by Jayne Castel
“She’s got fire this one!” the man laughed. Then he shook her, so hard that Freya’s teeth rattled. The man who groped her was young and sinewy, with a pox-scarred complexion. He leered at her. The other men surrounding him were similarly dressed in muddy breeches – cross-gartered to the knee – rough-spun woolen tunics and tattered cloaks. They grinned at Freya, as if they could not believe their luck.
A man, more finely dressed than the rest, pushed his way through the gawking mob and approached Freya. He was tall, with the same brooding dark looks of Ricberht; although unlike the dead king, who had been clean-shaven, this man wore a short, neatly trimmed beard. He carried himself with warrior arrogance, displaying a number of bronze, silver and gold arm rings upon his bare arms. Incongruous with the rest of his appearance, he also wore a small iron cross around his neck.
“Let her go, Oeric. I wish to see our prize.”
Oeric reluctantly obliged. Freya shook herself free of him and turned to face her captor.
“Now, what do we have here?” he mused, stopping before her. He reached out and touched the slave collar about Freya’s neck.
“What is your name wench?”
“Freya,” she replied reluctantly.
“And the collar you wear? To whom do you belong?”
Freya raised her chin and glared at the warrior. She belonged to no man. Yet, she was not bold enough to state that here, surrounded by a group of thugs.
“King Sigeberht,” came her cold reply.
The stranger raised a dark eyebrow.
“Really? Am I right in guessing that you have run away?”
Freya looked down at her feet. Her vision swam with tears.
“I thought as much,” the warrior reached out, took hold of her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “What luck, for we are headed to Rendlaesham. We shall take you with us – and I shall hand you over to the king personally.”
“Lord Ecgric,” Oeric whined. “I thought me and the lads could have some fun with the girl. The king never has to know that we found her.”
Freya’s breathing stopped. She glanced up at their leader – Ecgric – to see his reaction.
“Jolthead,” Ecgric sneered at the younger man. “This is just the opportunity we need to find favor with the new king. Such a fair slave will be sorely missed, I’d wager. You can find yourself a whore in Rendlaesham. Touch the girl and I will cut off your cods.”
Oeric glowered at his leader but remained silent.
Freya slowly let out the breath she had been holding. While she had this rabble’s attention, she wanted to make sure that rape was indeed out of the question.
“I thank you. The king is a pious man like yourself,” she motioned to the cross about Ecgric’s neck. “He keeps me as a theow for I am a maid still. It would anger him most foully if you handed me back to him spoiled.”
Ecgric’s mouth pursed, his eyes narrowing.
“You are a maid with much to say for herself,” he observed. “Something I would beat out of a woman. Your mouth is much prettier when closed; I suggest you hold your tongue for the remainder of your time with us. When I return you to the king, I will see to it that he has you flogged.”
***
When the king’s Great Hall appeared in the distance, Freya’s heart started to race. Her spirits, already flagging from a day’s travel with Ecgric and his band, were at the lowest ebb of her life. A wave of self-pity crashed over her as they trotted down the hill towards the town gates.
Escape had seemed like such a valiant idea. She had not allowed herself to think of the consequences if she was recaptured.
Freya rode in front of Ecgric. She had endured hours with his arms about her, his breath hot on her neck. He may have not allowed himself or his men to rape her, but that did not stop him from pushing himself lewdly against her as they rode. The only positive aspect of her return to Rendlaesham was that she would escape this man’s foul attentions.
They clattered into the town and up the main thoroughfare towards the Great Hall. It was early evening and the sun cast a golden hue over the rooftops. Townsfolk thronged the streets, gawking at the band that rode through their midst.
Miserable, Freya kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. When they rode in through the gates, into the Great Hall’s stable yard, her vision had blurred with tears.
Sigeberht’s rage would be blistering. She could only hope that he had not yet returned from Iken.
Ecgric drew up his horse and dismounted, pulling Freya down after him. She looked about, her fragile hopes dissolving. The king’s grey stallion was being rubbed down outside the stable complex. It appeared that their arrival had coincided with Sigeberht’s after all.
