“I felt fear, fear of war…
“The danger here…” she stammered out.
“There has always been danger,” Hrald answered. “The same danger my mother and sister have had to live under. You must be willing to face it, as they do. You are Lady of Four Stones.”
He looked up, far above her head, then returned his eyes to her. He studied the face of his recreant wife. His next words, softly spoken, and rooted not in rancour but in pain, sealed her Fate.
“You were Lady of Four Stones.”
He said the next as command, one issued from the void of his heart.
“Go,” he told her. “Go now. I cast you from my hall. Take your bridal goods, and go.”
Vigmund finally spoke, and to Hrald. “She does not love you, but me, and just told me so.”
Hrald barely glanced at him.
“Then go. Take her.”
Dagmar gasped. She had not told Vigmund she would go; if Hrald had not come upon them she did not know what she would have told him. She had not had time to think, to look beyond the marvel of Vigmund standing before her. If she had had another kiss or two, she might have been able to push him away for good, tell him she would love him always, but that her choice was made. Now Hrald was making that choice for her.
She had resolved to wed Hrald, resolved to work hard to be worthy of the role bestowed upon her. She had shown kindness, even devotion to him. And she knew a growing affection for Hrald; affection, and respect. He could not repudiate her for one mistake.
“Nej! Hrald, do not do this,” she cried.
Vigmund stared at her, disbelieving. He had been expecting every moment for Hrald to pull his own weapon. If he did, he knew that after he killed this young Jarl, he himself would be a dead man. He could never escape the hall yard alive. But Hrald was letting them both free. Now the woman he was risking his life for was turning her back on him.
Hrald saw Vigmund’s startle give way to growing umbrage. He stared at his wife’s lover, and spoke the truth to him.
“Now she has been false to both of us.”
Vigmund, pointlessly holding his sword, now lowered his hand and ran it back into its scabbard.
Dagmar, looking from one to the other, fixed her eyes on Hrald. She cried out in supplication.
“If it had been you, Hrald –”
“It would not be me. Never would it be me.”
The resoluteness of his words rang in her ears, and the pain she had inflicted was all too clear on his face. Her chin dropped with her lowered eyes, and her hand rose to her brow, as if to hide her shame.
She was used to her father, and his many infidelities with many women. Hrald was not such a man. He was right. It would not be him, found in the arms of another. He had given his heart to her, and she had brutally flung it away.
“Go,” Hrald told them both. “You are taking your lives with you. Do not make me regret that I left you with that.”
Ælfwyn now came down the stairs from the weaving room, and saw the door to the treasure room. All during her long tenure at Four Stones, the door to that stronghold was never left open. It was open now. She went to it, and came upon them.
Hrald stood just inside. Deep in the recess of the room stood Dagmar, a strange young warrior at her side.
A look at her son’s stricken face made Ælfwyn’s heart constrict in her breast.
“Dagmar,” she murmured. Ælfwyn placed the back of her hand to her mouth, almost as if she had been struck.
Dagmar ran to her, dropping upon her knees. She grasped at Ælfwyn’s hem. “My lady, my lady…” she begged. “Do not let him cast me off…”
Ælfwyn looked to her son for the awe-ful confirmation. Hrald’s burning eyes told her of the depths of his anguish.
He forced himself to speak.
“She was in his arms. And kissing, as only lovers do.”
Ælfwyn closed her eyes. An unbridgeable breach had sundered her son’s union. All was spoilt for Hrald and his young wife.
That this marriage should have ended so soon, and thusly, was a calamity for all concerned. Ælfwyn had grown to care for Dagmar, and had never expected this of her. The Abbess of Oundle’s estimation of the girl, that she was guarded, had now proved true. Dagmar had something to hide, her past with this man, a past that extended into the present.
Yet Dagmar’s plight could not but move the deepest pity in Ælfwyn’s breast. The girl crouched with heaving shoulders and strangled sobs at her mother-in-law’s feet, grasping the hem of her gown in both hands and wetting it with her tears. It was all Ælfwyn could do not to reach down and lay a consoling hand upon the girl’s back, so pitiable was her distress.
