by Jayne Castel
She walked through the deserted complex: past a network of low-slung thatched dormitories where the monks presumably slept, between a scattering of storage huts, and out through a narrow gate at the highest point of the promontory.
Standing upon the edge, Osana’s gaze traveled south to where Bebbanburg’s bulk shadowed the sky, smoke from the cook-fires rising high. On the rocks below her, she spied a cluster of puffins. A smile curved her lips as she admired their fat bodies, large red feet, and waddling gait. They looked such happy birds.
The wind gusted here, and so Osana did not linger. Wrapping her fur cloak about her, she turned and re-entered the monastery, circuiting round to the largest buildings in the heart of it.
She entered a large feasting hall, which was empty at this time of day, although the sulfurous odor of cooking cabbage, onion, and turnip drifted in from where a pottage was most likely simmering over the fire. It would be a simple noon meal, even today.
Osana wandered out of the feasting hall and crossed the courtyard, stopping before a heavy wooden door. An annex came off the side of the church, and she wondered what lay inside.
The monk had said no doors were closed to them today; yet even so, Osana hesitated. She did not want to intrude. However, curiosity got the better of her, and she pushed the door open and went inside.
Closing the door gently behind her, she entered a long, windowless chamber illuminated by a row of cressets burning along the stone and mud wall. The air smelled of pitch and something else—a scent that Osana did not recognize.
Below the row of cressets ran a long bench with many low stools under it. And there, spread out like the wings of multi-colored butterflies, were sheets of the most beautiful illustrations Osana had ever seen.
She realized then that she had stumbled upon the monastery’s scriptorium.
Her breath hitched as she moved forward to the end nearest and took a closer look. She had admired Aldfrith’s flowing handwriting, and had marveled at the book he had shown her, but the illustrations here made that volume look crudely drawn.
Osana could not believe that a man had crafted these: the colors were even deeper than in nature, the calligraphy exquisite. She recognized a few of the letters, for she had not forgotten her one lesson with Aldfrith. She had practiced writing her name in the dirt in the orchard outside the Great Tower when she was alone. It frustrated her that she could not read the stories upon these sheets of vellum.
She recognized a few of the illustrations, for she knew the story of Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection. Yet some of the drawings mystified her.
Captivated, Osana slowly moved down the bench, drinking the pages in. She was so enraptured that she did not hear the gentle swish of the door opening behind her. It was the draft on the back of her neck that made her glance over her shoulder.
Aldfrith stood in the doorway.
Slowly, he closed the door behind him. “The scriptorium is a private place, Osana,” he greeted her. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Apologies, sire,” she replied. “The monk giving us the tour said we could go where we wished. I didn’t know this room was forbidden.”
“The items in here are precious … irreplaceable.”
“I know.” She glanced back at the page she had just been studying. It showed a man, swathed in wine-red robes, sitting upon a stool with a blue cushion. A halo around his head marked him as a saint, and a golden winged lion leaped over him. “I’ve never seen the like. How do they produce such colors?”
“Minerals and vegetable extracts, I believe.”
He moved across the room toward her, stopping at her side. “That’s the evangelist, Mark. He was represented as a lion, symbolizing the Resurrection of Christ.”
“He almost looks alive,” Osana breathed. She resisted the urge to reach out and trace the picture with her finger tip. “How does one learn to draw like this?”
“The monks here dedicate their life to it … and many will go to their grave still learning the craft.”
Osana was suddenly aware how close he was standing next to her. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of leather, and the warm spice of his skin. Osana’s breathing constricted. She wanted to drown in that scent. Tamping down her reaction to him, for it could lead nowhere good, she glanced up, meeting Aldfrith’s eye.
“I was rude to you a moment ago,” he said, his expression achingly serious. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize.” Osana forced a brightness into her tone she did not feel. “I should have asked before entering the scriptorium. I’ve always been too curious. My father once told me it was an ill-trait in a woman.”
