For Me Fate Wove This Page 9

  She continued, with a smile. “And you have a friend in the King of Wessex.” This was said almost teasingly, and he laughed as well. “And your good friend of Wessex, Ceric, I think you named him.”

  “Yes. Ceric of Kilton. As I mentioned, he is the King’s godson. But he fights with the King’s son, Prince Eadward.”

  She seemed to reflect on this. “Hard for friends to be parted such great distances,” she offered.

  “One day I hope he will be more than a friend, kin in fact.”

  She looked her question, which he readily supplied.

  “Ashild. Ceric has pursued her a long while. They have known each other as long as Ceric and I have, and he is set upon her. Next to the King’s burh at Witanceaster, I think his at Kilton must be amongst the richest in all Wessex.”

  “And yet she hesitates?”

  “Yes. I think if there were peace… it would be easier for her to accept.”

  Her full lips barely bowed into a smile, and her response was so softly spoken that he leant closer to her. “Sometimes those who follow their hearts cannot wait for peace.”

  He felt a catch in his chest, as if her words and tone forced him to hold his breath. After a moment he spoke.

  “I would take your hand,” he asked. She offered it by lifting it to him, and he held it in his own, then laid his left hand over it. His heart, thumping in his chest, felt as though it was pounding in his ears as he went on.

  “Fate is too uncertain to wait. Will you be my wife, Dagmar, and join your father’s blood with mine, of both Anglia and Wessex?”

  He had spoken to her first, and on his own account, giving his uncle no notice. He felt certain Asberg was expecting him to consult with him before doing so. Yet the knowledge that Dagmar’s bride-price would not be high and thus could be easily met freed him from the absolute need to speak to his uncle before declaring his intentions to her. Just as Hrald knew his mother expected his suit of Guthrum’s daughter, so must Asberg.

  And Hrald did not wish to dwell on the fact that the woman he desired would come cheaply. Dagmar was of natural regal bearing, possessed of a kind of beauty which deeply attracted him, and had a signal distinction in being a King’s daughter. If her father still lived and had made suitable allowance for her, her bride-price would be a sum which might stretch the limits of Four Stones’ treasure room. She would be worth every ounce of it, and the fact that he could not demonstrate this to her kin bothered him not a little. Her value was apart from what he would have been demanded to pay for her, but as proof of his commitment he almost wished he was forced to dig deep into his store of treasures so he might make her his own.

  Her gaze was cast down, where his two hands clasped her own. She lifted her eyes to him and gave her answer.

  “I will wed you,” she whispered. This was spoken with enough gravity to imbue a sacred vow, and indeed he saw her blue eyes were filling.

  He gave a squeeze to her hand, and brought his head nearer hers. Their lips met, a gentle brushing, but the first kiss Hrald had known.

  When he pulled back he saw she was truly smiling. The tiny drops of salt water on her lashes only added to the lustre of her eyes.

  He wished to press her to him, and began to pull her close when he stopped himself. That would be wrong, a liberty he could not yet take. This single kiss, this and her words, was the bond.

  A sense of lightheadedness replaced the deep pounding he had felt. He almost began to laugh, in relief and in joy both. He lifted her hand in his and kissed the back of it, pressing it to his lips as he wanted to press his own to hers.

  She gave a small laugh as well, as if she shared in his relief and happiness.

  “We will wed, as soon as my uncle and your cousin come to terms.” He looked about him, eyes raking the blue sky and then coming back to rest on her. “Wed, in this fine and warm weather.”

  He still held her hand, and she gave it a returning squeeze of assent. He thought of something more.

  “Headleage,” he said. “You must return there, to get your things. And bring your mother to witness our being wed.”

  Her faced changed, a shift from her smile to a look of true concern.

  She took a breath. “I have little there. Anything of worth I have with me.” Another breath followed, with a hushed admission. “That is the truth of the narrowness of my life there, Hrald.”

  This speech was striking on two accounts. The first was the modest honesty of her straitened condition, and how she had braved to tell him of it. The second was the utterance of his name. Never before had she used it in direct address.

