Satisfied with the response of the crowd, King Ælle turned and swept back into the hall. No one moved until each noble had returned to the Great Hall and the door closed behind them. Then, slowly, people rose to a standing position. They did not disperse at once, but loitered, stunned. They seemed unsure what to do, unable to process what had happened. Æva realised none of them understood the secret scandal which had truly unfolded inside the Great Hall.
“Well,” Ælric’s voice cut through the silence, his eyebrows raised.
At that point Wulfram exited the Great Hall. He stood at the top of the stairs and motioned to them.
“You are needed,” was all he said, before turning on his heel and disappearing back inside.
An hour later, Æva found herself standing in a small room in the quarters behind the nobles’ table of the Great Hall. The space held only one table, surrounded by chairs. A small hearth burned, the smoke from the fire winding lazily up through the thick thatch to dispel into the vast sky. The walls were panelled wood, decorated with scenes of battle in vibrant colours of paint. It was a windowless room, torches hooked into brackets on the wall providing light.
Wulfram and his men sat at the table, accompanied by Bayan. They had spent hours discussing strategies for an attack on Deira. Bayan’s father, King Ælle, had announced Wulfram as leader of the army that was to march south. The plans terrified Æva: if Wulfram was sent to fight, what would happen to her?
Wulfram sat with his back to her, Idin and Ælric flanking him. That left Bayan, now a prince, she thought with a shiver, directly opposite her. Despite the fact that she kept her head down, her hands clasped in servitude, she could still see him, was aware of every movement. Each time he glanced at her - which she was delighted and terrified to find was often considering she was nothing but a servant to him – she felt a jolt of excitement and fear.
Bayan drained his cup, clicked his fingers at her.
“Girl,” he growled, holding the cup out to her.
Clumsily, Æva forced herself to move. She grabbed his mug and darted from the room, glad to escape the tension for a moment. She walked quickly to the Great Hall, crossing to the alcove that held the barrels of mead. After filling it she rushed back, afraid he would be irritated if she was slow. Her feet made almost no sound on the floor, only a soft whooshing as the leather whispered against the dirt. She was about to push at the curtain covering the entrance when she caught her name. Intrigued she stopped short, leaning close to the doorframe to listen.
“Æva, her name is Æva,” she heard Idin say.
“And to which of you does she belong?”
A silence followed this question. Æva waited, her heart pounding in her throat. She glanced up and down the short hallway, making sure she would not be caught eavesdropping.
“She belongs to me,” Wulfram finally said. Æva thought she sensed reluctance in his voice.
“Do you teach all of your servants to read?”
More silence. Æva knew Wulfram was being herded, steered into revealing something. She could almost imagine the expression of anger and frustration on his face. He did not respond, and the silence thickened until it seemed the air was too heavy to draw into her lungs.
“Who is she?”
The question was soft, quiet. It gave Wulfram nowhere to go. An understanding passed between them, invisible to Æva hiding just out of sight. She heard Wulfram sigh in defeat.
“She is the daughter of Æthelred. She had been sent to a nunnery attacked by the Viking raids. The Abbess managed to save her life.”
“King Æthelred?”
Æva recognised the voice of Ælric, choked with shock. She too, stood frozen with disbelief. She knew nothing of her father, only a name. She could not even remember his face.
“Does she know who she is?” Bayan’s cut across her muddled thoughts.
Æva did not see the shake of Wulfram’s head, hidden behind the curtain. Had she been standing in the room, right in front of him, she still might not have seen it. She was too lost in disbelief and amazement. Her father had been a king. She, therefore, had been born a princess. It was incredible, impossible. But then another thought pushed in: did it really matter? Her father was long dead. King Osberht had reined for over ten years, erasing her family’s line to the dust of memory. Surely she had no importance now?
“So you intend just to keep her as your servant?”
The question was rude, scathing, and Wulfram’s rebuke was swift.