Aldfrith smiled then, an expression that lit up the dim space. “He was wrong … it’s a sign of a sharp mind. A good thing in a woman.”
Osana huffed. “My husband would have disagreed with you there. He said I’d have been happier if I’d been born dull-witted.”
“Well, he was wrong too.” Their gazes held, and Aldfrith’s smile faded. “It’s a long while since we last spoke.”
Osana heaved in a deep breath, summoning her courage. “Did I do something to offend you, sire?” She knew the question was bold, but they never had the chance to speak privately, and she would get few opportunities to get the truth out of him.
“You did nothing wrong,” he replied. “I’ve kept my distance for my own reasons. My hall is full of sharp eyes, flapping ears, and wagging tongues. I wanted to protect you.”
Osana arched an eyebrow. “Really? Was it me you were trying to protect … or yourself? You don’t seem the type to care what other people think.”
His mouth curved into a wry smile, although there was no humor in his eyes. “You see through me, Osana. You’ve always been able to do that.”
Flustered, she looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Aye, you do … you don’t let me lie to you. When I talk to you, I feel things I’d rather not. Life is easier without you. I can immerse myself in my writing, my philosophy … in the role of king. But you shatter my shield.”
Osana’s head jerked up, her belly clenching. “Then I should go … I should leave Bebbanburg.”
Aldfrith stepped closer and raised his hand, lightly tracing his fingers down her cheek. His touch made her legs tremble. It suddenly felt airless inside the scriptorium. His gaze ensnared hers; she literally could not look away. A shadow moved in his eyes, revealing the war raging within him. “Aye … I think that would be best,” he murmured.
Chapter Twenty-one
What have we done?
HIS GAZE WOULD not let her go. Time froze as they stood there, staring at each other.
Osana’s pulse fluttered in the base of her throat.
He wants me to go.
Part of her had been expecting it would come to this, but to hear him say the words hurt like a seax-blade to the gut. There had been another part of her—a secret yearning part—that had hoped to hear the opposite.
Why can’t life be like the songs?
Osana swallowed. “I will go then. As soon as we return to the fort, I will begin my preparations.”
He said nothing, just watched her with a hunger in his eyes that made her soul ache.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t bear it.”
A low growl escaped him—a mix of anger and frustration—and the next moment he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Osana melted into him, any thought of resistance fluttering from her mind. Like when she had accidentally tumbled onto his lap after their lesson, his nearness completely disarmed her.
Aldfrith’s mouth claimed hers: fierce, almost angry. Osana uttered a soft cry, parting her lips for him. She had yearned for this moment ever since their first kiss; she had lain awake in her furs reliving those brief instants in his arms over and over till her body burned with need.
Yet that first kiss had been a surprise, and it had taken her a few momen
ts to relax in his arms.
This time, she ignited like dry tinder under a naked flame. She raised her arms and reached up, burying her fingers in his tousled blond hair. She had dreamed of doing so for months now.
Aldfrith swung her away from the bench, his hands sliding down the column of her back. Still kissing her, he walked them both across the narrow space to the far wall. There, he pressed himself up against her, his mouth ravaging hers.
Osana’s head spun, her pulse pounding like a drum in her ears. Even her fevered imagination had not come up with the sensations that now coursed through her. She trembled under his touch; her core pulsed with a deep ache that demanded to be satisfied. She would go mad if he stopped kissing her now.
She felt him reach up and unpin her hair. She wore her long brown tresses braided and wrapped around her head, as many wedded or widowed women did. The heavy braid fell onto her shoulder, and his hand slid down to its tufted end, removing the band of leather keeping it tied. Then, in slow, sensual movements, he began to unbraid it, tangling his fingers into the thick coil.
Osana moaned against his mouth before gently biting his lower lip. He murmured a soft curse in response before claiming her mouth once more—his kiss achingly gentle, his tongue’s exploration making sweat bead across her skin.
