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

by Jayne Castel

  “A chill morning for a hunt, milord,” she replied.

  He smiled at that before gesturing to the boar that dripped crimson blood onto the milk-white snow. “It’s easier to spot prey in the snow.” He reached down and patted his hound’s head, for the beast had sat down at his feet. “However, Argus nearly got himself gored.”

  Osana pulled her fur mantle close, casting an eye over the dog. “I’ve never heard a hound called by that name before.”

  “It’s a name from my mother’s people,” he replied. “Argus is a mythical creature with a hundred eyes. A good name for a sight hound, I think.”

  “Aye, the beast has his uses,” the king’s captain, who had entered the stable yard behind Aldfrith, added. He dismounted from his horse and nudged the dog with his foot. “But for the most part he just takes up space before the fire … and farts.”

  Osana laughed, the sound echoing out across the still morning. Shocked at the loud sound of her mirth, she clapped her hand across her mouth. Yet when she glanced over at Aldfrith, she saw he was smiling.

  Their gazes locked and held for a long, drawn-out heartbeat.

  Lora trudged through the snow, her fur-lined boots sinking through the pristine crust. The air was so cold outdoors that it stung her face. In one hand she carried a wooden bucket, while with the other she did her best to pull her fur mantle close.

  “Thunor’s balls,” she muttered. It was one of her favorite curses—one that her father had taught her. “Any colder and my breath will freeze.”

  She walked toward the stone well that sat on the edge of the stable yard, just beyond the orchard. She and Osana needed some fresh water for their alcove, for washing.

  Crossing the yard, she saw men leading out horses from the stables while the stalls were mucked out. One of the warriors—the man who had winked at her the day prior—was checking the horses’ hooves.

  He had been the first person to greet them upon their arrival at the Great Tower. She could not recall his name, but there was something about him that fascinated her. He wore an intimidating expression most of the time, and yet she had seen yesterday that he had a dry sense of humor. It had been a while since a man had made her laugh—not since Broga.

  Lora’s gaze slid over the warrior, taking in the breadth of his leather-clad shoulders and chest, and the strength in his arms that gleamed with armrings. Not since Broga had a man even drawn her eye, yet this one did.

  So intent was she on staring that Lora failed to notice the patch of ice that spread out around the well, where the snow had frozen solid. The moment her booted foot stepped upon it, her legs flew out from under her.

  With a scream, Lora fell onto her back, the bucket flying from her hand.

  “Cods,” she muttered as she struggled to right herself. She had sunk into the snow and was now cast like a sheep. Her face flamed; she hoped none of the warriors outside the stables had seen her tumble. She needed to get to her feet before one of them did.

  Too late.

  A shadow fell over her, and a deep male voice intruded. “Are you hurt?”

  Lora looked up into laughing male eyes, heat rising up her neck when she realized it was the warrior she had just been staring at.

  “No,” she replied, embarrassment making her snappish.

  “Here.” Grinning now, he held out a hand. “You look like you could do with some help.”

  Lora reached out, grasping his hand. The warmth and strength of it felt good, and she tightened her grip on him before pulling herself up. He lifted her easily, as if she were no more than a child.

  A moment later they were standing close. Lora let go of him and made a fuss of brushing snow off herself, flustered now. “Thank you,” she murmured. She was not usually this coy, did not usually have problems meeting a man’s eye. Yet she suddenly felt shy.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice warm, the laughter now gone. “We weren’t introduced yesterday. I’m Cerdic.”

  She glanced up, her gaze meeting dark brown eyes. His expression was warm, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. Warmth spread through her then, and she felt her own lips curving in response. “My name is Lora.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I am my own man

  A VISITOR ARRIVED at the Great Tower of Bebbanburg five days after Osana’s arrival.

  The last of the snow had melted, leaving a sea of mud in its wake. Men kept tracking it into the hall, only to earn a scolding from the women who tried in vain to keep the rushes clean. Mid-morning, as Osana sat mending a tunic, humming a tune under her breath to help ease the monotony, the doors to the Great Hall swung open, and a slender figure swathed in voluminous, brown robes entered.

