by Jayne Castel
Perhaps this union would not be such a burden after all.
“Turn around, Cuthburh,” he commanded softly.
Slowly, reluctantly, she complied.
From the front she was even lovelier. High peaked breasts showed through the thin fabric, and he could see the shadow of the blonde triangle of her sex.
“You are beautiful,” he breathed, meaning it.
He had no feelings for his bride, he barely knew her, and yet he did in that moment want her.
Her face went rigid, and she looked down, appearing fascinated with the furs beneath her feet.
It’s just nervousness, he told himself. She isn’t as horrified as she looks.
Aldfrith unlaced the heavy tunic he wore and shrugged it off. Then he began to unfasten his breeches. However, when he saw his bride was now trembling like a reed in the wind, he stopped.
“Cuthburh …”
Her head bowed, a curtain of white-blonde hair obscuring her face, she did not answer him.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said after a long moment. “I will be gentle with you.”
She remained silent; if anything, her trembling increased.
Aldfrith inhaled deeply. He could not bed his wife while she was in this state. She needed to be calmed, soothed. He would show her that love play could be gentle, unthreatening.
He refastened his breeches before bending down to remove his boots. Then he stepped close to her, placing a hand upon her shoulder.
“Let us lie down upon the furs, Cuthburh.”
She nodded and wordlessly turned, padding across to where the pile of furs awaited. There she lay down, rolling over from him to face the wall.
Aldfrith stretched out next to her. They were close, barely a hand span apart. After a long moment, Aldfrith reached out and stroked her shoulder. Her skin was as smooth as it looked. His groin hardened in response, and he suddenly became aware of the heat and nearness of her body.
“Do you know what happens?” he asked for a moment, continuing to caress her. “Between a man and his wife … have the other women told you?”
“Aye.” Her voice was choked. “It sounds vile.”
Taken aback, Aldfrith stilled his caresses. “It doesn’t have to be,” he replied finally. “It can give pleasure. We must lie together as man and wife … if we are to have children.”
“I don’t want them.” Cuthburh answered, speaking the words in short panicked gasps. “I was to be a nun … I don’t want to be a wife or a mother.”
And I don’t want to be a king … but sometimes we don’t get a choice in matters.
“Cuthburh.” He reached out once more and placed a hand on her upper arm. “We were given a duty, you and I, to unite Northumbria and Wessex in marriage. We must fulfill it.”
She turned to him then, so swiftly that they nearly collided. Her face shocked Aldfrith. Gone was the meek, blushing bride. An enraged young woman with cold eyes glared at him instead.
“Don’t touch me,” she snarled. “The devil take duty. I will not lie with you.”
Osana was sitting upon a stool, brushing her hair, when Raedwulf stumbled into their alcove.
Disappointment flooded through her at the sight of his florid face and glazed eyes. She had hoped, even whispered a prayer, that he would drink himself into a stupor with the other men and fall asleep at the table. However, God had not answered her.
“Good eve, wife,” Raedwulf greeted her with a grin. “I have not forgotten my promise to you, see?” His gaze raked over the long tunic she wore. “Take that off.”
Osana put down her hair brush. “I’m tired, Raedwulf … can’t we just go to sleep?”
Raedwulf shrugged off his tunic and started unlacing his breeches. He was a strongly built man. Crisp blond hair covered a muscular chest. The bronze and silver arm rings he wore gleamed in the light of the cressets burning on the alcove wall. Yet Osama was not inflamed by the sight of his half-naked body.
Her stomach clenched. Just leave me alone.
He finished unlacing his breeches and freed his manhood. Red and swollen, it thrust up at her, eager and hungry.
“I’m not ready to sleep yet. Take off your tunic, wife,” he growled, impatient now, “and get down on your hands and knees.”
Osana recognized the warning edge in his voice. If she hesitated any longer he would rip her tunic off her and take her roughly. She tensed, hating him at that moment. However, she knew that if she did as bid it would be over soon enough.
