly she would make him a dutiful wife and bear his children. Her mind glossed over the details, unwilling to dwell on the matter. Should she be so nice when, every day, girls of thirteen or fourteen were married off to men thrice their age? The question now was how to bring this about. She had refused Aylwin’s suit. Could she now go a-begging?
In the event the matter was solved for her when, a few days later, the servants announced the arrival of Lord Aylwin accompanied by a small group of armed men. She received him in the great hall and, having bid him welcome, offered his men refreshment and allowed him to take her to one side. She wished that she had had more warning—she was suddenly aware of her sober-hued gown and her hair braided simply down her back without ribbon or ornament. It was hardly the dress of a woman receiving a suitor. However, Aylwin seemed to find nothing amiss and smiled at her. Of average height, he was stocky and powerfully made for all that the brown hair and beard were grizzled with grey. The expression on the rugged face was both sympathetic and kind, but the eyes spoke of admiration.
For a while they spoke of Osric and he said all that was proper, but it did not take him long to come to the real purpose of his visit.
‘Your brother’s death leaves you alone and in a most difficult situation, my lady. In these times a woman must have a protector.’
Elgiva heard in his words the echo of her brother’s and felt a frisson along her spine. Heart beating much faster, she knew what was coming and waited for it.
‘I would like to be that man.’ He paused, eyeing her with an unwonted awkwardness. ‘I am no longer in the first flush of youth, but I am still in good health and well able to protect you. I can also swear my undying loyalty and devotion.’
Elgiva felt her face grow warmer and for a moment her amber eyes were veiled. Aylwin, mistaking the reason, drew in a deep breath.
‘Let me protect you, Elgiva. I do not ask you to love me now, but perhaps in time that may come. Meanwhile, be assured that you will be loved, my lady.’
Hearing an unmistakeable note of sincerity, she looked up swiftly, meeting his gaze.
‘Does it surprise you to hear that?’
‘I had not thought…that is—’ She broke off, floundering.
‘Have you any idea how beautiful you are?’ he went on. ‘From the first day I saw you I wanted you for my wife. My Gundred has been dead these five years and a man grows lonely. I think you are lonely too. May not two such comfort each other?’
Elgiva nodded. ‘I think that perhaps they may, my lord.’
For a moment he did not move, the dark eyes intent on her face. ‘Then you will marry me?’
‘There would be certain conditions.’
‘Name them.’
‘That the rights of my nephews are protected and that you act as overlord of Ravenswood until they can act for themselves.’
‘Agreed. If you wed me, they shall be reared as my own sons.’
‘I would also ask for a decent interval of mourning for my brother.’
‘It shall be as you ask.’
‘Then on midsummer’s day I will become your wife.’ Elgiva’s voice was perfectly level as she gave him the commitment he sought.
Taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips. ‘It is an honour I scarce hoped to have.’
‘I will try to make you a good wife,’ she replied.
The proposed date was three months hence, but if Aylwin had hoped for an earlier wedding, he said nothing. Having got what he wanted he was prepared to give a little ground, knowing it would do his cause no harm.
‘Will you pledge your hand to me openly, Elgiva?’ he asked then. ‘I do not ask for a huge feast—I know it must be repugnant to you in the circumstances—but perhaps a small gathering?’
Elgiva was not surprised by the request. What it meant was a public declaration of intent. It also made clear to all concerned that Elgiva and thus Ravenswood were spoken for, that both lay under the protection of a rich and powerful lord. From the moment their betrothal was announced she was as good as his and no man would touch her. It also meant a respite, time to grow used to the idea of the bargain she had just struck.
‘It shall be as you wish, my lord.’
He smiled. ‘I am content.’
She had wondered if he would try to kiss her, but to her relief he made no further attempt to touch her. He took his leave not long after that and Elgiva watched him ride away with his men. Then she went in search of Osgifu.
The older woman listened in silence, her face impassive as she took in the news.
‘Do you think it was wrong to accept him?’ Elgiva asked at length.
‘You did what you thought you had to do, child, both for yourself and for Ravenswood.’
‘Aylwin will be a good husband and he will restore these lands to their former glory. I cannot bear to see things thus.’
‘I know.’ Osgifu hesitated. ‘But, can you be a wife to him?’
‘I must, Gifu. There is no choice now. Surely you see that?’
‘Yes.’ She put her arms round the girl’s shoulders. ‘I think you have nothing to fear. It is my view that he will be a doting and most indulgent husband.’
Elgiva nodded and tried to think positive thoughts. Neither of them mentioned the rune cast.