  The newcomer wore a solemn expression. He had a gaunt, bearded face, and a neatly shaved tonsure. His dark eyes swept around the interior of the hall with interest. Two monks in simple brown habits flanked him.

  Osana continued to sew, observing the man with interest. He was so frail that it was impossible to discern his age. He walked stiffly, yet carried an air of authority with him.

  “It’s Cuthbert, Prior of Lindisfarena,” one of the women next to Osana whispered. “We’ve not seen him here in years.” Her name was Mildryth, and she was one of the few of the gaggle of wives who bothered with Osana, for Eldflaed and her friends still paid Osana scant attention.

  Osana’s fascination increased. News of Cuthbert had spread far and wide across the north over the years. Tales of his miracles and his unshakable faith had first reached Osana when she was a child. Folk spoke of his extraordinary powers: healing the sick and freeing those who were possessed by demons.

  “He looks much older than I expected,” she mused aloud.

  Mildryth made a clucking sound. “Aye, years of fasting and praying are taking their toll.”

  “I heard he healed a man of leprosy,” Lora whispered, her gaze fascinated as she tracked Cuthbert across the floor. “Folk say the fisherman was covered in sores when he traveled to Lindisfarena, and that he returned home healthy.”

  Mildryth nodded, her long face serious. “Aye, there are many such tales.”

  A draft of cold air rushed into the hall, and Osana tore her gaze from the newcomer to see the king stride indoors. She had not yet seen him today. Mildryth had told her that he often spent mornings writing and studying in the stone annex adjoining the tower. Osana had passed the annex the day before, after returning from Bebbanburg’s market. The door was open, and she had been tempted to go inside. Fortunately, she had curbed her curiosity.

  The priest Oswald entered a few paces behind the king, his robes fluttering in his haste.

  Aldfrith’s face was alive with joy as he approached Cuthbert. The interior of the Great Hall fell silent, all gazes riveted upon the king and the hermit. Aldfrith dropped to one knee before Cuthbert then, bowing his head. He took the frail hand that the prior offered and kissed it.

  “Father Cuthbert … it’s an unexpected pleasure to see you here again. I’d heard you were unwell?”

  Cuthbert grimaced. “Aye, my health worsens I’m afraid.”

  “Welcome to Bebbanburg, Father.” Oswald bowed low, his face flushed. “May God grant you a speedy recovery.”

  The Prior of Lindisfarne favored Oswald with a wry smile. “If only he could … alas, I fear there’s little anyone—even Our Lord—can do.”

  A subdued mood fell over the interior of the Great Hall then, dimming the excitement of the prior’s arrival.

  Aldfrith rose to his feet. Standing next to the prior—tall and strong, and in the prime of life—Aldfrith made Cuthbert look even more fragile. Reaching out, the king placed a hand on the prior’s shoulder. “I’m pleased you have managed a visit here, Father. Will you stay a night or two?”

  Cuthbert nodded, smiling. “Aye, a warm fire and a good meal would ease these old bones.”

  Osana carried the ewer of wine to the high seat, stepped up onto the raised dais, and began a slow circuit of the table. The rich aroma of boar
stew filled the tower, mixed with the scent of freshly baked griddle bread. Her mouth filled with saliva as she watched the stew being served from a huge tureen. The cold had given her a voracious appetite of late.

  She could not take her seat at one of the low tables yet though; this evening she had been given the task of serving the king and his retainers wine. This role usually fell to the womenfolk of the household, but since the king had no wife, and she was an ealdorman’s widow, the task had fallen to her.

  Osana stopped at Aldfrith’s elbow, waiting until he had finished speaking to Cuthbert, before she drew his attention. “Wine, sire?”

  Aldfrith looked up, and their gazes met. The impact of it unnerved her, as it had that day in the snow. She had avoided looking at him directly ever since, for she was sure she had looked flustered that day—as she most likely did now.

  “Aye, thank you, Osana.”

  She leaned forward and poured the wine, acutely aware of his nearness, of the scent of leather and the male musk of his skin. Osana swallowed, her belly fluttering.