Who taught him to kiss like this?
The thought was fleeting, dissipating like wood smoke. Who cared—she just wanted more of those kisses; she was greedy for them.
Their bodies were entwined, but layers of heavy clothing separated them. Osana was frustrated; she longed to tear away the heavy woolen tunic she wore so those magician’s hands could explore her nakedness. The thought of him doing so on the dirt floor of the scriptorium made heat pulse between her thighs.
Her hand slid down his leather vest to the breeches beneath, her fingertips tracing the hard bulge that strained toward her.
Breathing heavily, Aldfrith drew back from kissing her. His gaze ensnared hers once more. They continued staring at each other, before Osana reached down with her other hand and began to unlace his breeches.
He sprang free: a hot, hard rod in her eager hands. Still holding his gaze, Osana let out a whimper; it was an animal sound, and one that needed no further explanation.
Aldfrith knew what she wanted—what they both craved.
He reached down and pushed up her skirts: the heavy woolen tunic she wore and the linen one underneath it. The air was cold inside the scriptorium, but the sensation of the cool feathering across her naked thighs just heightened Osana’s excitement.
With her skirts about her hips, he slid his hands under her naked buttocks, kneed her trembling thighs apart, and thrust deep into her.
Osana took him in easily, to the root. She was ready for him, and the sensation of his shaft filling her, stretching her, sent waves of pleasure rippling out from her core. She cried out, her body shaking from the force of it, arching up against him.
Aldfrith muttered another curse—one the monks here would blanch at—and ground himself against her.
Osana let out a low moan and bent her head back, letting the exquisite sensations sweep her up and carry her away. Coupling had never been like this for her, even in those heady first days with Raedwulf. She did not know her body was capable of such pleasure.
Aldfrith continued to move his hips against hers, bending his head down so that his lips branded her neck.
Osana shuddered and moaned as he moved up the column of her throat to the shell of her ear—and when he kissed and licked her there, she gave a choked cry, her pleasure cresting once more.
Holding her tight, he began to move inside her in slow, deep thrusts. The pleasure was almost unbearable now. Osana tipped her head forward, gasping his name. She was about to ask him to slow down, so she could regain control, but his mouth claimed hers once more.
This time the kiss was savage, bruising. Osana responded in kind, her tongue tangling with his. He thrust deep and hard into her, pinning her against the wall. A moment later Osana screamed into his mouth as he pushed her over the brink, and she spiraled into a vortex of pure sensation.
She felt him reach his climax too, his muffled cry against her mouth. And then his body went rigid as he spilled his seed within her, the muscles cording in the arms she now gripped.
They sagged against the wall together, the raw sound of their ragged breathing filling the scriptorium. Aldfrith buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing Osana in as he recovered, while she buried her own face in the tousled crown of his head.
“You’re finished, I take it?”
Osana and Aldfrith both froze, their breathing stilling.
A chill stole over Osana’s skin, and she shivered, noting for the first time just how cold the room was. Reluctantly, she raised her face and looked over to the doorway. Framed there, the pale afternoon sunlight silhouetting his tall, spare figure, stood Bishop Wilfrid.
The look on his face made her blood run cold. Mortification flooded through Osana. How long had he been standing there … watching?
Aldfrith raised his head, his own gaze traveling to the bishop. “No,” he rasped. “We’re not … get out, Wilfrid.”
The bishop’s gaze narrowed and he clenched the hands that hung at his sides. “You have defiled a holy place,” he hissed.
“Get. Out.”
The chill in Aldfrith’s voice made Wilfrid pause, and a nerve ticked in his cheek. His gaze, full of outrage, slid from Aldfrith’s face to Osana’s. He then spat upon the ground. “Hōre.”
Wilfrid stepped back, drawing the door shut after him with a dull thud.
Osana swallowed the bile that stung the back of her throat. She felt as if she was going to be sick.
