Lord 0f The North Wind (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 3)
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Lord of the North Wind
BOOK THREE
THE KINGDOM OF NORTHUMBRIA
JAYNE CASTEL
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A king who has forsaken passion for reason—and the widow who tempts him.
Aldfrith never wanted to be king. The bastard son of King Oswiu of Northumbria, he lives as a scholar upon the remote island of Iona. But his life changes forever the day he discovers his half-brother is dead. Aldfrith is next in line for the throne. Back at the royal fort of Bebbanburg, he begins his new life as ruler of Northumbria. And that includes wedding a suitable queen.
Osana, the wife of one of Aldfrith’s ealdormen, meets the new king at his wedding. Unhappily married, she fights her instant attraction to him. Likewise, Aldfrith is disarmed by Osana's warmth and directness—so unlike his cold bride. A union between Aldfrith and Osana is impossible … yet fate has much in store for them both. When Aldfrith’s marriage fails two years later, and Osana is widowed, they meet once more.
The attraction between them is even stronger than ever, but love and passion are the last things on Aldfrith’s mind. He’s determined never to let lust override good sense and moral judgement … yet with every day he spends with Osana he fights a losing battle. This alluring widow could very well be his undoing.
Historical Romances by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Night Shadows (prequel novella)
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel
Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Lord of the North Wind by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2018 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Single Celtic knot vector image courtesy of www.pixabay.com
Fleuron vector image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Maps courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
Maxims of King Aldfrith.
Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com
Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel
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For Tim—my own poet
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Contents
Maps
Prologue
The Angle’s Bastard
Chapter One
The Time Has Come
Chapter Two
A Royal Handfasting
Chapter Three
The Feast
Chapter Four
A Wife’s Duty
Chapter Five
Solitude
Chapter Six
A Meeting in the Orchard
Chapter Seven
For the Best
Chapter Eight
A Promise for Life
Chapter Nine
Go in Peace
Chapter Ten
Choices
Chapter Eleven
Slight Dignity
Chapter Twelve
The Shamed Widow
Chapter Thirteen
A Wrong Decision
Chapter Fourteen
Out of Sight
Chapter Fifteen
I am my own man
Chapter Sixteen
Cast Her Out
Chapter Seventeen
Learning Letters
Chapter Eighteen
Beyond My Grasp
Chapter Nineteen
Earthly Cares
Chapter Twenty
Meeting in the Scriptorium
Chapter Twenty-one
What have we done?
Chapter Twenty-two
A Different Path
Chapter Twenty-three
No Place For Me Here
Chapter Twenty-four
Alone
Chapter Twenty-five
Impossible
Chapter Twenty-six
Only One Cure
Chapter Twenty-seven
Why Are You Here?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mine
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Return
Chapter Thirty
Unwelcome Guests
Chapter Thirty-one
My Bride Awaits
Chapter Thirty-two
Not Worthy of the Crown
Epilogue
From Your Heart
Historical background for Lord of the North Wind
Glossary of Old English (in alphabetical order)
Cast of characters (in alphabetical order)
Acknowledgements
More works by Jayne Castel
About the Author
Maps
Better a warm blush than heated passions.
—King Aldfrith of Northumbria
Prologue
The Angle’s Bastard
Summer, 675 AD
Off the northern coast of Éirinn (Ireland)
FLANN WEPT FOR most of the journey.
Tears trickled down his face as he stared into the distance. Hunched at the bow of the long-boat, he watched the slate grey expanse of the sea before him. It merged into an overcast horizon. The whole world seemed drained of color this afternoon, a bleak cold place that mirrored his soul.
Behind him he was vaguely aware of the other men: the low rumble of their voices that the wind snatched away, the oarsmen’s grunts, and the steady splash of the oars in the water that moved in time with his breathing.
Flann shivered and pulled his fur mantle close. However, it was not the cold that bit at him—for despite the grey day, it was summer—but grief and misery.
I will never feel warm again.
Flann glanced down at the dark waters rippling by. Shortly after they had left Éirinn, striking north toward Pictland, he had considered throwing himself overboard and letting the sea take him. He could not swim; he would sink like a boulder. But the thought had reminded him of his mother, of the sight of her bloated body floating in with the tide, her long tangled hair drifting around her like kelp. The memory had brought him up short. Then he had felt sick.
