by Jayne Castel
It’s just hunger and exhaustion, she told herself. Once you’ve eaten and slept, the world will return to normal again.
Cynewyn glanced over, at where Wil drank deeply from a water bladder on the other side of the fire. When he lowered it, his face was like stone.
His face, so different from the man who had gazed into her eyes while he moved inside her, made Cynewyn feel wretched.
I caused that.
Cynewyn turned away, her stomach suddenly twisting in guilt. She desperately needed to rest. She hoped that tomorrow would bring clarity and a fresh start; for right now she felt strangely adrift.
The night drew out; the crackling flames in the fire pit the only noise on the silent heath. The king’s men were taking turns at watching the sleeping camp, allowing the folk of Blackhill to stretch out under the stars.
Wil sat on the edge of the fire, staring into the glowing embers. He was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than for sleep to claim him. Yet, it would not come. His eyes burned with fatigue, his limbs ached – but still, his mind would not let him slip over the abyss into oblivion.
“Can’t sleep?” Aelin, returning from taking the first watch, sat down next to Wil.
Wil shook his head, avoiding his friend’s gaze. He had rarely known happiness during his life, but the misery that now claimed him caused a deep ache in the center of his chest.
“Did Went bring back memories?” Aelin asked, mistaking the reason for his friend’s melancholy.
Wil nodded. “My father was a brute who beat me, and my mother was a cold, bitter woman,” he said quietly, deliberately failing to mention the real reason for his bleak mood. “They both died of a fever that raged through Went one winter. I barely grieved for either of them.”
Silence fell between the friends then, as Aelin digested Wil’s words. It was not an unusual tale, for childhood and innocence were short-lived for most folk. Yet, it was the first time in all the years they had known each other that Wil had divulged details of his life in Went.
“It does not matter how much we distance ourselves, how far we run – the past always shadows us,” Wil continued, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yet, you’ve achieved much in the past decade,” Aelin reminded him. “You’re now one of the king’s thegns. You fought at the king’s side and proved your valor and loyalty.”
Wil nodded, not disputing Aelin’s words. It was true, he had spent most of the last decade at Raedwald’s side. He and Aelin had fought alongside the king during the East Angles’ campaign against the Northumbrians. They had seen the king’s son, Raegenhere, fall under the Northumbrian king’s blade – and had witnessed Raedwald cut down Aethelfrith of Northumbria in a blind rage. It had been a terrible battle; but despite the death of Raedwald’s beloved son, the East Angles had bested their enemies.
Yes, he had achieved much, and traveled far from the loneliness of his life in Went – yet it never filled the void inside.
Chapter Eight
Return to Rendlaesham
The first sign that Cynewyn had of Rendlaesham – the seat of the king – was the straw thatched roof of his great timbered hall gleaming in the noon sun.
She had never traveled this far north; until now she had never had reason to leave the area in which she had grown and married – few folk did. Rendlaesham had seemed another world away.
Nestled in the fold between two softly curving hills, the town dominated the landscape. A huge, spiked paling fence surrounded a mass of wattle and daub houses. The town climbed the side of one of the hills to where a massive timbered hall rose above the thatched roofs.
It was a crisp day, with blue sky and scudding clouds. As they approached Rendlaesham, Cynewyn caught the scent of wood-smoke. They made their way toward the main gates, along a road that bisected fields of cabbages, turnips, carrots and onions. Ceorls, the lowest rank of free men and women under the king, worked the fields. Many straightened up at the sight of the group of travelers arriving from the south; their faces scrutinizing the newcomers with interest. One of the young women by the roadside – a pretty girl with dark-blonde hair – spied the warriors leading the group.
“Aelin!” she called out, her tired face brightening. “You’re back!”
“Wes hāl, Aeva,” Aelin called back with a wave, breaking free of the group to greet her. “How about a kiss to welcome me home?”
Her face split into a wide smile. “Come here then!”
