by Jayne Castel
“Wes hāl, Ealdorman,” Maric called back. “I thank you for your welcome and call upon your hospitality. We are escorting Lady Alchflaed of Bebbanburg south to Tamworth and would stay in your hall tonight.”
The friendliness vanished from Eadweard of Eoforwic’s face, his heavy brow creasing.
“You’re Mercians,” he accused, his tone hostile.
“Aye,” Maric replied. “As you know, Mercia now bends the knee to Northumbria. We travel here with the King of Bernicia’s blessing.”
The ealdorman’s mouth drew in, as if he had just supped on sour milk.
“I care not, if Mercia has finally bent the knee to us. I will not break bread with Penda of Mercia’s curs.”
Maric inhaled deeply. Beside him, he sensed Edgard’s simmering rage. The warrior was on the verge of losing his temper, and although Maric did not blame him – this man’s rudeness also incensed him – he could not let the situation deteriorate.
“You are not welcome in Eoforwic,” Eadweard sneered. “Continue on your way before I have my men chase you out.”
Maric opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled by a figure stepping up next to him. Alchflaed was tall – she stood only a couple of inches shorter than him – and her posture was even straighter than usual in her displeasure. She pushed back her cowl and regarded the ealdorman imperiously, tilting her chin to meet his gaze. Watching her, Maric’s breath caught in his throat.
Woden, she’s lovely.
“I am Princess Alchflaed, daughter of Oswiu of Northumbria,” she addressed the ealdorman imperiously. “How dare you speak to his servants thus.”
Servants. Maric’s admiration dissolved in an instant.
Heedless, Alchflaed continued. “If you refuse us welcome under your roof this night, my father shall hear of it.”
Silence stretched out between the ealdorman and the princess; the tension between them was palpable. Eventually, Alchflaed broke the silence. Her voice was calm and firm, betraying no nervousness at all.
“What shall it be Eadweard of Eoforwic?”
The ealdorman held her gaze for a few moments before his rugged face split into a fierce grin.
“You’ve grown into a fiery beauty, Lady Alchflaed,” he replied, folding his beefy arms across his broad chest. “It’s a pity your father has chosen you to peace-weave, for I am recently widowed and would welcome you into my furs.”
Alchflaed held his gaze, although Maric noted that her cheekbones had flushed slightly; the only sign that the ealdorman’s comment bothered her. When she did not reply, Eadweard’s grin turned sly.
“Aye, you may stay in my hall tonight, Milady, but your rabble will have to find other lodgings.”
Alchflaed did not hesitate before responding. “No, ealdorman. They will warm themselves by your fire pit, fill their bellies at your table and sleep upon your rushes. These men are my escorts, my protection. I will not enter your hall without them.”
Eadweard’s lip curled. “Your protection? They are Mercians. I don’t know what Oswiu was thinking, sending his precious daughter south with the enemy. They will surely rape and murder you before you reach your destination.”
“Your concern for my welfare is touching,” Alchflaed replied, her tone sharpening, “but misplaced. I ask you one last time. Will you host me, and my escort, in your hall this eve?”
Eadweard of Eoforwic scowled, his gaze shifting from Alchflaed, to where Maric stood silently beside her. When he spoke, his voice was a growl.
“One night only – and you leave at the first light of dawn.”
The fire pit spat and hissed from the pork spit roasting over the hot coals. A pall of oily smoke hung over the hall, so thick it caught at the back of Alchflaed’s throat and made her cough. The fire cast the hall in flickering golden light. Cressets, filled with oil, upon the outer walls also threw long shadows across the space.
Alchflaed crossed the hall, rushes crunching beneath her fur boots. Behind her, she was aware that Maric, Edgard and the other Mercians of their party followed. Unfriendly gazes tracked the newcomers, from all corners of the shadowy hall, but Alchflaed ignored them. It was bitterly cold outside, unseasonably so for this time of year. She welcomed the smoky heat within the ealdorman’s hall, despite the price it came at.
