by Jayne Castel
“I fear our food may not be to your men’s taste.” Botulf passed Sigeberht an earthen bowl of pottage. “We do not consume meat and our fare is very humble.”
“They will not complain. I do not encourage overindulgence in my hall,” Sigeberht replied.
Aidan received his bowl of pottage. After a mouthful, he decided this was even worse than the muck they served in the king’s hall. No wonder the monks were so thin. He broke off a piece of griddle bread and ate that instead; it was still warm and although made of coarse flour, it was tasty enough. Chewing slowly, he listened to Sigeberht and Botulf’s conversation. They were speaking quietly, and only Aidan sat close enough to make out their words.
“I find myself in a difficult position Botulf,” the king began, staring down at his pottage. “When I heard that Ricberht had killed my half-brother and taken the crown of the East Angles, I was filled with rage. A need for vengeance fuelled me. It drove me across the water and, blind with it, I struck Ricberht down and took back Rendlaesham for my family. Now that the throne is mine, I feel empty, lost.”
“Why is that?” Botulf replied gently. “Surely the throne was your right?”
“It was, but we butchered many to take it. I feel that I have sinned greatly, and that our Lord will never forgive me.”
“Sigeberht.” The monk leaned towards his king, his face solemn. “May I say that you are most severe with yourself; far more so than I believe our Lord would be.”
The king shrugged and stared moodily into the fire pit’s flickering flames.
“You are right to feel sorrow for the lives you and your men have taken. But there are ways to atone for it.”
“How?” The king looked up and seized the monk’s gaze in his.
Botulf smiled and took another mouthful of pottage.
“Tomorrow we shall talk of this. For now, fill your belly my king, enjoy our hospitality and rest.”
***
In Rendlaesham, a solitary figure picked her way towards the door of the Great Hall. The only light within the hall came from the glowing embers of the fire pit; just enough light for Freya to make out the shapes of slumbering men and women that carpeted the rush-matting.
It took an age to cross the hall and Freya’s heart was pounding when she reached the doorway. Slipping out into the night, Freya welcomed the cool air on her heated face. She paused on the steps outside, steeling her nerves, before she descended into the stable yard below. In the shadow of one of the buildings, under a pile of straw, she fished out the bag she had hidden just after dusk. She had filled a small jute sack with two loaves of bread, a large slab of cheese and a water bladder.
Slinging the sack over her shoulder, Freya crept towards the gatehouse. She hugged the shadows and crept silently towards the gates. She could see that they were open. Then, she spied the outline of a guard, leaning up against the wall.
Freya shrank back into the shadows.
Woden save me.
Had he seen her?
It appeared not, for a moment later Freya heard the rumble of snoring. The Father of the Gods appeared to be watching over her. The guard was asleep. Freya tip-toed past the snoring guard, holding her breath as she did so.
On the empty street beyond, she made her way up to the back gates, only to find them locked. Heart thumping, she retraced her steps and walked through the streets of Rendlaesham towards the main gates. The town slumbered, and apart from two drunken warriors leaving the mead hall, she saw no one. The men were so drunk that they paid Freya no mind. They staggered across the street in front of her, barely able to walk, let alone take note of their surroundings. Nonetheless, Freya froze to the spot and held her breath till they disappeared down a narrow lane.
Upon her arrival at the main gates, Freya also found them locked for the night. It was as she had feared. She had no choice now but to wait until daybreak. The guards usually opened the gates at first light, to allow out the peasants, who worked the fields around Rendlaesham. It was risky to wait until then before leaving, but with no other choice, Freya slipped into the shadows and looked for a hiding place. Crouching under the eaves of a nearby house, she began the long wait till dawn.
***
Aidan awoke at daybreak and, bleary-eyed, accompanied Sigeberht to the altar on the other side of the partition.
