For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  Inkera gave thought. “Hrald’s uncle, Asberg, at Turcesig, has two sons. But they are younger than I. And the family is not likely to want us both. I would like to make a match as good as yours, and here… it would be hard.”

  “Já,” admitted Dagmar. “And you have time yet. I do not.” Her thoughts passed on to the future. “Perhaps it is better that you do not stay with me. Who knows what will happen in the next year or two, if Haesten is not driven off or killed?”

  Inkera’s answer was uncharacteristically sombre. “Or if Ælfred is,” she suggested.

  Chapter the Fourth: Quick, and Certain

  HRALD had only lifted his spear when one of the watch-men upon the parapet whistled out warning. It was not yet noon and the Jarl of Four Stones was about to begin sparring with several of his men in the practice yard. At the shrill sound Jari lowered his own spear, but with them still held in their fists, led the way with Hrald to the opening palisade gates.

  The whistle was four short blows, a sign that some from Saltfleet approached. Hrald expected this; five men had ridden out two days ago to relieve five who had been stationed at that landing place. They should expect five to return. What made them all go to greet them was the final whistle appended, two sharp and short calls, signalling something untoward.

  The condition of the horses and the speed at which their riders drove them made the two extra whistles warranted. Five men rode in on lathered horses, the stressed beasts tossing their heads as the men upon their backs reined them to a stop and leapt down. Tied to the saddle rings of two of them were two additional horses, saddled but riderless. Both horses were spare, their ribs showing from too little feeding and likely hard usage. Mul and his boys and little Bork gathered up reins from over all the beasts’ heads and led them to cool in the paddock.

  “We had reached the jagged oak when these two horses trotted toward us, coming from the path leading from Snotingaham,” explained the lead man, Orri, rising his hand to the horses now being walked by Mul’s boys. The jagged oak was a landmark along the way, a venerable but still living tree which through age and perhaps a lightning bolt had split in two.

  “We caught the horses and rode back on the path they had come until we saw where they had joined it. With tracks so fresh they were easy to follow. Finally we came upon an encampment, empty of men but active.”

  “Where?” Hrald questioned. “On Four Stones’ land, or beyond?”

  Orri shook his head. “There are few markers there; we saw no cairns, but I think we were beyond our borders.”

  Hrald nodded. Even with double the number of ward-men upon the roads and along the borders such distances could not be perfectly patrolled.

  “We kept going, following the tracks of many horses and more men, on foot. Then we came to a field of battle.

  “We heard them first, some three score men –” here Orri turned to one of his fellows, who corrected, “More. With those already on the ground, say four score.”

  Hrald looked up into the sky for a moment. Eighty men fighting, either on his lands or at his border.

  “Who,” he asked. “Who are they? Could you see?”

  “We saw no banners, no ravens nor dragons.”

  When Danes fought, if they used war-flags, it was often one picturing the raven.

  “All Danes, we think, in a battle they were not prepared for,” ended Orri. “Those at the camp may have had a scout discover the second troop, and they made haste to meet them before they reached their encampment.”

  Hrald blew out a breath. A conflict so near their borders could not be ignored. He made his decision and turned to Jari. “We must go, now, and find who they are.”

  “And why they fought,” Jari agreed.

  The palisade gates were still open and Hrald found his eyes drawn to the village. Beyond the limit of the huts some of the folk stood in ranks in the common fields scything the last of the rye harvest. Others were out amongst their flocks, or with their pigs in the forest, but many were about their own crofts, hoeing weeds from their patches of cabbages, plucking beans, tending to fowl, or wringing washing. Should he order them within the palisade walls, their beasts as well, for safekeeping?

  Jari must have read his thoughts, for he spoke. “Nej. Let us wait. We will take an extra horse, so one of us can ride back at speed, if needed, with that order.”

  Hrald wished no needless fear nor disorder on his folk, and nodded. An extra horse would still be fresh enough to carry one of his men swiftly back and give the alarm.

