Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  The king noticed the two women immediately. His gaze gave nothing away as it moved over them and settled upon Freya.

  The nervous fluttering in Freya’s chest tightened into a hard knot of apprehension. This man was as different to King Raedwald, as night to day. He was tall and lean with an angular face and eyes so dark they almost appeared black. Unlike Raedwald, who had been a proud but good-natured man, King Ricberht exuded danger.

  Chapter Three

  Ricberht, King of the East Angles, watched the two women he had summoned enter his hall. The four warriors he had sent to fetch the healer followed at their heels. They had done well to fetch the women so quickly, although he had demanded nothing less.

  Ricberht’s gaze swept across the healer, and the woman he presumed to be her daughter. Unlike many peasant women who lost their looks early due to a hard life, these two were quite lovely. The older woman was still a beauty, despite her melancholy air, but her daughter was ravishing. An exotic red-haired wench with milky skin, full and beautifully molded lips; she had a sultry emerald gaze that intrigued Ricberht. What a pity that none of the women he was currently considering for marriage were as winsome as this one. Yet, the fact that this girl was lowborn would not prevent him from enjoying her.

  “Greetings.” Ricberht stood up and only just prevented himself from wincing as pain lanced up his right leg. “Cwen of Shottisham – your skills as a healer have reached my ears. I have need of your ministrations. Come.”

  Limping heavily, and cursing himself for no longer being able to hide his injury, Ricberht gingerly stepped down off the dais and made his way to the far end of the hall. He led them to a private area separated from the rest of the Great Hall by heavy tapestries.

  Ricberht pushed aside the tapestry and ducked inside his bower. It was a simply furnished area; rush matting covered the floor and a nest of furs dominated the center of the space. A small window was open, letting in the sounds of the morning; the crow of a rooster and the plaintive bleat of a goat waiting for milking. Ricberht limped across to the furs and sat down heavily. He was only beginning his twenty-eighth summer but this ailment made him feel twice his age.

  This woman must heal me.

  Two of his most trusted warriors followed the women into the king’s bower. Mother and daughter both looked uncomfortable at entering the king’s private chambers but Ricberht did not want the rest of his household, his ealdormen and thegns, to see his weakness, or hear what he was about to say to the healer.

  “It’s my right leg,” he told the healer when she approached him. “Take a look and let me hear your judgment.”

  Freya followed her mother into the king’s bower. Her hands that grasped the handle of her mother’s remedy basket were slick with sweat. The moment the King of the East Angles had looked upon her, Freya had wanted to turn and run from his hall. His hawkish gaze had fastened upon her and his lust was palpable.

  She never wanted to be alone with this man.

  Freya hung back as Ricberht lowered himself onto his furs. Her mother approached him and gently undid the garters that laced his breeches around his right calf. Yet, when Cwen attempted to roll up the leg of his breeches, he let out a strangled cry.

  “Careful woman!” The king hissed between clenched teeth.

  Cwen frowned.

  “I’m afraid sire that I was being gentle. If you don’t wish me to hurt you further I will have to cut open your breeches.”

  Ricberht had gone pale and Freya noticed a faint sheen of sweat now covering his face. He glared at Cwen but eventually nodded.

  Cwen unsheathed a small boning knife from the belt at her waist and carefully cut down the length of material covering the king’s calf. She then peeled it back to find a thick wad of linen bandages beneath. Freya could see a dark, yellowed stain on the bandage and when her mother removed them, the stench that filled the bower made the king’s men take a few hasty steps backwards. Freya clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from retching. It was the sweet, putrid odor of festering flesh, and Freya had aided her mother enough times over the years to know that a stench like this boded ill.

  Cwen was the only person in the bower, save the king himself, who did not shrink away from the sight of the swollen wound that oozed pus. Not for the first time, her mother’s strength impressed Freya.

  “What caused this sire?” Cwen asked gently.