  He was moved, deeply so, by both, and in response again allowed himself to touch his lips to hers.

  Her words carried with them something more, something near an appeal. It was reflected in the soberness of her face, an almost pained expression that shadowed her loveliness for a moment.

  “You need not go,” he assured her. “And I would rather you not, for the risk of travel. We will send word, and gifts as well, to your mother, bidding her come under my escort.”

  She did not answer, but his mind was wheeling with plans. He must go first to his mother, and now; then soon ride to Turcesig and get Asberg so they might deal with Haward.

  They had paused in their walking, at the furthest point from the gate of the burial ground. They still traced the line of the thick greenery of the yews, while beyond them in the open pasture not even a single sheep had witnessed Hrald’s profession. This moment had been granted them alone, as hallowed as it had been solitary. Now they continued on, rounding the final corner of the hedging, and coming back to the front of the ground. One of the old women who had been watching them was still there at her wash-tub, and gave a toothless grin in their direction. Hrald had to keep himself from letting loose a hoot of joy in salutation.

  Nearing the burial ground gate the new couple looked in a final time. There along this edge of yews lay a freshly dug grave, before unnoticed by them. They both paused a moment, looking on the still-dark clods of soil. Hrald recalled his mother telling him that a woman and newborn babe of the village had died, not two days ago. This must be their double grave. The young mother left three small children and a husband so numbed by grief that when the Lady of Four Stones appeared, bringing foodstuff from the kitchen yard to his croft, he could do no more than bow his head to her in thanks.

  How short life is, Hrald told himself. But the woman soon to be his wife was now walking at his shoulder.

  When Hrald and Dagmar returned to the hall, he went out in search of his mother. He found her on the village road, Burginde at her side, each bearing a now-empty hand basket. In addition to visits she made to those recently bereaved, it was her custom to call upon the ill or aged fortnightly or when pressing need arose, and carry to them some small delicacies of the hall kitchen yard, cheeses or small crocks of nourishing broths. Ælfwyn had expected to hear such news from her son, and took it with calm acquiesce. Hrald’s own joy was enough to bring a smile to her lips, as she listened.

  “I will go to Turcesig, get Asberg, and we will see Haward,” he went on. “We will be wed as soon as we may, on the step of Oundle.”

  She nodded, smiling still. She must not formally welcome Dagmar to the family until the deal had been struck; to do so was to invite Fate to look askance at the union. When Hrald returned, having won her cousin’s consent and come to terms would be soon enough.

  He began walking back with them, but his jangling stride betrayed his eagerness to return in haste to the hall, where he had left his betrothed. His mother urged him to go on.

  Burginde had remained silent throughout the brief telling of Hrald’s report. Now her mistress murmured aloud her thoughts. “I must write to Sigewif, and tell her.”

  “Aye,” nodded Burginde. “Though there be not much to tell. ’Twas as quick as it was certain.” She gave her head a shake. Dagmar had been a willing worker, and she must admit the girl had in every way treated her with marked respect, as if
she were no servant, but an aunt to the Lady of Four Stones. She is either quick, or kind, Burginde had sometimes thought; perhaps both.

  Burginde was not one to dwell on the past, but now, having lately visited the croft of an old man dandling a toddling grandson on his withered lap, found herself thinking of how hard had been Hrald’s teething. An image arose of her holding the little Hrald, trying to comfort him with a crust of bread as he cried from pain.

  Chapter the Fifth: Leave Room to be Surprised

  “WEAPONRY.”

  That single word was Haward’s answer to the question posed by Asberg as to what would be Dagmar’s bride-price.

  The directness with which her cousin announced it said as much as the price itself.

  Haward had shown Asberg and Hrald into his hall, and from thence into the small room that served as armoury. The three men stood facing each other, Hrald and Asberg on one side, their host on the other. They had taken a cup of ale in the hall proper, after which Haward had invited them within, where Asberg had cleared his throat, and stating his nephew’s desire to wed Dagmar, asked what might be the terms.