He would have preferred to sleep a little longer. Yet the king had insisted that Aidan, who had been baptized over five winters earlier, join him for morning prayers. Like the rest of the monastic structure, the prayer room was starkly furnished; a large wooden cross stood upon a carved table at one end and sheepskins lay on the dirt floor before it. Stubby tallow candles burned around the edge of the space. The delicate flames guttered as the two men made their way before the altar and knelt on the sheepskin.
Aidan bent his head, listening as Sigeberht murmured the prayer in Latin. Aidan had no idea as to the meaning of the words, and frankly he did not care. He had only allowed himself to be baptized to appease Sigeberht. If the king knew just how little this interested Aidan, it would have upset him. Still, Aidan told himself that it was the price he’d had to pay for Sigeberht’s love. Yet, there were times, such as now, when Aiden wondered if the cost had been too high.
As they prayed, Aidan’s thoughts drifted to Freya. Her sensual face swam into his mind. He remembered the look in her eyes when she had gazed upon him at the water trough. It surprised Aidan that he had started to think of her so much of late. Although he enjoyed women, he took a practical approach to them. He viewed Lothar’s longing for Aedilhild with slight derision; his friend risked mockery if the girl chose another at Beltaine.
Freya was lovely, with enough fire to keep a man on his toes. Yet, Aidan had not intended to take his interest in her past a bit of mild flirting. She was Sigeberht’s slave, and Aidan needed his king’s favor if he was ever to rise to ealdorman. It would be so easy to get the slave girl alone and take his pleasure. He had not been with a woman since Yule and his body craved release. Unfortunately, getting his way with her would anger the king.
They knelt for a while, and Sigeberht’s voice droned on. Aidan’s knees were beginning to ache when the king finally straightened up. Gazing upon the cross, he crossed himself and got to his feet.
Unspeaking, the two men made their way outside.
The sun was rising to the east; its golden rays glistening over the mud flats. They circled the hall, along a dirt path that led through beds of cabbages, leeks and turnips, and found Botulf standing at the edge of the bluff. He held an iron cross high and was whispering under his breath. Sigeberht and Aidan halted and watched the monk. A short time later, when he had finished, Botulf turned to them and smiled. Aidan saw that the monk’s lean face was etched with fatigue.
“Unfortunately, many evil spirits reside in this place,” he explained. “I must admit that expelling them exhausts me.”
“Perhaps you would be happier basing yourself elsewhere?” Sigeberht replied with a frown. “We could build a monastery together nearer Rendlaesham, away from these evil marshes.”
Botulf shook his head. “I thank you, milord, but these marshes, although a difficult place for a man of god, have called me to them. I intend to grow my community here and travel up the River Alde to visit your kingdom and help those in need.”
Sigeberht shrugged, although Aidan could see from his expression that the monk’s refusal had displeased him.
“I wish to aid you,” he told the monk as they wandered back towards the hall. “Tell me how and it shall be done.”
Botulf looked a little surprised at the king’s offer. He studied Sigeberht’s face a moment before replying.
“We have everything we need here. The only assistance you could give us is to spread the word about this monastery, and encourage those who have felt god’s call to join us.”
“I could leave one of my men here?” Sigeberht suggested, turning to where Aidan trailed behind them. “Aidan. You aided me in my quest for vengeance – your me
n slaughtered Ricberht’s at my request. It’s now time to atone for it. You shall remain here, and take your vows.”
Panic tore through Aidan at Sigeberht’s words.
“Sire, I will do no such thing!”
Sigeberht’s face darkened.
“What, do you defy your king?”
“Sigeberht.” Botulf stepped between them and placed a calming hand on the king’s arm. “You cannot demand a man join us. It’s a calling, not an obligation. This man is a warrior; he is not made for serving god. Leave him be.”
Ignoring the monk, Sigeberht glowered at Aidan.
“I gave you this life,” he growled. “I elevated you from a slave to the commander of my army and this is how you repay me?”
“Milord, the price is too high,” Aidan replied through gritted teeth. “I will obey you in most things. But not in this.”
