by Jayne Castel
He frowned, his irritation rising further. Not only was his wife about to humiliate him, but she made him feel like a cuckold. Other men would not have tolerated her behavior. Other men would have taken her whether she wanted it or not.
Suddenly, he just wished to be rid of her, to have this ice-cold wraith out of his life.
Aldfrith stepped back, schooling his face into an impassive mask and smoothing his frown. He motioned to her luggage before turning away. “I shall leave you to your packing.”
Aldfrith stood upon the palisade to the right of the low gate and watched his wife leave.
A chill breeze whispered in from the sea. The water was a leaden expanse that stretched east, and the sky in that direction looked ominous, warning of bad weather on its way.
However, Aldfrith paid the storm clouds no mind. Instead, his gaze tracked the slender figure atop a bay palfrey who rode—spine straight—down the causeway to the road below. Two of his men led the way, the Northumbrian banner fluttering in the wind between them, while the rest of the party rode behind the queen.
Watching her go, Aldfrith felt nothing.
Not a shred of sadness, not a glimmer of regret, or even a flicker of anger.
Nothing.
This was how his life was meant to be—he had known it from childhood. He had been alone for so long it felt like his natural state. Actually, he preferred it. There was a simplicity in being alone.
He was king, ruled a vast tract of land, and had thousands of men to command, yet he felt utterly alone. He had felt less lonely living a hermit’s life upon Iona than he did now in a busy hall. The Great Tower of Bebbanburg only ever grew quiet in that short space after the last warrior stretched out upon his cloak, and when the first servant rose at dawn to stoke the embers of the fire pits.
Aldfrith watched Cuthburh kick her palfrey into a fast canter, as if she was in a panic to leave, as if he would change his mind and come after her.
He would do no such thing.
Aldfrith inhaled deeply before letting the breath escape—and with it the tension of the past two years.
“So you couldn’t convince her to stay?”
A deep voice interrupted Aldfrith, and he turned to see Bishop Wilfrid standing next to him, his dark robes fluttering in the wind.
Aldfrith frowned. The bishop was not a welcome sight. “Did you encourage Cuthburh?”
Wilfrid’s heavy lidded eyes narrowed in response. “Excuse me?”
Aldfrith held his gaze. His mood this morning made him reckless, made him speak plainer than he usually did with the bishop. “The tale of how you helped Queen Aethelthryth flee from my brother is now legend.”
Wilfrid held his gaze, before his mouth twisted in a rare smile. “That was different. Ecgfrith had abased himself by raping the queen’s hand-maid. Aethelthryth was left with little choice. She could not stay with such a black-hearted sinner.”
The bishop’s gaze glinted at this, revealing the depths of his hatred for Ecgfrith. Aldfrith’s half-brother had exiled the bishop from his lands after his wife’s disappearance. Wilfrid had been waiting for many years to return to the north. The bishop had settled now into his new life in Inhrypum, which lay to the south of Bebbanburg, yet it did not stop him from making regular trips to the fort. Aldfrith had the feeling he was being checked up on.
Aldfrith watched the bishop for a long moment, not believing him, before he spoke once more. “So it was true … she refused to lie with Ecgfrith?”
The bishop shrugged. “That is what she told me.”
“And you think it’s right—that a wife should shun her husband’s affections?”
Wilfrid’s features tightened. “If she truly feels Christ’s calling … yes.”
Anger surged within Aldfrith although he tamped it down “But you encouraged me to wed Cuthburh?”
“Aye, she was a good match. I did not know the depths of her piety though.” Wilfrid broke off here and glanced south, at where the party were now specks in the distance. A trundling wagon laden with Cuthburh’s belongings and gifts for the nunnery followed the group. “You did well to let her go. We shall find another wife for you. One who will bear you sons.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw. “I shall not marry again, Father.”
The bishop’s dark gaze snapped back to him. “It’s your duty as king, sire. Look what happened to your brother … dying without an heir.”
