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

by Jayne Castel

  A heartbeat later her husband’s men, his brother Deogol among them, brushed past her and waded into the water, pulling the long-boat away from the banks. They heaved the craft into the current of the Tyne before returning to the shore.

  Then Deogol took up his long bow and lit the end from a brazier that burned upon the shore. Her brother-by-marriage was a skilled bowman, the best in Hagustaldes. It was fitting that he would send Raedwulf off.

  Silence settled upon the riverbank, the rain falling in a fine mist around them. Deogol drew his bow string back, his brow furrowing in concentration as he marked his target. The long-boat was drifting lazily out toward where the current flowed more swiftly.

  The fiery arrow flew, arching high into the air and dropping onto the pile of dry straw encircling Raedwulf’s body. A long pause followed, and then the dry tinder ignited with a whoosh.

  Osana watched it. She was vaguely aware that the king stood near her, as did Deogol, but she paid neither of them any mind. Instead, her gaze remained upon the flames that now roared high into the misty air.

  Fourteen years she had been wedded to that man, and now she was a widow. Osana had been lonely through most of her marriage. She never felt understood by her husband. His liking for other women had driven a wedge between them, as had her barren womb, but he had been her rock in a hostile world.

  Without him, she was truly alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Choices

  ALDFRITH WATCHED THE ealdorman’s wife.

  The cowled cloak she wore hid most of her face from view and cast a shadow over her eyes, yet there was a quiet dignity in her presence, in the way she held herself.

  He had not forgotten their conversation in the orchard that morning two years earlier. She and her husband had left Bebbanburg the following day, and so he had been unable to talk to her again. But that brief conversation had stayed with him.

  She had understood how he felt, and had revealed the loneliness in her own marriage.

  He wondered what she was feeling now. There were no tears on her cheeks, although the air of melancholy shrouding her did not seem feigned.

  A dozen yards away, Raedwulf’s pyre burned upon the river, a dark plume of smoke now lifting into the sky.

  The mourners gathered along the river bank, and Aldfrith noted one or two of the women weeping. One woman in particular, a comely female with thick auburn hair tied back in messy coils from her face, looked beside herself.

  She stood next to a tall blond warrior who bore a striking resemblance to the dead ealdorman. This must be Deogol, Raedwulf’s brother, and the new ealdorman of Hagustaldes. The weeping woman must have been his wife.

  There was another woman crying nearby, a slender blonde girl who looked no older than eighteen winters. A fair haired boy clung to her skirts as she sobbed.

  Aldfrith took in the scene with interest before his attention shifted back to the widow.

  He realized now why she did not weep.

  Raedwulf’s household put on a great feast after his funeral, to honor his memory.

  Deogol sat at his usual place at the table, having given the ealdorman’s seat to the king, and held up a drinking horn filled with mead.

  “To my brother!” he boomed. “May he find feasting, wenches, and plenty of mead in the afterlife!”

  This toast brought roars of approval from many of the warriors seated at the long tables that formed a square around the fire pit. However, Bishop Wilfrid—who sat opposite Deogol—glowered at the warrior when he sat down. It was no Christian afterlife that Deogol spoke of. Farther down the table, Bishop Godwin’s face was expressionless.

  Watching Hagustaldes’ bishop, Aldfrith felt a pang of regret. He should have stepped in when Wilfrid had bullied the man earlier, yet it had not been the place for a scene. Even so, he would need to have a word with Wilfrid when they were next alone. He could not have him upsetting the other bishops like this.

  Aldfrith swallowed a sigh at the thought. Wilfrid was fast becoming a thorn in his arse; the man’s arrogance and bullish approach to the other men of the cloth in the kingdom was fast making him unpopular. It appeared there was only one right way to follow God—and that was Wilfrid’s way.

  Osana, who had been given her usual spot at the head of the table one last time, took a sip of mead from her cup, welcoming its sweet pungency.

  She was glad of Deogol’s toast though. Raedwulf would have enjoyed that.

