“What’s happening?” Æva asked, pretending ignorance, though to her ears her voice sounded off, unused to deceit.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he told her, smiling at her.
Æva struggled to keep the frown from her face, dissatisfied.
“Does it have something to do with Eboric?” she asked, throwing the question out, as if it was of little interest. She was sure she did it badly; his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing to watch her shrewdly.
“What do you know of Eboric?” he asked sharply.
Æva shrugged, reluctant to admit what Wulfram, and now Lora, had shared with her.
“Only rumours. That the Vikings have surrounded it and are laying siege to the city walls. Is it true?” she asked. She stared at him, her eyes measuring his stance, his expression, the emotion in his eyes.
It was a test. Would he share with her at last, or dismiss her?
He looked at her for a moment, considering her with calm blue eyes. Finally he nodded.
“Yes,” he told her, not noticing Æva’s visible sigh of relief. “My father has ordered the army to gather. He wishes to leave in a week.”
“Will you go with him?”
“Of course,” he replied.
The unspoken question hung in the air before them. Æva broke the silence first.
“And me?”
“You would want to come?” he asked, and Æva saw this for what it was: another test, this time for her.
“I would want to be where you are,” Æva hedged, uncertain what answer he wanted.
Bayan laughed, and she hoped she had chosen correctly.
“We will see,” he told her.
That moment sparked the beginning of a long stretch of loneliness for Æva. Each day Bayan left her to her own devices as he met with nobles and organised the massive operation of getting an army on the move. He never encouraged her to mix with the other ladies of the court, and refused to allow her to mingle with the servants, and so she spend hour after hour trapped in the room, sometimes with Lora for company, but more often than not alone. On occasion he would arrive unannounced and whisk her out to ride or take her to the beach to continue her lessons in archery, but these outings were few and far between.
Each night he would return to her, and although Æva tried to tell herself only the imminent departure of the army kept him away, increasingly she felt as though she had made the wrong decision. The endless hours of solitude gave her much time to muse over the situation, too much time. But though she went around and around these thoughts in her head, she could see no solution.
For the moment at least, she was trapped.
ᛋ
Exactly a week later, Æva woke alone to the sound of raindrops falling. She no longer reached across the bed for Bayan. She knew he would be gone, the slight depression where he had lain bereft of his body heat.
Æva rolled to the side, pulling herself upright, her bare feet touching the rough rug on the floor as she crossed to the small window. The damp of the rain outside seemed to leech through the wooden shutters to chill the air. She pushed them open and inhaled deeply, smiling at the smell of autumn that rose up, disturbed by the plummeting raindrops. The world beyond her window was a murky landscape of greys and brown, sandy dirt roads soaked to soft muck; the leaves on the trees fading from vivid green to burned russet and gold. The sky was leaden, full of the downpours that had fallen for three days straight. Æva had heard servants say the foul weather was an omen, a sign from the Gods. She’d roller her eyes at their Pagan nonsense, but as the preparations had progressed, the rain had continued to fall.
A knock at the door made her turn. Lora bustled in, her woollen shift already covered by a thicker, dark grey cloak.
“Have you breakfasted, My Lady?” she asked, her eyes darting to the tray Æva had not yet noticed. She pursed her lips as she took in the untouched food. “You must eat,” she told Æva, “It will be a long day.”
“Am I so late up?” Æva asked. The thick clouds hid her only way of telling the time.
“No, it is early,” Lora shook her head. “But the soldiers have already set off and his Lordship is anxious we leave as soon as the supplies wagons are ready.”
“Bayan is still here?” Æva asked, her voice eager. Her face fell as Lora shook her head, and she looked away so she didn’t have to see the pity in the handmaiden’s eyes.
“No, My Lady, he left before dawn with the first of the soldiers.”
Æva had been about to bite into a large chunk of bread, her stomach growling, but suddenly she had lost her appetite. Instead, she hurried to dress, wanting to hide her face from Lora’s watchful eyes.
