by Jayne Castel
“Learning is a beneficial occupation.
It makes a king of a poor person.
It makes an accomplished person of a landless one.
It makes an exalted family of a lowly one.
It makes a wise person of a fool.
Its commencement is good.
Its end is better.
It is respected in this world.
It is precious in the next.”
“Well done, sire … although I fear the wisdom of your words is lost on Argus.”
The voice behind him made Aldfrith whirl toward the doorway. Cerdic stood there, leaning against the doorframe, muscular arms folded across his chest.
“How long have you been listening?” Aldfrith attempted to mask his embarrassment with a frown. He never read his work aloud to others.
Cerdic’s mouth quirked. “Long enough … folk will start calling you the ‘mad king’ if you keep talking to your hound like that.”
Aldfrith huffed, his mortification fading. He was glad Cerdic had interrupted him and not someone else. Bishop Wilfrid was visiting from Inhrypum at the moment, and he had a habit of sneaking up on Aldfrith. The bishop had started visiting this annex, and the king had been careful to shield his writing from him.
“Let them.” He rose to his feet and stretched the kinks out of his back. “They’re probably right anyway.”
Cerdic raised an eyebrow. “You’re the sanest man I’ve ever met, sire.”
Aldfrith smiled back, warming under the unexpected compliment. “Have you come to drag me into the hall for the noon meal?” he asked. It was not uncommon for folk to come looking for him in his annex; when he got engrossed in his work, time ceased to hold any meaning. The sun could rise and set without him even taking note.
Cerdic shook his head. “It’s not yet time. You’ve visitors from Hagustaldes, sire. They await you indoors.”
Osana shifted nervously upon the rushes and fought the urge to wring her hands together. Her decision to ride to Bebbanburg had felt like the right one on that first night out from Hagustaldes. She had not wanted to face her stern aunt, and the memory of the king’s invitation had beckoned like a roaring fire.
At Bebbanburg she would have a real chance to start again. It was worth a try.
Only, with each passing furlong east, her resolve had started to crumble. And by the time the imposing outline of the fort appeared upon the horizon, she had been ready to turn her palfrey and try her luck with her aunt.
Lora had been the one to steady her nerves. “You said the king is a good man, a fair one. You should at least see if his offer still stands.”
Lora gave her a reassuring smile now, her cheeks pink with cold. The weather, although still dry, had turned bitterly cold, promising snow. It was wonderful to be indoors out of the wind, warmed by the heat of the roaring hearths inside the Great Hall.
“He’s here,” Lora whispered, her blue eyes widening dramatically. “Woden’s cods, the man’s comely.”
Osana cast Lora a quelling look, but had no time to shush her. Instead, she took a deep breath and turned to meet the tall blond man who strode across the rushes toward her.
Aldfrith looked imposing this morning; the fur mantle he wore made his shoulders look broader than she remembered. A few steps behind him followed the leather-clad, muscular warrior who had met them upon their arrival. That man had short brown hair, an intimidating face, and a scowl that made her feel nervous.
To make matters worse, Bishop Wilfrid was sitting upon the high seat, playing Cyningtaefl—King’s Table—with a warrior. He was watching her with a look of thinly veiled suspicion. In fact, there had been few smiles from anyone since she had stepped inside The Great Tower of Bebbanburg, just curious stares. Two women traveling alone and seeking an audience with the king would have tongues flapping all over the fort by mid-afternoon.
Perhaps I misheard the king all those months ago.
“Lady Osana,” Aldfrith stopped before her, his midnight-blue gaze meeting hers. His face was serious, giving nothing of his mood away. “This is unexpected.”
Panic surged through Osana. I shouldn’t have come here.
She could feel Lora’s gaze burning into her and wondered if she thought her a liar. Swallowing, Osana took a nervous step toward the king and curtsied. “Good morning, milord. I’m sorry to disturb you … but I recall our conversation last year.” Her voice faltered, as his expression did not change. “In Hagustaldes … you said that if I should ever need it, I would have your protection.” Her face was burning now, and it felt as if every pair of eyes in the hall was now riveted upon her.
