by Jayne Castel
“We shall be handfasted this eve,” Paeda announced then, oblivious to the hostility that crackled in the air around him. “Long have I waited for my Northumbrian beauty. I will be denied no longer.”
“Milord,” Seaxwulf, the monk, spoke up, his voice oddly strong for such a slight, reticent man. “It is Mother Night, surely it would be best to wait till…”
“You will marry us tonight,” Paeda cut the monk off. “I am the first Christian king of Mercia and you will give us god’s blessing.”
The king’s proclamation brought looks of stern disapproval from many present. Like the late king, most folk in this hall still worshipped the old gods. A handfasting would traditionally be conducted and blessed by the Queen Mother, not by a monk. But Paeda paid little mind to the whispering and dark looks his announcement had caused.
Instead, he watched Alchflaed, his gaze suddenly wolfish. When he spoke once more, his voice was low and intimate, as if he and Alchflaed stood alone.
“Tonight, I make you mine.”
***
“You’re alive, Osulf!”
Maric grinned at the sight of his friend barreling toward him. Maric had just left the Great Tower, and was making his way across to the stables when Osulf spotted him. The stocky, bearded, chestnut-haired warrior now wore a patch over his left eye, but looked remarkably healthier than the last time Maric had seen him; when they had said their good-byes at Winwaed.
Osulf crushed Maric in a bear hug. “Who needs two eyes, eh? One serves me well enough!”
Maric shook his head and laughed, happier to see Osulf than he could measure. After his life had fallen apart, after the betrayal that had nearly destroyed him, Osulf and Elfhere were the only people who remained at his side. Maric had missed their banter.
Extracting himself from Osulf’s bone-crushing embrace, Maric spied Elfhere crossing the stable yard toward them. His friend was much thinner than last time he had seen him, and now walked with a pronounced limp. Yet, he was grinning broadly, as he approached them. Elfhere clasped Maric in a wordless hug.
“You’re as thin as scarecrow,” Maric observed, frowning at his friend’s frailty. “What happened?”
“The wound on my leg soured,” Elfhere replied, his grin twisting slightly. “If it hadn’t been for the skill of the healer, it would have bested me.”
Osulf slapped Elfhere on the back.
“You’re hard to kill. The gods favor you, lad. You’ll live to slay many more Northumbrians.”
Elfhere’s grin faded. “Not with this limp.”
“It’ll heal in time,” Osulf assured him, before turning back to Maric. “How goes it with you?”
“Well enough,” Maric replied. “We have escorted the princess safely, at least.”
Truthfully, Maric was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy and a dull ache had taken up residence behind his eyes. His task was done but he felt strangely uneasy. He had never liked Paeda. His father, although ruthless was an easier man to read.
Maric knew he should not feel so, but the predatory look on his lord’s face as he gazed upon Alchflaed had made Maric’s hackles rise. During the long journey south, the princess had been under his protection. They had drawn close, and the heat between them had made it difficult for him to maintain a distance from her.
The brutal realization of who Alchflaed belonged to had left a bitter taste in his mouth – one that he longed to wash away with a large cup of sweet mead.
“Let us go to the mead hall,” he suggested, “and I can tell you of our journey.”
Osulf slung a beefy arm over Maric’s shoulders. “Lead the way.”
“Maric!”
A familiar voice hailed him from behind. Maric swiveled to see Edgard descending the steps from the Great Tower, with Bryni close behind. When the warrior reached them, Maric introduced his friends.
“Osulf, Elfhere – meet two men I would trust with my life: Edgard and Bryni.”
“I recognize you,” Osulf squinted at Edgard with his one good eye. “We fought side-by-side in the shield wall against the East Angles, two years ago.”
“Aye,” Edgard replied with a grin, clasping Osulf’s arm in his. “I’d recognize hair like yours anywhere.”
He turned then to Maric, his face turning serious. “On the journey here, I promised that you could meet my family. I’m on my way to them now. Would you join me?”