  “But we must send to Haward, and to Turcesig, that they know,” Hrald said. He chose two men to ride to each hall, with the scant knowledge that he had of this action so near his own domain. He thought of Dagmar, there at Haward’s, and how he wished she were here in the greater safety of his own walls.

  He turned to see Ashild moving towards him across the stable yard. She had been out by the Place of Offering, and come through the kitchen yard. Two of the bakers had told her of the arriving men, and of the warning whistle which had also been sounded. The tight cluster of men around her brother and the look on his face told her the alert had been real.

  She recognized the men from Saltfleet, knew they were due to return, and a glance at the horses being walked to coolness in the paddock told of the speed at which they had been ridden. That, and the fact that two of the beasts were unknown to her, was preparation for Hrald’s greeting to her.

  “There is a pitched battle to the west of the jagged oak. The two horses came from there. They saw no war-flags.” Hrald gave thought of his response. “I will ride out with twelve men, that we might see who they are. We will not engage.”

  Her jaw had tightened at his words, and the bile she fought against each morning rose again in her throat. Twelve men, with Jari, to protect Hrald seemed far too few to Ashild, but a small number of observers made discovery the harder. If he were going only to discern who these interlopers were, fewer men were safer.

  Her brother’s face was not free from alarm, she could see it by the tenseness about his eyes. Yet he spoke with calm decision. The rush of fear she felt was met and overcome by her pride in his voice and manner. Asberg was not with her, to wield authority over Four Stones in Hrald’s absence, and Jari must ever be at his side. Hrald’s next words proclaimed who must bear the burden of command.

  “I leave Kjeld with you,” he told her, and inclined his head to this warrior who was one of his most trusted. The import of Hrald’s directive was lost on none gathered about him. With this wording, it was almost as if either could be in the other’s keeping. He did not say, “Kjeld will command,” but rather paired him with Ashild, and her role here.

  He named was a frequent sparring partner, and accompanied Hrald and Jari on most of their excursions from the hall. Kjeld was an able warrior upwards of five and twenty years, quick-witted and savvy, and one free from needless anger or viciousness. It was for these last qualities that Hrald had asked him to bring the child Bork back to Four Stones after the boy’s father had been killed. Kjeld had also been one of those fifty who had ridden to the defence of Oundle with Ashild, and there had made two kills.

  Kjeld, singled out in this way, had taken a step forward. He glanced at the daughter of the hall, and then, in a gesture as quiet as it was striking, moved to stand at her right. The flare of pride Ashild now felt in her breast was on her own account. This act of a trusted and older warrior placed them nearly as co-commanders in Hrald’s absence. And Kjeld had been with her before the gates of Oundle; they had shared that action together, giving them almost a warriors’ bond.

  The Lady of Four Stones now came towards them. Ælfwyn had been within the weaving room up in the hall. She had heard the whistles signaling an arrival, but such were not unusual. It was the added blasts that told of alarm. In such cases she was used to herself appearing, ready to react to any need that arose from the news so carried.

  A few words from her son made clear the necessity of his now riding out. Ælfwyn’s li
ght blue eyes now travelled to Ashild, standing shoulder to shoulder with Kjeld.

  Her mother’s lips gently parted, and Ashild stood looking back at her. Ashild’s mouth did not smile, but somehow her eyes in that resolute face did.

  Ælfwyn found herself mutely nodding, to both Ashild and Kjeld, and then to her son.

  The Lady of the place stood at the gates of Four Stones with Ashild and Kjeld, seeing Hrald off. The air was fresh but the sky slightly over-clouded. A light rain at dawn had dampened the clay road enough that little dust arose from the hooves of the men’s horses, even at the canter. The troop headed up the road which had ever divided the village into two, and all working at croft or field noted their Jarl on his bay stallion, and gave a nod in his direction.