They’ll think me a wickedly bold woman.
Osana dropped her gaze to the rushes, her heart hammering now. Never had she wished for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, yet she did now. Desperation had turned her into a fool. “I apologize, sire,” she said softly. “I must have misheard you.”
“No … you did not,” the answer came, almost as soft as her own, and she glanced up to see he was watching her, a rueful look upon his face. “I did promise you my protection … should you ever need it.” He inclined his head slightly, the intensity in his eyes unnerving. “What happened?”
Osana heaved in a deep breath. She felt exposed standing here with everyone gawking at her, yet she had no choice but to answer him. “Life in Hagustaldes became impossible, sire … the ealdorman’s wife will not suffer my presence under her roof. Deogol sent me away.”
Aldfrith’s gaze flicked to where Lora stood behind her. “You traveled with no escort?”
Osana shook her head. “Just my handmaid, sire. Deogol offered an escort but I refused.”
The king’s mouth thinned. His eyes darkened as his blond brows drew together. Osana wondered if he thought her foolish.
“Surely you have relatives, woman?” Bishop Wilfrid called down from the high seat. “You have no need to throw yourself at the king’s feet.”
Osana dropped her gaze to the rushes once more and fought a cringe. It took all her will to remain standing where she was. She wanted to bolt, to run from Bebbanburg and never return.
“That’s enough, Father,” the king’s voice was clipped when he spoke. “I shall ask the questions here.”
Surprised by the commanding edge to his tone, Osana glanced up to find the king still observing her.
“I made you a promise, and I shall keep it,” he said.
Osana held his gaze for a moment, wilting under its force. He still had not smiled. He was clearly regretting his offer. “Sire,” she spoke up. “I will not hold you to it, for I see now I was rash to come here. I will go now … sorry for disturbing you.”
She hurriedly dipped into a curtsey before casting a glance over her shoulder at where Lora stared at her, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Come, Lora.”
Osana stepped around the king with the intention of bolting across the rushes toward the doors, but he caught her by the arm, pulling her up short.
The physical contact shocked her, and her head snapped round. Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat.
“You aren’t disturbing me,” he said. His voice was as gentle as his grip was firm. Heat flooded through Osana, only this time it was not embarrassment but something else—a sensation she had not felt in a long while.
Pure, undiluted desire.
“I’m sorry for the cool welcome,” he continued, “but your arrival was a surprise.”
Osana wet her lips, aware that his gaze had now lowered to her mouth. “I had no time to send word,” she replied.
Aldfrith blinked and released her, stepping back. A gulf of cold air rushed in-between them, and a strange disappointment swept over Osana. Mastering it, she watched as a smile curved his mouth.
“You will stay here, Lady Osana. I will have an alcove prepared for you and your handmaid.”
His tone brooked no argument. Although softly spoken, there was a power to this man’s voice that checked her.
“We will
earn our keep, milord,” she replied, wretched. It was still there, even after all this time—this heat between them that made her senses come alive. For that reason alone she should have stayed away from Bebbanburg. He knew it too; she could see it in his eyes. That was why his welcome was cool. He had made that offer at an unguarded moment and now regretted it. “My handmaid and I can cook, weave, and sew. We can—”
“I’m sure of it,” he cut her off, still smiling. He took another step back from her and gestured toward the high seat. “The noon meal is almost upon us. Please join me, and take a cup of mead to celebrate your arrival.”
The words were cordial, but forced. With a sinking heart, and a beseeching look at Lora, Osana followed him across the hall.
Chapter Fourteen
Out of Sight
ALDFRITH SETTLED INTO his carven chair, his gaze returning to the pale-faced woman who now took a seat to his left. Osana’s face was taut, her hazel eyes startled, and her shoulders tense.