Maric smiled, pleased that the warrior had remembered. Under his rough exterior, Edgard was a man of deep loyalty, a trait that Maric understood well and appreciated in others – even if it had cost him much personally. His need to drown himself in mead would have to wait.
“I’ll join you at the mead hall in a while,” he promised Osulf and Elfhere.
“Don’t leave us alone too long,” Elfhere warned him with a grin. “You know how Osulf behaves once he gets a bit of mead in him.”
Chapter Twenty
The Handfasting
The sun was setting as Maric, Edgard and Bryni left the inner palisade. The last rays stained the straw-thatched roofs of Tamworth gold. It was a bright, chill evening and Maric’s breath steamed before him. A group of children ran past them, making their way toward Market Square, where the great Yule bonfire would shortly be lit. Their excited chatter and laughter brought smiles to the men’s faces.
“My lads will be looking forward to this eve,” Edgard said. “My wife makes oaten honey cakes and apple pie every Yule. I’d wager she’ll have some ready now.”
Maric’s stomach growled in response, reminding him that he had eaten little since breaking his fast at dawn. Bryni’s boyish face had gone slack in anticipation.
“Honey cakes…”
“Aye, and there’ll be mulled cider as well,” Edgard promised.
Indeed, the aromas of festive cooking were everywhere this evening; the delicious scent of freshly baked sweets mingling with the savory smells of roasting pork, glazed in honey; stuffed fowl; and the mouthwatering aroma of mutton braised over the fire in ale and onions. Maric breathed in deeply, his mouth filling with saliva.
They did not have to walk far from the Great Tower, for Edgard’s home lay just two streets in front of the inner palisade. On the way there, they passed a narrow, timbered dwelling, with its door boarded-up. Maric had deliberately avoided walking by his former home for the past two years, but found his eye drawn to it this evening.
The thatch was in need of repair, he noted, and the house looked mournful boarded-up, with its wooden shutters nailed shut – but he also observed with some pride, how well-built it was.
I will return to it soon, he promised himself. Enough time has passed…
Pleased that his reaction to seeing the home he had once shared with Gytha did not stir up the agony it once had, Maric followed the others down the street. Perhaps, telling Alchflaed of his past, and not having been vilified for his tale, had eased his guilt a little.
Edgard’s home was a sprawling wattle and daub structure, with a long wing to one side. Rosemary, thyme and sage grew against its walls, and a low wooden fence protected the dwelling from the street.
Edgard went in first, pushing through the gate and flinging open the wattle door.
“Moira!” he boomed. “Where are you wife? Come and give me a kiss!”
Maric and Bryni exchanged grins as they followed Edgard inside.
The moment Maric stepped over the threshold he realized that something was wrong.
There was no aroma of baking or meat roasting. A low fire glowed in the fire pit at the center of the living space, and only two cressets illuminated the interior. The air was cold and musty.
Edgard had stopped, just inside the door, forcing his companions to step around him.
“Moira?”
A young woman with mousy hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face, emerged from the shadows. She carried a small bundle, swathed in fur. Three boys, ranging from three to around six winters emerged behind her. The youngest clung to the girl’s skirts. Their faces we
re thin, their eyes hollowed.
“Willa,” Edgard rumbled. “Where’s your sister?”
The girl’s eyes welled and she made a soft, choking sound.
“The babe came late, Edgard,” she finally managed. “Just five days ago. Moira lost a lot of blood during the birth… too much. I tried to save her and the midwife did her best, but… she died.”
A chill settled upon Maric as he heard these words. The evening’s joy dissolved. He did not look at Edgard, for he did not want to see the man’s grief.
“She birthed the others so easily,” he finally whispered. “How can this be?”
“She did not carry this babe well, even from the first,” Willa replied softly. “She was so tired, and her back hurt her.”
Maric did glance at Edgard then. His friend’s face was a mask of disbelief. He had not yet accepted the girl’s softly spoken words.
