by Jayne Castel
Chapter Seven
Aidan slowed his horse to a trot and caught sight of the straw-thatched roof of the Great Hall glinting in the distance. From his vantage point on the brow of a hill, Aidan could see Rendlaesham’s walls rising from the trees in the shallow valley below. It was late afternoon and smoke wreathed into the pale sky as townsfolk lit their fires for the evening. Around Rendlasham spread a patchwork of fields and orchards, nestled in soft folds of land.
A moon’s cycle had passed since Sigeberht had taken the throne; spring deepened towards the fullness of summer and life in his new home had settled into a routine. Aidan liked Britannia. He appreciated the gentle beauty of this land. Rendlaesham had welcomed him and his men, despite that many of them, Aidan included, were foreign.
Aidan glanced across at Lothar. His friend rode at his side, leading a pony with a boar slung over its back. The Frank had settled into Rendlaesham so quickly that it had felt like a homecoming rather than an arrival. He already had learned a few words of the local tongue, a language Aidan had learned from Sigeberht as a boy, and had wasted no time in finding a pretty wench to woo. Aedilhild was the winsome daughter of the town’s baker. She had many men interested in her, yet Aedilhild appeared taken with Lothar. Aidan wondered how long it would be before the Frank wedded her and set up his own household in Rendlaesham.
For himself, Aidan had no such plans.
I rallied a force of loyal warriors for Sigeberht. I brought his army across the water and led them to victory against Ricberht, Aidan thought with a stab of impatience. He promised to reward me – so why hasn’t he?
He wanted Sigeberht to give him the title of ealdorman; an elevated position indeed if he remembered his beginnings as Sigeberht’s theow. Becoming an ealdorman would mean leaving Rendlaesham, and setting up his own hall elsewhere in the kingdom. It would mean leaving Sigeberht’s side. Yet, it appeared that the king was not yet ready to relinquish him.
“It will be a pleasant eve for a feast.” Aidan pushed thoughts of his future aside, and gestured to the boar they had skewered with the help of the group of men and dogs that trailed behind them. Their hunting expedition, which had kept them away from Rendlaesham for the past three days, had not been as successful as Aidan had hoped; they only had a boar and two deer for their efforts.
“Hopefully our lord is in the mood for one,” Lothar replied, raising a fair eyebrow. “His humor has been dark of late.”
Aidan nodded and the two men shared a look. Ever since Seaxwyn and his step-cousins’ return to their hall in Snape, the king had brooded. Rather than enjoying his newfound kingdom, Sigeberht behaved as if he had just bitten into a rotten fruit. Aidan was at a loss to understand why. He could only think that his argument with his mother had soured his return to Rendlaesham, for they had not parted well.
Instead of taking the road that led to Rendlaesham’s main gates, the hunting party followed the path that skirted the western walls of the town and cut through apple orchards to the back gates. This route was easier than making their way through the town’s crowded thoroughfares. They rode through the orchard; the apple trees were in blossom, a sea of fluttering white that spread out down the hillside.
“It’s a glorious spot this,” Lothar said, gazing upon the view. “I would be a happy man if I grew old here.”
Aidan gave him a wicked smile.
“Thinking of asking Aedilhild if she’ll have you, eh?”
Lothar grinned back. “Just you wait, come Beltaine she’ll be mine.”
The hunting party rode into Rendlaesham and down the wide street that led up to the king’s hall. They clattered into the stable-yard and dismounted. A few of Aidan’s men carried their kill up to the Great Hall while the rest of the men saw to the horses. Aidan unsaddled his stallion, rubbed him down and led the horse over to the water trough for a drink.
Hot and sweaty as he was, the sight of the cool water was too tempting. Aidan stripped off his sleeveless tunic and bent over the deep trough. He dunked his head under and came up with a gasp – the water was freezing. Still, the feel of it running down his neck, back and chest was a relief. He felt like diving into the water, although he doubted the horses would have appreciated it.
Aidan wiped water out of his eyes and straightened up, stilling when he saw a young woman standing nearby watching him.
