For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  He stood to one side of the opened gates with his mother, wife, and older sister as the village folk streamed through, leading, carrying, and in some cases chasing their beasts back to their respective crofts. Children who had cried in fear last night when they were hustled in now wept anew the leaving of a place they found full of secret hiding places and unexpected tiny cakes handed out by the battery of hall bakers.

  The members of the family of the hall who watched their progress did so with faces still grave from the necessity of this general upset. Many of the crofters who were not otherwise occupied with beast or child bobbed their heads at them in thanks, pulled at their woollen caps in respect, or in the case of a few aged women, came to Ælfwyn, and bending their stiff knees, reached out gnarled hands to touch the hem of her gown in reverence. She opened her hands to them in the graceful gesture she often used, and though her face showed the stress of the night, she smiled on them all. She knew the love they bore her, and would shed some of it on the young woman at her side. The cluster of keys Ælfwyn had worn for two decades was now hanging from the waist of Dagmar, and after Ælfwyn made a slight motion to her daughter-in-law, these women, stricken in years but full-hearted, dipped their heads to her as well.

  When the last stragglers had been seen out, the heavy gates swung shut. Burginde was already in the kitchen yard, marshalling the same men she had commanded in the digging of cooking pits to the filling of same. Ælfwyn would return to her, while Dagmar and Ashild would go to the second hall and collect the cressets, pouring the costly oil back into the pottery jugs they had filled them from.

  As they worked the two young women spoke about the actions Hrald had taken this morning. Dagmar had seen the score of armed men ride out to scan the near boundaries of hall and village. Men in full war-kit were ever impressive to the eye, and seeing their calm determination as they swung themselves up into their saddles and rode out both reassured her and gave her a sense of borrowed pride. She looked over at Ashild, carefully pouring oil from the cresset in her hand back into one of the jugs.

  “You rode to battle,” Dagmar said. There was more than a tinge of questioning wonder in her voice as she said it.

  Ashild did not respond at once. Still holding the cresset, she let her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s lovely face.

  “I rode to defend Oundle, and its women,” was her answer.

  This was so simply spoken, and so clear in intent, that Dagmar herself paused before she went on.

  “What – what weapons did you carry?”

  Ashild set down the cresset.

  “A spear. Hrald gave me a Saxon seax from his store to use as knife. Also his boyhood shield.”

  Dagmar nodded. “And you rode with the war-flag you made,” she recounted. “Hrald told me.”

  Ashild looked down a moment, a wash of pride running through her that Hrald recalled that moment, one when he himself had affixed the raven flag to her cantle.

  “Were you frightened?”

  Ashild had almost to keep herself from smiling. “At first, not. Here in the stable yard one of Hrald’s men spoke in favour of me riding,” she said, remembering how her friend Gunnulf had commended her to the other warriors. “He was killed the next day,” she added in a quieter tone.

  “Riding out from our gates – the hall and yard folk cheering, the crofters looking up at us – it was a kind of glory in itself.

  “But as we grew nearer Oundle I began to feel – cold. My breath came fast and I feared ambush. We made it to the abbey, and then came the long wait for the enemy. I was awakened near dawn by one of the sisters; they had come, and were creeping up upon the walls, ready with oil to fire it.”

  Both their eyes fell upon the jugs they were filling. Fire was the greatest enemy of all.

  “From the ramparts Sigewif made parley with the leaders, as bold as any King would, challenging and then threatening them. She drew them near, making it easier for us, mounted and waiting behind the gates, to charge at them.

  “Sister Bova – the brewster – was in the church with the rest of the nuns and brothers. She began to ring the church bell. She sought to summon the angels, she told me later, but her surprise clanging of the bell startled the Danes, and at that moment Asberg had the gates flung open. We kicked our horses and raced out.

  “Just after that one of the Danes threw his spear at me. It lodged in my shield. I had my own in my hand and made a true throw.”