Ignoring the wolf-whistles and ribald comments of the men behind him, Aelin did just that. He strode over to the girl and scooped her up into his arms; kissing her soundly for all to see.
Watching them, Cynewyn felt a sudden pang. That was how it was between some men women – easy and uncomplicated. Why had it never been like that for her?
“Young love,” Mildthryth commented from beside Cynewyn, a trace of longing in her voice. “Such a beautiful thing.”
Cynewyn did not reply. Instead, she tore her gaze away from where Aelin, seeming to have forgotten that he had an audience – or perhaps not caring – was continuing to kiss the winsome Aeva. Indeed, it was a beautiful thing.
That was why she could not look upon it.
Leaving the lovers to their reunion, the travelers approached Rendlaesham’s walls and entered the town through the main gates. They followed the main thoroughfare up the hill, past the mead hall and to the high fence that encircled the base of the ‘Golden Hall’ as it was known throughout the land.
Helmeted, spear-wielding warriors blocked the way, stepping aside when they recognized the cluster of warriors leading the group of travelers.
“Wes hāl, Wilfrid,” one of them nodded at Wil as he passed by. “You’re back early. Where are the others?”
“Dead,” Wil replied, his face grim. “An East Saxon war band attacked us near the southern border. Went has been destroyed and Blackhill has lost its warriors. The folk behind me are all who remain of the two villages.”
The warrior shook his head in disgust. “Those honorless bastards!”
“Don’t worry,” Wil assured him. “The king will hear of this.”
The warriors stepped aside and let the weary travelers through the gates. Cynewyn, who was walking close behind Wil, entered the stable yard and looked around her with interest. It was a hive of activity. Men were shoeing horses at one end, women were removing cakes from a huge clay oven at the other; and slaves were crossing the yard, weighed down with buckets of water that they had collected from the well next to the stables.
Upon spying the ragged group of king’s men and villagers, stable hands emerged to help them with their horses. Cynewyn was helping a little girl down from a horse when a good looking young man with wavy blond hair appeared at her side.
“Here M’lady,” he grinned. “I’ll do that.”
“I thank you,” Cynewyn stepped back and let him set the girl on the ground. He then started unstrapping saddle bags. Cynewyn looked on, relieved to have this man’s assistance. She was drained after the events of the last few days and wished for nothing more than to stretch out on a bed of soft furs and sleep.
The stable hand removed the bags in quick, deft movements, before turning back to Cynewyn with another charming smile. “‘Tis a pleasure to be of service.”
Cynewyn favored him with a subdued smile in return. She remembered days, long past, when she would have responded eagerly to his flirting. Now, it just reminded her of how much the years had changed her; charming, silver-tongued men no longer held the appeal they once had.
She turned then, and followed the warriors and folk of Blackhill, up the steep wooden steps to the king’s hall. When, she entered the ‘Golden Hall’, Cynewyn caught her breath. She had heard many a story of its magnificence, but nothing had prepared for her the reality. It was like standing inside the ribcage of some great beast. The blackened beams above their heads, stained from the huge fire pit in the center of the hall, were impossibly huge. Cynewyn’s gaze traveled over the richly woven t
apestries, weaponry and furs that hung from the walls. It was all so sumptuous and grand.
Ealdormen, thegns and their kin filled the Great Hall. The crowd parted to allow the group of warriors and villagers through. Cynewyn felt their gazes upon her but pretended not to notice. Instead, she focused her attention ahead, to the far end of the vast space. There, seated upon a carved wooden throne, on a raised dais, was King Raedwald himself.
Cynewyn could see the stories about the king were true. Even though he was nearing fifty winters, he was still a handsome, virile man. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular with a mane of grey-streaked blond hair and deep-blue eyes. She imagined that in his prime, he would have had women spellbound.
Raedwald sat, relaxed in his throne, his handsome face expressionless. As she drew closer, Cynewyn noted the deep lines on his face, and recognized them as lines of grief. She had heard of how he had lost his beloved son, just three years earlier, in battle.
