That summer Hathawulf married Anslaug, daughter of the Taifal chief. Ermanaric had tried to forestall this linking.
Shortly after, Randwar sought Hathawulf out and asked if they two could talk alone. They saddled horses and went for a ride through the pastures. It was a windy day, aboom and aripple across miles of tawny grass. Clouds scudded dazzling white through the deeps above; their shadows raced over the world. Cattle grazed ruddy, in far-scattered herds. Game birds burst from underfoot, and high overhead a hawk was at hover. The coolness of the wind was veined with a smell of sun-baked earth and of growth.
“I can guess what you want,” Hathawulf said shrewdly.
Randwar passed a hand through his red mane. “Yes. Swanhild for my wife.”
“Hm. She does seem glad of your nearness.”
“We will have each other!” Randwar cried. He checked himself. “It would be well for you. I am rich; and broad acres lie fallow, awaiting me, in the Greutung land.”
Hathawulf scowled. “That’s rather far hence. Here we can stand together.”
“Plenty of yeomen there will welcome me. You’ll not lose a comrade, you’ll gain an ally.”
Still Hathawulf hung back, until Randwar blurted: “It’ll happen regardless. Our hearts will have it so. Best you go along with Weard.”
“You’ve ever been rash,” said the chieftain, not unkindly though trouble weighted his tones. “Your belief that mere feelings between man and woman are enough to make a sound marriage—it speaks ill of your judgment. Left to yourself, what might you undertake of unwisdom?”
Rand war gasped—Before he had time to grow angry, Hathawulf laid a hand on his shoulder and went on, smiling a bit sadly: “I meant no insult there. I only want to make you think twice. That’s not your wont, I know, but I ask that you try. For Swanhild.”
Randwar showed he could hold his tongue.
When they came back, Swanhild sped into the courtyard. She caught her brother’s knee. Her eagerness tumbled upward: “Oh, Hathawulf, it’s all right, isn’t it? You said yes, I know you did. Never have you made me happier.”
The upshot was that a huge wedding feast swirled and shouted through Heorot that autumn. For Swanhild there was but one shadow upon it, that the Wanderer was elsewhere. She had taken it for given that he would hallow her and her man. Was he not the Watcher over this family?
In the meantime Randwar had sent men east to his holdings. They raised a new home where Embrica’s had been and staffed it well. The young couple journeyed thither in a splendid company, Swanhild carried over the threshold those evergreen boughs that called on Frija’s blessing, Randwar gave a feast for the neighborhood, and there they were.
Soon, however, much though he loved his bride, he was often away for days on end. He rode around the Greutung countryside, getting to know the dwellers. When a man seemed of the right mind, Randwar would take him aside and they would talk about other matters than kine, trade, or even the Huns.
On a dark day before solstice, when a few snowflakes drifted down onto frozen earth, hounds barked outside the hall. Randwar took a spear at the doorway and stepped forth to see what this was. Two burly farmhands came after, likewise armed. But when he spied the tall form that strode into his courtyard, Randwar grounded his weapon and cried, “Hail! Welcome!”
Hearing that no danger threatened, Swanhild hurried out too. Her eyes and hair, beneath a wife’s kerchief, and the white gown that hugged her litheness were the only things bright, anywhere around. Joy lilted from her: “Oh, Wanderer, dear Wanderer, yes, welcome!”
He trod nigh until she could see beneath the shadowing hat. She raised hand to parted lips. “But you are full of woe,” she breathed. “Are you not? What’s wrong?”
“I am sorry,” he answered in words that fell like stones. “Some things must stay secret. I kept away from your wedding because I would not cast gloom over it. Now—Well, Randwar, I have traveled a troublous road. Let me rest before we speak of this. Let us drink something hot and remember earlier times.”
A little of his olden interest kindled that eventide, when a man chanted a lay about the last campaign into Hunland. In return he told new stories, though in less lively wise than of yore, as if he must flog himself to do it. Swanhild sighed happily. “I cannot wait till my children sit and hear you,” she said, albeit she did not yet have any on the way. She was the least bit frightened to see him flinch.
Next day he led Rand war off. They spent hours by themselves. Later the Greutung told his woman:
“He warned me over and over of what hatred Ermanaric bears us. Here we are in the king’s own tribal country, he said, our strength not firm while our wealth is a glittering lure. He wanted us to pull up stakes and move away—far away, clear to West Gothland—soon. Of course I would have none of that. Whatever the Wanderer is, right and honor are mightier. Then he said he knew I’d already been sounding men out about getting together against the king, to withstand his overbearingness and, if need be, fight. The Wanderer said I could not hope to keep this hidden, and it was madness.”
“What did you answer to that?” she asked half fearfully.
“Why, I said free Goths have the right to open their minds to each other. And I said my foster parents never have been avenged. If the gods will not do justice, men must.”
“You should hearken to him. He knows more than we ever will.”
“Well, I’m not about to try anything reckless. I’ll watch for my chance. More may not be needful. Men often die untimely; if good men like Tharasmund, why not evil ones like Ermanaric? No, my darling, never will we skulk off from these our lands, that belong to our unborn sons. Therefore we must make ready to defend them; true?” Randwar drew Swanhild to him. “Come,” he laughed, “let’s begin by doing something about those children.”
The Wanderer could not move him, and after a few more days said farewell. “When will we see you again?” Swanhild asked as they stood in the doorway.
“I think-” he faltered. “I can’t—Oh, girl who is like Jorith!” He embraced her, kissed her, let her go, and hurried off. Shocked, folk heard him weeping.
Yet back among the Teurings he was steely. Much was he there in the months that followed, both at Heorot and widely among yeomen, chapmen, or common fieldhands, workers, sailors.
Even coming from him, that which he urged upon them was naught they were quick to agree to. He wanted them to make closer ties with the West. They did not merely stand to gain from heightened trade. If woe came upon them here—carried, say, by the Huns—then they would have a place to go. Next summer, let them send men and goods to Frithigern, who would safeguard those; and let them keep ships, wagons, gear, food standing by; and let many of them learn about the lands in between and how to get through unharmed.
The Ostrogoths wondered and muttered. They were doubtful about a fast growth of trade across such distances, therefore unwilling to gamble work or wealth. As for leaving their homes, that was unthinkable. Did the Wanderer speak sooth? What was he, anyhow? He was often called a god, and did seem to have been around for a very long time; but he made no claims for himself. He might be a troll, a black wizard, or—said the Christians—a devil sent to lure men astray. Or he might simply be getting foolish at his high age.
The Wanderer kept on. Some who listened found his words worth further thought; and some, young, he kindled. Foremost among the latter was Alawin at Heorot—though Hathawulf grew wistful, while Solbern hung back.
To and fro the Wanderer went on earth, talking, scheming, ordering. By autumnal equinox he had gotten a skeleton of what he wanted. Gold, goods, men to attend these were now at Frithigern’s seat in the West; Alawin would go there the following year to push for more trade, regardless of how young he was; at Heorot and numerous other households, dwellers could depart on short notice, should the need arise.