Eadweard of Eoforwic awaited them. He had cast off his fur cloak, but still appeared a huge man without it; clad as he was in a long-sleeved quilted shirt and leather jerkin. He sat upon a carved chair at the head of a long table to the right of the fire pit, leaning back in his chair as he sipped from a bronze cup. His gaze followed her across the floor.
Alchflaed did not like the way Eadweard of Eoforwic looked at her, for it was a predator’s gaze, as if he wished to shame her with his stare.
“Are you certain you wish to stay here, Lady Alchflaed?”
Maric had stepped up at her shoulder. She started slightly, before realizing that he too had seen the vulturine look on the ealdorman’s face.
“I don’t trust him,” Maric continued, his voice low so that only she could hear him. “We don’t have to remain here, if you don’t wish to.”
“This man serves my father,” Alchflaed replied, her tone more confident than she actually felt. “It is his duty to host us in his hall, and I will see it done.”
She glanced then at Maric and their gazes met fully. Heat flooded through her body, from her neck downwards. He was close enough that she saw his pupils dilate in the firelight, signaling that she had affected him similarly.
Maric dropped his gaze then, and slowed his step, allowing her to draw ahead.
“As you wish, princess.”
Alchflaed stopped before the table and removed her cloak, taking a moment to collect herself. Why did meeting Maric’s gaze affect her so? She did not welcome her body’s swift reaction every time the Mercian looked her way – it was starting to embarrass her.
She moved to take a seat on the low bench before the table, and felt the ealdorman’s gaze rake over her figure. Alchflaed gritted her teeth in annoyance. She was warmly dressed in a thick woolen travelling dress with two layers of tunics underneath, but Eadweard of Eoforwic’s gaze attempted to strip her of her clothing.
“A winsome wench indeed,” he murmured.
Opposite Alchflaed, a younger man of a similar look to the ealdorman took a seat. He too cast a bold gaze over Alchflaed. A young woman with light brown hair, tightly braided around her head sat down next to him.
“My nephew, Wassa, and his wife, Lora,” Eadweard introduced them, his voice cold and flat. “My own son died at Winwaed, along with my brother – these two are the only kin I have left.”
Alchflaed nodded to them, realizing then why the ealdorman had been so hostile toward Maric and his men. Such bitterness would not be easily forgotten and Alchflaed had a sudden pang of misgiving. Perhaps Maric had spoken true; better to brave the cold than break bread with a man who nursed such resentment.
The Mercians, including Maric, had taken their seats at the far end of the table, below the salt, leaving Alchflaed to take her supper with the ealdorman, his family and ceorls. They ate coarse bread with roast pork and braised onions. Hungry, after a long, cold day in the saddle, Alchflaed was glad of the hot, tasty fare. She had just started on her meal, when Lora addressed her.
“Has your journey been pleasant so far, Milady?”
The young woman, of about Alchflaed’s own age, had a mousy, diffident appearance that was made even more evident by her quiet, timid voice. However, her gaze was kind when it met Alchflaed’s.
“Pleasant enough, thank you,” Alchflaed replied. “Unfortunately, the weather is against us.”
“Mother Night approaches,” Lora said with a gentle smile. “Most folk do not travel this close to Yule.”
“Aye,” Alchflaed answered with a shake of her head. “It was not my choice, either.”
“Do you…?” Lora began to ask another question, only to be cut off by the ealdorman.
“Silence, woman,”
he growled. “Spare us your brainless chatter.”
Lora dropped her gaze to the table, her pale cheeks flaming. Alchflaed watched her, sorry to see the young woman humiliated so; although judging from the smirk on her husband’s face this was nothing new.
At the head of the table, Eadweard of Eoforwic poured himself more mead and took a deep draught from his bronze cup. Then, he fixed Alchflaed in a stare that made her skin prickle in warning.
“Did you know that I asked your father for your hand?”
Alchflaed swallowed the mouthful of bread and pork she had been chewing. “No, he did not tell me that.”
“It was on the way to Winwaed,” the ealdorman replied. “However, once we made camp at the river, he gave you to Penda’s whelp instead.”
Alchflaed went still, watching Eadweard’s face darken at the memory.
“Paeda asked for your hand, in return for betraying his father. It was too tempting for Oswiu, it seems. Despite my years of loyalty, despite my sacrifice, he gave my prize to a lesser man.”