Gently, Aldfrith shifted away from her, and she felt his shaft slide free. A pang of acute emptiness followed. She did not want him to leave her. His gaze was shuttered as he refastened his breeches; however, his attention remained upon her.
“I don’t care that Wilfrid found us,” he said quietly. “But I am sorry that I lost control … I shouldn’t have done that.”
Osana stared at him. “Aldfrith,” she whispered. “I—”
He reached up and placed a cautionary finger on her lips. “Don’t,” he warned, his blue eyes full of pain. “There are no words that can change this. We need to rejoin the others now.”
“But … we need to talk. We won’t get another chance to be alone.”
He shook his head and took another step back from her. His eyes gleamed now and his throat bobbed. He wore a panicked look, as if talking with her was the last thing he wanted. “That’s for the best.” He finished readjusting his clothing and moved toward the door. “I shall see you at the noon meal.”
A short while later, Osana walked into the feasting hall. She was in a daze, vaguely aware of her surroundings. The meal had already begun: trenchers of coarse bread filled with steaming pottage. The clatter of wooden spoons and the rumble of conversation calmed Osana, and she slipped into the hall as discreetly as possible.
A dull throb between her legs reminded her of what she and Aldfrith had just done. Unlike him, she could not bring herself to regret it. Her blood still sang in the aftermath. The world looked different, as if draped in a soft, golden veil.
Aldfrith sat with the bishop, Oswald, and the senior monks at a table at one end of the hall, near the great hearth. Osana took a seat as far away as possible, at a long bench, next to Mildryth.
However, the woman was staring at her as if Osana had just sprouted a third eye in the center of her forehead.
Mildryth was not the only one. Many of the folk were gawking at her, mouths rudely open, before one or two of them nudged each other with their elbows. One of the men gave Osana a lewd look, and she went cold.
God’s bones … no.
“You and the king made quite a noise,” Mildryth hissed in her ear. “I doubt there was anyone in the monastery who didn’t hear your cries.”
This was ill news indeed
.
Mortified, Osana dropped her gaze to her trencher. The sight of food made her bile rise once more. She would not be able to stomach a mouthful.
What have we done?
She had not cared at the time, and neither had he. But she did so now. How would she ever face the folk of the Great Hall again? News of this would spread like the plague, likely racing ahead of her arrival back in Bebbanburg. Life there would become unbearable.
Aldfrith had warned her of this. So had Lora. But she had barely listened to the warnings. She had wanted Aldfrith so badly, still wanted him with an ache that made it painful to breathe. Yet she wanted the impossible; the look on Wilfrid’s face had confirmed it.
“Hōre.”
The whispered insult from Elflaed, the thegn’s wife seated across from her, made Osana flinch. Aye, that was how they would all see her now.
Chapter Twenty-two
A Different Path
THE RETURN TO Bebbanburg was cold and miserable. A light rain had started to fall, and an icy wind gusted in from the north. Osana walked at the back of the group, head bowed.
What had been the most magical experience of her life had quickly spiraled into her most humiliating. Aldfrith had not looked at her at all throughout the meal. He had not been able to shield his unhappiness from the world though; his face had been pale and tense, his gaze haunted.
Reaching the shore, Osana followed the party of mourners south toward the stronghold. She deliberately lagged behind, letting the others draw ahead. None of them glanced over their shoulders to make sure she was still following. She could have turned away and disappeared into the hills and none of them would have seen.
Osana was tempted to do just that. However, she carried no food on her, no thrymsas. She would leave Bebbanburg, as the king had said, but it would have to be with the dawn. They had both agreed she would leave—only that was before the kiss.
Osana’s thoughts raced ahead at what she must do when they arrived back at Bebbanburg. She would need to tell Lora that she was leaving, and that she would do so alone. Lora would not be happy about that, but Osana’s mind was already made up. She would not take her friend with her. After that she would have to pack swiftly, so that she could leave at first light.
