by Jayne Castel
“I remember her laugh,” Alchflaed murmured. “She was different to other women.”
“Your mother worshipped the gods of her own people,” Seaxwulf replied, disapproval in his voice. “She believed in magic, fairies and trolls. She would not hear of the one, true god. While they were married, your father refused to be baptized.”
Alchflaed smiled. She had vague childhood memories of her father – but none of them bore any resemblance to the ruthless lord of men he had become.
“A woman can have an extraordinary influence on a man,” the monk continued. “Your father adored Rhieinmelth, enough to defy god for her.”
Alchflaed had the feeling Seaxwulf was leading up to something. He was.
“You could wield such power over your husband.”
“What? Turn him away from god?” Alchflaed replied with a tight smile, deliberately misunderstanding him.
The monk looked horrified and clutched at the wooden crucifix about his neck. “Of course not, Milady! The influence I speak of is exactly the opposite.”
Alchflaed did not reply. Instead, she took another sip of hot milk and waited for Seaxwulf to continue.
“Paeda grew up amongst pagans. His father was proud in his worship of the old gods. He has become a Christian, but I fear it is in name only. He still treads a dark path but with your gentle influence, he could see the light. You could make him into a great king.”
“He is my father’s puppet,” Alchflaed replied, trying to hide her contempt for the monk’s suggestion. She knew he meant well, but she realized he failed to grasp the reality of matters. “He is not meant to be a great king.”
“Our world is awash with blood,” Seaxwulf continued, his face pained. “Peace is the only way forward, Milady, or the day of judgment will come upon us. Men rule the world, but women shape it. Help Paeda let go of his anger, his hate, and he could be Mercia’s first just ruler.”
Alchflaed stared at the monk, rendered speechless by the passion of his words. If things had been different, she might have listened to Seaxwulf. She would have liked to believe him, that woman were not as powerless as she had always believed.
Yet, his words came too late. She had gone too far down her current road, to turn back now.
Alchflaed had woken early that morning, and lain beside her sleeping husband for a long while. Deep in thought, she had listened to the pattering of the rain on the thatch above. Then, she came to a decision at last. She would do her father’s bidding.
Paeda of Mercia had to die – and it would be by her hand.
***
Rain slashed across the stable yard, bringing with it stinging shards of ice. Maric bowed his head and hurried into the stable complex. His bare arms stung from the hailstorm and his thin linen tunic and breeches clung to his skin. He carried two buckets of water, the last of many trips, for the horses stabled here.
Maric made his way up the straw-strewn aisle between the stalls and poured the contents of his pails into the stone troughs at the far end of the long building. There were a few warriors inside the stables this morning. They were sheltering from the rain while taking the opportunity to clean tack, sharpen swords and tend to their horses.
Elfhere was grooming his horse, a sleek chestnut gelding. The horse ignored its master, pulling tufts of hay from a rack against the wall. Maric leaned against one of the wooden pillars, which held the timbered building upright, and watched his friend work. He thought then of his heavy-set bay gelding that Paeda had confiscated along with all of Maric’s other possessions. He had been fond of the beast but Isærnfōt now belonged to Prince Aethelred.
Elfhere, who despite a slight limp now looked his old self, pushed his shaggy golden hair from his eyes and focused on brushing out the remains of the chestnut’s thick winter coat. Sweat gleamed off the warrior’s bare arms as he worked. Torchlight gleamed off his arm rings.
Maric’s gaze rested upon Elfhere’s face, and he noted his friend looked unusually somber.
“Is something troubling you, Elfhere?”
The warrior threw down his currycomb and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.
“It’s Osulf,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s plotting something.”
“Aye,” Maric replied, careful to keep his voice low. “He admitted as much to me, but he will not say what.”
“I don’t like it,” Elfhere continued. “He’s going to get us all killed.”
A burst of laughter exploded nearby, as two warriors shared a joke. Maric moved nearer to Elfhere, and their gazes met.