Alchflaed resisted the urge to glance toward the opposite end of the table, where she sensed Maric was observing them. She was sure he had heard the ealdorman; everyone at the table must have. She should tell Eadweard she was sorry to hear her father had refused him, but the words would not come. Although she had no wish to wed Paeda of Mercia, the thought of being handfasted to this brute was no more appealing.
As if sensing her mood, the ealdorman slammed his cup down on the table before him, and leaned forward, his expression turning darker still.
“Do you think yourself above me, girl?”
The words escaped, before Alchflaed could stop them.
“I am above you – I am a king’s daughter.”
Eadweard of Eoforwic’s answer rang across the hall.
“You may be a high born wench, but you’re still a woman, and that makes me your better.”
Alchflaed stared back at the ealdorman, her anger rising.
It was clear he thought that any man, even a theow – a slave with no status or freedom – was of higher rank than any woman. It was the one insult she could not abide, even if it was an attitude she had encountered repeatedly amongst her father’s thegns.
“I disagree,” she replied, rage sweeping over her in a chill wave. “I have met a number of women – Lora for one – who are superior to you in every way.”
“Mouthy bitch,” the ealdorman growled, his heavy-featured face coloring. “Mind your tongue under my roof.”
Alchflaed leaned forward, mimicking his own threatening posture.
“A pig wallowing in its own muck is above you, Eadweard of Eoforwic.”
Chapter Eleven
Insults
Alchflaed’s comment brought mixed reactions from around the table – from gasps of shock and outrage, to sniggers of mirth.
“Hōre!”
The ealdorman swept away the food before him, and lunged for her.
Alchflaed sprang to her feet and staggered back from the table. Then, she fumbled for her father’s seax and slashed blindly at her attacker. The blade caught Eadweard across the forearm, slicing through his quilted jacket and drawing blood.
The ealdorman hissed a curse, his eyes widening. A deathly hush fell across the table, before Eadweard grabbed a carving knife from the table.
Alchflaed backed away from him. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she watched the ealdorman come for her. He was a big man, but he moved like a wolf on the hunt.
Fool, she chided herself. This time your temper will get you killed.
“You like knives, girl?” Eadweard of Eoforwic grinned. “Let’s see how what color your blood runs, shall we?”
Maric stepped up then, between Alchflaed and the ealdorman. He carried a poker, which he had retrieved from the fire pit on his way round the table. Like the other Mercians, he had left his weapons outside upon entering the ealdorman’s hall, as was customary for visitors.
“We want no trouble ealdorman,” Maric spoke gently.
“This is my hall, Mercian,” Eadweard sneered, “and no one, not even a high born bitch from Bebbanburg insults me in it.”
“I apologize for Lady Alchflaed’s disrespect,” Maric replied, “but we shall take our leave now all the same.”
“Too late for that,” the ealdorman replied with a fierce grin. “None of you will be leaving here.”
With that, the ealdorman’s nephew and the dozen or so ceorls seated at the long table rose to their feet. From behind Maric, Alchflaed saw that the Mercian’s posture appeared remarkably relaxed. He hardly seemed bothered that a knife-wielding warrior twice his width was threatening him. He held the poker loosely by his side, waiting for the ealdorman to make the first move.
Edgard stepped up next to Alchflaed. Their gazes met, and he cast her a look of exasperation. She answered with a pleading look of her own and wordlessly handed him her seax. Since he was unarmed, and she had gotten them into this mess, it was the least she could do.
What happened next was a blur. The ealdorman came at Maric with frightening speed, but the Mercian moved with equal swiftness. He blocked his attacker’s knife thrust with the poker, before disarming him with a kick. The knife fell into the rushes and the ealdorman lashed out at Maric, his meaty fist grazing his opponent’s cheek.
Maric’s own fist lashed out, striking under the ealdorman’s jaw in an uppercut.
Eadweard’s head snapped back and he dropped to the rushes, where he lay, senseless. Men’s shouts and women’s cries suddenly filled the hall, echoing amongst the rafters.