***
Aidan followed the king outside. Together they descended the steps into the stable yard. A dark-haired warrior with a neat beard, accompanied by a roughly-dressed rabble, awaited them.
Aidan’s gaze swiftly moved to where Freya, her gaze fixed upon the ground, stood before the newcomers.
Foolish girl, he thought with exasperation. What have you done?
Sigeberht had only just learned that one of his theow had run off. They had just entered the hall after seeing to their horses when the arrival of this group of strangers was announced. It appeared that Freya had not gotten far.
“My king.” The stranger knelt and inclined his head. “I heard that Sigeberht the Righteous had reclaimed the throne for the Wuffingas. I am here to offer you my service, and that of my men. I am Ecgric of Exning – and I pledge you my allegiance.”
Sigeberht walked towards the newcomer; yet his gaze was fixed upon Freya.
“I thank you, Ecgric of Exning. Your allegiance is most welcome. However, I see you have something that belongs to me.”
“Yes sire,” Ecgric pushed Freya towards the king. “We found your slave at the Great Barrows of Kings this morning. I have brought her back to you.”
Aidan watched Freya lift her tear-streaked face to Sigeberht. He could see the fear in her eyes. Not for the first time, Aidan cursed the girl for her rashness.
“The Great Barrows of Kings?” Sigeberht’s gaze snared Freya’s. “I would like to think you were visiting the tomb of Raedwald in a show of loyalty to the Wuffingas – but of course we both know you were running home to your mother.”
Freya did not reply. Aidan saw that her face had gone the color of milk.
“Milord.” The newcomer, Ecgric spoke up with an obsequious bow. “Such behavior in a theow is unacceptable. If you wish it, I will have her flogged in front of the townsfolk.”
Sigeberht’s gaze narrowed as he shifted his attention to Ecgric. This stranger’s presumption made Aidan’s hackles rise. Yet, Sigeberht merely shrugged the suggestion off.
“I think not,” he replied before turning back to Freya. “I will punish her myself. Aidan, take the girl to my bower. I will deal with her later.”
Aidan stepped forward, took Freya by the arm and led her away from the king. They did not speak during their journey up the steps and through the Great Hall. Aidan kept a firm grip on her arm.
“Freya!” Hilda gasped when they passed by. The girl was kneading a bowl of dough and was dusted up to her elbows in flour. Beside her, the boy Hereric stared at Freya, his eyes huge on his fox-like face. Like Hilda, he had thought he had seen the last of Sigeberht’s flame-haired slave.
Aidan saw Freya cast her friend a beseeching look that stopped Hilda from saying anything more. He steered Freya up on to the dais and across to the heavy tapestry that screened the king’s bower from the rest of the hall.
Once inside, he let go of her arm and watched Freya turn away from him.
Aidan stood in silence for a moment, observing the girl bow her head forward and struggle to control herself, before he finally spoke.
“Pretending I am not here will not make me go away,” he said gently.
“Leave me be,” she whispered.
“Freya,” Aidan placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled h
er round to face him. “I am not your enemy, so stop treating me as such.” His gaze met hers, and Aidan saw tears glittering on her eyelashes. “I will not ask you why you did it – that question will be for the king – but could you have not planned it better? You must have realized what would befall you if you were caught?”
Freya shook her head and dipped it so that her hair fell in a rippling red curtain over her face.
“I did not have time,” she whispered. “I knew the king would only be away for a couple of days. I thought if I ran far enough away, he would not bother to come after me…”
“It was too great a risk,” Aidan chided her gently.
Silence stretched between them and the muffled sounds of Sigeberht and his men entering the hall could be heard beyond. Aidan glanced towards the noise before focusing once more on Freya. She still refused to look at him. Despite that few civil words had passed between them since their first meeting, and that she had consistently shunned him, Aidan felt a surge of protectiveness. He owed her nothing but was still sorry she would be punished for her foolishness.