  To the Jarl’s mother standing in the gateway, such acknowledgment held more meaning than Hrald himself could know. He had no memory of Four Stones when the village folk looked up in fear at those who ruled them. Her first husband Yrling had conquered this place through destroying the lives and livelihoods of its family and folk. During her marriage to Sidroc, and then in the long years alone, she had worked tirelessly to restore it, and had in great measure made it as just and pleasant a place as any burh in Wessex or Mercia. It was still a fortress filled with warriors, but these did not ride out on rapacious forays, despoiling neighbouring lands and depriving simple cottars of the grain they needed to survive. Four Stones’ fields and flocks now provided plenty in good years, and enough in poorer ones, to keep all within its boundaries fed and clothed. Its horses were movable treasure. Four Stones sold its beasts throughout South Lindisse, to all who could afford a fine animal, warriors and merchants alike. And this hoofed treasure meant every warrior of Four Stones could be mounted. For an inland fortress without ready access to ships the ability to move swiftly when needed gave its fighting force rare advantage.

  Ælfwyn knew she should turn away. The doubled file of men was nearly out of sight. Upon her lips was a silent prayer for her son. Now she must return to the hall and the manifold tasks awaiting her. She had been stitching up new linen sheets in the weaving room, hemming the narrow panels which she and Burginde had jointly woven. No one but her nurse knew whose bed these new sheets would grace. They were destined for Hrald’s bed; his bridal bed if the truth be known. They were meant to be one of the many wedding gifts she had planned for him, gifts that she felt certain would be needed soon. Just now she also was at work on other linens, those meant for swaddling a babe, that of her daughter. This too was secret. The panels Ælfwyn wove and hemmed might serve many purposes, and even when Ashild was in the room with her, her working on them did not elicit her daughter’s curiosity. No bridal-cup had yet been raised, no babe yet born, and to Ælfwyn it was better that she keep the fruits of her labour a secret until she was certain these woven and sewn offerings, so fraught with meaning, were actually called for.

  Still at the Lady of Four Stones’ side were Ashild and Kjeld, keeping silent watch as she had. She nodded to them, much as she had before her son, in acquiescence of their role in his absence. Then she started across the forecourt to the hall door.

  The two she left spent another moment there, then turned to face the hall. The interest prompted by the departure of Hrald and his party had dissipated, and those involved in preparing the horses or who had stood watching were returning to their own duties. The sawyers straddling wood in their saw-pit returned to smoothing their planks. Mul and his boys about the stable, the men working in the side sheds at bending soaked staves to form casks, the boys pumping the bellows for the weaponsmith and ironsmith who stood beating red metal, the kitchen yard workers nearer the hall trundling sacks of flour – all had resumed their everyday tasks.

  Those in temporary command found it hard to contemplate any such return to usual duties. Kjeld, having over the last two years won a coveted role as a member of Hrald’s body-guard, would normally be amongst those riding with him. Ashild, having done no spinning nor weaving yet this day, ought to be following her mother. Yet she could not. In the past when Hrald had been away, Asberg had been there, and commanded in his stead. Ashild had been there with him, a shadow commander, as she thought herself, acknowledged by no one but valued by herself. During those times she could indeed return to her needful everyday tasks, though with an ear cocked to any whistled warning which might ring out. Today was different. After her brother’s dictum, investing her as an equal with Kjeld, she could not do this. Marked by his trust and his words, she felt unable to climb the wooden stair to the weaving room to work alongside her sister and aunt, listening to Burginde’s cheerful chaffing about the unevenness of her spun thread. She must stay here about the work yards, the stable forecourt, any place near to the watch-men on the parapet. She must stay upon the ready.

  Kjeld, looking over the work yards, found his hand rising in some slight gesture, almost as if in question. If there was distinction, even honour in his temporary role, it was also one tinged with tedium. His brothers in arms were out with his Jarl, not him. He must stay here, waiting and watching. He was not used to being bound by restrictions.

  Ashild saw the movement of his hand, and guessed at its meaning. This warrior, so accustomed to action, must be feeling the same check on his natural impulses she, as a girl, had ever known. There were those who rode out, those who acted, and those others who were forced to wait.