  Haward had given thought before this visit as to what he would request in exchange for Dagmar’s hand. Four Stones was famed for its horses, but Haward had only sixty men, most of whom, due to his late uncle’s generosity, were already horsed. His interest did not lie in more animals. What he asked for, steel, coupled with the tone of his voice, was slightly unsettling in its baldness. Yet each father or guardian would ask for that which would be of greatest benefit to their own hall and holdings.

  Asberg answered with a soft but rumbling, “Já.” He had told Hrald to say as little as possible during this dealing, and Hrald remained silent as they both absorbed the solitary word of Haward’s demand.

  “And in return?” Asberg wished to know.

  Haward gave a quick smile. “Dagmar herself, a maid of considerable charm, and more than this, daughter to Guthrum, King of the Danes of East Anglia.”

  The King named was dead, the Kingdom he had united in tatters. Yet blood was blood. Dagmar was the daughter of a King, who himself had been nephew to the King of Dane-mark. For a Danish Jarl in Angle-land seeking a wife on whom he could sire sons to fight at his side, this lineage was second to none.

  It remained that Dagmar had been left dower-less, though, and her cousin’s next words addressed this unhappy fact.

  “Also, this.”

  Haward had crossed behind them to a table covered by a length of linen which he now drew off.

  Upon it, arranged with some care, was a small pile of hack silver, a footed silver bowl of a handspan’s width, four silver mantle pins of varying sizes, and two necklets, sized for a man, of twisted silver.

  Haward watched his guests as their eyes fell upon this offering. The older man’s eyes, well practised in assessing booty, flicked over it without widening or narrowing as he gauged the value before them. Hrald’s expression was even harder to assess.

  Asberg gave a glance to his nephew before returning his gaze to the metal upon the table. No gold. Hrald’s mother had brought cloth of purple, bronze basins and ewers, silver salvers and cups, gemmed arm bands and buckles of silver, and amongst coins and other ornaments of the rare metal, an entire plate of pure red gold. Asberg would never forget the day of the revealing of that treasure, pulled by Yrling piece by piece from the waggons to the acclaim of all his men. But given Dagmar’s circumstances they must not expect gold.

  Asberg was ready with his own offer. He looked to Haward and named it.

  “Five good swords. Twenty spear heads.”

  Haward stood silent. Other than gold outright, weaponry was the most valuable of all goods he could hope for, and Hrald’s uncle was meeting his request head on. But Haward, sister-less as he was, had never bargained thus, with the hand of a kinswoman at stake. He would be glad for five more good blades, but took thought that the first offer was rarely the best.

  He wanted this match, and though she had not said so directly to him, felt that Dagmar did as well. She had certainly gone willingly with him to Four Stones. Still, Haward gave his head a slight shake.

  While he was waiting for Haward’s response, Asberg had picked up the silver bowl. It was a well-worked piece, the silver walls thick and undented, with curving arms projecting from either side giving the whole balance. Holding it in his hands, Asberg saw it had served as a chalice, for a flared-armed cross was engraved within, where the priest, tipping the bowl up to his mouth, might see it during the performance of the sacrament. Wilgot will be happy with this, he thought, thinking of how that priest might share in the bounty of the coming nuptials.

  But at that moment Haward shook his head. His host’s rejection of his offer made Asberg return the bowl to the table with an almost careless indifference.

  “Ten swords,” Hrald countered. They were the first words he had uttered since entering the armoury, and were spoken with crisp decision. “Chosen from the chest which holds those reserved for me.” His eyes were fastened on Haward, and they shifted for a moment to his uncle before returning to Haward. “And twenty spear heads.”

  Haward knew what this meant. The swords would not only be good. They would be of the best, pattern-welded, and worthy to be borne by the Jarl himself. He could assume that Hrald’s pride would assure that the twenty spear heads would be similarly fine; new, their edges unchipped, their deep sockets ready to be fitted to spear shafts of ash. Haward could not gainsay that it was a great deal more than what Dagmar would be bringing with her.