The widow looked different to the last time he had seen her: gone were the mourning clothes and head-rail that had framed her face in Hagustaldes. Instead, she wore a high-necked, woolen tunic that fitted her curvaceous form snugly, girded at the waist with a narrow leather belt. Her hair—the color of richly polished oak—fell in a thick braid over one shoulder.
Opposite Osana, Bishop Wilfrid helped himself to another cup of mead, studying her with a jaundiced eye. “You are a bold woman,” the bishop commented. “To walk into your king’s hall and demand he take you in. Have you no shame?”
Osana visibly blanched at the reprimand. However, she did not look away from the bishop. Her chin rose as she answered him. “The king invited me here, Father.”
“I did, so let us dispense with the accusations,” Aldfrith swiftly added. “Let us eat in peace.”
“Aye,” Cerdic piped up from where he sat next to the bishop. “You’ve a scowl that could curdle milk, Father.”
Osana’s handmaid, who was circling the table with a jug of mead, grinned at Cerdic’s comment. She was blonde with a pretty smile and bright blue eyes.
Aldfrith too fought a smile; Cerdic said little, but when he did speak, his words were known to hit the mark.
Wilfrid’s scowl deepened, and he cast the warrior an icy look. Yet Cerdic just ignored him and held up his cup to be filled. As he did so, the warrior saw Osana’s handmaid was still smiling and favored her with a wink.
The woman inclined her head in answer.
Watching them, Aldfrith noted it was the first time he had seen Cerdic interact with a woman in such a light-hearted manner. The arrival of this bright-eyed woman had drawn his eye.
Cerdic was not the only one distracted.
Aldfrith found it difficult to focus on the trencher of mutton stew and braised onions that a servant placed before him. Osana—even pale and tense as she was—made his hunger disappear.
It had been a shock to see her.
He had regretted making that offer after her husband’s funeral, had thought upon his rash words all the way back to Bebbanburg. But with the passing of the months he had relaxed, confident she had dismissed his offer as folly.
Bishop Wilfrid, despite his blunt way of putting things, was right. It was not seemly for an attractive widow to walk into his hall, unescorted, and remind him of his promise. He had seen the panic on her face though when they had locked eyes earlier; she had regretted coming here, had wanted to flee.
Even now, she looked poised to run. If the bishop continued to sting her, she would, for she was a proud woman with an independent spirit.
Aldfrith drew in a deep breath and started on his meal.
Fool.
He should have kept his mouth shut. But she had looked so lonely sitting there after the funeral—a show of brittle strength—that the words had been out before he could stop them.
The truth was that he did not want her here.
Life had been simpler after Cuthburh’s departure. For the first time since leaving the peace of Iona, he had begun to enjoy life again. He no longer had to suffer stony silences at every meal time, or lie watching his wife’s back night after night. These days he shared his alcove only with his hound, and Argus was far more pleasant company.
He had fallen into a comfortable routine at Bebbanburg now; his time was divided between ruling, writing, and hawking. He enjoyed his contact with the people he ruled and had grown comfortable with making the decisions that went with his role. The folk of Northumbria seemed to have accepted him as their king too.
Aldfrith glanced up, his gaze settling once more upon Osana. She was picking at her meal, eyes downcast. The light of the cressets behind her illuminated her smooth, milky skin and long eyelashes.
The truth was that this woman had fascinated him from the first moment he had set eyes upon her. She made him feel restless, she took away his peace. If she was to remain in Bebbanburg, he would need to keep her at arm’s length.
Aldfrith had fought hard to regain his equilibrium, to find his place in the world. He liked his life as it was—safe, predictable, and measured.
“We should leave.” Osana folded up a tunic and placed it upon a narrow wooden shelf. “I can’t live here.”
“Hwaet?” Lora’s incredulous response made Osana glance over her shoulder. Her friend wore an exasperated expression. “After everything you put yourself through today? For that alone you deserve to stay.”