Rising to her feet, Osana pulled the tunic over her head and lowered herself on all fours onto the furs. Then she closed her eyes and prepared to be serviced.
Chapter Five
Solitude
THE DAY AFTER the handfasting dawned grey and chill. After long moons of mild weather, summer seemed to finally have given way to autumn.
Stepping outside the Great Tower of Bebbanburg, Osana heaved in a lungful of fresh, cold air.
The interior of the tower was cloying, smoky, and full of unpleasant odors that morning. The smell of mead and stale food had made Osana feel queasy as she had helped herself to a heel of bread and a cup of broth. She had left Raedwulf asleep in their alcove. After the amount he had drunk the night before, he would sleep till noon.
A salt-laced breeze gusted across the yard before the tower, sending straw and dust flying. Osana pulled the fur mantle she wore about her shoulders close and descended the steps.
There was a market in front of the low gate most mornings, and she wanted to visit it, to wander amongst the stalls and pretend she was another woman—with a different life.
She passed through the high gate and walked out onto the King’s Way, a wide swathe that led down to the market square. Unlike those in the slumbering tower, the rest of Bebbanburg—the folk who kept this fort alive—were already up and about.
The clang of iron rang out into the street, carried from a row of forges. As Osana approached the market, she heard the cry of hawkers, mingling with the shriek of gulls circling above.
Osana entered the busy market square, weaving her way through the crowds of local women, shopping baskets under their arms. This was a special market today, for merchants and farmers had come from afar to help celebrate the handfasting. Despite the lack of sun and warmth this morning, Osana saw that most of the folk she passed were smiling. A butcher selling blood sausage and haunches of salted pork was sharing a story with the man he served, his loud, deep laugh booming across the square.
Everyone loved a handfasting, especially a royal one.
Osana wished she shared their merriment. Not that she wished the king and his young wife ill—only that these days she found it hard to dredge up any feelings of happiness at all.
Melancholy had settled over her in a heavy shroud.
She circuited the market square, declining the offers of a handful of vendors, before turning to retrace her steps. It was then she spotted the small wooden church at the corner of the square.
Osana was not ready to return to the fetid, smoky Great Hall, to sit amongst the other wives and pretend to be interested in their prattle.
She wanted peace—solitude.
Osana pushed open the oaken door and entered the church, leaving the noise of the market behind her as she pulled the door shut.
A simple timbered space greeted her. The floor was beautiful though: a sea of grey tiles that whispered underfoot as she made her way to the altar. Above stretched a ribcage of wooden beams. The air carried the odor of tallow from the bank of candles burning behind the altar. A row of tiny windows along each length of the building let in streams of pale grey light.
Osana reached the altar, where a cross carved from dark wood rose up before her. Silently she knelt, clasping her hands in front of her.
The small church in Hagustaldes was also a refuge for her, a place she withdrew to when life in the ealdorman’s hall became insufferable. She loved the quiet, to be left alone with her own thoughts.
Lord
forgive me, she thought, bowing her head. I do not wish to be a wife.
They were dark traitorous thoughts, ones she dared not utter aloud.
My husband is not a bad man. She clenched her fingers hard together. But sometimes when I look upon his sleeping face I wish him dead … just so that I wouldn’t have to suffer his touch ever again.
“It is a heart-warming sight, to see a woman so pious at this time of day.”
The rumble of a male voice forced Osana out of her reverie. She straightened up and twisted round to see a tall, rangy man with hawkish features and a receding hairline approach. He wore dark robes, his sandaled feet scuffing upon the tiled floor. Beside him walked a small, slight, dark-haired man with bright blue eyes wearing priest’s robes.
Osana recognized the taller of the two figures as Bishop Wilfrid, but although she had seen the priest at the handfasting feast, she did not know his name.
“Wes þu hal, Bishop Wilfrid,” she greeted him.
