For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  “An arrow,” Sebbe told him, in a voice not much above a rasp. By the time Ceric got him on his horse, the rest of the foot-men had passed them. Sebbe’s eyes were glazed, and his lids dropped over them almost at once. His hands buried themselves in the dark red mane of Ceric’s horse. Ceric held the reins, and walking at the animal’s shoulder, he urged him to as fast a walk as he could. Eadward’s body-guard was almost out of sight, but thankfully no Dane had appeared, running after those who had fled.

  Retreat was ever fraught with peril. Those quitting the contest could be pursued and overtaken. Eadward had ordered Ceric and his own body-guards to stay behind, as the straggling foot-men would be the first the Danes would reach, and he wanted his best men there to face them. But retreat had also been used as a feint, notably against Ælfred’s men. Several times Danes had appeared to flee the field of battle to have the men of Wessex break ranks and follow them, in hope of killing more to add to their battle-gain. The Danes had then spun around in counterattack, surrounding and slaying their pursuers.

  This morning the lack of pursuit seemed one of the few things that had gone right. Still, Ceric lagged far behind. At the next river bend he would lose sight of the final two body-guards. As he strained his eyes looking ahead, Sebbe fell from the saddle. He almost hit Ceric in doing so, and the stallion snorted and danced sideways to clear the body.

  Ceric knelt down, placed his hand on Sebbe’s neck. The pulse under that still warm skin had stopped. He stood up, and yelped out his call to the body-guards ahead. One of them turned his horse’s head and rode back to him.

  The man returned at a canter, his eyes taking in the scene. As he neared Ceric he looked down at the body. “There is no time,” he said. “Leave him.”

  “He is one of mine,” Ceric answered.

  The eyes of Eadward’s man met those of Ceric. It was reason enough; he must comply. He jumped down from his horse and together he and Ceric flung the body of Sebbe across the saddle.

  They had just left men dead in the trees and before the walls. But this was different. Sebbe had pulled the arrow from his side, and made it part-way to safety, and Ceric would see he was duly buried at their camp.

  A tree felled by wind lay not far off, and the body-guard brought his horse to it. It gave a step to Ceric to climb behind the man on his horse. With two laden horses they made haste to the rest of the line.

  They rounded the crook in the river to find that others of the foot-men had begun to collapse from exhaustion. Some were wounded. The mounted body-guard picked up those unable to go further.

  When they reached their camp Ceric called the men of Kilton to him. In Ælfred’s camp as they were, there would be food and drink ahead of them; this was the sole consolation. He stood, his helmet under his arm, looking out on the blank and exhausted faces of the young men he led. He had lost two of them, Sebbe and that man running to his right in the trees, felled by a throwing spear. He gave the ablest bodied amongst them the task of burying Sebbe. Then he strode to one of the water barrels and poured water from its wooden dipper over his head. He went to his tent where he pulled off his ring-shirt, and waited to hear from Eadward.

  The report was grim. Eadward had lost five men, but Æthelred, whose troops had borne the brunt of the assault, almost sixty. And there had been no gain. The losses were so great and so immediate that retreat was not only warranted but required. Æthelred had not guessed the strength of the enemy, nor that they would keep pouring from those gates. Eadward, closer to the front, had seen they were vastly outnumbered.

  That night, lying in his tent, Ceric dreamt that he was flying. It was not the darting flight of song birds, nor the soaring of a gull, but rather a slow and serene drifting above the surface of his life. He looked down on the events of the morning, saw himself in a silent retelling making his way through the trees of the wood. Hovering just above his own head, he saw that head turn to see his foot-man fall, the spear in his back. He saw himself run forward, then turn to face the Dane who had trailed him. The entire action was played out until his body beneath him scrambled to the bank while he floated without effort above it. He watched himself thump his chest with his closed fist, on the place where that golden cross lay, and saw himself prepare to die.

