by Jayne Castel
“Your mother was a heathen slut!”
Alchflaed’s reaction was instantaneous and unplanned. She lashed out in response, her fist striking the queen square in the eye.
Eanflaed screeched and fell back in her seat. In her arms, Elflaeda let out a squawk as she was wrenched from her mother’s teat, while upon Alchflaed’s lap, Osthryth started to cry.
Oswiu’s voice cut off his young daughter’s whimpering. “Alchflaed!”
She turned her gaze to her father and felt her temper cool. His eyes blazed. His face was taut with barely suppressed rage.
“You disgrace yourself – and me. Return to your bower for the rest of the evening,” he commanded.
“But fæder, she called my mother a…”
“Enough!” Oswiu roared. “Get to your bower, or I will give you the back of my hand!”
Alchflaed glared at her father, at that moment hating him with a force that scared her. Their gazes remained locked for a heartbeat, before she dislodged Osthryth from her lap and rose to her feet. Then, without another word, she quit her father’s hall.
Maric watched the flame-haired princess stalk, stiff-backed, across the hall, before she disappeared behind a tapestry.
That had been quite a display.
Around him, he could hear shocked whispers of disapproval, while at the head of the table the king attempted to soothe his hysterical wife. Queen Eanflaed clutched the eye the princess had struck, her voice shrill.
“You must have her whipped for this, Oswiu. You cannot let such behavior go unpunished.”
“Hush my love, she is leaving tomorrow,” the king soothed, “that is punishment enough.”
“No, it is not!” Eanflaed choked out between sobbing gasps. “She struck me.”
“And you also hit her.”
“I am the queen – she had no right to speak to me thus.”
“That is true.” Oswiu pulled little Osthryth onto his lap, and mopped away the little girl’s tears with his thumb. “But having Alchflaed whipped will not change things. I promise you will not need to see her again before her departure tomorrow.”
Although the king spoke in appeasing tones, his voice gentle, Maric noted the harsh set of his face, the anger that still glittered in his eyes. It seemed that Alchflaed had made an enemy of her father this day.
Maric thought of Penda then, and the days when both his daughters had resided at Tamworth. He imagined how Penda would have reacted had Cyneburh made such a scene upon learning that she was to marry a northern prince. Such defiance amongst the Mercian royal family was unthinkable. It was clear that till now, Oswiu had indulged and spoiled his eldest daughter. He was now paying the price, for Alchflaed had grown into a willful, hot-tempered young woman.
Maric shook his head and looked down at his half-eaten trencher.
Princess Alchflaed’s spirit would not be welcomed at Tamworth. Her father had done her no favors in letting her have so much freedom, only to use her to weave peace with his enemy. Paeda was cut from the same cloth as his father; a woman was to be decorative and biddable. Defiance of any kind would not be tolerated.
Maric took a sip from his cup. He felt little these days, pity neither for himself nor others, just a hollow numbness that whistled through him like the North Wind. Yet, he could see that the Northumbrian princess would be miserable in her new life, and he was sorry for that.
Chapter Seven
The Reluctant Assassin
It was late at night, a time of deep silence. Alchflaed lay upon her furs, staring up at the darkness and listening to the quiet. She could not sleep, and would not sleep this night – her last at Bebbanburg.
The feasting had gone on a long while, and no one had sought her company; something she was glad of. She had half-expected her father to pay her a visit, and to punish her for her behavior, but as the evening wore on she had realized that he would not.
She had not wept upon returning to her bower; the time for tears was over. Anger replaced her grief. Even now, the sight of her stepmother’s gloating face made Alchflaed grind her teeth. Dry-eyed, Alchflaed stared sightlessly into the night. Her father’s betrayal hurt far more than Eanflaed’s spite.
He is throwing me to the wolves.
The truth was that he did not care. Anger knotted in the pit of Alchflaed’s stomach, so intense that it pained her. The man she worshipped, of whom she had been so proud, knew exactly what he was doing to his daughter.
