‘Will you pledge your hand to me openly, Elgiva?’ he asked then. ‘I do not ask for a huge feast—I know it must be repugnant to you in the circumstances—but perhaps a small gathering?’
Elgiva was not surprised by the request. What it meant was a public declaration of intent. It also made clear to all concerned that Elgiva and thus Ravenswood were spoken for, that both lay under the protection of a rich and powerful lord. From the moment their betrothal was announced she was as good as his and no man would touch her. It also meant a respite, time to grow used to the idea of the bargain she had just struck.
‘It shall be as you wish, my lord.’
He smiled. ‘I am content.’
She had wondered if he would try to kiss her, but to her relief he made no further attempt to touch her. He took his leave not long after that and Elgiva watched him ride away with his men. Then she went in search of Osgifu.
The older woman listened in silence, her face impassive as she took in the news.
‘Do you think it was wrong to accept him?’ Elgiva asked at length.
‘You did what you thought you had to do, child, both for yourself and for Ravenswood.’
‘Aylwin will be a good husband and he will restore these lands to their former glory. I cannot bear to see things thus.’
‘I know.’ Osgifu hesitated. ‘But, can you be a wife to him?’
‘I must, Gifu. There is no choice now. Surely you see that?’
‘Yes.’ She put her arms round the girl’s shoulders. ‘I think you have nothing to fear. It is my view that he will be a doting and most indulgent husband.’
Elgiva nodded and tried to think positive thoughts. Neither of them mentioned the rune cast.
The betrothal feast went as planned, a small and select gathering of neighbours and friends who came together to see the couple pledge to each other. It was in every way a most suitable match and no one thought anything of the discrepancy in the ages of the pair who were soon to marry. It was widely held that Aylwin was a clever and knowing man for at a stroke he doubled his holdings and gained a most beautiful wife into the bargain. Elgiva in her blue gown, embroidered at neck and sleeve, her golden hair braided with matching ribbons, looked very fetching indeed. It was noticed that her prospective groom could hardly keep his eyes off her and was most assiduous in plying her with food and wine, carving choice cuts of meat and serving her with his own hands.
In truth, Elgiva had little appetite but did her best to hide it. Her heart was unwontedly heavy but, unwilling to disappoint her guests with a glum face, she smiled graciously and tried to look as though she were enjoying herself. As she noticed the gaze Aylwin bent upon her, the reality of the situation hit her with force—in three months’ time they would be married and he would take her to his bed. She must give herself to him whenever he wished and, eventually, she would bear his children. He had fine sons already, but, if the look in his eye was aught to judge by, he intended to sire more. Elgiva took another sip of wine to steady herself. She had wanted this, had agreed to it of her own free will. Now she must live with the consequences. If he was to be her husband she must get to know him, to learn his likes and dislikes, to discover what would please him. She had no doubt of her ability to run his household efficiently for she had been schooled in domestic duties from childhood. The rules of the bedroom were unknown territory, though familiar to him. She reminded herself sharply that it was not necessary to love for a marriage to work. As long as there was respect. Please, God, she prayed silently, let it be all right.
The feasting done and the hour growing late, the women retired, leaving the hall to the men. Elgiva knew the hard drinking was about to begin and had given orders to the servants to keep the guests plied with ale and mead as long as they wanted it. She was not sorry to make her excuses and bid her future husband a goodnight. He kissed her hand and pressed it warmly. From his flushed face and the hot glow in his eyes it was clear he had had a lot to drink, but his speech was unslurred and his balance still unimpaired.
‘Goodnight, Elgiva, and sleep well. Would this were our wedding night that I might share that bed with you.’
She managed a smile. ‘In good time, my lord.’
Then she was gone, leaving the hall behind and seeking the sanctuary of the women’s bower.
In spite of the late night, Elgiva woke early and for several moments lay still beneath the fur coverlet, enjoying the comfortable warmth of the bed. Though the first grey light of the spring dawn was filtering through the shutters, she could hear no sound of birdsong and the cock had yet to crow. Only Osgifu’s gentle snores broke the heavy stillness of the new day. The nurse would not stir for a while yet. Elgiva rose and dressed quickly for the air was chill, pulling the gown over her linen kirtle and sliding her feet into leather shoes. Then, throwing a mantle about her shoulders, she moved to the doorway, pausing once to glance back. Osgifu slept on. For a moment Elgiva watched, her feelings a strange fusion of love and disappointment. She had trusted her. Even now she could hear her words: The runes never lie. But the runes had lied, and Osgifu had been wrong. Immediately Elgiva upbraided herself. Why should she be surprised to discover human fallibility? She wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake. It was time to face facts and shoulder the responsibilities that fell to her.