To love one man, and yet be wed to another… this quiet tragedy had been her own.
She gave unwilling thought to what might have happened if Yrling had ever learnt that she had loved the prisoner who was left to rot under this very floor. It was true she came as maid to Yrling’s bed, but also true she wanted to ride off with Gyric, escape with him, and would have tried to do so, if he had been whole. Traces of that fear and horror coursed through her now, as she thought of what might have been.
Ælfwyn could not extend her hand to Dagmar. The injury to her beloved son, to all of them, was vast. This was near to treason. Dagmar was guilty of a kind of heartlessness; she had lost heart. She had proved faithless to Hrald, and to Four Stones. Finding her once in the arms of another man meant she could no longer be trusted. A Jarl must know his children had sprung from his loins, and none other.
There was no repair, no remedy Ælfwyn could offer. The wound to her son was too deep. He had his father’s decisiveness, and like his father, was learning to know himself well.
She looked at her son, white-faced, unmoving, and saw his eyes lift from his prostrate wife to the man she had been caught with. There was no one to bring Hrald to penalty should he slay them both. If her son had been of different nature Ælfwyn might have entered this room to find that he had already hacked them both to death. Even the laws of Christian Wessex allowed a man, finding his wife behind a closed door with another man, to kill without fear of consequence. How much worse was it to come upon your wife in passionate embrace with that man. Wilgot the priest would absolve this sin of murder acted out in passion of betrayal. Yet like his father, she could not imagine Hrald doing so.
In a voice trembling with emotion, Ælfwyn spoke. “I will not intercede, Dagmar. I cannot.”
Dagmar’s choking sobs slowed. She pressed the fistful of wool she held in her hands to her face a moment, then released it. She drew breath, and lifted her tear-stained face to her mother-in-law. She rose, and her fingers went to the ring of keys at her waist. She untied them from her sash, and Lady of the hall no more, handed them back to Ælfwyn.
Next her hands went to the thin golden chain about her throat, from which dangled the ring Hrald had presented her with as his morgen-gyfu. He had not yet been able to send it to Jorvik. As his morning-gift it was hers to keep outright. No matter. She would never wear it.
She drew it off and held it to Hrald, but he would not take it. A fresh sob shook her as she held the ring out to Ælfwyn, who relieved her of it.
As she was doing so Ashild and Burginde appeared in the doorway. Ashild, now great with child, stepped into the room. Her eyes moved about the space, taking all in. She saw the tear-streaked Dagmar, her mother’s pained and pitying expression, and a strange warrior, a Dane, seemingly distanced from the rest. She saw the golden chain which held Dagmar’s ring swing from her fingers as she passed it to her mother.
Most of all she saw the devastation on her brother’s face.
Ashild felt her own face flame, a sudden rage firing her opening words.
She looked from Dagmar to the Dane, and then to her brother. “Has she betrayed you?”
Hrald turned his gaze to his sister. For answer he said only, “They are going now, together.”
Ashild took a step towards Dagmar.
“Strump
et!” she named her.
“What have you done to him?” Ashild demanded. Her voice was just above a hiss, so great was her ire. “What have you done to us?”
Ashild could not stop, and her eyes almost bore through Dagmar as she said the next. “I have oftentimes wished I had been born a boy. It is your great good fortune I was not. My blade would be at your throat now.”
Hrald raised his hand to stay his sister. He looked once more at Dagmar. She could not be with child; she had just had her Moon-flow. He need not fear sending away his own coming son or daughter with her. Having found her thus with another man, he reflected, how could I ever be certain any child she bore would be my own. Better to have learnt this now about her.
With a flick of his eyes he paired her with her lover. “Go,” he told them. “Neither of you are worthy of the stain on my soul, should I kill you.”
Burginde, biting her lip to keep her outrage from escaping, had come up behind Ælfwyn, and laid her arm about her waist in support. Ælfwyn turned her head, and spoke as steadily as she could to her nurse.