No, he did not have the stomach for such an end.
And so Flann remained where he was, a lone figure perched upon th
e bow, isolated in his misery. Around him the light started to fade. The wind buffeted the boat and seabirds cried overhead.
Flann paid none of it any notice; his thoughts had turned inwards. His drying tears now itched upon his cheeks.
“There it is, lad.” A man’s gruff voice sounded behind him. “Iona approaches.”
Flann looked up from where he had been staring at the waves and spied a low rocky strip on the north-eastern horizon. The peaked outline of a church roof rose sharply against the darkening sky.
After a long pause, his uncle spoke once more. “Flann … are you sure this is what you want?”
Flann swallowed. His throat ached, making it hard to speak. Rousing himself, he glanced over his shoulder. His uncle Daragh stared back at him. The wind whipped the older man’s dark hair around a careworn face. His eyes, a penetrating dark-blue, were narrowed in concern. “A monk’s life isn’t for all men.”
“Aye,” Flann rasped. “I’m sure.”
Daragh frowned. “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but your heart will mend.”
Flann glanced away, clenching his fists against his sides. His uncle was a good man, but he did not understand. “No,” he ground out. “It won’t.”
“You only have eighteen winters,” Daragh continued doggedly. “Too young to throw your life away over some vain wench.”
Flann went still, and when he answered his voice was cold. “Don’t speak of her.”
Silence followed. The hiss of the waves hitting the rocky beach intruded upon their conversation. The isle had drawn closer as they spoke, a bare windswept rock that looked as bleak and barren as Flann now felt.
Good.
That was where he wished to be: in an empty, friendless place where there would not be any memory of her.
“You’ve got too much of your mother in you,” Daragh said eventually, pain in his voice. “My sister was ruled by her passions, consumed by them. I’d hoped your cold Angle father would have tempered the fire in your blood, but you’ve taken after Fina. Love was her world … and her ruin.”
Flann did not reply. His uncle’s words were all true, yet they changed nothing. He could not alter what had happened, or how he felt. He was not like Daragh: mild-tempered, steady Daragh who had a wife he adored and two young daughters who were his world. Flann was broken, clinging onto control by his fingertips. A new life on this rock was the only future he could contemplate.
The oarsmen navigated the long-boat into a shallow bay, grounding it upon a curving sandy beach. The last fingers of light were slipping from the eastern sky now, and the wind had whipped itself up into a fury.
Spots of rain hit Flann’s face as he climbed out of the boat and followed his uncle’s broad-shouldered figure up onto the shore. They were the same height, Daragh and him, yet Flann’s body still held the lankiness of youth. He did not share his uncle’s coloring though. Unlike most of the other folk upon Éirinn, Flann did not have dark hair. Instead, it was pale blond.
Another legacy of my cold Angle father, he reflected bitterly.
To his mother’s people Flann would always be the Angle’s bastard. Even those who loved him, like Daragh, must sometimes look upon his pale hair with distaste. It was a reminder of the man who had broken Fina’s heart.
Daragh’s men followed in a group behind Flann. They would all stay overnight in the monastery before, weather permitting, leaving with the dawn. They struggled up the shore, boots sinking into the pale sand. Flann kept his gaze up, searching for any sign of life.
A moment later he spied a group of figures, torches aloft, cresting the hill before them. Monks garbed in long dark robes, their hair shaved into tonsures, approached.
Flann’s pulse quickened, and for the first time since leaving Éirinn, he doubted his decision.
Daragh had spoken true; he had decided in haste, in an attempt to run from pain.
Flann’s panic was fleeting though, as the hurt that had driven him across the water slammed into him once more.
Suddenly it hurt to breathe.
No—this is the right decision. He needed to re-forge himself in this place, a harsh environment that would demand much of him. He would dedicate himself to a higher purpose. He would make himself strong; he would never let such pain in again.
Daragh glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the wind. His gaze met Flann’s and held for a heartbeat. “Are you ready?”
Flann dragged in a deep breath, forcing down the nerves. “Aye.”
“Very well … let us go to greet them.”
Daragh turned away and resumed his climb. Head bowed against the wind, Flann followed his uncle up the rise to meet the monks.