  He awoke then, not with a start, but the sense that he could no longer see the action unfolding beneath him. The picture had faded, and he was left in darkness. He opened his eyes. His tent was brighter. The soft gleam of a Moon, waxing half, spilled across the ground outside. He lay in that owl-light, wondering, Is this omen, that next time, I shall die? Was that my soul? If so, there is little to fear.

  The discovery of a new Danish fort so close to Lundenwic was as startling as it was unwelcome. Built upon the River Lyge, it gave ready access to not only the rich trading centre, but granted escape via the Thames to the sea. Hope of immediate dismissal was brushed away by the finding. Eadward’s troops must stay, at least until decision was made for next steps.

  Scouts were sent next morning to keep watch on the Danish fort. Approaching on foot as near as they might through the wood, they were greeted first by the sight and smell of wafting smoke. From the cover of the trees their eyes confirmed its source. A pyre had been erected before the palisade, upon which the bodies of their slain had been laid. It smoldered still. Its size proclaimed that their own losses had not been slight.

  Æthelred had gone to his hall in Lundenwic, and Ælfred had remained at the camp. The remainder of the grain had been gathered in, but now he must retain a strong presence north of Lundenwic until he and his son-in-law determined the best course of action. Lundenwic too housed a royal mint, Ælfred’s largest, and so the richest in silver ingots. During the early years of his Kingship when he had need to pay thousands of pounds of silver to buy off the predations of the Danes, his coinage had been grievously debased. He had worked hard to restore its purity and value, and was not about to now surrender his chief minting works.

  Two days after the failed action Ceric was invited to join the King and Prince for a ride along the banks of the Lyge. Ceric had not been called into the King’s presence since the day he and Eadward had arrived. He could not think it a mark of any special merit; he had done nothing during the attack to distinguish himself, other than return alive. But then, he was Ælfred’s godson, and was acting as Eadward’s second in command; that might be enough.

  When he arrived at the King’s tent he was glad to spot Raedwulf on his black mare. The bailiff was always good company, and link as he was to Worr and Kilton, an important reminder of home. And Raedwulf had proven his ally in his suit of Ashild of Four Stones. The grassy sward of the river banks was broad enough for two men to ride side by side, and the King and Prince took up position in front, with Ceric and the bailiff behind. None of them spoke much. Raedwulf had been at the King’s side when both Æthelred and Eadward had made their reports. But the bailiff now had interest in the account of Ceric, and of coming through the trees with his foot-men. Ceric related what he could of that truncated experience. Raedwulf listened, largely in silence, allowing Ceric to tell what he wanted, and how he wanted it to be heard.

  “It was the only battle without Worr by my side,” he finished.

  Raedwulf felt Ceric lucky to be alive, and could not regret that his son-in-law had missed the ill-Fated attempt. He wished he could say that Ceric would soon be back at Kilton, enjoying the rest he so richly deserved, but he had foreboding that respite would again be delayed. Raedwulf himself, travelling almost without stopping with the King, had not been back to his hall in Defenas for ten months.

  They both turned their attention to the King and Prince, riding just ahead of them. Eadward was on his grey, and the King a fine pale chestnut. Neither spoke, but just walked along in meditative silence. The day encouraged such; dry, warm, and with little breeze even by the river’s edge.

  Raedwulf, observing how straight was the King’s head, gaze forward, knew these thoughtful moods. Fallen into one, Ælfred would fo
rget to speak for long periods of time. The bailiff let his own eyes drop to the water, where dragonflies skimmed. The King stopped, and they all reined up in answer. Ælfred turned slightly in the saddle, gazing over the scarcely rippling water to the opposite bank. Then he turned his horse and rode back a short distance, passing the bailiff and Ceric as he did. He seemed now to scan both banks at once. The three joined him. The King’s eyes had renewed sharpness, and his voice a new vigour.

  “This is the narrowest point,” he told them, gesturing to the Lyge. “A fort on either side will all but close the channel off. Keep them from their ships, and we keep them from Lundenwic. And we close off escape to the sea.” He looked back at their faces. “We must start at once, today.”