  “You killed him,” Dagmar guessed.

  Ashild nodded. As she had many times before, in her mind’s eye she saw the man’s knees buckle. She watched his body crumple to the ground, saw his war-cap roll from his head. Most of all she saw the length of her spear shaft as it rose in the air while he fell, protruding from that still-living chest. She would never unsee this, she knew.

  Dagmar looked lost in thought, considering this.

  “Who – who was Judith?” she asked next.

  Ashild told her. “A woman of the Hebrews willing to do anything to save her people, besieged by a huge force of warriors.”

  There was more to the tale, and Dagmar’s face asked her to go on.

  “Judith and her serving woman gained access to the camp of the enemy, and she was allowed to visit their war-lord. That night, alone in his tent with him, she killed him. Then she severed his head. The serving woman had a basket ready. They brought the head back to their own folk, so they might fear no longer.”

  The horror of the endeavour flashed across Dagmar’s face as she listened. It made Ashild think anew of it. As well as she knew this tale, Ashild had never given real thought to the performance of the deed itself, and how it need be accomplished. If she had been called to perform such a gruesome act, it was not hard to picture the steadfast Burginde at her side, stealing back to their village with the hideous trophy in their basket. Indeed, she could picture none other than Burginde to aid her.

  “That night, in his tent,” Dagmar repeated. “So she had to…” Her question trailed off.

  “Who knows what she had to do,” was Ashild’s rejoinder. “She set herself a task and she completed it. And she saved her people.”

  “This is why the Abbess calls you Judith,” Dagmar summed. “For your courage.”

  Ashild snorted. “I was nearly killed. If that Dane had knocked me off my horse another man would have poled me in an instant.

  “When it was over and I got off my horse I could barely walk to where Sigewif stood waiting to embrace me. That was how badly I trembled.”

  Dagmar’s next words were spoken with quiet solemnity. “My father told me it is the same for every young warrior.” Even Ashild must admit to the admiration in the eyes of her sister-in-law.

  They both looked down to the scarred table top. Then Dagmar spoke again. “You are just more honest about it than most men.”

  At that Ashild had to smile, as did Dagmar.

  Kjeld did not return with the five he rode out with. When their approach was whistled, Hrald climbed up to the ramparts so he might see their arrival himself. Four horses and two pack animals met his eyes. Hrald could only swallow, hoping against hope he had not lost so valuable a man as was Kjeld. But he was not riding with them, leading them home.

  He scrambled down to hear the reason. His men explained that when they had reached the slain watch-men, Kjeld decided to break from the group and track the assailants. The men were on foot, with their newly gained horses, and their tracks in the still unfrozen earth were clear. The soil had been wet at the attack, and it had not rained since. Kjeld would risk following and see what he could learn. His fellows gave him what provender they could, then set to work on the grisly task of burial. They had been unimpeded on the road back, and every watch camp they passed had known no disturbance.

  Kjeld rode back alone, two days hence, hungry and worn. His look to Hrald and Jari as he quitted his horse made Hrald gesture him into the treasure room. There, over a cup of ale, Kjeld told of how he had begun following the tracks, at times leaning low
from his horse, at others scanning the undergrowth from a distance to discern the way.

  “Yesterday, almost at dusk, I recognized where I was. I trailed them to the gates of Haward’s hall.”

  Chapter the Eighth: Never Would It Be Me

  HRALD sent riders that hour to tell Asberg to meet him in the morning at the halfway point between Four Stones and Turcesig. Together they would ride to confront Haward. The next day fifty heavily armed men, having made an early start from their respective halls, met at the stream fork which served as marker. Asberg’s troop reached there first, their horses nodding and snorting in impatience as they stood. The weather was sharply colder; the breath of both horses and men smoked in the frosty air. A skim of rippling ice sat on the water of the stream, making the fallen leaves resting on the shallow bottom look black.