Freya carried a huge basket of loaves, and she was staring at him brazenly.
Bold wench! As the initial surprise faded, Aidan watched her gaze slide up his torso till their eyes met. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes were dark pools. Looking upon her, Aidan felt a blade of lust stab him.
She was a fiery beauty.
Usually, Sigeberht’s fair slave treated him as if he was a piece of dung; yet now he realized her disdain was merely a mask. That look said it all.
She wanted him.
“Wes hāl, sweet Freya,” he grinned. “Can I help you?”
“I’d wager you can!” one of the warriors, who was watering his horse next to Aidan, chortled. “The wench looks like she wants to feast on you!”
“Swine!” Freya jumped as if someone had just slapped her. Her face flamed. “Never!”
With that, the girl stormed past them and rushed up the steps to the Great Hall, nearly dropping her basket in her haste.
Once inside the hall, Freya struggled not to burst into tears. Clasping the basket to her breast, she hurried across to the tables where Hilda and the other theow were preparing food for the evening meal.
She cursed herself for suggesting that it was she, rather than Hilda, who collected the loaves from the baker this afternoon. Usually, it was Hilda’s chore, but the day had been so bright. Freya was tired of being cooped up inside the gloomy hall and had welcomed the chance to get some fresh air. She had enjoyed the stroll through Rendlaesham’s streets, and the chat with the baker’s wife as she filled her basket.
Even now, she did not know what had possessed her, upon returning to the hall, to stop and watch Aidan of Connacht bathe.
She had merely glanced his way as she passed, but the sight of his lithe, strong body had rooted her to the spot. She had stood, mesmerized, watching as water glittered off his skin and ran down his naked chest.
Fool! Tears flooded her vision. Behaving like that will make him start pestering you again!
Her coldness had made Aidan keep his distance over the past moon’s cycle. Although she had welcomed being left alone, Freya had still been acutely aware of this man’s presence. It was irritating, but whenever he was in the Great Hall, she had to force herself not to look in his direction. There was something about him that drew her gaze, like a moth to an open flame.
She had just been burned.
“Freya?” Hilda frowned as she took the basket. “Are you unwell? You’re flushed.”
Freya shook her head and forced a smile.
“I’m fine. I’ll get started on the pottage.”
As Freya chopped turnips, leeks, beans and cabbage for the stew, she slowly composed herself. She would just ignore him and pretend she had never embarrassed herself.
Freya finished chopping the turnips into cubes and reached for the leeks. Her back ached and she arched it in an effort to ease the muscles. Her life here was an endless grind – from dawn to dusk she toiled for her master. Although Sigeberht was not a cruel man, he was harsh. Just the day before, he had caught her taking a moment’s rest on a stool near the fire pit. She had just finished cleaning out the embers and was catching her breath before beginning her next task, which was to sweep out the hall.
“What are you doing girl?” Sigeberht had boomed, striding towards her across the hall. “I will not have sloth in my hall!”
“Sorry m’lord.” Freya had bolted to her feet, bracing herself for punishment.
Sigeberht, whose mood had been vile ever since his mother had departed, stood over Freya menacingly.
“You rest,” he growled, glaring down at her, “from nightfall till daybreak. During the day you work. You
only stop when I say so, is that understood?”
Freya had nodded, fear rendering her mute.
I cannot stay here, she thought as she kneaded her aching back. This hall will never be my home. Sigeberht will never be my master. This life will wear me down to dust.
***
The evening meal consisted of pottage in bread trenchers, not the roast boar Aidan had hoped for. He took a mouthful of the vegetable stew and was reminded why this was not his favorite dish. Unlike Gaul, where even vegetable stews were seasoned with herbs, here a pottage was stewed in a cauldron over the fire pit, until it was a watery, tasteless mush.
Aidan swallowed his mouthful of pottage and took a sip of ale to wash it down. He glanced to his right, to where Sigeberht sat at the head of the table. As usual, the king looked as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of vinegar; an expression that had nothing to do with the unappealing fare.
