Lord 0f The North Wind (The Kingdom 0f Northumbria Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

“You did?” The admission surprised Flann. He had not noticed at the time—he had not paid attention to much save his own misery. “Your worries were unfounded, Father,” he replied with a smile. “I’m happy now.”

  Father Aiden’s heavy brow furrowed slightly. “You understand why I didn’t let you take your vows, don’t you?”

  Flann tensed. He did, and truthfully he had eventually grown used to being an outsider of a sort here. Yet he wished the prior had not asked him this when the others were sitting with them. He could feel the curiosity of the monks’ gazes as they swiveled to him.

  He knew many of them wondered why this scholar continued to live with them.

  “It was for the best,” he replied after a pause. “You told me a man shouldn’t take refuge in God, that it must be a calling … and you were right.”

  The prior continued to watch him. “You’ve changed much over the years, matured into a man of temperance and reason.”

  Flann’s smile turned embarrassed. “Thank you, Father.”

  “The time has come for you to make a decision,” the prior continued, reaching for a cup of watered-down wine. “If you wish to take your vows now, I shall allow it.”

  Surprised, Flann straightened up, his smile fading. The feasting hall went quiet around them, and he knew without glancing their way, that the monks were staring at him.

  “Really, Father?”

  “Aye … I think you’re ready.”

  Flann did not know what to say. If the prior had announced this during his first years here, he would have been overjoyed at the news. Yet, he was in his twenty-eighth summer now and had grown accustomed to the special role he held in the monastery.

  Truthfully, he was not sure he wanted to become a monk.

  He did not voice this opinion though, for the prior was watching him with a hopeful expression, while next to him, Brother Euan was nodding with obvious approval. “It’s time, Flann,” the monk added. “You’ve been with us long enough.”

  Flann smiled once more—forcing the expression this time—and hoped his lack of enthusiasm did not show on his face. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You all honor me.”

  The noon meal finished quickly. The monks did not linger over meals, not even this one, which was the most substantial of the day. There were still many chores to get through before Vespers in the late afternoon.

  Flann rose to his feet and helped clear away the bowls. It was his turn to help wash up, so he stood with Euan and two others scrubbing the wooden bowls, spoons, and platters, before he emerged from the dimly lit hall into the bright noon sun.

  Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, Flann strode down the path toward the edge of the monastery. His hut, from where he would retrieve his writing tools, perched upon a rocky knoll, looking out to sea. It sat apart from the long dormitories where the monks dwelt.

  If I become a monk, all this will change.

  Flann enjoyed his privacy. He liked that although he spent his days working hard, he held a freedom the monks did not.

  Do I really want to take my vows?

  Ten years ago he had. He had wanted to lose himself in a monk’s life. But the years had healed his pain; his uncle had been right about that. Sometimes of late, he had even caught himself feeling restless. Iona had started to feel restrictive. His thoughts often drifted to his kin in Éirinn. How was Daragh faring? His cousins would likely be wedded now and beginning families of their own. Sometimes he missed them.

  Deep in thought, Flann made his way along the path, toward the low-slung wattle and daub hut. His gaze traveled the view he had seen every day over the past decade: a windswept, treeless landscape surrounded by a wide blue sea.

  It was then he saw the boat.

  The craft was crossing from the mainland to the south-east, a low, dark shape in the sparkling water.

  Flann halted and watched it approach—a long-boat, propelled by oarsmen.

  He frowned. As far as he was aware, the brothers here awaited no visitors.

  Turning on his heel, he strode back down the path, returning to the monastery. The monks had gone back to their gardening. They bent over their tasks like brown storks, their bald pates gleaming. Behind them rose the thatched roof of the church, and beyond that the scattering of low buildings of the rest of the complex.

  “Father!” Flann called out as he approached.

  The prior looked up, a bunch of carrots in his dirt-encrusted hands. “Aye?”

  “We’ve got visitors.”

  The change in the prior was instantaneous, as was that in the monks surrounding him. Iona was a lonely isle. They’d had problems with raiders in past years. The prior’s face turned grim. He dropped the carrots into the wicker basket at his feet and dusted off his hands. “Let’s see what they want.”