The realization made Alchflaed feel sick. She broke into a cold sweat and curled into a ball amongst the furs.
Since marrying Eanflaed, a deeply religious woman, Oswiu had also converted to Christianity. These days, he wore an iron cross around his neck, welcomed missionaries to his kingdom, and had even overseen the building of a monastery at Lindisfarena, one of the islands just off the coast. Yet, all his piety was in name only.
Breathing heavily, Alchflaed sat up and tried to quell her panic. Sensing his mistress’s distress, Hraefn gave a low whine. The hound shuffled over to her, nuzzling Alchflaed’s shoulder.
“Be still, boy,” she whispered, stroking the grizzled fur on his neck.
Grief twisted inside her as she realized that Hraefn and Hafoc would not be coming south with her. They were rangy beasts with shaggy coats. Hraefn’s coat was pitch-black, whereas Hafoc’s was a mottled brown, hence their names: Raven and Hawk.
The King of Mercia would not wish to welcome his betrothed with two wolfish hounds trailing at her heels. It would be a wrench to leave her dogs behind. They had been her closest friends here; she would feel lonely without them. However, where she was going, her dogs could not follow.
***
Her father visited her at dawn.
Alchflaed was already up, dressed and ready to go. The dogs, sensing their mistress was about to depart, sat watching her, tails thumping against the rushes, their soft brown eyes gleaming with expectation.
King Oswiu stepped into his daughter’s bower and let the tapestry fall behind him, shielding them from the rest of the hall. Oswiu was not a big man – tall and lean rather than broad – yet his presence filled her bower. This was the first time he had ever set foot in here, and Alchflaed watched his gaze sweep dismissively over the cramped space. He ignored the dogs, although they both gave an excited whine at the sight of him.
“Are you packed?” he rumbled.
Alchflaed nodded. She kept her eyes downcast, afraid that if she met her father’s gaze, he would see her despair.
“Alchflaed,” he spoke quietly although his voice reverberated in the stillness of the early morning. “I have an important task for you.
Alchflaed frowned and glanced up at him. What else could he possibly want from her? Oswiu’s gaze trapped her, holding her fast in its intensity.
“Once you’re settled in at Tamworth, once your new husband believes you a devoted and submissive wife, I want you to do something for me – something for us all,” Oswiu said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I want you to kill him.”
Alchflaed stared at her father, stunned. Long, heavy moments passed before she managed to respond. Her voice came out in a croak, for her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry.
“Kill him?”
“Aye,” the king’s mouth thinned into a hard line.
“B… but, I thought you wanted an alliance with him. You wanted him to rule as your puppet.”
“For the meantime, yes. While it suits me,” her father replied. “At this very moment, Paeda is back in Tamworth, spreading the news of his father’s defeat at Winwaed. By the time you arrive, his people will have accepted the new order. However, I trust Paeda not. Once he has his pretty new wife, he is likely to betray our alliance.”
Alchflaed continued to stare at her father. The veil had lifted; it was as if she were seeing him properly for the first time. Now, she realized he was capable of doing anything to secure his own power, his legacy. She was expendable.
The thundering of her heart rose to a deafening roar in
her ears. The heat of slow kindling rage replaced the chill that had deadened her limbs. She pressed her fists against her sides to prevent herself from flinging herself at her father and striking him, an act she would most surely regret.
“If I kill Paeda, my own life will be forfeit,” she eventually managed. “Had you thought of that, fæder?”
“Not if no one knows it was you,” her father replied, not remotely bothered by her acerbity. “There are many who would wish the new King of Mercia dead, none the least, one of his own family. You will have to be cunning and quick, to complete the deed without drawing attention to yourself, but I know you are capable of it.”
Alchflaed gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached, sadness welling within her. His backhanded compliment was also an insult. She had thought he admired her independence, her fire; yet now she saw that he viewed her lack of feminine delicacy as a weapon.
“You will use a tincture of fresh hemlock root,” he continued, oblivious to her dismay. “It smells like dog piss so you should only add it to his mead if he is already drunk.”