“Gluttony is sin,” Sigeberht had reproved Aidan earlier that day when he had suggested they roast the boar and invite the king’s men in for a feast that evening. “We only feast on special occasions. This is not such a day.”
Aidan had not made any further suggestions. On some things, Sigeberht could be inordinately stubborn. Now, watching the king’s glum face, Aidan decided it was time Sigeberht spoke of what galled him.
“Milord, something has been amiss since your crowning. May I ask what it is?”
Sigeberht frowned and took a sip of water from his cup. “Why do you ask?”
“You are now King of the East Angles,” Aidan pointed out. “You had the reckoning you came for and your kin have recognized you, but you have appeared unhappy of late. Why?”
Aidan knew it was risky to speak so frankly with Sigeberht. Due to their long years of acquaintance, the king trusted him. Yet, Sigeberht was a solitary figure, who did not confide in many. He had never married, nor shown any interest in doing so. In all the years Aidan had known him, Sigeberht had not shown lust for any woman – or man. He was a singular, austere individual who Aidan struggled at times to understand.
“So much blood was spilt,” Sigeberht told him finally. “I know it had to be done, but I feel as if Ricberht’s gore is still on my hands. I must – we must – atone for it.”
Aidan frowned. This was not the first time Sigeberht had raised this subject. Aidan did not share the king’s views on this, yet he knew it would be unwise to contradict him.
“Milord,” he ventured cautiously. “If it had to be done, why does it pain you so?”
“Because I learned differently. My studies in Gaul taught me that there are other ways, besides battle, to gain victory. I knew this, and yet I chose the easy path, that of violence and bloodshed.”
Silence stretched between the two men for a few moments. Frankly, Aidan was at a loss for words. It was too late now to regret a course of action that, at the time, Sigeberht had been fixed upon. Ironically, Sigeberht was a talented commander in battle. To Aidan, it seemed as if the king was making himself miserable for no cause.
“So what will you do?” Aidan asked finally.
“I have thought long upon it,” Sigeberht replied, pushing aside his half eaten pottage, “I need to find a way to appease the Lord. My words with Seaxwyn reminded me of what a heathen land this is. If I can bring God’s word to my people then maybe he will pardon me for my actions.”
Aidan remained silent. The king’s words made him uneasy.
“While you were away hunting I sent word to Gaul, to the monks I knew there, asking them to send me a missionary,” Sigeberht continued, “but even here there are pockets of Christianity. I’ve heard that there is a new monastery at Iken – an island of faith in a sea of the faithless. I wish to travel there.”
“Then you should milord,” Aidan replied, heartily wishing they could now change the subject.
Sigeberht took another sip of water and regarded Aidan with that uncompromising, iron-grey gaze his thegn knew so well.
“Aidan, I wish you to come with me,” Sigeberht replied.
Chapter Eight
Freya watched the king and an entourage of warriors – with Aidan among them – ride out of the stable yard. She stood on the steps, listening to sound of their fading hoof-beats as they rode towards the town’s rear gates. When they had gone, Freya turned back to the Great Hall.
A smile crept across her face.
Sigeberht had decided to visit Iken, a newly founded monastery that lay just under a day’s ride away from Rendlaesham. He had informed Freya and the other slaves that he would be away at least three days, before leaving them a back-breaking list of chores to complete during his absence.
Excitement formed a hard fist in Freya’s stomach when she re-entered the hall. This was her chance. She would be a fool not to grasp it with both hands.
She made her way towards the king’s bower, to begin her task of carrying the furs outdoors for beating, but her mind was elsewhere. She would hide some food later in the day. With Sigeberht’s hawk-like eye removed from the hall it would be easy to put some food aside, with a bladder of water. She would need to slip unnoticed from the hall after midnight. Fortunately, the privy was outside, beside the stables, so it was usual for people to come and go from the hall during the night. She would also have to find a way to slip past the guards at the Great Hall’s gate. This task was trickier; the town’s gates would also be closed till dawn – and guarded.