Alchflaed gasped. “Is he dead?”
Maric shook his head, his face unreadable. “Just unconscious – for a short while, at least. We need to be far from here when he awakes.”
He retrieved Alchflaed’s mantle from the bench and shoved it into her arms. Then, his gaze shifted to Edgard. “Get her out of here and saddle the horses ready for us.”
***
They rode out of Eoforwic as if pursued by Nithhogg himself.
Maric and Edgard led the way, holding torches aloft, with the rest of the company thundering at their heels. They had all made it out of the ealdorman’s hall alive, although Bryni had received a nasty wound to his thigh in the scuffle that ensued.
It was a dark night, for heavy clouds cast a veil over the stars and a half moon. If not for the torches, they would have been travelling blind. The cold stung Alchflaed’s face and it was not long before her fingers turned numb. Guilt needled her as she rode and she felt sick when she remembered how close she had come to getting her escort into terrible trouble.
They travelled a long while, eventually leaving the road and riding west, deep into woodland. Branches brushed against Alchflaed, snatching at her clothing, but she pressed on, following the Mercians farther into the trees. She imagined Maric had led them here to ensure that Eadweard of Eoforwic would not easily catch up with them.
When he awoke, the ealdorman’s rage would be terrible.
Eventually, they halted in a clearing surrounded by beeches. Alchflaed dismounted, her limbs stiff and cold.
“No fires tonight,” Maric commanded his men. “Not this close to Eoforwic.”
Maric received no complaints, for all of them knew they had been fortunate to extricate themselves from the ealdorman’s hall. He drove the end of his sputtering torch into the ground and Edgard did the same, so that they had some light to see by. Maric turned to the warrior who had sustained an injury during the scuffle.
“Bryni, how is your leg?”
“Hard to tell,” the warrior replied, although his voice was tight with pain.
“Alchflaed will you take a look at it?” Maric asked. He had not yet looked her way, although Alchflaed could sense his anger.
Bryni’s face, illuminated by the guttering torchlight, was hollowed with pain. He sat down upon a log while Alchflaed knelt next to him and examined the wound to his thigh.
She, like all the women at Bebbanbur
g, had learned the art of healing. Over the years, she had tended men with worse wounds than this one, although the knife wound had cut deep into the flesh of Bryni’s thigh.
“It has stopped bleeding,” she told him, “although I will need to cleanse the wound and put a few stitches in, for it is deep.”
Bryni groaned at this, but did not offer complaint. Next to her, Edgard unstoppered a skin of mead and passed it to Alchflaed. She poured it over the wound, making sure it washed deep inside the flesh. The young man cursed, his body stiffening in pain.
“I know it hurts, but it will stop the wound from festering,” Alchflaed told him. She rose then, and retrieved a leather satchel from her pony. Squinting in the torchlight, which was not ideal, she extracted a bone needle and woolen thread, before turning to where Edgard and Maric looked on.
“You’ll need to hold him still while I do this.”
Wordlessly, the two warriors moved to obey her. Edgard sat behind Bryni, placed an arm around his shoulders, and passed him a knife to bite down on. Meanwhile, Maric held his leg still. Alchflaed worked quickly, although it was difficult in such bad light, puncturing the skin and neatly tying four stitches. All the while, Bryni did not utter a sound. However, Alchflaed heard his teeth grinding against the knife blade as she worked. When she finished, he was as pale as milk and sweating, his breathing labored.
“Thank you, Lady Alchflaed,” he managed.
Alchflaed shook her head and smiled. “There’s no need.”
She tucked away her needle and thread before leaving the young man to recover. She crossed to her pony and was buckling her satchel back onto the saddle, when Maric approached her.
Alchflaed’s mouth went dry. Ever since leaving Eoforwic, she had been dreading this moment.
“I know what you are going to say,” she said quickly, forestalling him.
His voice was deceptively quiet when he replied.
“And what’s that?”
“That was all my fault. I should never have baited him.”
“So you’re sorry for it?”
Alchflaed finished tying the satchel closed and turned to him. His face, partly in shadow, was the most stern she had seen it. Still, there was something in his tone that made her own anger rise.