“What would you have me do? She is not safe. A marriage to her would be link to the great line of Æthelred, would strengthen a claim to the throne. Should I throw her to the noble lions and let them fight over her?”
Ice slithered into Æva’s veins. She waited, barely breathing, to learn more, but the pause lengthened, seconds ticking by. Her fingers drummed impatiently against the wooden mug she held. Then it dawned on her that she was going to have to walk back into the room, to serve Bayan as if she had heard nothing. For a moment she considered leaving, putting the cup down and walking from the Great Hall, out of Babbanburth and into oblivion. So tempting - much easier than walking back in to face the men, but she fought against it. Slipping inside the curtain, she flitted to Bayan’s side, served his drink, and returned to her place against the wall, in the darkest corner, whishing the shadows would swallow her.
Although she kept her eyes half-closed, refusing to look anywhere except at the floor, she sensed four pairs of eyes watching her, curiously wondering.
ᛁ
The new king’s crowning was celebrated with a fantastic feast in the great hall. The tables groaned under the weight of many beasts, their skin scorched black by the fire, flesh juicy and tender. As with the first night, each table was crowded with men, and at the top table Ælle sat proudly, flanked by his son and other important nobles. Earlier in the night some of the wives had been invited to dine. They had stunned Æva with their elegant dresses and the fine jewellery that had adorned their skin. They were refined and graceful, but as the night sky had darkened outside, their husbands sent them away and the revelry had commenced.
Again, Æva found herself playing the role of a handmaiden, refilling the mugs of ale as they quickly emptied. This time she was glad of the deafening noise of the hall. It filled her head, making it impossible to think. She stared numbly into space, coming to life only when someone held their cup out to her. She had not told Wulfram what she had overheard. She didn’t want him to know she had been prying.
“Æva,” Idin held his mug out to her, jolting her from her reverie. Wordlessly she grasped the handle and blundered across to the barrels. She skirted around the tables, weaving her way through narrow aisles and stepping over the body of a drunk who had already reached, and breached, his limit. On the way a greasy hand shot out and grabbed a handful of her skirt. She tried to pull forward, hoping he would release her, but his grip was firm and she jerked to a halt.
Æva looked down at the hand; a rough, brawny fist with stubby, blackened fingernails. It had a vice-like grip on her skirt, twisting the fabric, putting pressure all the way up to the seam at her shoulder. She tried again to pull free, leaning hard and straining the fabric, but the fingers tightened.
“Why don’t you sit here with me for a while?” The voice was lecherous, the words slurred. Reluctantly, Æva looked up at his face.
His head was round and a blotchy red, with cheeks sagging with fat and three chins that glistened with sweat under several days of stubble. His lips were bulbous, food and grease smeared around where he had gorged himself. In his pig-like eyes she recognised the unmistakable thirst of lust. His appearance nauseated her, and she cringed away as his second hand rose to stroke her arm.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he sneered, pulling at the skirt of her dress, heaving her towards him. Æva tried to twist away from his grasp. He tugged again, yanking her down onto the table. His elbow connected with a large mug of ale sat too close to the edge, knocking the liquid all o
ver his neighbour, who roared in complaint and swung round, leading with his fist. Enraged, the drunk dropped his grip on Æva’s dress and threw himself forward, ready to fight.
As soon as she was free Æva darted away, not even looking back to see who had won the quarrel. She reached the barrels, heart pounding, and refilled Idin’s mug. As she turned to leave, ready to face the obstacle course once again, a man stepped in front of her. She knew by his dress he was a servant, although more finely clothed than some of the others she had seen. His demeanour was agitated, his eyes constantly flitting across the room, assessing the food on the tables, watching the activities of other servants as they rushed to and fro.
“We’re out of bread,” he told her. “Run out to the bakery and bring in more rolls.”
Æva panicked. She didn’t dare tell him no, but she had no idea where the bakery was. He frowned as she stood staring at him. She glanced over to Idin, Ælric and Wulfram, hoping one of them would rescue her, but they were looking away, engrossed in conversation. The man tutted impatiently at her.