“Boys,” Edgard finally managed. “Come greet your father.”
The three lads rushed across the floor and clung to Edgard’s legs. Maric could hear their sniffles as they buried their faces against him. A weighty silence followed.
“You have a daughter, Edgard,” Willa broke the silence. “I have named her Mae, after her mother.”
Edgard nodded dumbly but said nothing.
Timidly, Willa walked forward, and held out the bundle of fur. A tiny wrinkled face peeked out from within. The babe’s eyes were closed, for she was sleeping.
“She is a good child,” Willa smiled through her tears. “Hold her, Edgard.”
Wordlessly, Edgard took the bundle and held it close to his broad chest. The anguish and loss on his face as he stared down at his newborn daughter was too raw for Maric to bear, and he looked away.
***
Alchflaed laid out the dress she had brought for her handfasting upon the furs. It was the finest gown she had ever worn; of cream wool, with long, bell-like sleeves and an elaborate gold trim about the neckline, sleeves and hem. However, she was in no hurry to don it.
She stood within the Queen Mother’s bower – a small but richly furnished space – where she was to prepare for her handfasting. After the ceremony, and the feasting, she would accompany her new husband to the platform above the Great Hall, where she and Paeda would consummate their marriage.
Alchflaed’s belly had tied itself in knots, and her palms were clammy. She was far older than most women were on their wedding day – at twenty she was a spinster. She had grown used to her freedom, and her willful temperament had grown stronger with each year that passed. She realized now that her father had done her no favors in allowing her to enjoy a freedom that could never last.
She did not want to lie with Paeda. The way he had looked at her earlier had made her skin crawl. She knew what men and women did together. What she felt every time she locked eyes with Maric told her that with the right partner such union would be magical. But, her attraction to Maric made her even more loath to touch the man who would soon be her husband.
Alchflaed let out a long sigh and began undressing. Cyneswide had left her alone for the moment, and would return to lace up the back of her gown and wreath mistletoe through her hair.
The smells of cooking wafted through the Great Hall, reminding Alchflaed of the Yuletide feast that her kin would be about to sit down to in Bebbanburg. A wave of homesickness, so great that it brought tears to her eyes, crashed over Alchflaed. Clutching her handfasting gown to her breast, she squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.
Courage, Alchflaed.
This was her duty and she had no choice but to obey.
***
Seaxwulf wrapped the ribbon around Paeda and Alchflaed’s joined hands.
“By the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, may you be made man and wife.”
Alchflaed tried to smile but found her face was frozen. They had both made their pledges, and offered gifts – a jeweled cup from her father and a plush ermine cloak from Paeda – before joining hands.
Seaxwulf finished tying the ribbon and stepped back.
“In the eyes of God and of your kin, you have been made one.”
Alchflaed swallowed hard and forced the next words out of her mouth, echoing Paeda’s own words as they spoke in unison.
“May we be made one.”
The monk nodded, satisfied his part was now done, and deftly unwrapped the ribbon from their clasped hands. Alchflaed extracted her fingers from Paeda’s firm grip, keeping her eyes downcast so that he would not see her despair.
They stood upon the heah-setl, before Paeda’s kin and retainers. Around them, the Great Hall had been bedecked with boughs of holly and fir, draped in ivy and festooned with pine cones. Alchflaed felt the gazes of everyone upon them, as she and Paeda shared a small cup of mead, and fed each other honeyed seed cake; a ritual that was said to bring forth a happy union and many children. Then, Paeda pulled her into his arms and kissed her for all to see.
The kiss was possessive. Paeda thrust his tongue into her mouth and pulled her hard against him. He was making his mark upon his bride, and the watching crowd amassed beneath the high seat roared its approval. Alchflaed’s lips stung when he finally released her.
“Raise your cups to my beautiful wife,” he shouted to the crowd. “To Alchflaed, Queen of Mercia!”