The bishop halted and inclined his head, his keen gaze sweeping over her. “Have we met?”
“No … I am Osana of Hagustaldes,” she replied, rising to her feet.
The priest stepped forward. “My name is Oswald. I’m the priest here.” He favored her with a smile then. “I saw you yesterday at the feast. Your husband is the ealdorman of Hagustaldes?”
Osana nodded.
“Did you enjoy the handfasting?” the priest asked.
“I did.”
Beside Oswald, the bishop allowed himself a small smile. “A splendid match is it not?”
She dipped her head. “Aye … it seems so.” She did not speak what was in her thoughts, that the king and his bride had seemed ill at ease with each other the evening before—that Aldfrith of Northumbria had the loneliest eyes she had ever seen.
Bishop Wilfrid watched her a moment; he had a piercing look that made her uncomfortable. Then he stepped back, motioning to the altar, his sleeve whispering in the cavernous space.
“We have interrupted your prayer … please continue.”
Osana dipped her head and moved away from the altar. “You didn’t interrupt me,” she replied. “I was finished anyway.” She stepped around the two men and headed toward the door. “Good day.”
Osana stepped back into the sunless morning and heaved a deep breath. All she wanted was a moment of solitude, a space where she could lower the mask she wore day-in-day-out. However, it sometimes felt as if the world conspired against her.
Peace was rare these days.
She made her way back up to the high gate and passed into the courtyard beyond. The Great Tower of Bebbanburg, made of the same red rock as the outcrop this fort stood upon, cast a deep shadow over the yard.
Osana did not want to return inside—not yet.
Instead, she cut left and walked into an orchard. Apple and pear trees, their branches laden with ripe fruit, covered this private space. There was a well at the end nearest the tower, but the orchard itself appeared deserted.
Osana wandered amongst the trees. The scent of apple tempted her, and she plucked a fruit from a low-hanging branch, biting into it as she walked.
Finally—alone.
A wave of melancholy hit her then, and she blinked back tears. Even the sweet, crisp flavor of the apple could not keep her sadness at bay. Life at times seemed such hard work. Her coupling with Raedwulf last night had darkened her mood. She wished she had remained in Hagustaldes and let him come to the handfasting alone. Then she would have at least have had a few days’ peace from him.
The sound of music intruded then—the lilting, gentle strum of a harp. It was a sad, soft song that matched her mood.
Osana followed the music to the back of the orchard, and there, seated upon a low bench in profile, sat King Aldfrith. He played a small wooden harp, his long fingers dancing across the strings. However, his gaze appeared distant.
Frozen to the spot for an instant, Osana listened to the song. It was haunting in its beauty, and she could have stayed to listen all morning.
Yet she knew she was intruding. Like her, the king had sought out solitude; he would not welcome company.
Slowly releasing the breath she had been holding, Osana took a step back—hoping to edge away unseen—but a twig snapped underneath her foot, and she froze. The king looked up, the music halting as his fingers stilled.
His gaze swiveled to her.
Chapter Six
A Meeting in the Orchard
“I’M SORRY, MILORD.” Osana took another hasty step backwards. “I was taking a walk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His dark blue gaze remained upon her for a long moment, before his mouth quirked. “You aren’t intruding.”
Osana gave a hurried curtsey and backed off farther. “I bid you good morning, sire.”
She turned to flee, still clutching the half-eaten apple. His voice, faintly tinged with amusement, stilled her. “It’s Osana, isn’t it?”
She turned back, her face warming under his scrutiny. “Aye … Raedwulf of Hagustaldes is my husband.”
He nodded. “I noticed you at the feast last night.”
He said those words without the slightest flirtation, yet Osana’s cheeks grew hotter still at that. What was wrong with her? She never blushed. He had caught her watching him at the feast. She had been observing him, thinking his attention was elsewhere, when his gaze had snapped up, ensnaring hers. She felt mortified now, as she had at the time.
One did not stare at the king—he would think her common and far too bold.