“What are you waiting for? Go!”
He pointed, his expression furious. It was not nearly as impressive as the ire Wulfram conveyed, but she scuttled off nonetheless, heading in the direction he pointed.
Outside the Great Hall, night had truly fallen. Torches, hanging on brackets on either side of the vast doors, spread a pool of light in a semi-circle across the small platform, but the steps and beyond were in near total darkness. At the base of the steps, to the right, sat a collection of small wooden huts she had noticed during the afternoon she’d spent with Idin and Ælric in the square, waiting for Wulfram. She hoped she would find the stores there. Trying to ignore her trepidation, she walked slowly down the steps, gradually being submerged by the night.
The bakery store proved easy to find. The first room she looked into she caught the yeasty scent of bread. The loaves were stacked on trays so wide she struggled to extend her arms far enough to grip both sides. With some difficulty she hoisted one up, leaning backwards to keep her balance. She reversed out of the door, the light from the torches guiding her. The cool breeze of the night tickled the nape of her neck as she left the shelter of the low hut. Turning cautiously, careful not let any of the bread slide from the flat expanse, she began to waddle awkwardly.
For a moment a silhouette blocked out the light from the torches, engulfing her in temporary darkness. Æva dipped her head, murmuring deferentially to the figure. Her nose wrinkled as she caught the smell of unwashed body and drink. She waited for the person to pass, but whoever it was seemed to loiter over her.
“So this is where you got to, little girl.”
A quick glance up confirmed it: it was the drunken letch who had pawed at her inside. He’d paused only a step from her, hands on his hips, legs spread to support the weight of his massive stomach. Æva flicked her gaze quickly around the darkened square, but it was empty. She was alone.
“Sir,” Æva curtseyed. She tried to turn, to squeeze by him to the first of the steps, only feet away, but he took a pace to the side, cutting off her escape route.
“Where are you running off to?”
“The Great Hall needs more bread, sir,” she replied, her voice breathless and whispery, unable to conceal her fear.
tried to step around him again, taking the long way which pushed her further into the dark. Like Ælric on the beach that morning, he stalked her steps, herding her towards the isolated shadows. And then, like Ælric, he moved forward in attack.
He hooked one hand underneath the tray, sending it tumbling to the ground with a clatter. The loaves of bread toppled onto the dirt square floor, ruined. He advanced on her, a lascivious grinning widening with each step. Although almost paralysed with fear, Æva tried desperately to think about what Ælric had taught her. She danced backwards, just managing to keep out of reach of his meaty, grabbing hands. His grin widened, his tongue sliding between his teeth as he chuckled.
“You are teasing me, little servant girl.”
Æva took a deep breath, preparing to scream for help regardless of the consequences, but at that moment he lunged forward. Æva jumped back, but she had reached the edge of the square. Her shoulders banged into the wooden pillar of one of the buildings. It was cold, but then a crushing heat smothered her as his body pressed against hers, trapping her.
“Now I’ve got you,” he breathed, his mouth right at her ear, repugnant breath tickling her neck.
She put both hands on his shoulders and shoved with all her might, but he seemed oblivious to her efforts. She felt wetness on her neck as he licked her skin. Taking one deep breath, inflating her lungs as much as the massive pressure of his weight would allow, she tried to scream, but only got out one, frightened little squeak before his hand clamped down on her mouth.
“Shhh,” he crooned.
Æva thought desperately about the knife tucked against her calf, but it was out of reaching of her searching fingers.
His other hand fumbled down to her skirt, gathering up the woollen fabric, revealing her bare legs inch by inch. He removed the hand covering her mouth and tried to kiss her, his lips rubbery and wet against hers, his tongue trying to probe her clenched teeth. Hissing, she twisted away and bit into the wobbling fat of his cheek.