On top of her dress she added a travelling cloak, hers much finer than Lora’s, made of deep green and embroidered around the edge with a thin strip of patterned silk that Æva had woven herself during her many hours of boredom.
“You are ready to go?” Lora asked, relieved. Æva nodded, eager to be leaving this room behind. She followed Lora down the corridor and across the Great Hall, where servants still rushed to and fro, carrying heavy bundles out onto the small platform. At the top of the steps she paused. The sight before her was incredible to behold.
The square was packed with wagons and saddled horses awaiting their charges. Each wagon had been filled with barrels, chests, large pots and urns, sacks and wooden boxes. Beyond the square the carts waited in a line, nose to tail, winding down the narrow main procession, through the gate and spewing outside of the palisade. Then, looking further afield, an ordered line of soldiers, supplies and all the things needed to mobilise an army that she had never dreamed of, inched towards the horizon. Æva had never seen so many people amassed together, and she knew that this consisted of only a fraction of the army King Ælle hoped to gather; more troops were to join at Corawic, Hagustaldes and Catraeth.
Lora led her to a small gathering of horses where servants were assisting the ladies of the court to mount. These were the women Æva had seen dining in the Great Hall when she had been pretending to be the handmaiden of Wulfram. During the past week she had caught only brief glimpses, and so she looked at them eagerly now, but almost at once she became aware of their return stares, some curious, others knowing and accompanied by disdainful smirks. Gradually her head dropped and her cheeks tinted, and she was glad when Lora led her to a horse at the back of the group where she could hide from their scornful glances.
Her horse was a pretty chestnut mare, its coat darkened to copper by the rain. The brilliant white of the four socks that decorated the horse’s legs was dappled with spots of dark brown mud, and she tossed her head, annoyed at the huge droplets that plummeted from the sky, but her ears were pricked and her large brown eyes were gentle. Smiling timidly, Æva lifted her hand and rubbed her muzzle.
“What is her name?” she asked Lora, who was distracted trying to make a small wooden ladder stand steady on the uneven ground.
“Freya,” she told her, breathless as she heaved the steps about, trying to push them into the muck to find purchase.
Æva smiled. “Pretty,” she told the mare. “Your name means Queen of the Gods.”
The horse snickered as if she approved, and Æva laughed.
“My Lady,” Lora called her to order, holding out her hand to help her clamber up. Æva wrinkled her nose as she registered the saddle on the horse’s back. Side-saddle again. Climbing the steps, she lifted one leg and braced her foot on the small footrest, heaving herself up onto the small seat. The saddle was slippery, slick with rainwater, and for a terrifying moment she thought she was going to slither back down the other side and land in a most unladylike fashion in the muck. Lora made a lunge for her ankle, holding her steady as she found her balance.
“Thank you,” Æva murmured gratefully.
A snort of derision made her glance at one of the ladies, a tall blond in a magnificent cloak of deep red. For a moment she glimpsed an arched eyebrow of disdain before the woman swept up her hood, covering her head and dismiss
ing Æva.
Gradually, the packed square began to empty as wagon after wagon wound its way at a snail’s pace down towards the gates of the palisade. As they passed underneath the palisade and out into the road that crossed the wild heath, the wind whipped off the sea, driving the raindrops with venom. Æva refused to pull up her hood, closing her eyes and letting the stinging globules prickle her skin and melt into her hair. It was refreshing.
They rode for hour after hour, not stopping for food or rest. For the first few miles Æva amused herself by drinking in the scenery; the wild heath moors, the vast and empty sea, the silhouettes of great oak trees lining the horizon, the astonishing sight of the army stretching for miles in a wide line before her. But soon the biting wind and unrelenting rain that had at first been invigorating became uncomfortable, and then unbearable. Æva’s hair and face were soaked, and the woollen hood of her thick travelling cloak was saturated with rainwater, hanging heavy around her shoulders. She knew it would be useless to pull it up now. Her fingers were chalky white, the nails blue, and although her hands gripped the neck strap, she could feel nothing except a numb ache. She was cold to her core. Too late she regretted not eating the breakfast Lora had prepared for her; the gnawing hunger was less potent than the cold, but it made it harder to fight the chill.