Ten years later …
Chapter One
The Time Has Come
Summer, 685 AD
The Isle of Iona, Pictland (Scotland)
the CLANG of an iron bell echoed across the monastery. The noise jarred in the peace of the warm morning, carrying far over the surrounding sea.
Flann lowered his hammer and straightened up from where he had been bashing nails into a door. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the monks in the fields below down their hoes, rakes, and spades and make their way toward the church. The bell was calling them to None. It was a short service; soon they would all gather in the feasting hall for the noon meal.
Flann would join them too.
Glancing back at the door, he cast an eye over his work. A sense of satisfaction filtered over him—he had done a good job. The door had blown off its hinges in a storm a few days earlier. This store house held the monastery’s most precious food: cheese and salted meats which they kept for special occasions. It was important to keep it properly sealed.
Flann wiped a forearm across his brow. He then slowly, sinuously, stretched his long body, enjoying the feel of warmth on his skin. He raked his fingers through his short blond hair, allowing a sea breeze to feather against his scalp.
It was a fine morning to be outside, and Flann was almost tempted not to retreat indoors after the noon meal. Instead, he could take a walk along the coast, past nesting puffins and seals basking on the sun-warmed rocks.
Only, Father Aiden had asked him to copy a manuscript this afternoon. He would feel as if he was shirking. A pity though for, even in summer, this isle was hit by prevailing winds that made days like this rare.
Collecting his tools, Flann walked down the path from where the cluster of store houses sat upon a rise and made his way toward the heart of the monastery. A sense of well-being settled upon Flann as he walked. His life here was a simple one, yet these days he found a quiet, steady contentment in it.
Flann walked past neatly tended beds where a riot of onions, kale, turnip, and carrots grew, and entered a long, windowless structure sitting behind the church. Indoors, a huge iron pot hung over a hearth at one end, where a thick turnip pottage simmered. Before going to None, the monks had laid the table ready, but—as was his usual habit—Flann finished off the preparations.
He retrieved a heavy loaf of coarse bread from the center of the table and cut it into slices: one for each monk. Then he set bowls of cheese curds, freshly made that morning with goat’s milk, along the table—one bowl to be shared between four.
This was a typical noon meal here. Upon his arrival at Iona a decade earlier, Flann had struggled to adjust to the frugal diet and the lack of meat. He had spent his first few months constantly hungry. These days though, he was used to the fare.
Flann was collecting the earthen bowls for the pottage when the first of the monks entered the feasting hall, dipping his head as he entered.
“Good day, Brother Euan,” Flann greeted him.
The monk grinned back. “And to you. Fine morning to be alive.”
Flann dipped a ladle into the pottage and filled the first bowl, handing it to the monk. “Aye … if only every summer was like this one.”
The monks all agreed that this summer was the finest any had experienced upon the windy isle of
Iona: day after day of sun.
More brown-robed monks entered the feasting hall then, Prior Aiden amongst them. He was an older man with heavy features and penetrating dark eyes. Once he had served the rest of the monks, Flann took a bowl of pottage for himself and sat down at the end of the long table. He tore a chunk off his slice of bread and dipped it into the thick vegetable stew.
“I’ll start on that manuscript this afternoon, Father,” he said, after he had swallowed his first mouthful. As usual the pottage was bland, overcooked, and in desperate need of salt. “Will you show me what you need copying?”
Prior Aiden nodded. “Thank you, Flann. Collect your writing tools and meet me in the scriptorium after we are finished here.”
The scriptorium—a room built onto the far end of the church where monks wrote and copied documents—was one of Flann’s favorite corners of the monastery. It had a large shuttered window looking out onto the herb garden. Flann was glad he would work there, for the hut where he lived on the edge of the monastery was windowless, forcing him to write by candlelight.
Flann reached out and helped himself to some cheese curd. He ladled it into his pottage, hoping it would improve the flavor. Taking another mouthful, he glanced up to see the prior watching him, a speculative look in his eyes.
Flann hesitated. “Father?”
Father Aiden smiled. “Ten summers you’ve been with us, Flann … did you realize that?”
“Aye … just this morning I was thinking how fast the years have passed.”
The prior’s smile faded a little. “You were lost when you arrived here … I worried for you.”