But when she forced herself to meet his eye, she saw that the king did not appear offended or disdainful.
Instead, he was watching her with cool interest. A moment later his gaze dropped to the apple she still clutched. “I didn’t think they were ripe enough yet. Was it a good apple?”
Now he’ll think me a thief.
Osana swallowed, mortified. “Yes sire … I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have taken one.”
He shrugged, giving her a slow smile that made Osana draw a sharp breath. He was disconcertingly handsome when he smiled, although his face was so solemn when he did not.
“I don’t mind,” he assured her. “I’m new here too. I don’t feel like I ‘own’ any of this. I certainly don’t care if you help yourself to an apple.”
Osana watched him, suddenly feeling foolish. She stood there, wanting to flee, but now that the king had engaged her in conversation, she could not.
“You play the harp well, sire,” she murmured finally. “I’ve never heard that song before.”
His smile turned melancholy, and he glanced down at the instrument upon his lap. He was dressed simply this morning, in a long woolen tunic, leather vest, and doeskin breeches. It was very different attire to last evening’s. He wore no crown this morning, nor arm rings or gilded amber brooch.
“It’s a song my mother used to play to me,” he replied after a pause. “An Eriu lament.”
Osana quirked an eyebrow. “A lament, sire. It seems an odd choice of music on the morning after your handfasting?”
He went still at that.
Osana cursed her loose tongue. What had come over her? Only a goose of a woman asked such a question. She tensed, bracing herself for anger—for that was usually Raedwulf’s response when her tongue ran away with her.
However, he merely watched her—a shadow moving in his eyes. “The music suits my mood,” he said finally. “This wasn’t a union of my choosing … or of my bride’s. I doubt it will be a happy one.”
The look of fatality on his face, the dead sound in his voice, touched Osana. Despair was a close friend of hers these days; she recognized it instantly in others. “Your marriage has just begun,” she replied softly. “You and Lady Cuthburh have a lifetime to grow accustomed to each other … to forge a bond.”
He watched her, a flicker of hope lighting in his eyes. “How long have you been married, Osana?”
The way he said her name caused a feather-light shiver to ca
ress her skin. However, that question made her grow wary. She did not want to speak of her marriage. “Twelve years,” she murmured.
“And was it arranged?”
Osana nodded. “I knew Raedwulf before, but my father organized the match.”
“And were you willing?”
Osana stiffened, deeply uncomfortable now. “Aye,” she said softly, sadness and regret welling within her. “I was.”
She could have wept then, for the memory of the girl she had once been. How easily she had been taken in by Raedwulf’s blond good looks, his ready smile. No—it had not been a forced marriage. She had happily left her father’s hall, had eagerly thrown herself into her new life. It made disappointment all the bitterer now.
She was aware that the king was still watching her. There was an unnerving intelligence to that gaze, and she had the intuition that he could read her silence and the emotions she was trying to smother.
Osana found it impossible to meet his eye now. Instead, she stared down at his hands.
“You’re not happy then?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, still avoiding his gaze. She wanted to lie, to pretend, as she always did whenever she was in company. Yet her emotions felt rubbed raw this morning.
Raedwulf had rutted her like a hound the night before; he had been rough, and there had been no pleasure for her—only discomfort and a simmering rage that he dare use her so.
The truth of her life had become clear in the cold grey light of the morning—and when confronted by a simple question, she found she could not pretend.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
She glanced up, meeting his eye then. “Don’t be … take hope from my story, sire. Even those of us who go willingly to our handfasting are not guaranteed a happy end. Perhaps you and the queen are the fortunate ones … maybe it’s better to begin without illusions.”
His gaze narrowed, and she saw a nerve flicker in his cheek. “My wife despises me,” he replied. He had not raised his voice, yet there was now an edge to it that had been missing before. “She wished to enter a nunnery, but her brother forbade it. The idea of being a wife repulses her … in every sense.”