She looked down at Lora, walking slowly beside her. The poor girl was hobbling, gingerly trying to keep as much weight as possible off her left foot. She, too, was soaked, and her hands on the lead-rope were red raw with the cold.
“Are you all right?” she asked her, eyes watching the limp that was becoming more pronounced with each step.
“Fine, My Lady,” Lora replied instantly, twisting her head around give Æva a tight smile. Unsure what else to say, Æva lapsed back into an awkward silence.
At last, they began passing row after row of hastily erected tents and fledgling fires. Æva and Lora followed the wives down what seemed to be a main thoroughfare, before being directed left by a harassed looking soldier.
As soon as they halted, servants dashed forward to take the reins. Æva groaned as she hit the ground, her legs stiff and sore. turned to Lora, who looked deathly pale and close to collapse.
Lora’s lips trembled, as if she was trying to speak, but even that small task seemed beyond her. Instead, her eyes dull and unfocused, she beckoned Æva to follow her to a nearby tent. It was small and cramped, square shaped, the leather skin held up by wooden stakes and pegged with ropes driven deep into the earth to fight against the ever-present wind. Two flaps had been pinned back to make a doorway, the inside lit by a fire blazing just outside. The floor was exposed dirt, but furs had been laid along one edge to form a makeshift bed and two little folding stools with leather seats had been placed in the centre alongside a small table. This was probably luxury for an army on the move, Æva thought.
She wandered into the middle of the tent and then turned to look back at Lora, who hovered in the doorway. As soon as the handmaiden caught her eye, she dropped into the slightest of curtseys, wincing in pain, then disappeared. Æva sighed as she watched her go. She was alone again. Miserable, she dropped down onto one of the stools, resting her chin in her palm and propping her elbow up on her knee. Trying not to think about how hungry and thirsty she was, she stared morosely into the flames.
She was almost asleep, still hunched over in a vain attempt to warm her ice-cold limbs, when the opening of the tent was filled with a huge black silhouette. At first, she ignored it, assuming it to be another servant or soldier rushing past, but then the shadow spoke to her, jolting her awake.
“How are you?” The deep baritone of Bayan was warm in greeting. Æva looked up, a dutiful smile automatically forming on her face.
“I brought you something to eat,” he continued, moving to sit beside her and dropping a bowl of steaming food on the small table along with a cup of mead.
“Thank you,” she murmured, attempting to reach for it demurely with fingers that trembled, stiff and painful with cold. She tried to still the movement, but it did not go unnoticed. Bayan stretched out and enclosed her hands with his, eyes widening with concern as he felt the coolness of her skin.
“You’re freezing,” he complained, rubbing at her fingers then squeezing them between his warm hands. He stood up, a quick, fluid motion that made her start, and swept his cloak from his shoulders. He laid it across her back, tucking the hood around her neck with fingers that tenderly brushed the length of her cheeks. Æva blushed. Each time he touched her, with such easy familiarity, her body responded. Her skin would tingle, heart quickening, a flutter would ignite in the pit of her stomach.
“Better?” he asked. Æva nodded and smiled.
“Where are we?” she asked, reaching for the food. The bowl had soaked up the heat of the stew, and her hands clung to it.
“Corawic,” he told her. “We are following the Roman Road down towards the Giant’s Wall, where Lord Renwearde’s army is gathering. We shall meet up with them tomorrow before heading south.”
Æva’s eyes sparkled, though she tried hard to conceal it. Lord Renwearde, the Lord of Bernicia. If his army was there, then so would Idin be. And Wulfram and Ælric. Bayan looked at her curiously, and she wondered for a heart-stopping moment if he might have caught the gleam in her eyes. She took a mouthful of stew to hide her face, gasping as the hot liquid burned her tongue and scalded her throat.
“And then what will happen?” she asked, hoping to distract him.
He surprised her by grinning with excitement, a mirror image of her face only seconds before.