  As they approached Haward’s hall the tracks of the men who had marched to his doors were clear. They need not whistle their own approach; Haward’s men upon his palisade did it for them, and the gates were speedily opened. This would not be the case if the killers of Hrald’s watch-men were still within; that would have occasioned discussion and delay. And in fact the hall yards looked as they always had. Whoever had come here had now left.

  Hrald, Asberg, and Jari walked to the hall proper, leaving the body of their men not only within the closed gates but still mounted. If anything went amiss they wanted them to have every advantage.

  “Let me speak to him,” Hrald said to his uncle as the hall door opened. Asberg nodded.

  They stepped within. The long fire-pit cast both light and heat, brightening the hall even in the drabness of the morning. All were breaking their fast, and serving folk moved amongst the crowded trestles. At the women’s table Hrald saw the child Siggerith, spooning something into her mouth. Her eyes widened at the sight of Hrald, but she did not seem fearful.

  Haward had already risen from the table to welcome the newcomers. He came forth, a smile of greeting on his face, one that shifted when he saw the gravity of his guests’ countenances. He turned and led them to the door of the weapons room, and let them in.

  “Haward. You have had visitors,” were Hrald’s first words.

  Haward stopped in his motion. His head tilted as if in question, and none of the men from Four Stones showed surprise at the uncertainty of his next words.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the troop of warriors who my man Kjeld tracked here to your gates. The same warriors who killed three of my watch-men last week.”

  Haward’s mouth opened.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “At the southern border of my lands, on the northeast road, by the tall cairn.”

  Haward’s eyes looked to the left as he calculated this.

  “And then they came here…” he conceded.

  “Who were they?” Hrald demanded.

  The briefest pause before he answered told of Haward’s discomfort.

  “Men of my cousin, Agmund.”

  The hands of both Asberg and Jari now flinched, as if reaching for their weapon belts. Hrald stood unmoving, staring at Haward.

  “He has thrown in with Haesten,” Hrald said. “You are sworn to me, to uphold Guthrum’s Peace. Tell me why you let them in.”

  “They asked for one meal, nothing more.”

  Hrald kept his eyes on Haward’s face. Men on the march would be hungered, but that was not the sole reason why they sought out Haward. Hrald kept his eyes fixed on him.

  Haward took a breath in an empty effort to calm himself. He looked at the young Jarl’s face, and saw the muscle in Hrald’s cheek ripple as he clenched his jaw.

  There was no route but forward. Haward must take it.

  “They carried a message from Agmund, asking me to join them.”

  Haward forced his eyes from Hrald’s face, to look at both older men.

  “Asberg, Jari. Surely you know that a man must have leave to talk, especially with kin.”

  Neither of their faces provided the slightest encouragement for this supposition.

  “What answer did you give,” Hrald wished to know next.

  “None. I gave none.” As soon as Haward spoke thus, he heard how damning it was.

  “I tried to delay. How could I give answer,” he spluttered, “when they were forty men within my gates?”

  “You swung wide those very gates,” Hrald pointed out. “Why?”

  “I told you. Agmund is kin.” Haward’s eyes darted about the hall for a moment, seeking words. “He is Dagmar’s brother,” he ended, in needless reminder. “I must at least listen.”

  “Nej. One does not listen to a broken faith. Agmund broke faith with his own father, then sent men here to tempt you to do the same.

  “And I lost three men to them,” Hrald ended.

  “Your watch-men – I did not know that,” Haward said, shaking his head. “I did not know that,” he repeated.

  Hrald studied his face. “That part, I believe,” he said at last.

  At Four Stones that night, Hrald spoke before the platters were brought. He was not yet seated, and looked down the length of the high table.

  “Kjeld,” he summoned. He named rose, and came to Hrald, who held out a neck ring of silver.

  “For your service,” was what Kjeld’s Jarl said. Hrald passed the thick necklet to him.