“Any idea what he’s up to?” Maric asked.
“He hates Paeda, but I have no idea what he plans to do to him.”
“Has he been in contact with Wulfhere?”
Elfhere shrugged. “I have no idea. Osulf has become very tight-lipped with me recently. Either he’s trying to protect me, or he believes I’ll talk.”
“He doesn’t trust me either – thinks I’m too loyal.”
Elfhere laughed. “You are.”
Maric snorted, before tapping the iron band around his neck.
“I was, but the moment Paeda put this on me, he severed the bond between us.”
His friend frowned, confused. “But you’re his slave now. You’re even more tightly bound to the king than before.”
Maric shook his head and slammed the flat of his hand against his heart. “Loyalty is not something you can force upon a man. I may be his theow, but Paeda doesn’t own what lies in here.”
In response, Elfhere gave Maric a wry smile. “There’s another reason Osulf won’t speak to you of his plans. He believes you’re in love with Lady Alchflaed.”
Maric stepped back from his friend, as if he had just struck him.
“Hwæt?”
“Blame Bryni,” Elfhere raised his hands in mock-surrender, his smile widening. “The boy gets talkative after a few meads. He says you two grew close on the journey south. He believes you’d give up your life for her.”
Maric stared at Elfhere, poleaxed by Elfhere’s frankness and Bryni’s flapping tongue. Watching him, Elfhere merely gave a low chuckle.
“Judging from the look on your face, I’d say he’s right.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Gathering Herbs
The blackthorn was in blossom. A snowfall of white flowers covered the hedgerows alongside the path into the woods behind Tamworth and a red-breasted robin warbled brightly from one of the bushes. Above, the morning sky was a cloudless blue and the air smelled of grass and damp earth.
It was a beautiful morning, but Alchflaed was too nervous to appreciate it. Her stomach had tied itself in a knot and her palms were clammy. Four weeks had passed since she had made her decision to finally obey her father – but with Ēostre just a few days away, she could delay no longer.
Alchflaed followed Maric along the path with Bryni and Edgard bringing up the rear. She wore a light woolen cloak about her shoulders and carried a basket under her arm.
She had asked Paeda, the night before, if she could spend a morning gathering herbs in the woods. She had told him there were herbs the healers of Bebbanburg swore by for ensuring a woman’s womb quickened successfully. Paeda had nodded brusquely, not bothering to look her way.
Ever since she had lost the babe, he treated her differently. She often slept alone on the platform above the Great Hall and when Paeda did come to bed, he reeked of mead and fell asleep without touching her. Alchflaed had heard the other women gossip that the king – angered by his wife’s coldness and the loss of their child – now sated his appetite with whores.
Alchflaed, although pleased by this change, also dreaded the day Paeda decided to resume bedding her.
Released from their morning duties, Maric, Bryni and Edgard had appeared happy to accompany her into the woods. Maric did not speak as he led the way, although she could hear Bryni and Edgard talking together in low voices. Once in the woods, she would need to find a way to distance herself from them – for she wo
uld need to harvest some hemlock before making a tincture of it.
Woodland of ash and beech spread out over the hills behind Tamworth. The trees wore their new dresses of bright green, and the sun dappled on the forest floor between the branches.
“I’m going to look for herbs,” Alchflaed told Maric. “You can stay with the others, if you want?”
Their gazes met and the familiar heat between them only worsened the nerves in Alchflaed’s belly. Unsmiling, Maric nodded. Breaking free of his crystalline gaze, Alchflaed turned and headed off into the trees.
“Don’t go far, Milady,” Edgard called out behind her.
Alone, Alchflaed got to work. First, she gathered some motherwort – an herb that she knew improved the health of a woman’s womb. Alchflaed placed a few handfuls of the green, serrated leaves into her basket. She needed to have something to show Paeda, if he questioned her upon her return home.
After that, she went looking for hemlock.