  Beside Deogol, Edlyn sat, red eyed and wan faced. The sight of her made Osana’s anger rise in a slow heat that caused her to tighten her grip on her cup. The woman did not even try to hide her grief, not even before her husband.

  Is Deogol blind?

  Maybe he was. Deogol was the same breed of man as his dead brother: brave, strong, and utterly oblivious to the feelings of others. He completely ignored his wife as he offered the king some roast boar.

  “This is the beast that ended my brother, sire,” he informed Aldfrith. “He asked us to roast it for his funeral feast.”

  Osana took a larger—more fortifying—gulp of mead.

  Of course he did.

  “The creature might as well be put to good use,” Aldfrith replied with a half-smile, taking a slice of meat. He passed the platter to Osana. “Some boar?”

  Osana took the dish and gave herself a tiny slice before passing it on. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  The feasting began, accompanied by numerous toasts and even more mead. A lad sat near the hearth playing a bone whistle, the music almost drowned out by the roar of conversation.

  “Are you well, Osana?”

  The question, spoken in a low voice, caught her off-guard. Osana had been staring at the platter before her, forcing down each mouthful of food, before she washed it down with mead. She did not usually drink so much and was starting to feel quite light-headed.

  She glanced up, to find Aldfrith watching her.

  “Aye,” she replied. “I’ve little appetite this eve, that’s all.”

  He nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “More mead?” Edlyn appeared at Osana’s shoulder then. She had been given the task of filling the feasters’ cups. However, the woman wore a pinched expression.

  “Aye, thank you.” Osana held out her cup.

  Edlyn sloshed mead into it, so violently that it splashed over the rim and onto the bust of Osana’s mourning tunic: a dark, high necked garment made of wool.

  “Sorry, Osana.” Edlyn chimed, a gleam in her eyes. She moved on then to the king.

  “Some mead, milord?” she asked sweetly.

  Aldfrith shook his head, and Osana’s sister-by-marriage moved on.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Osana glanced down at the dark patch covering the front of her tunic. The garment was dark anyway, so it did not really matter. What mattered was that the balance of power had already shifted within the hall.

  Raedwulf’s ashes were still warm, but already Edlyn was assuming her role as lady of the house. A sinking sensation made Osana reach for her cup of mead once more.

  Life was about to get difficult. She could sense it.

  Osana raised her eyes once more, to see the king’s gaze still upon her. The concern on his face made the sinking sensation grow. He was a stranger to this hall, and had only just met Deogol and his wife—and yet he knew.

  “And how are you faring, milord,” she said, after a moment.

  He favored her with a tired smile. “Well enough.”

  “And your queen? How is Cuthburh?”

  She was surprised the queen had not accompanied him here.

  He stiffened at that, his gaze narrowing. Osana immediately regretted the question.

  “Cuthburh is well … I believe,” he began, his voice low as he glanced down at the knife he was toying with. “However, I cannot know for sure. She has left me … has gone to Berecingas to take her vows.”

  Osana stared at him, surprise rendering her mute. When she eventually found her tongue, her face grew war
m with mortification. “I’m sorry, sire … I didn’t realize …”

  He waved her feeble apology away. “You didn’t know—few do. It happened just a few days ago.”

  Osana watched him, searching his face for signs of grief. But he wore an unreadable expression. Only his eyes gave him away, and they bore a look of resignation rather than sadness.

  “So things never improved?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head. “She suffered through every day of our marriage. She’s happier now … I suppose we both are.”

  He did not look happy, Osana observed. Her gaze dropped then to where he continued to toy with the blade of his knife, a nervous gesture and the only sign that this conversation put him on edge.

  Like that day in the orchard, which seemed so long ago now, she observed the beauty of his hands: strong, with long fingers, and yet sensitive. So different from Raedwulf’s heavy, blunt hands.

  What would it feel like to have him touch her? What would his fingertips feel like trailing across her naked skin?

  God’s bones—what am I doing?

  Osana jerked her gaze away.