  “I had kicked that craven, Eorpwald, to the ground when he stabbed me. Don’t worry, I slit his throat for that,” Ricberht replied between gritted teeth. “It was over three moons ago but the wound has never healed.”

  Cwen’s mouth compressed at this news before she replied.

  “I will need to clean the wound to see the extent of the festering,” she said finally, “although it may hurt you.”

  “Do it then,” Ricberht snapped, “but be quick about it woman.”

  “Freya.” Cwen turned to her daughter. “Can you bring me my basket?”

  Freya did as asked, before passing her mother some clean linen and a bowl of scalding water that one of the warriors had brought with him into the bower. Working deftly, Cwen opened one of her precious drawstring pouches of herbs and sprinkled a couple of pinches into the water. Then, she wet one of the cloths, wrung it out and proceeded to clean Ricberht’s wound.

  The king howled and writhed as Cwen worked; so much so that his men had to hold him down. The fuss he was making surprised Freya. She had helped her mother at births where women made less noise than this man. Cwen’s face was grim when she had washed away the pus and examined the wound properly.

  Cwen straightened up and fixed the king with a level gaze. Sweating copiously now, his eyes glassy with pain, Ricberht glared up at her.

  “So what’s your judgment healer?” he panted.

  “I’m afraid it’s serious sire,” Cwen replied. “I can cut away the worst of it and make a poultice, but those livid red streaks running down your shin from the wound tell me that you have waited too long before calling upon my help. I advise that we remove your leg below the knee rather than risk the infection spreading.”

  “Bloodthirsty bitch!” Ricberht roared. “You’ll not take my leg off!”

  Cwen stepped back, her face blanching at the king’s rage.

  “Listen to me woman.” Ricberht lifted himself up on his elbows and fixed Cwen in a cold, hard stare. “The last person who suggested that ‘cure’ is now swinging from the gibbet outside the town gates. That bungling fool failed to heal me and then wanted to saw my leg off. I’ll not have it, you hear me?”

  Cwen let his threat hang in the air before she replied. The paleness in her face was the only sign that the king had scared her.

  “Sire,” she ventured, her voice low and calm as if she were speaking to a frightened child. “You speak the truth. He should not have left your leg to fester so. Yet, if I do not remove your leg, and the festering spreads, you will die.”

  “Silence bitch!” Richberht snarled; his eyes were glazed with pain, “I’ll not suffer any more of your flapping tongue. Now heal me!”

  Freya watched her mother’s mouth compress into a thin, angry line.

  “I will need a clean knife to cut away the damaged flesh before I can apply a poultice,” she replied coldly before turning to one of the warriors. She handed him the knife she had used to cut open the leg of the king’s breeches. “Put this blade in the fire until it glows red,” she instructed the man.

  With a wary glance at his king, the warrior took the knife and ducked through the hanging, back into the hall. While the knife was being cleaned, Cwen set about making a poultice. Freya stood at her mother’s elbow, as she always did when Cwen worked, passing her the herbs and powders she asked for. Cwen’s face was tense with concentration as she bashed up the dried herbs with a little water using the small pestle and mortar she carried in her basket.

  When the warrior returned with the knife, Cwen carefully took it from him.

  “You will both need to hold the
king down,” she instructed the warriors. “This will hurt him.”

  Freya stepped back from the bed and watched as her mother leaned over Ricberht’s festering leg.

  Moments later the king started to scream. It was a terrible, blood-chilling sound and Freya backed up as far as she could away from it, until her back was pressed up against the tapestry dividing the bower from the rest of the hall. Ricberht writhed, as if having a fit, and the two warriors were barely able to hold him down. They called for assistance and it took four men, pinning Ricberht against the furs, to hold him still while Cwen cut away the putrid flesh. All the while, Ricberht screamed and howled. It took all of Freya’s will just to make herself stay inside that bower.

  “Freya,” Cwen instructed her eventually. “Help me apply the poultice.”