The betrothal feast went as planned, a small and select gathering of neighbours and friends who came together to see the couple pledge to each other. It was in every way a most suitable match and no one thought anything of the discrepancy in the ages of the pair who were soon to marry. It was widely held that Aylwin was a clever and knowing man for at a stroke he doubled his holdings and gained a most beautiful wife into the bargain. Elgiva in her blue gown, embroidered at neck and sleeve, her golden hair braided with matching ribbons, looked very fetching indeed. It was noticed that her prospective groom could hardly keep his eyes off her and was most assiduous in plying her with food and wine, carving choice cuts of meat and serving her with his own hands.
In truth, Elgiva had little appetite but did her best to hide it. Her
heart was unwontedly heavy but, unwilling to disappoint her guests with a glum face, she smiled graciously and tried to look as though she were enjoying herself. As she noticed the gaze Aylwin bent upon her, the reality of the situation hit her with force—in three months’ time they would be married and he would take her to his bed. She must give herself to him whenever he wished and, eventually, she would bear his children. He had fine sons already, but, if the look in his eye was aught to judge by, he intended to sire more. Elgiva took another sip of wine to steady herself. She had wanted this, had agreed to it of her own free will. Now she must live with the consequences. If he was to be her husband she must get to know him, to learn his likes and dislikes, to discover what would please him. She had no doubt of her ability to run his household efficiently for she had been schooled in domestic duties from childhood. The rules of the bedroom were unknown territory, though familiar to him. She reminded herself sharply that it was not necessary to love for a marriage to work. As long as there was respect. Please, God, she prayed silently, let it be all right.
The feasting done and the hour growing late, the women retired, leaving the hall to the men. Elgiva knew the hard drinking was about to begin and had given orders to the servants to keep the guests plied with ale and mead as long as they wanted it. She was not sorry to make her excuses and bid her future husband a goodnight. He kissed her hand and pressed it warmly. From his flushed face and the hot glow in his eyes it was clear he had had a lot to drink, but his speech was unslurred and his balance still unimpaired.
‘Goodnight, Elgiva, and sleep well. Would this were our wedding night that I might share that bed with you.’
She managed a smile. ‘In good time, my lord.’
Then she was gone, leaving the hall behind and seeking the sanctuary of the women’s bower.
In spite of the late night, Elgiva woke early and for several moments lay still beneath the fur coverlet, enjoying the comfortable warmth of the bed. Though the first grey light of the spring dawn was filtering through the shutters, she could hear no sound of birdsong and the cock had yet to crow. Only Osgifu’s gentle snores broke the heavy stillness of the new day. The nurse would not stir for a while yet. Elgiva rose and dressed quickly for the air was chill, pulling the gown over her linen kirtle and sliding her feet into leather shoes. Then, throwing a mantle about her shoulders, she moved to the doorway, pausing once to glance back. Osgifu slept on. For a moment Elgiva watched, her feelings a strange fusion of love and disappointment. She had trusted her. Even now she could hear her words: The runes never lie. But the runes had lied, and Osgifu had been wrong. Immediately Elgiva upbraided herself. Why should she be surprised to discover human fallibility? She wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake. It was time to face facts and shoulder the responsibilities that fell to her.
Elgiva left the women’s bower and made her way through the hall. It was not her most direct route out, but she was hungry and knew there would be a fair chance of finding something to eat without summoning a servant. All about her, men lay snoring on the rushes among the scraps of food, or sprawled on benches and tables among the debris of the feast. After the copious quantities of mead and ale they had drunk she had no fear of waking the sleepers and guessed there would be a few sore heads this morning. She retrieved part of a loaf from the table and broke a piece off. It was growing stale, but it would do for now. Chewing on the bread, she made her way silently among the sleeping forms, wrinkling her nose at air thick with the reek of smoke and spilled ale and male sweat, skirting the hearth where the remaining embers of the fire smouldered in mounds of grey ash. Hearing her approach, two wolfhounds looked up from their slumber, but the low rumbling growl died in their throats as they recognised her. One got to his feet, wagging his tail, shoving his nose into Elgiva’s hand. She stroked his wiry head absently and then moved on towards the door, eager to be gone for the confines of the hall were stifling and a sharp reminder of things she wished to forget.
The side door was ajar, a clear indication that she was not the first abroad. Through the gap she could see a man relieving himself in the midden across the way. He had his back to her, but from his dress she guessed him to be one of Lord Aylwin’s men. Elgiva seized the moment to slip out and round the end of the hall. From this vantage point she could observe without being seen. Presently, after having answered the call of nature, the man returned whence he came and Elgiva was able to make her way to the stables unnoticed.