Pushing the sensation aside, Aidan stepped back from Freya and attempted to distance himself emotionally from her plight.
“I cannot protect you from what is to come Freya.” He turned towards the curtain and pulled it aside. “But I will ask Sigeberht to be merciful.”
With that, Aidan stepped outside and let the tapestry fall behind him.
Damn her. He was already unpopular with the king at present, and had no wish to anger Sigeberht further. He was beginning to rue the day Freya, winsome and captivating as she was, had appeared in his life.
Chapter Ten
Freya perched on the edge of the furs and listened to the sounds of Sigeberht’s warriors dining in the Great Hall. Their voices caused a great din, momentarily distracting Freya’s thoughts from her fate.
In truth, she was terrified. Aidan’s unexpectedly kind words had just made her more frightened. For the king’s thegn to lose his bumptious manner with her had to mean she was in for a flogging.
Aidan had been right, of course; she had not thought her plan through. Once she made the decision to run away there was no turning back. She would now have to take her punishment.
The smell of roast goat and baking bread wafted into the bower but, despite that Ecgric had not fed her much during the journey back to Rendlaesham, Freya’s stomach knotted itself into a tight ball. In her current state, she could not have forced down a mouthful.
Freya sat, listening to the jovial sounds of men eating and drinking, and waited for the king to come for her.
Aidan chewed on a piece of roast goat meat, his gaze fixed upon Sigeberht. The king helped himself to a ladle of boiled cabbage. Then he glanced up at his thegn.
“What is it Aidan? You have been staring at me since we sat down.”
Aidan raised his cup to his lips and took a mouthful of mead. When he lowered it, his gaze met Sigeberht’s.
“The girl is very sorry sire…”
Sigeberht frowned.
“I’m sure she is,” he replied, scooping up a pile of cabbage on a piece of bread, “but a slave should not cause me such trouble.”
“I agree milord.” Across the table Ecgric leaned forward eagerly. “The wench does not show proper subservience. She is a nithing and should behave as such.”
Once again, Aidan felt a surge of annoyance at this newcomer’s freedom with his opinions.
“I trust you and your men did not touch her on the journey here,” Aidan addressed Ecgric directly.
Ecgric’s cheeks flushed and he drew himself up, indignant.
“We did not. Although I find it hard to believe no man here has had her,” he sneered insinuatingly back at Aidan.
“She is untouched,” Sigeberht replied coolly. He leaned back in his chair and watched Ecgric over the rim of his cup, “and will remain so while she is my theow.”
Ecgric’s expression soured, but he wisely remained silent.
The king, Aidan and Ecgric focused on their meals then, listening to the drunken voices and rough laughter of the other men dining at the long tables framing the fire pit.
When he had finished eating, Sigeberht turned to Aidan.
“Fetch me a stick – a willow wand will do.”
“But sire, the girl…”
“Aidan – I tire of you crossing me,” Sigeberht snapped. “Do as I bid!”
Aidan drained the last of his mead, slammed his cup down on the table and got up from the bench. When he turned to leave, he could not help but notice Ecgric’s gloating expression.
That man’s face makes me want to smash my fist into it.
Aidan stalked outside and made his way away across the stable yard. Outside the wooden gates and fence which encircled the hall, he turned right and left Rendlaesham by the town’s rear entrance. Dusk was settling, and the guards advised Aidan that he would not have long before they closed the gates. He promised them that he would return shortly, and set off at a jog down the hill. At the bottom of the shallow valley outside Rendlaesham, where the apple trees ended, a small brook babbled over a stony bed. Weeping willows, their foliage creating a vivid green curtain, bowed their heads over the water. Breaking off a long wand of a coppicing willow, Aidan made his way back up the hill, through the rows of apple trees to the gates; slipping inside just as the guards began to heave them shut.
Keep a hold of your temper, Aiden counseled himself as he made his way back into the hall. ‘Twill not help the wench if you enrage the king.