  As was custom, the prize was held up before all, who hooted and whistled their approval. Kjeld then pressed the thing around his neck, at once sporting his reward. His grin said the rest.

  When Hrald sat, Dagmar turned and whispered in his ear. “That is a handsome gift. How did he earn it?”

  Hrald had not told his bride of Kjeld’s report. She knew he had today ridden to see her cousin, but not why.

  “Kjeld is faithful in his service,” was all he was able to say.

  A few nights later Ashild was lying in bed in the bower house when she awakened. She was not sure why. Then she felt a stirring, almost a fluttering, deep within her belly, the first true sense that her own body now sheltered another. A gasp escaped her lips.

  She was alone in her revelation. Her mother slept, and the low and halting snores issuing from Burginde’s alcove told that she did as well. Ashild lay there, letting her eyes close. Of a sudden, the grossness of her bodily transformation made sense. Everything was worth it, the breasts grown pendulous, the nagging back ache, her inability to ride or run, her impaired sense of balance, every temporary indignity visited upon her body by her condition, even the sense of awe-ful vulnerability melted away. She wrapped her arms about her belly, holding its distended firmness, awaiting another flutter. It came. With it arose a new knowledge, something akin to a fresh source of power. It was as close to the sacred as she had come.

  She was alone in this moment of discovery; Ceric was not there to place his hands on her belly and feel their child quickening. Before she knew it tears had gathered in her eyes. She was not alone. This babe she nurtured was of her, and with her.

  That evening, when Ashild and Ælfwyn readied themselves for the hall, the younger woman posed a question.

  “My father. I know he died before my birth,” she began. “But did he ever know I was coming?”

  Ælfwyn stopped in the combing of her flaxen hair. She looked at her daughter, and heaved a sigh. “No, he did not. It would have gladdened him if he had. He was eager to have children.”

  Ashild gave a nod, and then must add what she knew was true. “Especially sons.”

  Her mother looked at her with a conceding smile. “In no way would you have disappointed him.”

  Ashild searched her mother’s face. “And you – are you very disappointed?”

  Ælfwyn knew what she meant. Disappointed in her daughter’s choice to remain here; perhaps even disappointed in her. She took a moment before she answered.

  “Your happiness, Ashild, is more dear to me than my own. If you sacrificed that, then I would be disappointed.”

  Hearing this, so simply stated, forc
ed tears to Ashild’s eyes.

  Her mother set down her comb and came to her. She had not, she thought, been a disappointment to her own mother, and could not bear for Ashild to think she might be one, to her. Ælfwyn had now some distance, granted by the years, and judgement, won by experience, to look upon. And would share this with her girl.

  “My role was decreed by my father and grandsire. I did not come willingly to Four Stones, yet I have come to love it, and its folk. And I am not unaware of the good that my coming has brought to this place. That is satisfaction, indeed.

  “The children I have been given are the greatest gifts of my life. You are my firstborn and dearly precious to me. I wish your father had lived, that he might have known you, and you, him. Neither of you were granted that. I wish the Peace had not dissolved. I wish Anglia had still a strong and just ruler, as it had in Guthrum. We have not been granted that. We must make our way as we can without it. And yes, as much as I wish that you could be at Kilton with Ceric, it is enough to know that you bear him such regard to have brought forth a child to bless both houses, and this hall.”

  Ashild, standing before her and listening, felt a deep harkening to her mother’s words. She lifted her arms and embraced her, an embrace paired with a smile at her need to set her body aslant to her mother’s slender waist so they might for a moment hold the other.

  Ashild felt almost a sense of joy, and of glad expectation. She wanted her mother to know as much of happiness as she could, and her next words suggested where she thought the Lady of Four Stones might find it.

  “Will you stay here always, mother, or now that Hrald has wed, perhaps go to Oundle?” she wanted to know.

  Ælfwyn did not expect this; but then her eldest had always surprised her. She would answer as calmly and truthfully as was possible.