“And what if Paeda is not the type of man to drink heavily?” she asked, anger turning her voice icy. “What then?”
“You will have to resort to other methods,” Oswiu replied. Alchflaed watched her father draw out a knife from within his robes. Sheathed in an ornately stitched leather scabbard, the dagger was designed to hang horizontally from its owner’s belt. Wordlessly, Oswiu handed the weapon to her.
Stunned, Alchflaed took it without comment and unsheathed the blade. There was no doubt about it, this seax was finely made. Its handle was ornately carved wood, the single-edge exquisitely sharp. She could wield such a weapon to defend her life, but the thought of using it to kill someone in cold blood sickened her.
“Keep it secret and safe,” Oswiu told her, “and if you do not have the opportunity to use the hemlock tincture, you must kill him with this.”
Alchflaed took a deep, steadying breath and resheathed the seax. Then, she met her father’s eye.
“I’m not capable of murdering a man,” she told him, “whatever method I choose.”
“Don’t think of it as murder,” her father countered. “See it as justice. Mercia has committed innumerable atrocities against our people, and the death of Penda is not nearly enough to make amends.”
Alchflaed swallowed bile. Unsurprisingly, her legs felt weak and she had to press her knees together to keep them steady.
“So it is reckoning then?” she asked, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Aye, daughter.” Oswiu pinned her with a hard stare, silence lengthening between them, before he spoke once more. “Put the seax on now.”
Silently, Alchflaed obeyed. She belted the scabbard around her waist – the seax lay horizontally across her front, its hilt facing right so its wearer could draw it quickly.
“Keep it close to you at all times, once you reach Tamworth,” he replied, his voice low and firm. “You never know when an opportunity may present itself.”
He then drew something else from inside the fur cloak he wore about his shoulders. It was a small stone mortar, with a smooth wooden pestle. Wordlessly, he handed them to his daughter. Inside the mortar, there was a small clay vial.
“Should you choose hemlock as your method, then it will need to be used fresh,” Oswiu continued, his tone conversational as if he were discussing something mundane, and not murder. “You will need to make a smooth paste, mixed with water before pouring the liquid into the vial.”
Alchflaed did not reply. She did not trust herself to speak.
“Alchflaed, look at me,” he commanded.
She did so, steeling herself.
“Do you understand the importance of this?” he demanded, his tone sharpening.
“I do,” Alchflaed replied, her voice husky. “I must kill Paeda of Mercia.”
Her father nodded, his mouth thinning in satisfaction, although his gaze remained shadowed.
“Good, daughter. See it done and I will welcome you back into my hall.”
“But the queen does not want me here.” The words slipped out before Alchflaed could stop them. Last night’s betrayal still stung.
“Her opinion is not my concern,” Oswiu replied. “A daughter who serves her father loyally will be welcomed back to Bebbanburg with the honor she deserves. I promise you that, should you succeed at this task, you shall be able to choose your own husband. I will also permit you to remain unwed, if that is your wish.”
Alchflaed stared at him, shocked by the offer. He was clever, her father. Perhaps he sensed her reluctance to obey him and thought he would offer his daughter a bribe to ensure her obedience. Part of Alchflaed wanted to believe that he felt guilty about his treatment of her, but she was shrewd enough to understand the truth of things.
If she attempted to assassinate Paeda of Mercia, there would be no returning to Bebbanburg. They both knew that.
“Thank you, fæder,” she replied, although the words tasted like vinegar.
Chapter Eight
The Road South
Maric led his horse from the byre and pulled the fur collar of his cloak about his neck. A freezing wind blew in from the North Sea this morning, and it had teeth.
Dawn had just edged over the brim of the sea to the east, although there was no sun to warm the chilled earth. Heavy skies hung overhead, threatening rain, and Maric frowned. It was not ideal weather to begin a journey.
