London - Edward Rutherfurd [57]
Wyrd they called it in Anglo-Saxon. Destiny. Wyrd was invisible, yet governed all. Even the gods were subject to it. They were the actors; Wyrd was the story. And when Thunor’s thunder rumbled across the sky and echoed in the mountains, behind that sky, containing that echo, lay Wyrd. It was neither good nor bad; it was unknowable. You felt it all the time, in the earth, the rolling sea, the cavernous grey sky. Every Anglo-Saxon and Norseman knew Wyrd, which decided life and death and gave to their songs and poetry a resonant fatalism.
Destiny alone would decree what was to happen when she met her husband.
“I shall decide what to say when I see him,” she murmured aloud. She would pray to Woden and Frigg that night.
They were passing through a wood when they came to the stream. It was deep. Irritated, she realized that if they tried to ford it she was going to get very wet. For several minutes, therefore, she cast about to see if she could find a better crossing. It was just then, seeing the small bridge, that she also caught sight of the strange little gathering and urged her horse into a canter.
Moments later, Offa was surprised to find himself staring at a handsome lady whom the gods had just caused to appear out of the forest upon a fine horse.
“What did she do?” The lady was gazing down at the naked girl with curiosity. The village elder quickly explained. Elfgiva gazed around the crowd. The sight of the snake and the sack made her tremble. She looked carefully at the young couple again. It was chance that she should have come across this hamlet hidden in the woods. Why should fate have brought her there just then? To save a life perhaps. As she looked at the couple, her own troubles did not seem so terrible. She even felt envious in a way. They were young. The young man loved the girl almost, it seemed, to insanity.
“What will you take for them?”
“Lady?”
“I’ll buy them. As slaves. I’ll take them away.”
The village elder hesitated. It was true that for certain crimes a man might be turned into a slave, but he was not sure in this case what the proper doom should be.
Elfgiva took a coin from the pouch that hung at her waist. The Saxons had no coins of their own, but used those of the traders from across the English Channel. The coin she took out was gold. The entire village stared at it. Few had ever seen such a thing before, but the elder and several of the men had a shrewd idea of its value.
“You need them both?” he asked. He had rather wanted to see the naked girl in the bag with the snake.
“Yes.”
The elder could see at once what the village wished him to do. He signalled to the women to release the girl, who hurriedly began to dress herself.
“Cut their hair,” Elfgiva ordered one of her servants. This was the mark of all her slaves, but Offa and his wife were so shaken by what had been about to happen that they submitted meekly. As soon as it was done, Elfgiva handed the elder the coin, then turned to the young couple. “You belong to me now. Walk behind,” she ordered. And she began to ride away, across the little bridge.
They travelled for some time in silence. Offa noted that they were heading almost due west.
“Lady,” he called out respectfully, at last. “Where are we going?” At which Elfgiva briefly turned her head.
“You’ve probably never heard of it,” she said. “It’s just a little trading post, far away.” She smiled. “It’s called Lundenwic.” Then she turned back again.
Whatever destiny might finally decide, there was little doubt that Elfgiva’s fate that morning lay in the firm hand of the powerful figure who, unknown to her, was at that