“Burginde, Dagmar is leaving us, for good. Please to help her pack her bridal goods, and all she came with.”
The nurse moved smartly across the floor to those chests which she knew held Dagmar’s belongings. She began rolling her clothing and other goods into the leathern packs stored in the room, both into those Dagmar had arrived with, and others. But Dagmar, at Burginde’s side, would not allow her to place anything within which had come into her keeping since arriving at Four Stones. She shook her head against the beautiful veil of silk Hrald’s mother had presented her with, and every other gift she had received. She felt the white heat of Burginde’s anger against her, and recalling the spinning lessons she had given her, fought once more against coming tears. I can return these things you gave me, she thought, but not the kindness you showed; that is gone.
Meanwhile Ashild had been staring at the Danish warrior. She had one thought whirling in her mind: If she were a man he would be dead now, and this false woman as well.
She heard a movement behind her and saw Jari, drawn by both delay and her raised voice, standing in the doorway.
“Take him to his horse,” Ashild told Jari.
The Dane began to move towards the door, and Ashild’s eyes, following him, fell on the bulky leathern bag on the table.
“What is that,” she demanded of the man.
“A marriage gift to Dagmar. From Guthrum’s widow.”
Ashild scoffed. “Ha! Take it with you. You will need every scrap of silver, on your sorry way.”
As Vigmund picked it up and moved to leave, Dagmar turned to him, a mix of panic and grief on her face.
Ashild, watching this, had further command for Jari.
“Make sure he does not leave without his baggage,” she ended, with a glance to the weeping Dagmar.
Dagmar, seeing Vigmund pass out of the room under escort by Jari, was now alone with the family of Four Stones.
“Vigmund,” she implored. “Do not leave without me.”
He turned his head and gave her a look. Then he moved out of sight.
Chapter the Ninth: Blossom and Thorn
DAGMAR and her lover were sent off, relayed by three watch-men riding as escort. None but Jari and the yard folk watched as the unknown man with her swung into the saddle, and then pulled her up behind him from one of the mounting blocks. The warrior put his heels to his horse’s barrel, and it and the pack horse tied to a saddle ring trotted out the gates.
The door of the treasure room had closed, leaving Hrald, his mother and sister, and Burginde within. Jari, regaining the hall, now stood in the middle near the fire, rubbing his hands, shaking his great head and blowing out breaths of air as he considered it all. Before that door had closed he shared a few words with Hrald. As a result Jari had already dispatched Kjeld to ride to Asberg at Turcesig.
When Kjeld reached there, he found Asberg in one of the joiners’ stalls, working at carving the wooden backing of a new sword scabbard with his eldest son Ulf.
“There is trouble at Four Stones,” Kjeld began, without even a greeting. The high alert these words ignited in Asberg was not allayed by Kjeld’s report, who told him what little he knew. Asberg interrupted only once.
“Was blood shed?”
“Nej. But Hrald cast her out, at once, with the man Vigmund.”
The news was stunning. Asberg, who had the most direct dealings with Dagmar’s kin, felt more than a twinge of remorse mix with his anger. He had allowed his misgivings about Guthrum’s daughter to be overruled by his desire to abet his nephew in winning the woman he desired. Another thought rose, one which luckily he could dismiss. As grave as this all was, if Guthrum still lived, Dagmar’s deceit could have had dire consequences.
He would ride to Four Stones on the morrow, but Haward’s hall must be first. Ulf wished to accompany his father, but the boy was now nearly sixteen. Far better training for him to stay with Styrbjörn, and to wait and watch with Turcesig’s second in command.
Asberg chose five men, with Kjeld as the sixth, for his visit to Dagmar’s cousin. After seeing how Haward had reacted under Hrald’s questioning, he had no fear more would be needed. As they rode large flakes of snow began drifting through the air, falling from a milky sky. Asberg thought again and again of his conversation with Haward concerning Dagmar, when the man had hesitated when he had asked if there was anything Hrald should know. Asberg had not pressed Haward then, but noted his hesitation in answering. He shook his head to himself, recalling the wedding at Oundle not six months past. He had looked at Dagmar on that day and summed her correctly, it turned out. Her mouth was indeed hard.