  Start they did. Raedwulf and Ceric were given the task of overseeing work on the far bank, and Eadward on the near. The King summoned boats from Lundenwic with which to make the needed crossing, as men and materials both must be ferried across. They began that very day, marking off the land. Any fortified settlement, especially one built in a time of active trouble, always began by the building of the surrounding palisade, protecting those who worked within. Eadward had with his father overseen the building of many a fortified burh. Raedwulf had his own expertise, gleaned as observer of the King’s work, and from his own efforts at his hall in Defenas. The King chose one hundred of his ablest men, and combined with the fittest of those of Eadward, two teams were formed. The tasks ahead were numerous and arduous; felling trees, digging out and setting up saw-pits, trenching out the ground to hold the timber uprights, helping the King’s smiths to set up forges so they might hammer out rivets, strapping, and hinges.

  Six days passed in a whirlwind of such labour. The King kept close watch on the Danes, sending his scouts each dawn to observe their fort. After the burning of their dead, the scouts heard the sounds of normal activity coming from behind the palisade, and even could spy the watch-men themselves at times as they stood upon the parapet. But on the seventh day, gaining their vantage point, the scouts were greeted by silence. They stood a long time before approaching nearer. Nothing. Stranger still, one half of the broad gate was cracked eerily open.

  Daring greatly, a scout shot an arrow over the top of the timber wall, to land within. There was no response, no hue nor cry. The Danes were gone. They had abandoned their newly built fort. One of the scouts swam across the water to walk along the other side, shaking his head at what he saw. They had even forfeited their ships. Nearly a score of their ribbed-hulled drekars sat stranded on the bank, or nodded with the gentle action of the river. Having earlier explored the Lyge the scouts knew why. The narrowness of the flow from its headwaters would not allow them to long follow its source.

  The news was almost confounding. When told it, Ælfred called for his son, and for Raedwulf and Ceric. Æthelred had already been summoned, and the five men met in the King’s tent, under its double-peaked roof. They sat about the trestle table, Ælfred on the sole chair, the rest on benches.

  “Why,” asked the King. He scanned the faces around him for answer.

  Ceric, having been in the thick of discovery during the assault, would offer his thoughts.

  “We saw ourselves how good their own scouts are,” he told the King. “They had watchers who spied our coming well before we arrived. They were ready for us, and waiting in the wood.” He went on before the scene of his death-dealing amongst the trees took hold in his mind.

  “Their scouts have come down the river under cover of night, or at dawn, and seen the two forts being raised.”

  Raedwulf took up the thread from the skein. “And realized they were trapped. They could not sail out, so they decamped on foot.”

  As a deterrent the King’s idea had worked no slight wonder. The Danes were not only stopped from sailing to Lundenwic and its mint, they had vanished entirely.

  “To where, and to what,” Ælfred mused.

  It was a question without answer, but the Prince would try to learn.

  “I am going after them,” he said.

  He looked to his father, who nodded assent.

  Eadward went on. “These Danes, building as near as they did to Lundenwic, must have been well-supplied. Their confidence tells me they are close to Haesten. Find them, and we may find him.”

  Ceric found words rising to his lips.

  “I will come,” he told Eadward.

  “I want you there,” the Prince responded. “I will wager we are headed north, perhaps deep into Anglia. You have been there.”

  Ceric had a sole request. “But my men – many of them are boys. I would have them sent home.”

  The Prince looked again to his father.

  “I will see they have escort,” Ælfred granted.

  Eadward went on. “They have served well. I have a portion of silver for each, and for the folk of those you have lost.”

  Eadward spoke to his father. “I want a small troop only, thirty of us. That will give me riders to send back, as we learn more.” He would keep his key body-guards on, but asked for fresh men to fill out his ranks. Eadward had inherited his father’s skill of sizing up the fitness of his men, watching particularly when they were at ease to gauge if they had the bodily and mental toughness to continue on.