  Flann followed the group of monks down to the shore. The Brothers of Iona lived peacefully and went unarmed. However, Flann scooped up a hoe from the garden before he joined them. If these strangers had come with ill intent, someone needed to help defend the monastery.

  Last autumn a boatload of raiders had alighted upon these shores. Flann had rallied the monks and forced some of them to fight, for the raiders had been intent on pillaging their store houses. The monks had been shocked by how Flann had handled himself: he had broken one raider’s jaw and crushed the nose of another.

  The approaching long-boat contained half a dozen men. Their leather vests, fur mantles, and gleaming armrings marked them as Angles from the south. His father’s people. Reaching the shallows, four of the men jumped overboard and dragged the boat to shore.

  Flann, who was taller than most of the monks, peered over the heads of his companions, his gaze settling on the dark-haired, robed figure sitting amidships. A priest. Behind him there appeared to be a large object shrouded in leather.

  “There’s a man of God with them at least,” one of the brothers muttered. “They haven’t come to rob us.”

  Flann did not answer—there was something about the intense way the priest was surveying them that put him on edge. The man’s sharp blue eyes tracked over the group, moving from brother to brother.

  He’s looking for someone.

  The newcomers pulled the boat out of the water onto the beach. Three of the warriors heaved the object they had brought up onto their shoulders and waded through the sand toward the waiting monks.

  The priest led them, his face somber.

  The prior stepped forward to meet them. “Good morning. I am Aiden, prior of this monastery. We welcome you to our isle.”

  The priest dipped his head. “And morning to you, Father. I am Oswald of Bebbanburg.”

  Now that the group stood close to them, the sweet odor of rotting flesh drifted over the shore. One of the younger brothers gagged, and Prior Aidan frowned. “What have you brought here?”

  The priest Oswald’s face tightened. “We bring the body of our noble king: Ecgfrith, ruler of Northumbria. We have carried him here for burial, and to see his half-brother, Aldfrith.”

  Aldfrith.

  Flann tensed, the name slamming into him like a punch to the gut. He had not heard it in years. His mother had been the last person to call him by it; and even then it had been in anger as she ranted at him of his father’s cruelty. That name was part of an identity he had always denied, one he wanted no part of.

  A silence settled over the beach, and Oswald cleared his throat. “He goes by the name of Flann Fina. I must speak with him.”

  None of the brothers uttered a word; they all knew of Flann’s identity but would let him be the one to reveal it.

  Flann inhaled sharply. He had always worried that one day his heritage would catch up with him. He stepped forward, and the monks moved aside to let him pass. When he stood before the priest, he met his eye. “I’m Flann Fina.”

  Oswald’s gaze widened, and Flann resisted a rueful smile. He imagined the priest had expected a different-looking man. His mother, Fina, had been a dark Irish beauty, but Flann had taken af
ter his father. He looked like an Angle: tall and blond. The only physical trait he had taken from his mother was her midnight blue eyes.

  “You’re Aldfrith of Northumbria?” Oswald’s gaze swept over him, taking in his homespun tunic, goatskin leggings, and bare feet. Flann knew he would be wondering why this half-brother to the king dressed like a peasant.

  “Aye.” Flann replied, his tone cool. “What do you want from me?”

  Oswald took a step forward. “Your brother fought the Picts at Nechtansmere and fell. Northumbria no longer rules Pictland—King Bridei does. As Ecgfrith’s brother, you are next in line to the throne.” Oswald paused here. “I’ve come to bring you home.”

  A chill settled over Flann, dimming the warmth of the summer’s day.

  This peaceful isle was his home. Even if he was uncertain about taking his vows, he wished to be left here in solitude, alone with his chores, his studies, his writing, and his reflection. Here, he lived far from the noise, cruelty, and pettiness of the world.

  “I am home,” he replied after a few long moments, although deep in his gut he knew those words would not be enough. He should have known after his conversation with the prior during the noon meal that today would be a turning point in his life. Whatever happened from this moment on, things could not stay the same.