A royal wedding meant that this year’s Yuletide feast was even more magnificent than usual. Slaves carried platters of food to the long tables that stretched either side of the fire pits. Alchflaed sat at the head of the king’s table, next to her husband, and gazed upon the magnificent feast before her: roast pheasant stuffed with chestnut, wild boar with apples and rich venison and mushroom pies.
A slave appeared at Alchflaed’s elbow and filled her jeweled cup to the brim with sloe wine. She took a large sip, welcoming its heat in the pit of her belly. It would give her courage for what was to come.
Paeda was solicitous of his new bride; he offered her choice pieces of meat and piled her trencher high with delicacies. The wine helped revive Alchflaed’s appetite, but even so she had to force down food. Despite his show of attentiveness, Paeda did not attempt to converse with Alchflaed – something she was momentarily grateful for – but instead he engaged his brothers in discussion of the hunt they had planned for the coming days.
“We will be away for five nights, at least,” Wulfhere told Paeda, regarding his brother over the rim of his cup. Then his gave swiveled to Alchflaed and he bestowed a lazy smile of male appreciation upon her. “Surely, you will be loath to be away from your lovely wife for so many days.”
Paeda took a mouthful of walnut-studded bread and shook his head.
“I never miss a hunt,” he replied, before a grin spread over his face, “and besides, my wife will receive plenty of attention from me before we depart.”
Wulfhere raised an eyebrow and poured himself some more wine.
“Worried we might come back with tales to rival yours, brother?” Aethelred taunted from Wulfhere’s left. “Concerned you would be left out of the stories around the fireside?”
Paeda cast his youngest brother a look of contempt. “At least the stories I tell are real.”
Aethelred flushed at this thinly veiled insult, his ice-blue eyes narrowing into slits. Watching the exchange between the brothers, Alchflaed sensed the simmering tension, bordering on hostility, between the three. These men were rivals, and she saw that Paeda constantly strived to put his younger brothers in their place.
Across the table, Cyneswide picked at her meal. She sat to Alchflaed’s left, and since her husband was still sparring with his brothers, Alchflaed attempted to engage the Queen Mother in conversation.
“Cyneburh is well,” she ventured, “and she sends you her love.”
Cyneswide, who had been staring into the distance, snapped out of her reverie. She blinked and regarded Alchflaed with the same cool detachment as when she had helped Alchflaed dress for her handfasting.
“She does?”
Alc
hflaed nodded, emboldened by this show of interest, no matter how feeble. “She and my brother appear happy together.”
“Is she not yet with child?” Cyneswide asked.
“No… not yet.”
A look of sadness crossed the Queen Mother’s face before the mask of impassivity slipped back into place.
“If she is barren her happiness will not last long.”
Alchflaed was slightly taken aback by this comment. “I believe my brother loves her.”
The Queen Mother gave her a look that was both disdainful and despairing. “That counts for very little if she cannot provide him with an heir.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Mother Night
Maric walked into Market Square and paused at the sight of the great Yule bonfire roaring before him. He stood far back from it, but the fire’s heat still bathed his face and chased away the night’s chill.
“Wes hāl.”
A portly woman bearing a steaming cauldron of spiced apple cider stopped before him.
“Can I tempt you with a cup?”
Maric nodded, appreciating the woman’s warm smile and rosy cheeks – especially after the grim scene he had just left in Edgard’s house.
“Go on then.”
The woman nodded to the boy next to her who bore a platter of wooden cups.
“Give him a cup, Alric.”
The boy handed Maric one, and the woman ladled in the hot liquid.
“Good health,” she beamed at him before bustling off to offer some cider to a family that had just entered the square behind them.
Maric took a sip and sighed as the liquid warmed his belly. The cider contained cinnamon, an exotic spice that Maric had only tasted a handful of times as it was rare. It had been brought in from traders from lands far to the southeast. It was common for folk to offer a hot brew to others on Mother Night; and after the woman and her son had circuited Market Square, Maric imagined she would go door to door until her cauldron was empty.