  Æthelred spoke now. There was a hurried, even brusque quality to his speech, an almost rapid-fire report in contrast to the King’s thoughtful considerations. The assault had cost Æthelred precious men, yet he was left with a newly-built fort. The Danes had not fired it as their parting act; to do so would have called instant attention to their departure, and increased the chances that they would be at once tracked.

  “My men will claim the ships,” the Lord of Mercia began. “Any still sound they will sail down to Lundenwic. The unseaworthy will be broken up and sunk. I will garrison the fort they left us.”

  There had been rare recompense from repelling the Danes; now Mercia would also gain in the ships that made them so dangerous a foe.

  The Prince excused himself so that he and Ceric could begin their preparations. Once outside the tent with Ceric, Eadward spoke again.

  “If we find Haesten…” he posed.

  He shook his head, thinking on it. He had captured Haesten’s wife and young sons, only to have them returned by his father without demand of ransom. It had been far from the desired result. The rich trophy was no trophy to the King, but a man’s wife and young boys, which need be released to their husband and father with speed and dignity. Eadward had expected the King to award him some large sum of silver or even of gold, of which he would keep half and share out the rest amongst his men.

  No reward was forthcoming. Now Eadward was asking his best men to again join him on what might not only prove a fruitless mission, but excelled the first in danger, as he felt certain much of their time would be spent in Anglia, held by the Danes.

  At least he felt assured the result would be far different, should he capture Haesten.

  They could never take such a war-lord with so small a troop. But one could never tell when any commander might be lightly guarded and vulnerable. Eadward himself was now setting off with only thirty men. They might catch Haesten in similar circumstances. To bring home the great prize of the man himself would be to possibly end the entire conflict.

  Barring the war-lord’s outright death or capture, if they discovered which fortress he had made his headquarters, it would go a long way to directing further efforts. Even returning with tidings of how it truly fared with Haesten would be worth the having.

  Ceric was struck by all these fleeing Danes had abandoned. “These men have no horses. They came by ship, and have been forced to leave them behind. Anglia is rich in horses. They will be stealing all they can.”

  Saying this, he could not but help think of Four Stones.

  Chapter the Twelfth: Always Ready to Die

  ÆLFRED had not been to Kilton for over a year. The eldest son thereof had been kept in the field by Eadward for seven months. The King must go
to the sea-girt fortress. He had need to visit the families of all the burhs of Wessex, that they might know their monarch, and the bonds of fealty be renewed. He needed their loyalty as much as they required his protection. With a burh such as Kilton, the bonds were of long duration. Godwulf of Kilton had been the great friend and brother-in-arms of his father, Æthelwulf. The Lady Modwynn, Godwulf’s widow, had been almost as a second mother to Ælfred when he and his brothers were boys. Her oldest son, Godwin, had proved a superior warrior, and unshakable in daring. Her younger son, Gyric, had fought alongside Ælfred when he himself had been Prince. Ælfred never forgot that Gyric had served himself up as decoy to the Danes, drawing the heat of battle away from the Prince and his body-guard, and allowing himself to be captured in his stead.

  Ælfred, and Kilton, had lost Gyric and then Godwin, the younger brother blinded out of spite, the elder fallen prey to the Dane Sidroc on the distant island of Gotland. The sons of the hall were now Ceric and Edwin. They had both come of age in a time of war, as had Godwin and Gyric. The King, approaching Kilton, considered the undulating rhythm of the conflict with the Danes. It had ruled every aspect of his life, and was likely to do so for that of his son, and the sons of Kilton.

  He had left the rest of his fyrd back in Witanceaster, and travelled with just a small detachment comprised of his personal body-guard. Raedwulf, the Bailiff of Defenas, rode at his right side. Ælfred had sent two men ahead to warn Kilton of his near arriving. On an afternoon marked by its calm Summer fairness, the King advanced at a steady walk through the outlying pasturelands. The horn of a ward-corn in a tower perch hidden by trees sounded, letting all know the royal party was nearly upon the burh.