  Oswald’s answering smile was not without sympathy. “No … my lord. Bebbanburg is where you belong.”

  Chapter Two

  A Royal Handfasting

  Bebbanburg, Kingdom of Northumbria

  Britannia (England)

  Three months later …

  “I hear the bride is a great beauty.”

  Osana inclined her head toward her husband and raised a delicate eyebrow. “Where did you hear that?”

  Raedwulf, Ealdorman of Hagustaldes, favored his wife with an indulgent look. “Men talk in the mead hall, my sweeting. Some hail from Wessex and have seen Princess Cuthburh in the flesh. They say she’s slender as a willow reed, with hair the color of sea foam and eyes the blue of a summer’s morn.”

  Osana ground her jaw and feigned disinterest. “Men in their cups are known to exaggerate,” she pointed out. “She may be plain and mousy for all you know.”

  Raedwulf chuckled. “We shall soon see for ourselves, wife.” He gave Osana another patronizing look. “No need to be jealous. You’re still a handsome woman … even if you’re past your prime.”

  Osana dug her heels into the furry sides of her palfrey, sending it on ahead. Raedwulf’s laughter rang out behind her, and she inhaled deeply to quell the ire rising within her.

  They rode the last stretch toward Bebbanburg, the great northern stronghold bristling against the eastern horizon and a flat, blue-grey expanse of sea. The sight of its bulk—wooden palisades and four huge guard towers at each corner—filled Osana with relief. Finally, three days on the road with her husband had come to an end.

  The road leading east cut through a patchwork of tilled fields, where cottars toiled under the late afternoon sun. It had been a hot summer, the warmest Osana could remember, and the sun had tanned the peasants’ skin golden. A crisp, salt-laced breeze blew in from the sea, a welcome respite from the day’s heat.

  “Come now, no need to take offense, wife.”

  Raedwulf had ridden up alongside her once more. The grin on his handsome face only served to make her anger continue to simmer, reminding Osana why she rarely conversed with her husband these days. Perhaps she was over-sensitive, or maybe she imagined it, but it seemed as every word he spoke to her of late was a barely concealed barb at her failure as a wife.

  Twenty-eight winters old … and barren.

  They had been wed twelve years now, but she had never given him a child.

  Osana wanted to blame Raedwulf, but she knew he had sired at least three bastard children in Hagustaldes, all to local wenches. No—the fault lay with her.

  What good was a wife if she could not bear a man sons?

  “I’m not angry,” Osana lied, before she met his eye, “or jealous. It’s just that you make me feel old and useless at times.”

  The humor drained from Raedwulf’s face. At thirty-five winters he was still a virile, comely man: big and broad-shouldered with a mane of golden hair and a short beard. She had been captivated when she had first seen him. He had been the ealdorman’s eldest son, a brash, cocky warrior who had won her heart without even trying.

  Perhaps she had been too easy to impress. Or maybe it was the fact that she had loved the aura of danger and unpredictability in him.

  “I was only teasing,” he said after a moment. “You are so prickly these days.”

  Osana inhaled deeply. He husband had all the subtlety and grace of a charging boar.

  They had reached the foot of the causeway now, and the fort rose overhead blocking out the sky.

  “It’s my fault,” Raedwulf continued, the good humor returning to his voice. “I’ve been away too often of late securing our borders. I’ve clearly been neglecting my wife.” He flashed her a rakish grin. “Tonight, after the handfasting, I shall give you the humping you so obviously need.”

  Osana shot him a look of mute disbelief. How typical of him to think that a night in the furs would cure the tension between them. Her husband was a lusty man and a demanding lover. In the early years of their marriage, when she had still found him exciting, she had enjoyed their lovemaking. Yet these days when she lay under him, she felt numb. Afterward she was merely relieved it was over.

  Unable to summon a response, she turned away from Raedwulf and urged her palfrey forward. They clattered up the final distance to the causeway, under the low gate, and into Bebbanburg.

  “Are all the ealdormen here?”