The loss had clearly left its mark upon him.
A striking woman with thick grey-streaked red hair and intelligent slate-grey eyes sat to his left, and beside her a girl of around fifteen winters – a beautiful maid, with a mane of golden curls, sea-blue eyes and flawless skin. To the right of the king sat a young man with short brown hair, a sharp-featured face and the same grey eyes of his mother.
These were the king’s kin – his wife Seaxwyn, his daughter Raedwyn and his surviving son, Eoprwald.
“Wilfrid,” the king greeted his thegn. “What news do you bring from the south?”
“Treachery,” Wil replied, his face grim. “Our neighbors have turned against us.”
King Raedwald’s blue eyes turned cold. “Tell me all,” he commanded.
Wil spoke then of what had befallen them, his low voice echoing in the hushed hall. As he described the destruction of Went, the death of the warriors of Blackhill and the attack on the edge of the woodland, Cynewyn kept her gaze riveted on the king’s face, attempting to gauge his reaction. The king listened, his face growing dark. By the time, Wil concluded his tale, King Raedwald’s expression was murderous.
“There will be retribution for this,” Raedwald said finally. “This death and destruction will be avenged. I will lead a company of men south tomorrow. We will find this war band and take their heads.” The king turned then, his hard gaze meeting that of his son. “Eorpwald, you will join me.”
The young man nodded, his face tensing slightly. “Yes, fæder.”
Raedwald turned then, looking over the group of folk who stood behind Wil.
“Did any of the ealdormen’s kin survive?”
“Yes, Milord,” Wil replied, “Lady Cynewyn – Eomer of Went’s daughter, and Aldwulf of Blackhill’s widow – is here.”
Wil turned, and his gaze met Cynewyn’s. “Milady, come forward.”
Cynewyn did as she was bid and curtsied before the king; feeling his eyes on her face. When she dared look up, she saw frank appreciation there.
“Greetings, Milord,” she ducked her head, suddenly embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze.
“Lady Cynewyn,” he said her name, causing her to look up and make eye contact once more. “I am sorry for your loss. The East Saxons will pay for what they have done.”
“I thank you, Milord,” she replied. She paused then, before the question that had been burning within her ever since they had entered Rendlaesham’s gates, burst forth. “When can we return to our homes?”
The king held her gaze for a moment, before shaking his head. She could see the answer in his eyes before he spoke.
“I cannot allow you to return to Blackhill,” he replied. “You have lost all your menfolk – you will not survive long on your own.”
“But Milord,” she exclaimed. “My people have worked that land for generations, we have poured our blood, sweat and tears into it. We must return to it.”
The king watched her for a moment, before his gaze shifted to the faces of those standing behind Cynewyn.
“This is your new home,” he informed them, his tone hardening just enough to let them know that if they disputed his words, they did so at their own peril. “The folk of Blackhill will have homes built here in Rendlaesham and land to work.”
The king’s gaze shifted back to Cynewyn then. “You are too young and lovely to remain a widow Lady Cynewyn. I shall have to find you a suitable husband to replace the one you lost.”
Panic knifed through Cynewyn at these words.
A husband was the last thing she wanted – she had not rejected Wil so that the king could arrange a marriage with another.
“Milord,” she spoke up, hearing the shrill edge to her voice but unable to stop herself. “I would prefer to remain unwed. I do not wish to marry again.”
He raised his eyebrows at that. “I cannot build a hall for a woman.”
This comment drew laughter from some of the men nearby, although Cynewyn noticed that Wil did not laugh.
“You will need to remarry, if you wish to live at the same rank as before,” King Raedwald told her with a shake of his head, dismissing her protests. He then stood up, signaling that their conversation had come to an end. “For now let me offer you and the folk of Blackhill my hall’s hospitality. Let us drink and feast. Although I can’t bring back those you have lost, I can offer all of you a new life here in Rendlaesham.”