He howled in pain and pulled back. Æva’s could taste a salty mixture of blood and sweat on her tongue. She tried to spit it out, but her mouth was dry.
“Bitch!” he hollered, shifting back so he could smash her across the face.
Æva barely had a moment of respite before he was on her once again, this time his movements were urgent, rough. Angry. He grasped at her hair, holding her head still while he tried once more to put his tongue in her mouth.
Æva hissed, scratched, twisted and writhed, attacking like a cat, fighting him with all her strength, but she knew she could not match him. He was going to rape her.
One of his hands dropped to her hip, squeezing in between them and fumbling with something at his clothing. Still Æva fought, fingernails digging uselessly into the thick fabric of his jacket.
Suddenly the weight was gone. The heat of his body disappeared and the cool air of the night made her raw, sweating skin tingle. She heard a grunt, the snarl of someone else, and then a soft thump, followed by a louder crash. Her eyes searched the dark, trying to make sense of ghostly shadows. Her breathing came in frightened pants as she waited, too terrified to move.
“Are you all right?”
The voice came from her left and she cringed away from the sound, her nerves on edge. Footsteps approached. Someone grabbed her hand, pulling her from the pillar, across the square and into the light. Æva stumbled behind. Her body felt strange, as if it did not belong to her; it made her clumsy. She couldn’t see the face of the stranger who had rescued her, just the tall outline of broad shoulders as he led her towards the steps.
At the base of the first step he paused, turning to face her and cupping her cheek, which burned where the ogre had struck her. His eyes flickered across her face, then into her eyes, checking for damage.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
Æva stared, stunned. It was him, Bayan. Her emotions were in a tumult: the residue of terror, the shock of the physical attack, the relief of rescue, and now the stirrings of fear and awe.
She realised he was waiting for an answer, but her throat was constricted, her eyes filling. She jerked her head in an awkward nod, the movement setting free the tears, allowing them to course down her cheeks.
Bayan curled his other hand around her shoulder and began to draw her to him, but just at that moment a second pair of footsteps thudded closer.
“Æva?” she recognised the voice of Idin, saturated with worry.
Bayan drew back, dropping both of his hands. Without the contact Æva began shivering uncontrollably, chilled.
“What has happened?” Idin demanded, stepping closer and taking in Æva’s tear-stained face, the puffiness of her cheek already be
ginning to swell.
A small group of men stumbled out of the hall, joking in loud voices. They paused as they took in the scene unfolding on the tiny platform. Both Bayan and Idin glared at them, their postures unfriendly. Taking the hint, the men swiftly began to move past.
“She’s been attacked,” Bayan told him accusingly. “Where were you?”
“Æva?” Idin moved closer. “Are you all right?”
To Æva’s surprise, Bayan stepped in front of her, blocking Idin.
“Does she look all right? Look at her!” His voice was hard, sneering. “This is your protection?”
Æva shifted to the side just enough to see Idin. His jaw was clenched tight in anger against Bayan’s accusations, but he stared at the ground, avoiding the other man’s gaze.
“Æva come, let me see to you,” Idin said quietly. He held out a hand, but before Æva could go to him, Bayan held an arm out, blocking her.
“No,” he said. “I will take her. She will be safe with me.”
There was no missing the accusation in Bayan’s tone. Idin didn’t argue, and he dropped the hand reaching out for Æva. He stood silently, avoiding both their gazes, as Bayan put a gentle hand on her shoulder and led her away.
ᛄ
Æva woke alone in a strange room. She lay in a wooden bed on a soft mattress with linen sheets edged with embroidery, an intricate pattern of green and red squares. A huge chest sat at the foot of the bed, solid planks of oak held together by gleaming iron fixings. Shelves hung on one wall, holding several pots and one drinking cup. A simple tapestry covered the wall opposite, above a small table and stool. The bed chamber of a wealthy man - but for all the finery Æva had the sense the room was not lived in. Few personal possessions were on display.
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