in the hearth, looked full at her mentor.
‘I don’t know what to do, Gifu. Ever since my father’s death Ravenswood has slid further and further into chaos. My brother did nothing.’ She paused. ‘Now he is dead too, and his sons are but babes. The place needs a capable hand.’
She did not add, a man’s hand, but Osgifu heard the thought. She also acknowledged the truth of it. Lord Osric, concerned only with skill at arms and with hawking and hunting, had taken little interest in the running of his late father’s estate, preferring to leave it to his steward, Wilfred. A good man at heart, Wilfred had performed his duties well enough under Lord Egbert’s exacting rule, but after, with no master’s eye on him, he began to neglect small things, putting off until the morrow what should have been done today. The serfs under his control took their example from him, and Elgiva, on her daily rides, had begun to notice the results. Ravenswood, which had hitherto always looked prosperous, began to take on an air of neglect. Fences were not mended, repairs botched. Weeds grew among the crops and the livestock were not properly tended. The roofs of the barns and storehouses leaked, and she felt sure that the stored grain and fodder within were not as strictly accounted for as they had been. When she had mentioned these things to Osric, he had brushed her aside. The problem grew worse. She had spoken to him again and received short shrift.
‘A woman’s place is in the house, not meddling in matters that do not concern her.’
‘Ravenswood is my concern,’ she’d replied, ‘as it should be yours.’
‘You take too much upon you, Elgiva.’ He had eyed her coolly. ‘If you had a husband and children of your own, you would have no time to interfere in the affairs of men. You should have been married long since.’
Her brother was right about that and Elgiva knew it. Had Lord Egbert lived, he would have found a bridegroom for her. There had been no shortage of suitors. She had loved her father dearly and he had made no secret of the fact that she was the child of his heart. Her company had been congenial to him for she knew how to make him laugh. A fearless rider, she had often accompanied him on the chase. His death three years earlier had changed everything, and for the worse. Osric, careless, feckless, had become the Thane of Ravenswood. Elgiva, well tutored in domestic matters, saw to it that the household ran smoothly, but she could do nothing about the wider problem. However, their conversation had put Osric in mind of his responsibilities towards his sister.
‘I shall find you a husband. These are troubled times and a woman should not be without a protector, even if there is truth in only half the tales we hear of the Viking raids.’
That too was beyond dispute, but she had assumed that he would forget the matter as he did with everything not immediately concerned with his own interests. She had been quite wrong. One day, about a month after the former conversation, he announced that Lord Aylwin had asked for her hand. At first she had not known whether to laugh or cry. A wealthy and respected Saxon lord, wise governor of rich lands, Aylwin was a near neighbour. He had been the friend of her father and, his own wife having died some years earlier, he sought a new bride. At forty he was old enough to be her father and his sons were grown men, but he was still strong and vigorous. Elgiva had baulked. Although she had nothing to say against Aylwin as a man, she knew she could not feel for him what a woman should feel for a husband. In truth, she had never felt it for any man of her acquaintance. However, women of her rank did not marry for love. If both partners respected each other, it was enough. But not for her, she thought, not for her. Osric had not understood.
‘Do you know anything against Aylwin?’
‘No.’
‘You know he is wealthy and of good reputation? A man to be respected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why should you refuse him?’
As Elgiva sought for the words to explain, Osric had pressed his advantage.
‘You know Lord Aylwin sought your hand long since.’
‘And I said then I did not love his lordship.’
‘Love? What has love to do with it? This is an advantageous match.’
‘I do not deny it. He is also old enough to be my father.’
‘He is in his prime and will make you an attentive husband.’
‘I will not consent to such attentions.’
With that she had marched out of the room and there the matter had rested. Osric, for all his faults, still had a certain fondness for his sister and would not force her to a marriage that was distasteful to her. Life had gone on much as before until, a month ago, Osric’s horse put its foot in a hole while they were out hunting. Horse and rider fell with force—the former breaking its foreleg and the rider his neck.
The shock had been great and the sorrow also. At a stroke Elgiva found herself alone with all the care of a large estate and two young children. Osric’s wife, Cynewise, had died in childbed at the age of twenty. It was a common enough occurrence and, for women, one of the hazards of marriage, but for Elgiva it had been an added shock. She knew that Osric would have married again, in time, for a man might well have several wives in his lifetime. For a woman alone the future looked bleak. When she had told Osgifu that she didn’t know what to do, it had been prevarication and they both knew it. She must marry and soon. But Aylwin?
‘What do the runes say, Gifu?’
Elgiva knew already what they would say, but she needed to have it confirmed. The runes never lied. Carved out of ash, a tree sacred to Odin, and indelibly marked with ancient esoteric symbols, they would point the way as they had done before. Osgifu regarded her with a steady gaze.
‘Ask your question.’
Elgiva drew in a deep breath. ‘Shall I marry Aylwin?’
She waited, hands locked together, as Osgifu scanned the rune cast. The silence lengthened and her grey eyes narrowed, a sharp line creasing her brow.
‘Well? Shall I marry?’
‘Aye, you will be married, but not to Aylwin.’
‘Not Aylwin?’ Elgiva was puzzled. ‘Then who?’
‘I do not know the man.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I cannot tell. The upper part of his face is hidden behind the plates of his helmet. He wears a shirt of fine mail and in his hand he carries a mighty sword, as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.’
‘A warrior? A Saxon lord, then. Shall I meet him soon?’
‘You will see him soon enough.’
Thereafter she became strangely reticent and all of Elgiva’s questions could draw nothing more from her.
The mystery stayed with her but, as the days passed, she knew she could not wait indefinitely for some stranger to ride by and rescue her from all her problems. A woman alone was vulnerable. A woman with wealth and land was doubly so once it became known she had no protector. It was not unknown for such to be married under duress to an ambitious and ruthless lord with a strong retinue and no aversion to the use of force. She shivered. Better to wed a respected man who would treat her well and restore Ravenswood to its former self. It came