The two men stared at each other. Although he stood upon the brink, Aidan did not back down. If this was all the future offered him, he would have willingly stayed in Gaul. Sigeberht owned his body; he would not have his soul as well.
“Send me those suited to this life,” Botulf repeated. He eventually managed to gain Sigeberht’s attention. The king dragged his gaze away from Aidan’s and nodded brusquely at the monk. Then he turned, his cloak billowing in the morning breeze, and stalked off.
Aidan and Botulf watched him go, before the monk turned to Aidan.
“Do not trouble yourself. He will see it our way eventually,” Botulf assured him.
“I thank you, Botulf.” Aidan gave the monk a strained smile. “He would have not let the matter go so easily if you had not objected.”
Aidan glanced in the direction that Sigeberht had disappeared with a sinking heart. He may have got his way, but in doing so he had just damaged a relationship that had taken years to build. He hoped that the king would not take his defiance as a sign of disloyalty. If that was the case, Aidan’s dreams would never be realized.
***
The gates to Rendlaesham rumbled open with the sunrise. Head bent low, and grateful for the mist that curled through the streets, Freya joined the crowd of peasants waiting to start a day’s toil in the fields. The mist had turned them into ghostly shapes and Freya fell in behind them. She kept her head down as she passed through the gates, looking neither left nor right.
Fortunately, no one paid her any mind. Not even the peasants who stumbled forward in the half-light, barely awake.
Freya walked briskly along the lane that led out through the fields. She did not even risk a glance behind her, lest one of the guards spy her slave collar and realize who she was. Once again, the wreathing mist was her ally.
Around twenty feet from the gates, Freya disappeared into the murk.
She broke into a run and did not slow her pace until Rendlaesham lay far behind her.
Chapter Nine
Freya traveled south, making for the River Deben and the Great Barrows of Kings; from there she would be able to follow the river south-east to Woodbridge Haven. On foot, she guessed that the journey would take at least four days.
Of course they would send out men after her. Hiding from them would slow her down.
The morning wore on, and the mist burned away to reveal a bright, windy day. The farther she walked, the more nervous Freya became. Her ears strained for the sound of hoof-beats, the baying of hounds and the shouts of men. She was beginning to tire. Her coarse shift clung to her sweaty back and her feet ached. Eventually, she veered off the road and walked parallel to it, under a canopy of trees. Through the coppicing lime-wood, she caught glimpses of the shadowy figures of travelers on the road between the Great Barrows of Kings and Rendlaesham.
As yet, there was no sign of her pursuers.
Perhaps they were waiting till Sigeberht returned. She was a slave, after all. His men may have thought the king cared not if he lost one female theow. Perhaps the king would not want to waste men and horses on her. In any case, Sigeberht was not due back from Iken for another day at least. This thought filled Freya with hope. She would be able to put considerable distance between herself and Rendlaesham by then.
By mid-afternoon, Freya was too weary to continue. Her breathing came in ragged gasps and her legs dragged. Her tiredness was made worse by the fact that she had not slept the night before. Freya had not dared close her eyes while she crouched in the shadows near Rendlaesham’s gates, for she had feared that if she fell asleep she might miss her chance to escape.
She decided to rest for the remainder of the day and travel by night. It would be safer to continue her journey after dark, when there would be fewer travelers on the road. Climbing a mighty oak, she found a spot on a wide branch and leaned against the trunk. She ate some bread and cheese, before washing it down with a gulp of stale water. Then, she gingerly stretched out on the branch, laying face down against its rough surface.
Freya wondered how she would ever fall asleep in such an uncomfortable spot. She worried that she might fall out of the tree and hurt herself – but moments later, the dark abyss of sleep took her.
When Freya awoke, night shrouded the world. The cold had woken her. She sat up, shivering, and stiffly climbed down from the oak, pulling her bag of provisions with her. At the foot of the tree she hiked up her skirts and relieved her bladder. She peered around her, waiting until her eyes fully adjusted to the darkness before she stood up.