  What was wrong with her? Merely standing next to the king turned her into a giddy maid. Ever since arriving here, she had found her gaze drawn to him whenever he was in the hall. A few times she had caught herself staring, only to admonish herself afterward. She knew enough about the world, and of men, not to let herself become infatuated.

  She had been infatuated with Raedwulf once, before they had wed. The disappointment that had come later had been almost too much to bear.

  “Osana … that is a fair name.” Prior Cuthbert’s voice drew Osana’s attention. Grateful for the distraction, she glanced over at him and smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  Up close, his face was even gaunter: his cheeks hollowed, his eyes sunken. However, there was a clarity, an understanding in those dark eyes, that made her instinctively trust him.

  “You are a newcomer to this hall, are you not?” he asked.

  “Aye, Father. I’m the widow of Raedwulf of Hagustaldes.”

  Cuthbert’s gaze widened, before he glanced over at the king. “Why does an ealdorman’s widow live here?”

  “I’ve granted Osana my protection,” Aldfrith replied, his face giving nothing away. “She is my ward.”

  Cuthbert pursed his lips. Watching him, Osana was glad that Bishop Wilfrid was not here. The bishop had returned to Inhrypum three days before, and it was just as well. He would have enjoyed this. Finally, someone to vindicate his opinion, and the Prior of Lindisfarena nonetheless.

  “I heard that Queen Cuthburh left,” the prior said after a lengthy pause.

  “Aye, she took the veil at Berecingas,” Aldfrith replied. Did Osana imagine it, or was there a warning note in his voice. She glanced back at him, trying to read his features. Aldfrith of Northumbria was an enigma. There were times he appeared gentle and distracted, as if his thoughts were far from here, but when challenged she saw him shift. Folk mistook his gentle manner for weakness at their peril.

  Cuthbert was no fool either. He inclined his head, observing the king for a moment before offering his cup to Osana.

  “Just a drop please … with my water.”

  Osana nodded, poured the prior’s wine, and moved on. As she did so, Cuthbert spoke again. “So you intend to remain unwed?”

  “Aye.” Aldfrith’s response was clipped.

  “What of an heir to the throne?”

  “I have a cousin who would be happy to be my successor.”

  “But surely you want a son?”

  A hush fell. Osana continued her way up the table, filling cups as she went. She deliberately did not look the king or the prior’s way, although she could almost taste the tension that had settled upon the high seat.

  Was this what had brought the prior—ill and frail as he was—to Bebbanburg? A plea for the king to remarry?

  Eventually, Aldfrith spoke. “As Oswiu’s son, I’ve always known I might be called upon to rule,” he said quietly. “I’ve accepted that responsibility, but it ends there. For the rest I am my own man. I will not wed again; I will not father a son.”

  The finality of his words, the barely masked bitterness behind them, surprised Osana. She finished pouring the priest’s wine and straightened up, her gaze traveling back to the king. He sat back in his carven chair, apparently relaxed; only the clenched fingers that curved around his cup gave his mood away. His eyes were narrowed.

  What happened to you? She thought sadly. Had his experience with Cuthburh scarred him so deeply that he would not consider marriage ever again? No—it had to be something else, something from his past. For all his apparent serenity, Aldfrith bore deeper wounds that he took great pains to hide.

  “That is sad news indeed,” Cuthbert replied. The prior’s voice was subdued in his response. “You are a worthy king, milord, and would bear worthy sons.”

  Osana could not sleep.

  Cuthbert and his monks occupied Osana and Lora’s alcove tonight, and the women slept in the hall, stretched out upon furs. Osana did not mind her new lodgings much, although Lora complained that the men’s snoring would keep her awake.

  Cerdic slept near them, to ensure the women were not bothered by some of the younger men who slept around the hearths. Osana could not help but notice that the warrior’s presence appeared to put Lora on edge. She was usually light-hearted and chatty in the evenings, but as soon as he lay down his fur cloak and stretched out upon it, Osana’s maid went quiet. However, she could not seem to keep her eyes off Cerdic, her gaze darting to him whenever he looked elsewhere. Osana observed her with interest, noting that Cerdic too had taken to looking Lora’s way when her gaze was averted.