  Almost at the same moment they turned to face each other. Their eyes met, his a warm brown, hers a stormy grey-blue. Her mouth softened, and so did his. Then they both began to laugh.

  It was late in the afternoon that Hrald’s party reached the jagged oak and turned from there up the westward track. Orri led them with much greater speed than he and the others from Saltfleet had earlier approached, and when they neared the clearing where the encampment was, he rode on alone. A short time later his whistle summoned them all forward.

  “Some of the tents have been struck, several are missing from this morning,” he told Hrald.

  Jari gave a grunt. “Survivors, making it back, and quitting the place,” he judged. Indeed, the churned soil said as much, showing the hoofprints of horses ridden next to holes where tent posts had been hastily yanked.

  They rode about the abandoned camp, dismounting long enough to peer into the remaining tents. Clothing, bedding, and cooking gear could be found, but no weaponry nor war-flags from which they could discern allegiance.

  They rode on at a brisk walk. The path leading to the battle ground was more marked for the horses which had been ridden back to the camp, and breaks in the trees admitted light. A movement to one side was followed by the whicker of a horse. A dark chestnut gelding, saddled and bridled, moved out of the green shadows of the shrubby growth. Orri, still in the lead, was quick to urge his horse toward the animal, which came without hesitation.

  “And another,” Jari nodded. At least they were gaining in beasts for their trouble. Any horse was a boon, but one complete with trappings was a prize indeed. With some rest and feeding in the valley of horses this gelding, like those brought in earlier in the day, would put on needed flesh and soon be fully fit for use.

  “Blood.” This word came from Orri, standing by the found horse’s head. He lifted his hand from where he had been running it along the chestnut’s neck. It was red from it. Orri moved both hands along the gelding’s neck, from poll to withers. “It is not his; he is unhurt.”

  Orri tied the new animal to his saddle ring and was about to swing up upon his own mount. He stopped; they all did, at the sound of a human groan.

  Hrald and Jari pressed their horses forward toward the sound. There, behind the clump of elders the gelding had moved from lay a man, face down where he had fallen from the animal’s back.

  They got off their horses. Jari moved first to the downed man, knife drawn, should this be a ruse and the man be ready to attack. The size of the spreading red blotch on the fallen man’s tunic rendered this possibility remote. Still, Jari used his booted foot to prod the m
an, slipping it under his belly and with the use of his free hand flipping him over upon his back. The deeper groan the man gave at this, and the pallor of his face, told of ebbing life.

  “Who do you fight for?” asked Hrald. His low and urgent demand sounded almost choked in his own ears.

  The warrior Hrald questioned was of thirty years or more; lean and weather-beaten. His face, contorted by his grimace, sported a reddish beard, clotted with deeper red from a cut through the right eyebrow. The eyes were closed, and mayhap the one beneath the torn eyebrow could not open. No sword was at his waist, but a knife was there, one the man was beyond reaching for. It was not easy to stand over such a man, harshly demanding answer of one who had perhaps mere moments to live. Hrald had his own sword in his hand for defence, but was aware he was clenching his left hand as well.

  The dying man breathed out his answer. “Haesten.”

  “And who did you fight?”

  The man’s grimace drew the deeper, but he did not speak.

  “Men of Wessex? Or Mercia?”

  The mouth moved.

  “Agmund.”

  Agmund. Guthrum’s eldest son, who had declared himself for the invader from Frankland. Now Agmund had turned against Haesten.

  Hrald lifted his eyes to meet those of Jari. “What… what does this mean?”

  Jari shook his shaggy head. “A splinter group, perhaps, followers of each who deserted, looking for better offers. Or… a true fracture between Agmund and Haesten.” His eyes dropped to the man before them. “If he was one of Haesten’s on some unknown mission, he was trying to head back to their camp.” Jari tilted his head toward the abandoned encampment they had passed. He looked about them into the deep green of the surrounding trees as he considered this, then down at the figure at their feet. “One thing, dying men rarely lie.”

  The man had sounded again, more rasping wheeze than groan. He had taken a hit in the chest, and his lungs must be failing.