Osana huffed out a breath. “You saw the king’s face. He was mortified. I embarrassed him by coming here.”
“Aye, but he recovered swiftly enough.” Lora’s expression grew sly then. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Osana’s chest constricted. This was not welcome news. “Even more reason to leave,” she replied, turning away so Lora would not see her embarrassment. “The bishop spoke true. I’ve been overly bold.”
Lora snorted. “That old crow.”
Osana pulled out another tunic from her pack and folded it. Despite her tense mood, a smile tugged at her mouth. Lora’s irreverence was comforting. She had even made the king’s captain soften his expression.
“He wasn’t the only one who glared at me,” Osana said after a long pause. “Did see the way those women weaving looked at me after the noon meal.”
“No worse than how Edlyn used to glare. At least none of them carries a personal grievance against you.”
Osana sighed and looked around the alcove. It was easily three times the size of the space she had occupied in Deogol’s hall. A large pile of furs for her dominated one corner, with another bed for Lora opposite. The scent of crushed lavender, for the herb had been scattered over the rushes underfoot, filled the alcove, and a single cresset burned on the walls. Beyond the heavy tapestry that shielded them from view, she could hear the murmur of voices as folk readied themselves to retire for the evening, the clang of pots as servants cleaned up, and the groan of the wind buffeting the tower walls.
“Do you want to stay here, Lora?” she asked, glancing over at her.
Lora met her gaze, her expression turning serious. “I’ll happily go wherever you do, Osana.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Lora shrugged. “Aye, I’d be happy to remain here, but if you’d truly prefer to travel to Jedworth then so be it … only you should give Bebbanburg a chance. At least wait the winter out. By spring you might see things differently.”
Snow fell the first night of Osana’s arrival in Bebbanburg. She awoke the following morning to find a blanket of white covering the world. The chill seeped into the tower through the damp stone. Away from the four roaring fire pits, the cold drilled into her joints and numbed her fingers. Swathed in furs, Osana broke her fast with bread and broth, before she and Lora joined the group of women who spent their days spinning and weaving.
Osana picked up her distaff and a basket of wool, preparing to start work.
The women—thegns’ wives—did not give Osana a warm welcome. Even Eldflae
d, the woman who had been so chatty with Osana during her last visit to the fort, ignored her. The morning stretched out, and Osana started to enjoy being left in peace. As Lora had pointed out, there was no strong ill-feeling toward her, only a watchful distrust.
If she worked hard and minded her manners, Osana would be accepted in time.
Across the hall, she spotted the king emerging from his alcove and cross to the high seat, where he broke his fast with his men. She watched them talking, glad that Aldfrith had not seen her. It was best she remained a shadow here: out of sight, beneath notice.
The king did not linger at the table long. After a short discussion with his companions, he rose from the high seat and strode from the hall, a grey wolfhound loping at his side. His men followed him.
The morning passed slowly, and after a long spell winding wool onto a distaff, Osana put her spindle aside and went outdoors while Lora went to help the other servants prepare the noon meal.
The sting of the icy air hit Osana across the face as she gingerly made her way down the slippery steps to the yard below. The wind had died, and it had started to snow again, gentle fluttering flakes that drifted down from an ashen sky.
She turned her face up to it, enjoying the feel of the snowflakes kissing her skin. A moment later a group of horses rode under the high gate into the yard.
The king led them. Snow frosted his mantle and blond hair. His hound followed close behind, tongue lolling. Aldfrith carried a quiver of arrows and a long bow over one shoulder, as did many of his men. A boar carcass was slung over the back of one of the horses.
Standing there in the midst of the yard, Osana felt dangerously exposed. She looked around for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. Aldfrith had already seen her.
He pulled up his horse just a couple of yards away from Osana and swung down off its back, his boots sinking into a foot of snow.
“Good day, Lady Osana,” he greeted her.