  Asberg had not allowed his face to change at his nephew’s interjection. He wished the boy had kept his silence, which was ever the most powerful response in any dealings. Yet he understood why he could not.

  His thoughts turned back through the years, to when he had gone to Sidroc, asking for the hand of his young sister in law, Æthelthryth. Sidroc would not let her go lightly; as comely as Æthelthryth was, and sister as she be to the Lady of Four Stones, any of the men within his hall would eagerly wed her, even if it meant putting away their current wives to do so. And in fact the young woman had refused him. It had set Asberg back on his heels; he was second in command at Four Stones and had confidence his suit would be welcomed. It was not just him; after the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her captors during the fall of Cirenceaster she was inclined to no man. Yet Æthelthryth, possessed of both natural cheerfulness and deep practically, was blest also with handiness and thrift. The many ways in which she worked alongside her older sister in righting Four Stones made her all the more attractive to Asberg. He grew the more smitten, so much so that as she steadily warmed he readily agreed to every condition thrown before him. Æthelthryth, though young, was of decided mind, and did not hesitate in providing them. He must build a house of his own for their shared use, keep his beard trimmed, and foreswear any other woman. She held out until Asberg was half mad with desire. She ordered him to be shriven by Wilgot for all past sins, and catechized in the faith of Rome. As a final condition she insisted he swear before the priest that even should she die young their offspring would be raised within the Church. All this he readily agreed to. Reviewing this in his mind, Asberg decided he could not chide his nephew for failing to hold firm at the five swords.

  Dagmar’s cousin stood looking at both his guests. He knew nothing of Asberg’s courting of Æthelthryth, but he shared the same desire Asberg had then, to bind himself closer to the man who was his war-chief. That war-chief stood before him, and Haward was glad to speak his next words.

  “Ten good swords,” he agreed, looking up at Hrald, “from your own reserve. And twenty spear heads.”

  Ashild was sitting in the bower house garden. Her morning queasiness and resultant retching meant that she seldom made an appearance within the hall before noon. The dizzying heat from her head had abated, and just to sit still surrounded by her mother’s blue cornflowers and the deep green of the beech hedge lent her coolness. Burginde had this morning carried to her
the news that her brother had ridden off to bargain with Haward for Dagmar’s hand. Now the nurse sat down next to her at the small table, in a silence that was as thoughtful as it was companionable.

  “Do you like her,” Ashild finally asked.

  The nurse made a clicking sound with her teeth. “Matters not if I do or do not,” she answered, with that briskness she often used to sum up her position. But now, looking at Ashild’s slightly downcast face, she added something in a brighter tone.

  “Your own father – the Dane – I did not like him, not one bit. And he turned out to be a far better man than I had judged.”

  Ashild had to smile. She envied Burginde every moment she had spent about her father, even those in which the old nurse had disparaged him. It was harder to place herself in her mother’s role, that of wife and bedmate to a war-chief as formidable as Yrling had been. And her mother had been years younger than she was when she entered into that union. How would she have reacted, under that strain, she must ask herself.

  Burginde reached over and patted Ashild’s hand. “Leave room to be surprised, that taught me. Leave room.”

  Ashild nodded. She had spent weeks berating herself over her reluctance about Dagmar. Was it Dagmar herself, or would she feel the same toward any woman Hrald had determined to wed? She questioned her own motives, unable to untangle the threads of her response to Guthrum’s daughter. She could not envy Dagmar her stately bearing nor abundant beauty; those things were given by Fate or God or the Gods, all powers far beyond the command of those here on Midgard. What Ashild hated was in herself, the sense of jealousy she felt creeping into her heart around this woman who had captured Hrald’s imagination and attention. She loved her brother with a kind of fiery protectiveness that granted her leave to question Dagmar’s intentions and Hrald’s discernment. It placed her in a role she despised, and Dagmar into a role she had feared for herself should she go to Kilton, of being crushed under expectations unattainably high. But here she was not being judged and found wanting; she was become a judge, of her own making. It placed her outside the love she bore for her brother.