  It must be the shock of losing Raedwulf, the emotional-wrench of the funeral, and her anxiety at her new status in this hall. Otherwise, why else would she entertain such thoughts?

  “Will you wed again?” she asked lightly, shifting her gaze to the barely touched platter before her. Osana’s stomach clenched in a knot.

  “The bishop would have me wed another—possibly a princess of Mercia or the East Angles—to strengthen our alliances in the south. However, I’d prefer not to.”

  Osana nodded. “I can understand that.” She paused then, glancing up and meeting his eye once more. “It’s easier for men. You can choose never to wed again and folk will accept that. However, a widow is useless … an embarrassment.”

  He frowned. “Is that what you think you are?”

  She clenched her jaw and paused before responding. “I know it to be true. I can weave, cook, and sew, but there is little other purpose for me here now that Raedwulf is gone.” She broke off here, aware just how bitter she sounded. Yet now that she had started to reveal what lay in her heart, she could not stop. “Deogol and Edlyn will wish I’d thrown myself upon the bier and burned along with Raedwulf. A truly devoted wife might have.”

  The look of empathy on Aldfrith’s face made her want to weep.

  “You have choices, Osana,” he replied. “You don’t have to stay here.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Aye … I could enter a nunnery or wed again. Yet I fear a nun’s life would wear me down, and no man will have me.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “Nonsense.”

  Osana shook her head. “I cannot bear children,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “No man wants a barren wife.”

  Her vision swam then, and she glanced down, blinking furiously. Curse her for drinking so much mead. It had made her imprudent.

  A long silence drew out between them, while the hall roared with drunken laughter, cheering, and music. It was as if they sat upon an island, apart from it all.

  Aldfrith spoke first. “You have another choice too, Osana.”

  She glanced up, forcing herself to look at him. He must think her hysterical and indiscreet. Yet she saw no scorn on his face, only compassion.

  “If you decide you cannot remain here in Hagustaldes, Bebbanburg will welcome you,” he continued. “You will always have a home in my hall, and will live under my protection if you need it. I promise you that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Slight Dignity

  A GREY MANTLE settled across the land as the king and his men headed out of Hagustaldes—bound east for Bebbanburg.

  The light levels were low, and the heavens heavy with the promise of rain.

  Aldfrith squinted up at the grey sky, wondering how long the rain would hold off. One thing was certain—at some point during their two-day journey home, they would all get soaked.

  He rode alongside the bishop this morning—not his choice of travel companion. However, Wilfrid seemed to have assigned himself as Aldfrith’s personal escort and counsellor. He sat now, perched upon his dun gelding like an ill-tempered crow. Wilfrid had been in a sour mood since their arrival in Hagustaldes, and the day they had spent there had done little to lighten his spirits.

  The bishop crossed himself and muttered a prayer under his breath as they left the last of the scattered wattle and daub hovels around the town behind, and entered a road through dense woodland.

  Aldfrith’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “Pleased to see the back of Hagustaldes?”

  Wilfrid grunted. “Aye … full of heathens.”

  Aldfrith raised an eyebrow. “Most of them are Christian folk, all baptized.”

  Wilfrid cast him a long suffering look. “They worship God, aye … but in the manner of many folk in the north. Their pagan ways lie just beneath the surface.” He broke off here, his craggy features darkening. “That funeral ceremony was an offence to God.”

  Aldfrith shrugged. “Folk have their traditions; we should respect them. You conducted the ceremony … although you should have let Bishop Godwin do it.”

  Wilfrid scowled at the reprimand. “The man’s a weak fool. I needed to set the folk of Hagustaldes a firm example.”

  “But they like Godwin … he’s a pious man.”

  “He should have never allowed them to organize such a ceremony. If I was bishop, things would change.” Wilfrid’s intense gaze settled upon Aldfrith. “Get rid of Godwin, sire. Let me have Hagustaldes under my influence.”

  Aldfrith frowned. He should not be surprised that Wilfrid was making such an audacious demand, and yet he was. “No, Father. Inhrypum is under your care, not this land. Bishop Godwin will stay where he is.”