Aldfrith shook his head, the shield he usually wore before the bishop slipping slightly to reveal his true feelings. “I gave this kingdom the king they wanted,” he ground out, “—but I will not give them my soul.” Aldfrith inhaled deeply before continuing. “I did my duty, but my union with Cuthburh didn’t endure. I’ll not repeat it.”
The bishop’s lips compressed. “You speak out of bitterness, sire. With time, you will see sense.”
Aldfrith shook his head, turning swiftly from the bishop. He hated the way Wilfrid talked to him, as if he were some wise uncle and Aldfrith a young fool who had yet to grow a beard. He would not suffer Wilfrid’s company any longer. Not today.
“I see sense now,” he bit out the words, heading for the ladder leading down from the wall. “Time will make no difference.”
Aldfrith returned to the Great Tower, but he did not go inside. Instead, he entered a low annex that had recently been built on its western side. He had commissioned its construction a year and a half earlier, after the lack of solitude and reflection had gotten to him.
Three stone steps led up to an arched doorway and a heavy oaken door. Sanctuary lay behind.
Aldfrith pushed his way inside, the door closing after him with a thud that rattled the stone walls.
Argus, who had been asleep in his basket, raised his shaggy head at his master’s entrance. The wolfhound gave a soft whine in greeting, his heavy tail thumping. And despite his dark mood, Aldfrith’s mouth curved into a smile.
“Lazy dog,” he muttered. “So that’s where you’ve been all morning. How did you get in here?”
Argus’s tail increased its tempo, and he lowered his head guiltily.
“It was Cerdic, wasn’t it?” Aldfrith knew the warrior was fond of the dog. Gruff with everyone else, Argus was the only creature who roused a smile in the man.
Aldfrith sat down upon a stool before his desk and reached down to pat the wolfhound’s head. As he did so, his gaze took in his surroundings. His ‘sanctuary’, as he named it, was starting to look dusty and cluttered. Cuthburh had never set foot in here, and Aldfrith did not let servants clean it. The last thing he wanted was one of them to spill ink over the costly vellum he used to write on, or to accidentally damage one of the leather-bound volumes sitting upon the shelving.
It was a small, monkish space, certainly not kingly like his lodgings within the tower—yet he much preferred it here. The shuttered windows were slightly open, letting in pale sunlight over his table and illuminating his disorder.
With a sigh, Aldfrith rose to his feet and opened the shutters wide. The rise and fall of voices and the clucking of fowl intruded, but he did not mind. He would light the bank of tallow candles and close the shutters later. For now the watery sunlight and the sounds of life calmed him.
He glanced down at the piece of vellum before him. The day before—struck by inspiration—he had scribbled a few lines. He read them again now.
Foolishness results in crudity
Repression results in greater repression
Hatred engenders reproach
Abandonment results in slander
Aldfrith paused, gazing down at the words.
Abandonment.
It was almost as if he had known this was coming. Of course, he must have. He and Cuthburh had been strangers to each other for a while now.
Aldfrith was still looking down at his writing, frowning, when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
He glanced up. “Aye … come in.”
The door opened, and Cerdic stepped across the threshold, his broad muscula
r frame filling the doorway. “Morning, sire.”
Aldfrith clenched his jaw. Usually the thegn’s presence did not bother him. However, this morning he wished for solitude. “What is it?” he snapped.
Cerdic’s face, unreadable as always, did not alter at the cool welcome. He merely dipped his head respectfully. “Sorry for intruding, milord, but a messenger has just arrived from Hagustaldes.”
Something in his captain’s voice made Aldfrith pay attention, his ill-temper momentarily forgotten. “What is it?”
“It seems the ealdorman of Hagustaldes, Raedwulf, was gored by a boar while out hunting a few days ago,” Cerdic informed him. “He is dead.”
Chapter Nine
Go in Peace
FOLK ALWAYS SAID that the dead looked as if they were sleeping, but Raedwulf did not.
Osana stood inside the alcove where she had helped prepare her husband’s body for burial, and stared down at Raedwulf’s face.