Wordlessly, he handed the willow wand to Sigeberht. The king’s long face was stern as he took the wand and stood up. Aidan sat back down and poured himself a large cup of mead. His gaze tracked Sigeberht’s journey across the hall, towards his bower. He ground his teeth before tearing his gaze away from the king.
A short while later, a high-pitched cry echoed from the bower.
The interior of the Great Hall fell into a sudden hush. Warriors and servants turned their faces towards the sound.
The crack of the wand hitting flesh cut through the silence, followed by another wail of agony.
Aidan stared down at his cup of mead. He was filled with the sudden, dangerous urge to storm into the king’s bower and break that willow wand over Sigeberht’s head.
What’s come over me? Aidan took a deep, steadying breath and listened to the crack of the wand and the screams that followed – again and again.
You’ve killed men in battle, and witnessed far more brutality than this beating, Aiden chided himself. Has this wench unmanned you? She would not care if you were flogged to death in front of her.
It was only this sobering thought that prevented Aidan from leaping from the table and doing something he would sorely regret.
Mercifully, the sounds stopped a short while later. They were followed by the muffled sounds of Sigeberht’s voice and a woman’s quiet sobbing.
Aidan let out a slow breath and uncurled his fingers from around his cup. He had been gripping it so hard that his fingers ached. Then, he took a deep draught of mead, in an attempt to drown the conflict that warred within him.
When he lowered the cup, Aidan’s gaze met Ecgric’s. The newcomer was watching him. Aidan did not care for the sly look on his face.
Aidan may have had to control his temper with Sigeberht, but he owed Ecgric of Exning nothing. He put his cup down and leaned across the table, until his face was just a hand’s span from Ecgric’s.
“Mind yourself Ecgric the Eager,” he hissed. “You may have fooled the king, but I see right through you. Keep out of my way.”
***
Freya gingerly made her way down the steps to the stable yard, pressing against the wind that buffeted her. She had plaited her hair into two long braids but the wind caught wayward strands and whipped them across her face.
It was a bright, crisp spring day; billowy clouds scudded across a cerulean sky. Freya was carrying the last of the wicker baskets down the steps to the cart
. Bent like a crone, the task had taken her far longer than usual.
Remember to keep bent, she reminded herself. You must remember to look as if you’re in pain.
She placed the baskets in the cart and carefully picked up the handles at the front of the cart, feigning a wince as she did so. Ecgric was standing near the steps, talking in a low voice with his toady, Oeric; the callow youth appeared to shadow Ecgric everywhere.
Aware that their lecherous gazes were upon her, Freya ignored them both and towed the cart through the stable yard, towards the gates.
Halfway across, she looked up to see Aidan, and his companion, the blond Frank, watching her. Their faces were serious.
As always, the sight of Aidan set butterflies dancing in her stomach. He was even more beautiful to gaze upon when solemn. Aidan was dressed in light breeches, cross-gartered to the knee and a loose, sleeveless tunic. Around his waist, he wore a heavy, studded belt. Even standing there, casually talking to the Frank, Aidan exuded confidence – a subtle arrogance that drew a woman’s gaze. Most of the women in the Great Hall, high and low born alike, noticed the aura of sensuality he radiated; Hilda had whispered to Freya a number of times that Aidan of Connacht was a common subject amongst the gossiping wives of the ealdormen.
Like everyone within the Great Hall, Aidan and Lothar had observed Freya this morning as she crept from the king’s bower. Hilda had been on the edge of tears, fussing over Freya and watching her with worried eyes. She had wanted to take a look at Freya’s back and rub some salve into the wounds. Freya had refused, with the excuse that doing so would only enrage the king further.
This morning, it was Freya’s task to collect provisions for the Great Hall from the miller and the peasants who were bringing in cartloads of freshly picked produce from the fields this morning.
Relieved to be leaving prying eyes behind for a short while, Freya pulled the cart out through the gate and down the wide street leading into the center of Rendlaesham. She had only gone a few yards when a man’s voice hailed her.