The plant was not hard to find, for it grew tall next to a trickling stream that ran through the woods. The plant resembled parsley, with its lacy and spreading triangular leaves. In fact, folk often called it ‘poison parsley’ because of its resemblance to the culinary herb. However, up close, hemlock emitted a rank odor, and Alchflaed screwed up her nose as she picked large bunches of it.
Once Alchflaed had gathered enough, she walked a little farther into the woods, where she sat down upon a moss-covered log and retrieved the pestle and mortar she carried inside a pouch hanging from her belt.
Working as quickly as she dared, she began mashing the evil-smelling leaves to a green pulp. Afterward, she would do as her father instructed, and mix it with the water she had also brought with her. Then, she would pour the poison tincture into the clay vial, ready for use.
She was just unstoppering the water bladder, her hands shaking with haste, when Maric emerged from the trees.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
Alchflaed stared at him a moment, sure that guilt was written all over her face. Then, she recovered her wits and gave him her brightest smile.
“Just making a tincture from parsley.”
“Parsley?”
“Yes, it’s good for the blood.”
He approached, holding her gaze in his. “Surely, you should just add it to your food,” he said, “rather than making a tincture.”
Then, he stopped abruptly and his face tensed.
“That’s not parsley.”
Alchflaed started to sweat.
“What do you mean? Of course it is.”
“It smells like dog piss.” Maric folded his arms over his chest. “I know only one plant with such a foul odor. What are you planning to do with hemlock?”
Alchflaed stared at Maric, panic rising in her breast. A hundred excuses formed in her head, none of them plausible.
“Kill my husband,” she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Maric ran a hand over his face.
“Thunor’s hammer,” he muttered. “What madness is this?”
“It is the reason my father promised me to Paeda,” Alchflaed answered, clutching the mortar with its vile-smelling contents against her breast. “He commanded me to marry Paeda of Mercia, and then to kill him. Fæder grows impatient – I must do it soon.”
Maric stared at her, his lips parting in shock. Alchflaed watched the pieces fall into place, as he suddenly made sense of her odd behavior as they had approached Tamworth months earlier.
“That’s why you wanted me to ride away with you,” he said finally. “It wasn’t to escape Paeda, it was to avoid this.”
Alchflaed nodded, her throat constricting.
Maric came to her then, ripped the mortar from her hands and dropped it to the ground. He then knelt before her and gripped her hands in his.
“Why, for the love of the gods, did you not tell me the truth?”
“How could I?” Alchflaed replied; her breathing came in shallow gasps now as she fought back tears. “You would have gone straight to Paeda.”
“I would never have done that,” Maric countered, angry now. “He would have killed you.”
“Perhaps that would have been best.” Alchflaed choked out the words. Suddenly the weight of the terrible duty her father had placed upon her became too much and tears started to stream down her face. “Either way, my life is forfeit.”
Maric grabbed her by the shoulders, his gaze sharp with fury.
“It is, if you do something as stupid as try to poison your husband. Do you have the brains of a goose, Alchflaed?”
“You don’t understand,” Alchflaed cried, pulling free from his grip. “I resisted for as long as I could, but my brother told me that fæder grows angry. He wants it done by Ēostre. No one defies Oswiu of Northumbria and lives – not even his own blood!”
She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way. Then, with one hand, he bent down, scooped up the mortar and threw it far into the trees.
“I’ll not let you throw away your life, as if it means nothing,” he snarled.
“My life has no worth,” she shouted back, shoving him hard in the chest. “Except to men who would trade me like a fattened ewe. Do you have any idea how unhappy I am? Do have any idea what it’s like to be married to someone who makes your skin crawl? Do you know how I manage to suffer his touch?”
Maric stared at her. He held her hard against him, to prevent her from escaping. Alchflaed felt the heat of his body burning through the layers of clothing separating them; the sensation broke through her last shreds of self-restraint.
“I endure it because it’s you I think of,” she choked out. She could hardly believe she was saying the words, or admitting them. “I close my eyes and imagine it is you touching me.”