Elgiva left the women’s bower and made her way through the hall. It was not her most direct route out, but she was hungry and knew there would be a fair chance of finding something to eat without summoning a servant. All about her, men lay snoring on the rushes among the scraps of food, or sprawled on benches and tables among the debris of the feast. After the copious quantities of mead and ale they had drunk she had no fear of waking the sleepers and guessed there would be a few sore heads this morning. She retrieved part of a loaf from the table and broke a piece off. It was growing stale, but it would do for now. Chewing on the bread, she made her way silently among the sleeping forms, wrinkling her nose at air thick with the reek of smoke and spilled ale and male sweat, skirting the hearth where the remaining embers of the fire smouldered in mounds of grey ash. Hearing her approach, two wolfhounds looked up from their slumber, but the low rumbling growl died in their throats as they recognised her. One got to his feet, wagging his tail, shoving his nose into Elgiva’s hand. She stroked his wiry head absently and then moved on towards the door, eager to be gone for the confines of the hall were stifling and a sharp reminder of things she wished to forget.
The side door was ajar, a clear indication that she was not the first abroad. Through the gap she could see a man relieving himself in the midden across the way. He had his back to her, but from his dress she guessed him to be one of Lord Aylwin’s men. Elgiva seized the moment to slip out and round the end of the hall. From this vantage point she could observe without being seen. Presently, after having answered the call of nature, the man returned whence he came and Elgiva was able to make her way to the stables unnoticed.
Here too, all was quiet, for even the serfs were not stirring yet. They had taken their fill of Ravenswood’s bounty the previous evening and there was none to mark her passage along the row of stalls to the one where Mara was tethered. Hearing her approach, the bay mare turned her head and whinnied gently. Elgiva reached for the bridle hanging on the peg and slipped into the stall. Minutes later she was leading the horse out. Once in the open air, she vaulted astride and headed for the gate. The watchman roused himself and, responding to her greeting, swung the portal open. Elgiva held Mara to a walk as they passed the houses in the hamlet. Here were signs of life: a spiral of smoke from a roof, a dog scratching itself before an open door. She suspected it would be much later before those in the hall roused themselves. Glad to have escaped for a time, Elgiva breathed the cool morning air gratefully, though it could not dispel her sombre mood or the memories that occasioned it. Later she would return and play her part before them all.
Pride and a sense of family honour had led her to spare no expense in the celebration of the betrothal feast. It was, after all, a cause for celebration, an excellent and judicious match. The union would not only unite two great Saxon houses, but would bring advantage to both sides. She had entered into the arrangement of her own volition. Her future husband was a man she could respect. Why, then, in the face of such good fortune, did her heart feel so heavy?
Elgiva was startled out of these sombre thoughts when her horse shied. She tightened her hold on the reins, looking about her, but could see only shadows beneath the trees and curls of mist in the hollows. The wood was locked beneath an eerie silence. The mare snorted uneasily and Elgiva frowned, her gaze taking in the details of the surrounding woodland. The silence stretched out around her, unbroken by any breath of wind, or birdsong or sound of any living thing. Then she discerned movement ahead through the trees where a lone horseman was approaching, bent low over the saddle. Elgiva hesitated, wondering whether the safest course was to flee, but something about the rider’s posture gave her pause. He was swaying and for a second she wondered if he were drunk. Just as quickly, she rejected the idea, for as he drew closer she could see he had come far. The horse was lathered, its chest and flanks darkened with sweat, its legs and belly all bespattered with mud. Pulling up, she let the rider approach. Mara whinnied and sidled, but Elgiva kept a firm hold on the rein. The oncoming rider was a man of middle years and, like his horse, all muddied. His face was grey and lined with pain and she could see the side of his tunic was stiff with dried blood. He stared at her as if she had been an apparition and then she recognised him.