  The king’s leg was crimson with blood, but at least the pus was now gone. Freya passed her mother the mortar and watched as Cwen gently spread it across the gaping wound. She helped her mother wind clean bandages tightly around Ricberht’s calf. When they had finished, the warriors released their king and stepped back from him.

  Ricberht’s face was murderous. Tears streaked his cheeks and his gaze burned into Cwen as she stood before him.

  “Vile witch,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming. “You enjoyed maiming your king. I should have you hung for hurting me so.”

  “No, sire,” Cwen replied, meeting his gaze boldly. “I did not want to hurt you. I only did what you instructed.”

  Ricberht’s face twisted as he gazed upon the healer. A tense silence hung in the cramped bower before he spoke again.

  “I’ll not suffer a woman with a forked tongue under my roof.” Ricberht’s voice was low and malevolent. “Gather your belongings and get thee gone!”

  “But sire,” Cwen frowned. “You have instructed me to heal you. The poultice and bandages must be changed every two days or you will most certainly die.”

  “Your daughter shall stay behind and tend me,” Ricberht replied with a cruel smile, “and if I die, so shall she.”

  The gasp escaped Freya at this news. Cwen stepped back abruptly from the king’s bedside.

  “No m’lord!” Cwen’s boldness disappeared, and desperation rose in its place. “Please. I can stay and tend your wounds. Let my daughter return home. I beg you!”

  Ricberht smiled; the expression a grimace. “It’s too late for toadying. Leave behind your basket of herbs and your daughter will make the poultices. If she serves me well, and heals me then I may consider returning her to you – but not before.”

  “But m’lord…”

  “Silence!” Ricberht shouted before turning to his warriors who had been silently watching the scene unfold. “Drag this woman from Rendlaesham and if she tries to re-enter the town slay her!”

  Two warriors seized Cwen and dragged her towards the doorway.

  “No, mōdor!” Freya flew at the warriors, fists flying, but they swatted her aside. The remaining two warriors grabbed Freya and held her fast. On the edge of hysteria, Freya writhed in their iron grip and kicked uselessly at their shins. Yet, nothing made them loosen their hold on her.

  Freya and her mother locked gazes as the warriors dragged Cwen from the bower. Cwen struggled viciously, and dug her heels into the rush-matting to slow her departure.

  “Freya!” Cwen’s face crumpled and tears streaked her face. “My darling Freya!”

  That was Freya’s last glimpse of her mother before the warriors towed her from sight.

  Freya fought her captors – attempting to bite, claw and kick – while Cwen’s sobs and pleas echoed through the Great Hall. The sound of her mother’s grief-stricken cries echoed in Freya’s ears, long after the warriors had dragged her out of earshot.

  Eventually, Freya sagged in her captors’ arms and squeezed her eyes shut against the hot tears that scalded her eyelids.

  I will not let this monster see me cry!

  She took deep, steadying breaths until she had regained control. When she opened her eyes, she saw Ricberht was watching her.

  “You have your mother’s fire,” he observed with a cool smile that did not reach his eyes. “Let us hope that you do not have her forked tongue as well. I do not tolerate shrews.”

  Chapter Four

  Freya crouched next to the fire pit and removed a disc of bread from the searing hot griddle hanging above the embers. Working quickly, so as not to burn her fingers, she flipped the bread into a wide basket and retrieved more slabs of griddle bread from the fire.

  Freya’s vision swam as she worked and she blinked furiously in an effort to stem her tears. She had not had a moment alone since her capture. What good would crying do now anyway?

  Retrieving the last disc of griddle bread, Freya straightened up and brushed flour off her hands. It was early evening and the hall was starting to fill with rowdy, hungry men, clamoring for their evening meal. A great cauldron of simmering leek and bean pottage sat at the center of the fire pit. Servants were ladling it into large clay tureens. A boy was now slicing the side of mutton that he had been laboriously spit-roasting all afternoon over the pit. He placed the meat on large wooden platters, which other servants carried to the table.