  “But the fool prays in his church while the folk of Hagustaldes practice the old ways.” Wilfrid’s voice rose as his ire grew. “Soon they’ll be sacrificing animals to the pagan gods for Blood Month and hailing Woden at Yule, while girls dance barefoot around fires with flowers in their hair at Eostre.”

  There’s no harm in it,” Aldfrith replied, deliberately not rising to the bishop’s heckling tone. “A change of faith takes time.”

  Wilfrid glared at him. “That’s what those monks upon Iona told you?” The scorn in the bishop’s voice made Aldfrith tense.

  Aldfrith let out a long sigh. He was not getting into this discussion again. Wilfrid took offense at the manner in which those of northern Britannia worshipped Christ. He missed no opportunity to criticize. However, his sniping had little effect on Aldfrith. He had his own faith, a steadying constant in his life, and did not care if the bishop thought it was a lesser one.

  The bishop’s views spoke of a vanity, of a need to feel superior to those around him. Wilfrid had not taken those years of exile well.

  “No, they are my own views,” Aldfrith replied, a warning note in his voice. “Ones I stand firm on.”

  With that, he nudged his grey stallion into a canter and left the bishop’s side.

  He had no desire to spend the day listening to Wilfrid’s criticisms. Instead, he urged his stallion along the column of riders to where Cerdic rode just behind his bannermen.

  “Good morning,” Aldfirth greeted him.

  The warrior blinked, coming out of a reverie. “Morning, sire.” A half-smile curved Cerdic’s lips then. “Had enough of the bishop already?”

  Aldfrith snorted. “How did you know?”

  Cerdic favored him with a wry look.

  “I’ve seen the way the man shadows your steps. Does he ever spend any time in Inhrypum? He follows you around like a hound.”

  Aldfrith laughed. “Only he’s far worse company than Argus.”

  The pair of them rode in companionable silence for a distance, their horses passing through mist-wreathed trees. The leaves were turning, the canopy a riot of gold and red. Aldfrith breathed in the scent of rich earth, moss, and damp vegetation.

>   His thoughts turned inward as he rode, traveling back to the funeral feast the night before—and to Osana.

  Even pale with grief, and anxious about the future, she was lovely. After his experiences as a younger man, he now deliberately ignored the flirtatious smiles and limpid gazes of women, but there was something about Osana that made him unable to concentrate on anything else.

  When she was near, he turned into a gawking fool.

  He should not have made that offer—to invite her to live at Bebbanburg had been foolish. But the words had escaped before he had time to check them, and he could not take them back.

  The last thing he needed was to be distracted by the comely widow. After Cuthburh, he vowed to have nothing to do with women. And yet when he looked at Osana, he forgot that promise.

  She had looked so alone the night before, he’d wanted to help her.

  Aldfrith exhaled sharply. Enough. He needed to turn his mind to other matters. Glancing right, his gaze alighted upon Cerdic’s serious profile. His expression was grim, and Aldfrith wondered why.

  He realized then that he knew very little about the warrior who had served him so loyally over the past two years.

  “Why the frown, Cerdic?” he asked.

  The warrior glanced across at him, surprised. Recovering, he grimaced. “I’m from Hagustaldes, sire,” he said after a moment. “This visit brought back unwelcome memories.”

  Aldfrith watched him. “How so?”

  He saw the discomfort on the man’s face and immediately regretted the question. But a moment later Cerdic answered. “It reminds me of my wife … She died five summers ago, giving birth to our child. Both she and the babe died.”

  The raw pain in Cerdic’s eyes as he said those last words was visceral. Even years on, the memory was an open wound. Suddenly, Aldfrith saw Cerdic with fresh eyes. The man’s aloofness now made sense.

  “I did not know of this loss,” Aldfrith replied. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  The warrior shrugged, the impenetrable mask he usually wore sliding back into place. “It’s in the past now,” he said, his tone making it clear that he wished to change the subject. “This visit just dredged up old memories … that’s all.”