When they reached Haward’s the snow lay covering the ground. Asberg gave thought to the young woman, thrust out of a hall like Four Stones, who tonight would be camping with her lover in the cold.
When Haward appeared in his hall, Asberg and the six he fronted walked straight to him. With an uncertain face Haward backed up to the door of the weapons room, unlocked it, and let them in. He stepped to the back of the room, as if in retreat.
Asberg kept coming towards him, his bladed weapons still sheathed but with marked aggression. Haward could not hide the fact that he of a sudden feared for his life. Those men who faced him could see he struggled with the instinct to yell for help. He kept himself from doing so, and Asberg stopped just before him.
“Hrald has been forced to put away Dagmar. He found her in the embrace of another man, a strange Dane who had come from Headleage.”
“Vigmund,” muttered Haward.
“Já.” Asberg’s voice was close to a snarl. “Then you knew of this.”
Haward was quick in his own defence.
“Not much of it, I swear,” he answered, shaking his head. “He had been outlawed by Guthrum, went I think to Dane-mark.”
“Why was he outlawed?”
“I am not certain. Something to do with one of Guthrum’s wives. Dagmar’s mother, perhaps.”
“I should kill you now, Haward, and spare Hrald’s blade from your craven blood.”
This threat was all too real to one who had watched Hrald kill Thorfast. Haward was almost choking over his next words.
“I swear, I know nothing more. I thought this connection over, over and done. I could not risk losing the chance for her to wed a Jarl.”
“And to bind yourself closer to Four Stones,” shot back Asberg.
“Well…”
Asberg answered through gritted teeth.
“You have done yourself no favour, Haward.
“We will send back her dowry in the morning,” Hrald’s uncle went on. He recalled one part of it, the choicest piece, which was beyond reclamation. “Hrald gave the silver chalice to Oundle as his gift. We will send you its weight in hack.”
Haward stood staring blankly, and gave another shake of his head.
“Nej. No need,” he stammered, in attempt to offer some meaningful concession. His losses were
too great to number, the wrath of Hrald and Asberg foremost. He realised he must at once surrender the fine weaponry he had been granted as Dagmar’s bride-price. The swords and spear-points were all behind him, locked in chests, the pride of his armoury.
“The swords and points – I will gather them.”
Hrald spent a sleepless night in the treasure room. The bed in which he had found such delight with Dagmar was become a tainted place. When beneath her pillow he uncovered the ribband she used to tie her plaited hair before she slept, he held it to his face, and wept.
He lay there for hours in the dark, looking up into the recesses of the roof timbers. This room, filled with the treasure of arms, of silver and even gold, was the heart of Four Stones in more than this. It was where his father would invite him in as a boy, to glimpse the swords, knives, and spears stowed there. Many times he had gone from chest to chest with his father, and had the thrill of holding up a sword his father admired, and passed to his hands so he might feel its weight, or of running his small fingers through gleaming coins of silver housed in iron caskets. And in this broad bed his own life had started, as had those of his sisters.
He pushed himself up from it, went to the table and lit the cresset. The room flickered into view, but brought no relief to the darkness of his heart. He sunk down on a chair, lay his head in his hands, and at last fell into fitful sleep.
When it was dawning he rose, splashed himself awake with the cold water from the basin, and gathered a few items of clothing. He would go to Oundle for a day or two; he could not stay here. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. Oundle was always refuge, yet it too felt now tainted, for it had been the scene of his pledging to a wife who had proven faithless. Yet where else could he go, but there.
As he reached for his comb he saw the footed silver cup his mother had given Dagmar on their bridal night. Like all the table silver, it resided here when not in use. He picked it up, saw again her name inscribed on the rim of it.
For Me Fate Wove This Page 18