  “Aye, sire.”

  Aldfrith, King of Northumbria, turned to his personal guard, Cerdic. Tall and broad, with brown hair cropped close to his scalp, the warrior met his eye.

  “I’ve heard their rumblings of discontent,” Aldfrith continued. “Have a word with them before the ceremony … reassure each man that I will be holding a council tomorrow morning. If they have any concerns about the security of Northumbria, they are to raise them then.”

  Cerdic nodded. The warrior said little but observed much, a useful trait in an advisor. Aldfrith had much to thank the man for, as over the past months Cerdic had provided invaluable guidance, especially when it came to dealing with the ealdormen. “Wise tactic, sire … they are bound to cause trouble after the ceremony otherwise.”

  Aldfrith’s mouth thinned. “Aye … that was my concern too.”

  He had only been king a short while, but already his ealdormen—the men who oversaw tracts of his kingdom in his stead—had become demanding.

  “Your betrothed awaits, sire.” Bishop Wilfrid’s strident voice interrupted Aldfrith and his captain. “Lord Aldfrith … they are ready for you now.”

  The king tensed. Aldfrith. He still had trouble getting used to that name. It had wiped away his old life, his old identity. It did not belong to him. Aldfrith cast his gaze over his shoulder at where a tall angular man with a haughty face and intense dark eyes stood. Irritation flickered within him. Ever since his arrival at Bebbanburg, the bishop had become a persistent, and unwelcome, second shadow.

  With a nod to the king, and to the bishop, Cerdic exited the alcove, leaving Aldfrith and Wilfrid alone.

  Aldfrith grimaced. “I don’t know why I couldn’t meet her first, Father Wilfrid.”

  “There was no time,” the bishop replied. “Now that the princess has arrived from Wessex, you must be wed.”

  “Aye.” Aldfrith adjusted the wolfskin cloak about his shoulders that had once belonged to his father, and glanced down at the amber brooch fastening it. “But I’d have preferred to get to know her first.”

  Wilfrid favored him with a patronizing smile. “Cuthburh is a charming and beautiful young woman … but better still she comes from nobility and is exceedingly pious. She will make an excellent wife for you, milord. She will be a good i
nfluence.”

  Aldfrith did not miss the sting in those last words. He knew the bishop disapproved of the new king’s upbringing in the north, his time spent with the monks on Iona. Only a day earlier, he had given the priest Oswald a tongue-lashing for the wording of the prayer he had spoken before supper. They worshipped the same God as he did, but Wilfrid looked down his nose at the manner in which those of the north followed Christianity.

  “Very well.” Aldfrith brushed past the bishop and made for the heavy hanging that sheltered him from the rest of the hall. Beyond he could hear the rise and fall of excited voices—folk from all over Northumbria had traveled here for his handfasting. He was about to be at the center of a public spectacle. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “There he is!” The woman beside Osana hissed in her ear. “The new king … isn’t he handsome?”

  Osana gave the woman, whose breath smelled of onion, a polite smile and glanced over at where the king had just stopped before the heah-setl—the high seat.

  Her gaze settled upon him. She had to admit the woman was right. She had not expected Aldfrith of Northumbria to be handsome—for both his half-brother, Ecgfrith, and his father, Oswiu, had been too sharp-featured and sly-faced to be named so.

  Yet the new king was taller than both of his dead kin, and better looking than either of them, with short, ash-blond hair and sensitively drawn features. Folk were calling him ‘the philosopher king’, for before coming here, he had lived a hermit’s life upon some distant isle.

  Osana’s gaze lingered upon the new king. She had expected a pale, weedy man of middling years, yet the man before her was no older than her and held himself with unconscious masculine grace as he stood awaiting his bride.

  Aware she was staring, but not caring as everyone here was observing the king keenly, she took in his rich dress: the deep-blue of his tunic that matched his eyes, and the fine gold edging. He wore a magnificent wolfskin cloak about his broad shoulders, and doeskin breeches clad long, athletic legs. Osana could not envisage this man bent over a table, scribbling upon vellum.