Raedwulf looked grimmer than he had in life, his features still bearing the grimace of agony he had worn in his final moments. His skin was waxy and bloodless, his unruly mane of blond hair combed neatly over his shoulders.
He looked like what he was—dead.
Osana drew in a deep breath and cast a glance across at where her sister-by-marriage, Edlyn, sat at the back of the alcove. The woman was weeping again, her green eyes glistening, her small mouth pursed in grief.
Osana watched Edlyn a long moment, studying her. The woman’s upset at Raedwulf’s death surprised her. Edlyn was usually so cold and aloof.
Was she in love with Raedwulf?
The thought came, unwanted and unbidden.
Osana’s chest tightened. She had no proof, yet her female instinct stirred. She remembered Edlyn favoring Raedwulf with a coy smile at Yule and dancing with him once during midsummer festivities. But for the rest of the time, she had kept her distance, playing the part of doting and submissive wife to Raedwulf’s younger brother, Deogol.
Osana had no proof, but suddenly she knew with a surety that shocked her.
How long?
Did it matter? Was she even jealous? Jealous no—made a fool of, yes.
Seized by the urge to fly across the annex, grab a fistful of that thick auburn hair, and slam Edlyn’s head against the wall, Osana looked away. Struggling to control herself, she heaved in a deep breath.
It was the last in a long line of insults she had suffered over the years.
Osana was not sure she could bear it.
The wail of a horn reached them then, muffled by the thick wooden walls of the ealdorman’s hall.
Osana straightened her spine and smoothed out the skirts of her long dark gown.
“The king has arrived,” she said breaking the long silence between the two women. “It’s time.”
Edlyn glanced up, her features tightening. It was almost as if she had forgotten that Osana was there. Not bothering to answer, she nodded and rose to her feet.
Raedwulf’s men had built him a pyre upon a long-boat. It sat on the muddy banks of the Tyne, awaiting the ceremony that would begin Raedwulf’s journey to the afterlife.
A light rain fell as the crowd of mourners gathered on the riverbank. It was a still afternoon and the light was dimming, warning them all that winter was coming. The days had started to shorten. The harvest was now behind them, and there was a nip to the air which had not been present days earlier.
Osana pulled up her hood, drawing it forward so it obscured as much of her face as possible.
She had not wept since Raedwulf’s death, and although she wore a strained expression, she knew it would not be enough. The folk of Hagustaldes expected to see the ealdorman’s widow grieve.
Eyes downcast, Osana blinked furiously, wishing she could summon tears to appease them all. She did not hate her husband, and she had not wished him dead—yet it was impossible to cry when she felt nothing but emptiness inside her.
A procession of warriors approached the long-boat, crossing the water meadow from the town’s walls. The leaders carried a bier where Raedwulf lay, dressed in his finest doeskin breeches, a long tunic hemmed with gold, and a fur mantle. His hands were clasped over his broad chest, holding his sword in place. The armrings he had earned over the years glinted in the watery afternoon light.
The terrible wound to his belly—which had taken days to kill him—had been bound and covered.
The procession arrived at the water’s edge, and the men lifted the bier onto the long-boat before fanning out around it.
At the back of the group, Osana spied the king.
Two years had passed since she had last seen him, and he looked different. He still wore his blond hair shorter than most men, and was clean-shaven, but his face was sterner than she remembered. It made him look older, more of a king and less of a philosopher.
She had forgotten how tall he was. He stood almost a foot taller than some of the men surrounding him and even taller than the lanky, dark-robed figure that followed two steps behind him. Bishop Wilfrid had accompanied the king’s party from Bebbanburg even though Hagustaldes had its own bishop. Bishop Godwin was a small, fey-looking fellow who now hovered on the edge of the mourners and who, Osana had assumed, would lead the funeral ceremony.
However, Osana’s gaze did not linger upon Bishop Wilfrid. Like two years earlier, she found her attention drawn back to Aldfrith. His presence—different from the loud, arrogant warriors she had grown up with—had a magnetic quality, an aura of calm strength that captivated her.
Careful.