  A dance, as old as time itself.

  Osana wondered where it would lead. Although Lora had lost her husband, she had such an infectious joy for life that Osana could not imagine her alone forever. Yet Cerdic appeared so aloof. In fact, his expression only softened when he looked Lora’s way.

  Lora stretched out onto her furs without any of her usual observations about the day they had just spent, bid Osana good night, and pulled a fur over her head.

  Lying on her back in the dimly lit hall, staring up at the shadowed rafters far above, Osana listened to the sounds of the slumbering hall around her. Neither Cerdic nor Lora stirred, although nearby a babe was whimpering. A moment later, a woman’s soft voice soothed it.

  Osana lay there a while longer, willing sleep to come. Yet she felt wide-awake tonight, her mind far too active.

  Cuthbert’s visit had set her thinking. The prior’s presence had unsettled the daily routine of the hall, and although he had not brought up the subject of Aldfrith taking a wife again, there was a tension between them.

  Time stretched on, the hall quietened further, but slumber still eluded her. Eventually, with a huff of annoyance, she sat up. Perhaps a walk in the yard and some fresh night air would bring tiredness upon her.

  She pulled on her boots and rose to her feet. Then she scooped up the fur cloak she had been sleeping on, cast it over her shoulders, and picked her way out of the hall.

  Twin braziers burned beneath the tower outside, casting the pitted stone in a red-gold hue. The air was damp and chill, and the sky overcast. A waxing moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds overhead. Two guards flanked the doors, their spears glinting in the light of the braziers.

  Clasping her cloak close, Osana greeted them. She then took a torch off a bracket beside the doors, lit it from one of the braziers, and made her way across the yard to the orchard. It was deserted tonight, the naked limbs of the branches spidery against the sky. There was no sound save the rumble of the surf on the shore below the fort.

  Osana walked slowly, deep in thought. The quiet and solitude calmed her active mind, as they always did. After days in the busy tower, she sometimes felt overwhelmed. Raedwulf’s hall had been crowded, yet the Great Hall of Bebbanburg was never still. Only at the darkest hour of the night, or in the grey light of early dusk, did it lie silent.

 
; Can I stay here?

  Cuthbert’s visit had put her on edge. She had just begun to relax, to hope she might find a new life in Bebbanburg, when the prior had drawn attention to her again.

  Perhaps I should go to my aunt in the spring. The thought did not thrill Osana, but at least in Jedworth she would not be an embarrassment to anyone. How many times would Aldfrith have to defend his decision to let her live here before he tired of it?

  Circling back to the tower, Osana slowed her step further. She was loath to return to her place by the fire. If it had not been so cold, she would have remained out here all night.

  She was approaching the steps when a faint glow to her right drew her eye. Firelight. The door to the king’s annex was ajar, and a fire still burned bright in the hearth within.

  Osana paused, surprised. It seemed she was not the only one who could not sleep this evening.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cast Her Out

  OSANA TOOK TWO steps toward the stairs leading back to the Great Tower and stopped.

  I shouldn’t disturb him.

  A wiser woman would go back to her place by the hearth and attempt to sleep, yet Osana did not feel like being wise tonight. She had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with the king since her arrival at Bebbanburg, and longed to speak with him. Frustration boiled up within her. She would get no better chance than now.

  Inhaling deeply, she retraced her steps and walked toward the annex. She stopped before the door and knocked softly.

  A dog’s growl sounded from within, a low warning.

  “King Aldfrith,” Osana said, forcing herself to speak, before her nerve failed her. “It’s Osana. Can I enter?”

  A long silence followed before a low male voice replied. “Aye.”

  Osana pushed open the door. The wolfhound, which had been lying down near the hearth, rose to his feet, hackles raised, growling.

  “Be still, Argus,” Aldfrith commanded, getting up from where he had been sitting at a wide table strewn with sheets of vellum. At the sight of Osana, he inclined his head. “It’s late to be awake?”