Freya picked up an armful of furs and pushed the heavy tapestry aside. She made her way through the hall, past where a group of women worked at their distaffs. The women wound wool onto wooden spindles that would later be woven into fabric. They gossiped as they worked, ignoring Freya and the handful of other slaves who moved about the interior of the hall. Since Sigeberht’s arrival at Rendlaesham, a number of ealdormen and thegns had flocked to him from throughout the kingdom. Now that Ricberht the Usurper was dead, they pledged their loyalty to a king who had reclaimed the throne for the Wuffingas.
These women were wives of high ranking men. Observing them, Freya could not prevent a stab of envy at the sight of their fine clothes, jeweled brooches and arm rings. She felt like a drab in their presence. They spoke with high, musical voices and laughed often.
In contrast, Freya had not laughed since her arrival here.
***
A cool sea breeze feathered across Aidan’s face. He inhaled the salty tang and was reminded, for the first time in years, of the air in the tiny village where he had lived as a boy on the west coast of Ireland. He had only vague memories of his homeland, but the smell of the air had always stayed with him. Despite that he had not wanted to accompany the king on this visit, Aidan felt himself looking forward to seeing the coast again.
The monastery sat on the southern banks of the River Alde, at the edge of marshland. At this point the river snaked its way through mud flats, reed beds and islands. It was late afternoon when the party made their way, single file, along a narrow path. The trees drew back and the travelers rode out onto a mound that jutted out into the wide estuary.
There, ahead of them, sat a sturdy wooden hall with a thatch roof. A sparse vegetable garden surrounded the hall. It was a lonely spot. The sun glittered off the water of the incoming tide and birds dived low over the mud flats. On to the northwest, Aidan could see a wall of reeds waving in the breeze against the low horizon.
“M’lord,” one of Sigeberht’s thegns, a local man who had served both King Raedwald and his son, Eorpwald, called out. “We are but a short ride from Snape. On the other side of the marsh lies Annan’s hall, where your mother lives. Perhaps you would like to pay your kin a visit when we finish our business here?”
Sigeberht cast a dark glance in the warrior’s direction before turning his attention to the monastery before them.
“I did not come here to pay them a visit,” he replied, his face twisting. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
Aidan rode in silence behind his king. In his mind, Sigeberht’s foul mood was d
ue to more than a burning conscience. Although the king would not admit it, his mother had sorely disappointed him. It was more than her stubborn refusal of his god. Perhaps during all those years in exile, Sigeberht had formed an image of his mother that could never stand up to the reality. Even though she had appeared pleased to see him, it had been clear to all that she had more affection for her nephews than her lost son. The harsh words they had exchanged could never be taken back.
As the riders approached the monastery, a man emerged from a doorway. He was lean and dressed in an ankle-length, un-dyed, woolen tunic that was belted at the waist with a girdle. A small, drawstring pouch hung from the girdle and swung against his hip as the man approached the newcomers. When the man neared them, Aidan could see he was at least five and forty winters. He was balding, and had a weathered, gentle face.
“Wes hāl!” he greeted them, his face splitting into a smile when his gaze rested upon Sigeberht. “We are indeed blessed if this is King Sigeberht, the Righteous, before me?”
“It is,” Sigeberht replied gruffly, his face softening for the first time in days. “I thank thee for your welcome.”
“I am Botulf,” the man smiled. From behind him, Aidan saw another two monks, younger than their leader and dressed in the same woolen tunics, emerge from the hall. They lacked their leader’s charisma and both looked a bit worried. Aidan realized that living in such an isolated spot made the monks vulnerable to raids. Sigeberht had not advised the monks of his coming.
The king swung down from his horse and extended a hand to Botulf.
“I have sorely missed the company of men such as yourself,” Sigeberht bent and kissed the monk’s hand. “I have much to discuss with you. I hope your hall can accommodate us for a day or two.”
“Of course sire.” Botulf bowed his head. “You are our honored guests.”
They sat on mats around the fire pit and ate pottage and freshly baked griddle bread. Botulf’s hall was simply furnished, with little in the way of furniture. A heavy curtain made of rabbit fur divided the long space, creating a separate prayer room at the back of the hall.