Here too, all was quiet, for even the serfs were not stirring yet. They had taken their fill of Ravenswood’s bounty the previous evening and there was none to mark her passage along the row of stalls to the one where Mara was tethered. Hearing her approach, the bay mare turned her head and whinnied gently. Elgiva reached for the bridle hanging on the peg and slipped into the stall. Minutes later she was leading the horse out. Once in the open air, she vaulted astride and headed for the gate. The watchman roused himself and, responding to her greeting, swung the portal open. Elgiva held Mara to a walk as they passed the houses in the hamlet. Here were signs of life: a spiral of smoke from a roof, a dog scratching itself before an open door. She suspected it would be much later before those in the hall roused themselves. Glad to have escaped for a time, Elgiva breathed the cool morning air gratefully, though it could not dispel her sombre mood or the memories that occasioned it. Later she would return and play her part before them all.
Pride and a sense of family honour had led her to spare no expense in the celebration of the betrothal feast. It was, after all, a cause for celebration, an excellent and judicious match. The union would not only unite two great Saxon houses, but would bring advantage to both sides. She had entered into the arrangement of her own volition. Her future husband was a man she could respect. Why, then, in the face of such good fortune, did her heart feel so heavy?
Elgiva was startled out of these sombre thoughts when her horse shied. She tightened her hold on the reins, looking about her, but could see only shadows beneath the trees and curls of mist in the hollows. The wood was locked beneath an eerie silence. The mare snorted uneasily and Elgiva frowned, her gaze taking in the details of the surrounding woodland. The silence stretched out around her, unbroken by any breath of wind, or birdsong or sound of any living thing. Then she discerned movement ahead through the trees where a lone horseman was approaching, bent low over the saddle. Elgiva hesitated, wondering whether the safest course was to flee, but something about the rider’s posture gave her pause. He was swaying and for a second she wondered if he were drunk. Just as quickly, she rejected the idea, for as he drew closer she could see he had come far. The horse was lathered, its chest and flanks darkened with sweat, its legs and belly all bespattered with mud. Pulling up, she let the rider approach. Mara whinnied and sidled, but Elgiva kept a firm hold on the rein. The oncoming rider was a man of middle years and, like his horse, all muddied. His face was grey and lined with pain and she could see the side of his tunic was stiff with dried blood. He stared at her as if she had been an apparition and then she recognised him.
‘Gunter!’
Her uncle’s steward—he must have ridden far. It was a two-day journey and from the look of him he had ridden fast. His horse was all but spent, and he too. Every word cost him effort.
‘I bring urgent news for Ravenswood, my lady.’
‘We are not far from home. Come, let me take you there.’
He nodded and together they retraced Elgiva’s path. As soon as they were within the gates, she summoned help. Grooms came running to take the horses and another helped Gunter into the hall. Men were stirring now and looked up in surprise at their entrance. Elgiva saw Aylwin there with several of his men. He hastened over to her.
‘Gunter, my uncle’s steward,’ she explained. ‘He is wounded. I don’t know how badly.’
Aylwin took one look at the dark stiffening patch on the man’s tunic. ‘He has lost much blood. His hurts must be tended.’
Elgiva dispatched a servant for her box of medi
cines. Another brought a goblet of water and helped raise the injured man a fraction so she could hold it to his lips. He drank greedily, but Elgiva would only allow him a little to begin with. Then she and Osgifu set about dealing with the wound. It was a sword thrust, deep but clean. As far as she could tell it had not pierced any internal organs, though it had bled copiously. Between them they stanched the bleeding and cleansed the wound, before fastening a clean pad over it with long strips of linen cloth. Gunter bore these ministrations in silence, though his face was very pale. Then she allowed him a little more to drink.
‘You must rest now and try to recover your strength.’
‘Lady, I must speak. My news will wait no longer.’
‘Say on then, Gunter. Does it concern my uncle?’
‘Aye, my lady, and ill news it is.’
‘What of my uncle? Is he sick?’
‘Nay, my lady. He is dead with all his kin and his hall is burned. A great Viking war host marches north.’
A deathly silence followed as those present tried to grasp the enormity of the news.
‘The rumours are true,’ murmured Aylwin.
‘Aye, lord. We had little warning of their coming, but even if we had, it would have made no difference for the sheer weight of their numbers. Those Saxons who were not slain were enslaved. I was wounded and left for dead. When I came to, the hall was a blackened ruin and my lord was dead. I found a stray horse and got away under cover of darkness.’
‘It was as well you did,’ said Elgiva. She glanced at Osgifu, who looked as shaken as the rest.
‘You are right, child. We should have had no warning else. As it is, we must prepare to defend ourselves as best we may.’
‘Truly spoken,’ said Gunter, ‘for the sons of Ragnar Lodbrok seek a terrible revenge for their father’s death.’
‘We had heard of this,’ replied Aylwin. ‘There were tales of a great Viking war fleet a year or so ago, but we had thought the raiders much further south.’
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