Osana snapped her gaze away and glanced right to find Edlyn watching her under hooded lids. Her sister by marriage wore a thoughtful expression, her green eyes sharp.
Heart pounding, Osana dropped her gaze once more. Why did she feel so guilty? She had done nothing wrong. Edlyn did not know that Osana had thought often about Aldfrith upon her return to Hagustaldes, that he had intruded on her thoughts far too often for a long while afterward.
Still, this was not the place to stare like a besotted maid—not when her husband lay dead just a few yards away.
Bishop Wilfrid left the king’s side and made his way up to the water’s edge. His sharp-featured face was screwed up in a scowl, and Osana wondered if the bishop disapproved of this style of funeral.
It was too close to the old ways—to the funeral pyres of their elders when folk worshipped Woden, Thunor, Freya and their kin. Amongst the high born those ways were no longer followed, although common folk still paid tribute to the old gods at festivals and at the four solstices during the year.
Raedwulf had been baptized, yet he had never been a good Christian—worshipping in name only. Unlike Osana, who had been brought up in a pious household, Raedwulf’s father had been proudly pagan. In the agony-filled days before his death, Raedwulf had insisted he would burn upon a long-boat, as his father had.
Godwin ventured forward, his head bowed, and approached Bishop Wilfrid. They spoke together on the water’s edge, a brief exchange in low voices that did not carry. Bishop Godwin appeared cowed by the older man’s presence, although his thin face flushed as he spoke to Wilfrid.
Surprised, Osana realized they were arguing.
Wilfrid barked something sharp at Godwin, and the younger man moved back, hunching his shoulders. Then, an affronted look upon his face, Godwin shuffled off to rejoin the crowd of mourners.
Osana frowned. She did not know what exactly had passed between the two bishops, yet Wilfrid was out of line. It seemed that he had insisted on carrying out the ceremony.
Osana glanced across at the king, wondering if he would step in. Yet although Aldfrith wore a displeased expression, he did not.
Standing before the long-boat, Bishop Wilfrid stooped down, his fingers scooping up a handful of mud. Then he spoke, his deep, gravelly voice echoing through the stillness.
“Here lies Raedwulf, son of Eorpwald, Ealdorman of Hagustaldes. Strong in life and proud in death—God watches over you.” The bishop paused
here, letting his words settle, before he resumed his prayer. “The Lord is our Light and our salvation … our strength. Our hearts shall not fear death, for there is a time to be born and a time to die.”
The bishop let the mud drop from his fingers, his gaze fixed upon Raedwulf’s corpse.
“And so we commit this warrior’s body to the water, the earth, so it may be cleansed by fire. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Osana listened, her chest constricting. She had to admit that Wilfrid was a far better speaker than poor Godwin. His voice was powerful, full of conviction.
Wilfrid stepped back then, turned, and nodded to the king. Aldfrith left the edge of the crowd and approached the riverbank. Then he removed a jeweled seax from his belt and placed the ornate fighting dagger upon the bier, next to Raedwulf. He then murmured something and bowed his head.
A few moments later Aldfrith turned, his heavy fur mantle billowing, and strode back toward the crowd, toward where Osana stood a few feet in front of the other mourners.
For an instant their gazes met, and then he nodded. It was now Osana’s turn to pay her last respects. Feeling the weight of the crowd’s stares upon her, she walked down to the long-boat. Standing before it, she reached up and removed the single bronze armring she wore upon her left arm.
It had been Raedwulf’s morgen gifu—morning gift—all those years ago. She remembered him giving it to her, as she stirred in the furs on the morning after their handfasting. She had felt queasy, for she had consumed far more mead than she was used to the night before. Yet her gaze had misted when her handsome young husband had knelt before her and handed her the armring.
It symbolized the bond between them, but it would go with Raedwulf to his watery grave.
Osana placed the armring upon the bier, her gaze resting one last time upon her dead husband’s face.
She felt nothing but a yawning chasm of emptiness.
“Go in peace, Raedwulf,” she whispered before stepping back from the boat.