“Then we shall march into Deira and unleash our fury on the barbarians that would attack Eboric,” he announced, obviously relishing the thought.
“You are going to fight?” Æva whispered. Despite the bewildering emotions of the peculiar relationship they had fallen into, she hated the thought of him going spear to spear with the savage Vikings.
“Of course,” he grinned.
She frowned, but the ferocity of her scowl was lost as her face stretched into a jaw splitting yawn without her permission.
“You must be tired,” Bayan observed.
“I’m awake,” she protested, but half-heartedly. The curtain of sleep seemed almost impossible to fight against.
“Sleep,” he told her, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. Her body moved reluctantly, muscles stiff and limbs heavy. She let him drag her across the tent, collapsing in a heap on the furs. The ground beneath them was rock hard and uncomfortable, but she was so exhausted that she hardly noticed. Bayan’s hand stroked her hair back from her face.
“I have men I must speak to,” he told her, his voice a soft murmur. She nodded absent-minded, barely listening. Her eyes had already closed, unconsciousness calling her. He gathered up some of the furs and draped them over her body. Instantly her body heat began to warm the air trapped between the layers. It was irresistible. “I will be back soon,” he promised, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Æva was grumpy. She had been awoken before the sun had risen by servants desperate to dismantle the tent and vacate the temporary camp. Once again, she found herself perched awkwardly on the tiny plinth side-saddle, Lora struggling along beside her. During the night Æva’s muscles had seized up, a combination of the long day of riding and the hard earth she had used as a bed. Each tiny movement of the horse resulted in a painful wrench. She tried to hold herself as still as possible, but she had to sashay with the rolling gait of the animal or risk losing her balance and toppling off.
The morning rolled on, uncomfortable, but not quite as miserable without the driving rains of yesterday. Æva was also buoyed by the thought that the end of the day might bring a reunion with Idin, Wulfram and Ælric. She tried hard not to build her expectations, but she found herself watching the horizon for their destination. Even the idea of the place itself generated a modicum of excitement. The Giant’s Wall: a great stone wall stretching the length of the kingdom, shore to shore. She had been told
it stood the height of three men, and folklore rumoured it had been built by giants, for who else could achieve such a feat? The Abbess had scorned at the tale, saying that it had probably been erected by the Romans. Æva had nodded in agreement, but secretly she found it hard to dismiss the fantastical myth.
As they crawled along, matching the pace of the exhausted ponies dragging heavy wagons through the sucking muck of the rain-soaked road, Æva turned her attention to Lora. They had spoken little yesterday, but Æva was curious about the girl. Lora, too, she knew, would benefit from being distracted from the pains turning each step into a lumbering shuffle.
“Tell me about yourself, Lora,” she began. Her knowledge of the world was still so blinkered, she realised. She could not even guess at how the young girl had come to this point.
“There is not much to tell,” Lora responded hesitantly. Æva waited and after a long moment Lora continued. “My father is a farmer. He has a small holding in Morpeth. We had a few sheep, but mostly we grew barley and oats. When I was eleven, we had a terrible summer. It rained and rained, the sky forever full. Our crops drowned. My father had to make a choice: pay the tithe to the noble and starve, or eat and be in his debt. He chose to save his family, and paid only half the tithe. The noble, Earl Acwel” Lora spat the name, “took myself and my sister to make up the rest. Both of us, as my father begged him to let him keep his son. We are indentured, a twenty-year debt to repay fifteen bushels of barley.”
Æva was horrified. Lora spoke so matter-of-factly, her voice twisting with bitterness only on the final word.
“Where is your sister now?” she asked, hoping somehow for a note of happiness to the sad tale.
“She died,” Lora said, her voice emotionless. “She dropped a cup, spilling wine on Earl Acwel. He smacked her so hard around the face he broke her neck. She was only nine.”
“I’m sorry,” Æva whispered. The words seemed so inadequate, but she could think of nothing else to say. “How did you come to serve Lord Bayan?” she asked. She wished she had never begun her thoughtless questioning, but she didn’t want to end the conversation here.
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