  Freya was aware of the men’s stares as she carried her basket of griddle bread the length of the hall, distributing it along the long tables that ran either side of the fire pit. They were hungry, wolfish stares and, despite she had never been afraid of men, Freya felt her stomach knot under their scrutiny. Some of them tried to gain her attention, and some men even attempted to fondle her as she passed by. Freya’s heart was pounding in her chest by the time her basket was empty. Glad to have a chore to keep her busy, she returned to the fire pit and tended to the next batch of griddle bread.

  Around her, mead flowed and wooden cups were filled and emptied. The smoke from the fire hung over the tables and stung Freya’s eyes. As she stood over the bread, Freya was aware of Ricberht’s presence, and of his gaze, which often settled upon her.

  The king sat at the head of one of the tables, lounging in an ornately carved oak chair. As the rest of the diners fell upon the pottage, bread and mutton ravenously, Ricberht ate sparingly and with a listless appetite. Yet, he drank copiously.

  Her mother had been right, Freya reflected as she started turning the bread – that wound had made Ricberht ill. Even though Cwen had cut away the putrid flesh, cleaned away the pus and dressed the wound, Freya knew enough of her mother’s craft to realize that Ricberht was doomed.

  If that was the case then so was she.

  The evening drew in and the men lingered over the remaining scraps of dinner and last cups of mead. Eventually, the tables were pulled to one side and everyone bedded down on the rush-matting floor for the night. The king’s highest-ranking thegns took the best spots, close to the fire, while the others slept where they could find a space on the crowded floor. Freya was picking her way across to a small space next to the far wall when the sound of Ricberht’s voice made her freeze mid-step.

  “Girl!” he shouted from where he had unsteadily risen from his throne. “You will be keeping me company tonight. Come!”

  Freya’s face burned at his tone; he addressed her like she was a dog. She turned and warily met the king’s gaze. She could hear the sniggers of his men around her. She hesitated to obey Ricberht’s command.

  Upon seeing her reluctance, Ricberht’s face turned thunderous. The copious amount of mead he had drunk had not improved his temper.

  “If I have to repeat myself you will pay for it.” His voice, slurring slightly, echoed across the room, silencing the laughter.

  Head downcast, her heart hammering in her ears, Freya did as he bid. She reached the king’s side, avoiding his gaze when he put a hand on her shoulder. His fingers dug into her skin and Freya winced.

  “Help me to my bower,” he whispered in her ear, his breath ripe with mead. “You will pleasure your lord tonight.”

  It took all of Freya’s will not to rip her
self free of his grip and bolt from the Great Hall. She knew that such an action would be folly. They would catch her easily and it would only anger Ricberht, who might then give her to his men.

  The king leaned heavily on Freya’s shoulder as she led him to the far end of the hall. Together, they climbed the raised dais and stepped behind the heavy tapestries that screened the king’s bower from the rest of his hall.

  It was a chill evening. Servants had shuttered the small window and replaced the furs on Ricberht’s bed, as the old ones had been ruined when Cwen lanced his leg. This far from the fire pit, it was so cold that Freya’s breath steamed in the air. Her bare feet sunk into the soft sheepskin on the floor and she noticed that servants had adorned the bower with sprigs of rosemary and lavender, presumably to freshen the room. Yet, the faint odor of putrefaction still tainted the air.

  Ricberht swayed drunkenly against Freya, his hands roughly fondling her as he did so.

  “Help me disrobe,” he ordered.

  Freya unclipped the brooches fastening the king’s rabbit-skin cloak to his shoulders and removed the cloak itself. She then undid the belt that girdled a long-sleeved tunic around his waist. It was made of fine linen and had a red silk border. Under it, he wore a thin, sleeveless tunic.

  Ricberht sat down heavily on the furs and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  “Ungarter me.”

  Freya knelt before him and started untying the laces.

  “Such a luscious maid,” Ricberht slurred, staring down at her as she worked. “I will enjoy having your pretty mouth pleasure me!”