“Alchflaed,” he whispered her name as a plea.
“It’s true,” she gasped. “Whether you wish it, or not.”
Maric answered her by pulling her hard against him, and covering her mouth with his. He kissed her wildly, and Alchflaed responded with equal fierceness. His kiss transported her, lifting her high above the world, to a place where rank, duty and obedience did not matter.
Maric loosened the heavy braid that hung down her back and tangled his fingers in her hair. Then, he cupped the back of her head with one hand, the other sliding down to the small of her back. Alchflaed melted against Maric and felt his shaft, hard against her belly. Excitement unlike anything she had ever known leaped within her.
The sound of the undergrowth snapping underfoot alerted them, and Alchflaed and Maric sprang apart, as if doused with freezing water. A heartbeat later, Bryni and Edgard emerged from the trees.
“Maric… Milady,” Edgard stepped forward, frowning. His gaze flicked from Alchflaed to Maric and his frown deepened. “We heard raised voices. Is something wrong?”
“Everything is fine, Edgard, thank you,” Alchflaed replied breathlessly.
“Can you give us a moment alone?” Maric asked. His voice had a rough edge as he too struggled to compose himself. “Lady Alchflaed has finished gathering herbs. We will be with you shortly.”
Both Edgard and Bryni looked worried now, but they obliged nevertheless. Alchflaed noted that although he had made a request, Maric’s tone brooked no argument. He may have been wearing a slave collar, but these two warriors still saw Maric as their leader.
As soon as they had departed, Maric turned to Alchflaed.
Reaching out, he stroked her cheek, cupping it lightly in the palm of his hand.
“Listen to me, Alchflaed,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “There is no need for you to kill your husband. If the rumors I hear circulating Tamworth are correct, his days are numbered.”
Alchflaed’s gaze widened.
“I’m not part of it,” Maric continued, “but I hear that men plot against him. It will be only a matter of time before they rise against the king.”
“If that happens, they will kill me too,” she whispered, horrif
ied.
Maric’s face grew serious, his gaze hardening. “They will have to kill me first. As long as I breathe, I will not let that happen.”
Alchflaed swallowed her rising panic. She wanted to trust him but she did not see how one man, stripped of his weapons, could defend himself let alone her, if assassins attacked the king’s hall.
“Carry your seax on you at all times,” Maric continued, ignoring her panic. “Hide the dagger in you skirts, but make sure you are never without it. The moment the men make their move, you must find me.”
“What if you are not nearby?”
“They will not wait much longer before acting,” Maric replied. “I will make sure I stay as close as possible to you over the coming days – but once Paeda is dead, you must be prepared to flee.”
Chapter Thirty
Blood at Ēostre
There was much to prepare for the coming Ēostre celebrations, and Alchflaed was glad for it kept her mind busy. Despite the growing influence of men like Seaxwulf – who preached that the spring equinox was a time to celebrate the resurrection of god’s son, Jesus, from the dead – the folk of Tamworth took delight in preparing for the great pagan feast that marked a turning point in the year.
The monk tried his best to make Paeda forbid the residents of the Great Hall from erecting a wooden statue of the goddess, Ēostre, upon the high seat: the body of a voluptuous woman with the head of a hare. He nearly wept when Paeda waved off his complaints and said that folk were more than welcome to place offerings at the goddess’ feet, and that the people of Tamworth could continue their practice of making sacrifices and offerings to the apple and plum trees that grew to the south of the town. This ritual ensured that the wights living within the trees would protect the fruit and provide a bountiful harvest.
“But you are a Christian!” Seaxwulf cried, his face pinched with outrage. He pointed to the crucifix that hung about the king’s neck. “By allowing these celebrations to take place you insult god and place your soul in mortal danger!”
Paeda, who was attempting to eat his noon meal, slammed his fist down on the table. To his credit, the monk did not flinch. Such was the strength of his conviction, he stared the king down, although Alchflaed saw that his body quaked beneath his robes.