He led his horse, a heavy-set bay with feathery fetlocks, away from the stables and across the wide yard. The group of men Paeda had selected, awaited him. Elfhere and Osulf were not among them; his friends had been too badly injured to join him on his mission north. Instead, they had followed the new king south to Tamworth.
Paeda had chosen the escort carefully, and had made it clear that all their lives were forfeit if any harm should come to his betrothed. Maric did not know any of these men well, but they followed him unquestioningly. They had all sustained injuries during the Battle of Winwaed, but none that impeded their ability to ride, or defend Princess Alchflaed, if necessary. Maric raised a hand in greeting as he approached the group of around twenty men in all.
“Ready to ride out?”
“Aye,” Edgard, a tall, bald man with a craggy face and sharp blue eyes stepped forward. “As soon as the princess deigns to join us.”
Maric sensed that the men were not happy. Some had nodded their agreement with Edgard, while others muttered under their breaths.
“I like this no better than you,” he told them. “But this is the order of our new king and we must swallow it.”
His gaze shifted then to the pony, another heavy-set, hardy-looking beast the northerners favored. It stood next to Edgard’s mount, awaiting its rider.
Maric’s gaze narrowed and he glanced over at the entrance to Bebbanburg’s Great Tower. He had no wish to stride indoors and hurry the princess up, but if she delayed any longer he would have to. They had a long ride ahead, and much distance to cover before the bitter weather arrived. Yule was inching ever closer and Paeda had insisted they arrive before Mother Night.
Maric was just about to toss his reins to Edgard and go inside to fetch the princess when a cloaked figure emerged from the Great Tower. At first, he thought it was a servant, for the individual appeared to be unescorted. Then, he noted the fine wool of the cloak, the fur edging of the hood and the proud stance of its wearer.
Princess Alchflaed had joined them.
She walked slowly, as if every step weighed upon her. It was clear she was no more eager to join her Mercian escorts than they were to receive her. Moments later, two others emerged from the Great Tower and followed the princess toward the knot of horsemen. Maric recognized Alchfrith and his wife, and his gaze shifted behind them to the entrance, awaiting the king’s arrival. However, there was no sign of Oswiu this morning.
Maric took the pony from Edgard and led it toward the princess. As she neared him, he glimpsed her face, shad
owed by her hood but still visible.
“Milady,” he nodded. “I am Maric of Tamworth, Lord Paeda’s emissary. I have been charged with ensuring your safety during the ride south.”
Her mouth thinned slightly, an expression that reminded Maric of King Oswiu, and her eyes glinted within the shadow of her cowl.
“Wes hāl, Maric” she replied. Her voice was low and soft, although Maric could hear the simmering anger there. “I am sure my father and betrothed will be most grateful.”
Her sarcasm was not lost on Maric but he did not comment on it. Instead, he stepped back and let her mount her pony, which she did with ease. He saw then that she was dressed as she had been the first time he had seen her, in a long tunic, split at the sides. Underneath, she wore supple leather leggings and thick fur boots that reached mid-calf.
Trying not to stare at her shapely legs, Maric moved to his own horse, and swung up onto the saddle. He and his men waited a short while longer while Alchflaed said her goodbyes to her brother and his wife.
“Look after Hraefn and Hafoc for me, Alchfrith?” she spoke to her brother, her tone suddenly imploring. “They are good dogs. They will serve you well, as they have done me.”
Alchfrith looked up at his sister, his features illuminated by the rising sun, which had just broken through the cloud cap. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded.
“I shall, sister. Do not worry, your dogs will be cared for.”
“Travel safely,” Cyneburh spoke up. “I will miss you.”
Alchflaed turned her gaze to the blonde woman at Alchfrith’s side. Unlike her husband, the new Queen of Deira’s face revealed sadness at seeing Alchflaed depart.
“Thank you, Cyneburh,” Alchflaed replied softly, “and I… will miss you.”
“Princess Alchflaed,” Maric interrupted them. The sun had now cleared the edge of the sea; they should have been one furlong distant of Bebbanburg by now. “We must go.”
The princess nodded curtly and reined her pony toward him.