Chapter Nine
The King’s Will
A warm breeze ruffled Cynewyn’s hair and feathered across her face, bringing with it the scent of grass and blossom. She walked outside Rendlaesham’s walls, to the scattering of timbered houses the men were building. Nearly a moon cycle had passed since their arrival in Rendlaesham. During that time, Raedwald had departed for the kingdom’s southern border and had not returned.
In the meantime, work had started on the new homes for the folk of Blackhill. Raedwald’s men were hard at work, digging in poles for the four corners of each dwelling and constructing woven wattle panels that would be smeared with mud to create the wattle and daub walls. Meanwhile, the children had been collecting water reed and rushes from the nearby stream to use for the thatched roofs.
If only one of those homes was to be hers.
Cynewyn approached the skeletons of the new dwellings, walking along the narrow dirt road that ran between them. Folk waved to her from where they had turned the land into vegetable plots. Their industry never ceased to amaze her; her people had lost everything but they still had hope.
She wished she shared their optimism.
Every night, she spread out her fur cloak on the rush-matting floor of the king’s Great Hall and wondered when the axe would fall. She had been granted a reprieve while Raedwald was dealing with the East Saxons, but once the king returned he would not waste time announcing the name of her future husband. However, just the thought made her want to turn tail and flee from Rendlaesham, never to return.
The reality of her situation here in Rendlaesham had been a slap to the face. She had gotten used to her freedom in Blackhill; she and her mother-in-law had ruled the village after Aldwulf died, and they had done it better than her husband ever had. She had forgotten that the rest the kingdom was not Blackhill. The king would not send her home, and nor would he just give her a new hall. She was a woman, and young enough to marry again and bear children. He would find a suitable husband for her.
Thoughts of her future made Cynewyn’s chest ache. For the first time ever, she saw only bleakness and emptiness before her.
It was a good spot, on the eastern side of the town’s walls. The land was verdant with fertile soil, excellent for growing crops; Raedwald had been generous. The king had promised to build a perimeter fence once the houses were finished, which would keep the wolves out in the winter and give the inhabitants a greater sense of security.
As she walked through the first dwellings, Cynewyn’s gaze spied Wil up ahead. He was sawing a piece of wattle in half with an iron saw, his back to her.
Cynewyn’s step faltered.
It was the first time she had seen him in days; for of late he had avoided her. Even at meals in the Great Hall, he sat as far as possible from her, making it impossible for their gazes to meet, even by accident.
Could she blame him?
Yet, seeing him now, naked to the waist as he worked, his skin glistening with sweat, Cynewyn felt an ache of longing consume her. Traitorous body – how she hated the effect this man had on her. And still, a part of her wanted to talk to him, to find out how he fared and what his plans were. He could be charmless and taciturn, but she had found herself missing his company once they rejoined the others. Once again, her thoughts and feelings contradicted her rational mind.
Feeling someone’s gaze upon him, Wil straightened up from sawing the wattle and glanced over his shoulder. Cynewyn could see that the injury on his arm had healed well, although he would bear the scar for the rest of his life. His body stilled when their gazes met. However, there was no warmth in his eyes or face at seeing her.
“Greetings, Wil,” she gave him a wan smile. “How goes it?”
He gave her a dismissive look, not even bothering to respond to her, before disappearing inside the hut he was constructing. Hurt lanced through Cynewyn at his rudeness. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, she stalked after him, entering the shadowy space where he had just erected a wattle panel.
“You could at least be civil when we meet,” she told him. “I don’t wish you ill.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her as he wedged the wattle he had cut into place in the panel. “How generous of you,” he replied coldly. “Do you expect me to be grateful for that?”
“I expect you to at least answer me when I greet you.”
Wil turned then and advanced upon her. Cynewyn took a hasty step backward against the door frame. He stood over her, so close she could smell the musky scent of fresh sweat on his skin.
“You are not my mistress,” he told her, his voice flat with anger, his hazel gaze burning into hers. “I don’t answer to you – now or ever. If I wish not to greet you, then that is my choice.”