Fortunately, there was a full moon out. It cast a silver light over the copse of trees, making them appear as if they were frosted. The moon would light her way, but Freya hesitated before moving off. The forest, which appeared friendly by day, was a cold, frightening place at night. It was full of strange sounds and deep shadows.
For the first time since fleeing Rendlaesham, Freya felt fear seize her. There would be wild animals about: wolves and boars. She had heard that outlaws patrolled the forests around Rendlaesham. Perhaps it had not been wise to wait until dark to continue her journey.
Freya took a few deep, steadying breaths before she slipped through the trees towards the road.
When she stepped out onto the hard-packed earth, she was amazed at how bright the moon shone; it illuminated the world in an ethereal light. Ignoring her pounding heart and sweaty palms, she strode out along the road, jumping and twitching at every movement in the bushes, and every shadow that moved in the trees.
Ahead, Freya watched a white owl plummet to the earth and seize a door-mouse that had been scurrying across the road. She stopped a moment, her heart hammering, and watched the bird fly off with its prey. Nearby, the lonely cry of a wolf echoed through the night. Freya broke out in a cold sweat and resumed her journey, increasing her pace as she did so.
Fool – you never thought about the dangers you might encounter on the road, did you? She berated herself. If you had you might never have had the courage to run away.
It was too late now for such regrets. Freya had to keep moving, although she prayed for the dawn to arrive swiftly.
She walked and walked, until her legs ached with fatigue and her senses numbed. Finally, just as the eastern sky lightened, Freya reached the shores of the river Deben. Here, close to the river’s upper reaches, the river was narrow, but as Freya followed it south-east, the Deben’s banks gradually drew wider apart. The tide was out and the mud near the banks glistened when the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon.
After a brief rest on the river bank, and another nibble of her provisions, Freya resumed her journey. It was mid-morning when she spied the silhouettes of the Great Barrows of Kings ahead. It was hard to believe that just a moon’s cycle earlier, she and her mother had alighted here on their journey to Rendlaesham. So much had happened since then.
Freya approached the burial ground warily. The barrow nearest her was the largest of them all – the burial mound of King Raedwald, who they had entombed with all his treasures inside a longship.
Looking upon it, Freya remembered her father’s funeral – it had been a very different a
ffair to the king’s. Outside the walls of Rendlaesham, they had laid Aelli of Gipeswic upon a pyre. After dark, those who had known and loved the red-haired warrior formed a circle around the pyre. Cwen, her eyes haunted, and her voice strained, had sung a lament for her dead husband, before she stepped forward and lit the fire. The memory of the sadness in her mother’s voice as she sang made Freya’s heart ache, even now.
What good was loving when all it brought you was pain?
Freya was so caught up in her thoughts and memories that she did not notice the group of men that stood, resting their horses, in the shadow of trees nearby. Her gaze had been fastened upon King Raedwald’s barrow; she had not thought to glance at the copse of trees beyond.
She had stopped before the barrow, and was gazing up at it, when a chill feathered up her spine and made the fine hair on the back of her neck prickle. A moment later, a man’s shout caused her to swivel towards the trees.
“Cuman hēr wlitignes!” one of the men called.
Come here beautiful!
Freya turned on her heel and sprinted back the way she came.
Shouts echoed behind her as the men gave chase. Exhausted and frightened, Freya knew she could not outrun them. Her tired legs would not move fast enough. She abandoned her bundle of provisions and sprinted towards the cover of the woodland.
The trees were too far away. She would not reach them in time.
Suddenly, Freya’s ankle rolled. She collapsed with a scream, and toppled into the reeds on the river bank.
Within moments, they were on her.
Rough hands pulled her out of the reeds. Coarse laughter followed as one of the men pulled her against him and fondled her.
“Let me go!” Freya kicked at the man’s shins. “Lout!”
