by Jayne Castel
Ecgric and Felix now had his ear. Seeing how readily Sigeberht hung on their every word, Aidan realized how important their shared faith was to him. Aidan had refused to take his vows and remain at Iken to salve the king’s conscience. As a result, Sigeberht had turned to others for support; those who were not a constant reminder of his past.
Aidan spotted Ecgric on the opposite side of the fire; as usual he was accompanied by Oeric. They were ogling a group of giggling young women like ravenous wolves. Aidan found Oeric only marginally less unpleasant than Ecgric, although the boy’s lack of cunning and utter spinelessness meant that he would forever be a follower rather than a leader. Not a bad thing in Aidan’s opinion, for the youth was odious.
To Aidan’s right, he spotted Lothar and Aedilhild deep in conversation. Oblivious to the other revelers whirling around them, they shared a cup of mead while they talked, their heads bowed together. He had to admit they made a striking couple: Lothar hulking and blond, Aedilhild slender and dark haired. As he watched, Lothar took hold of Aedilhild’s hand and whispered something in her ear. She looked up at him, her face flushed, before nodding. Then, without a backwards glance, the lovers stepped away from the fire and disappeared into the darkness.
Lothar had got his wish tonight then; come daybreak Aedilhild would be his.
Watching them go, Aidan felt an odd pang, a constriction in his chest that cut through his resentment at Sigeberht.
He felt alone.
A girl approached him. She was blonde and winsome, with flowers in her hair. She beckoned for him to join the dance around the fire. On other occasions, on other nights, Aidan would have been only too pleased to join her, but tonight he felt so wearied by life that he could not dredge up the slightest enthusiasm.
Aidan shook his head and turned away from the girl. He drained the last of his mead, before tossing his cup aside. He was in no mood for celebrating.
***
“I’m thirsty,” Freya declared, putting down her sewing and climbing to her feet. She glanced down at Hilda. “I’m going to fetch a cup of water. Do you want one as well?”
Hilda nodded, not bothering to look up from her mending. “Thank you, Freya.”
Stretching her cramped limbs, Freya made her way over to the large wooden water butt in the corner of the hall. She picked up a long handled ladle and dipped it into the barrel, only to find it empty.
Freya cursed under her breath. Hereric should have refilled the water butt this afternoon. She swept her gaze across the interior of the Great Hall, but the lad was nowhere to be seen. If Freya wanted some water, she would have to fetch some from the well in the stable yard.
Freya took two empty pails and made her way outside. The air was fresh and laced with wood-smoke. The strains of a lute and the chorus of voices in the orchard beyond echoed through the still night. Freya carefully picked her way down the steps. The torches that burned in brackets either side of the doors only illuminated the first few steps, casting the rest into shadow. Only the silvery light of the moon lit Freya’s path as she reached the bottom of the steps and turned right, towards the well.
There were two wells in Rendlaesham: one in the center of market square, used by townsfolk, and one outside the Great Hall, for the king and his household. Carrying water was a regular and tiring chore for Freya. She had been pleased when another theow had been given the task today. She would clip Hereric’s ears when she saw him next – if she was not allowed to shirk her duties then neither should he.
Reaching the well, Freya lowered a bucket into the black pit before her. A rope had been tied around the bucket’s iron handle. Freya leaned up against the cool stone and listened for the splash of the bucket hitting the water. She filled the first bucket and had just hoisted it up over the edge of the well when she caught sight of a man’s silhouette crossing the stable yard towards her.
Freya’s eyes had now adjusted to the darkness; the full moon illuminated her surroundings well enough to recognize the man when he drew closer.
It was Aidan.
“Sweet Freya.” He stopped before her. “It’s late to be collecting water. Will the king not let you go out and join the revelers?”
Freya let out a snort and poured the water from the bucket into one of the pails she had brought with her.
“The king will not let me out of his sight for long,” she snapped. “Unlike Hereric, who should have refilled the water butt, I cannot leave the hall. The shirker decided to run off and enjoy himself instead.”
Freya cringed at the tone of her voice.
I sound like a harridan.
Yet, her abrasive reply was merely a response to this man’s presence; Aidan made her nervous, although she was determined not to let him see just how much.
“How old are you Freya?” Aidan asked, stepping closer. She could now see his face. The smooth planes of his cheeks glowed palely in the moonlight, while his eyes gleamed out of shadowed sockets. His nearness made her mouth go dry.
“Twenty winters,” Freya replied, stepping backwards against the well. “Why?”
“Too young to sound so bitter.”
Freya stiffened and felt the heat of embarrassment creep up her chest towards her neck. She was grateful that the darkness hid it. Yet, at the same time, Aidan’s words goaded her.
“Do I not have reason to be bitter?” she replied, her voice sharp. “I’m a nithing now. I had a life before coming here. It was a simple one but it was mine.”
Aidan did not reply immediately. He appeared to be thinking upon her words. When he finally answered, his voice was tinged with sadness.
“I tried to convince Sigeberht to release you but in some things he is bull-headed. I know this is not the life you deserve but at least you grew up free; I would like to have such memories. I know what it is like to live as a theow, for I was Sigeberht’s slave for many years.”
“You were?” Freya stared at him, incredulous. She found it hard to imagine Aidan as anyone’s slave.
“I grew up in Connacht, on the western coast of Ireland. I had just passed my tenth winter when a Saxon raiding party attacked my village. They raped and killed my mother and slit my father’s throat – but they spared my life, and the lives of a handful of children they took as slaves,” Aidan paused here. The brutality of his story had made Freya’s breath still in her chest. She would never have thought he had lived through something so awful. It was true that she had lost her own father, but not in such cruel circumstances.
“What happened to you then?” she whispered.
“After they had finished with my village they travelled down the coast, burning, raping and killing as they went. Eventually, they had nearly thirty slaves, all children. We sailed to northern Gaul and there, at a slaver’s market, Sigeberht bought me. He kept me as his slave for six years before giving me my freedom.”
“And you stayed with him afterwards?”
Aidan’s shrug was barely discernible in the shadows.
“He treated me well. Once I was free I could have returned to Ireland, but there was nothing left for me there. With Sigeberht I had a chance to make something of myself. It took me another decade, but I eventually became his most favored retainer and the leader of his army.”
Aidan’s voice trailed off here. Freya had caught the bitterness in his voice. He had seen her witness his humiliation that morning. Aidan was a proud man, she reflected, and one who revealed very little of his true self to others; even in telling the harrowing story of his past.
“So I should bow to wyrd then?” Freya said. “As you did, and be grateful for it.”
Aidan stepped closer still, so that they stood just a hand’s span apart. Freya pressed herself up against the well, cornered. She could feel the heat emanating from him, the whisper of his breath on her cheek. His nearness made her feel dizzy and weak. She looked down and tried to ignore her rapidly beating heart. He was too close. She needed to put distance between them. Yet she did not move away.
“Wyrd
bith ful araed,” he whispered.
Fate is everything.
Aidan gently took hold of her chin and brought her face up towards him. A moment later, his lips touched hers.
Just like on the shore at Woodbridge Haven, she was powerless to resist him. The feel of his mouth on hers, the gentle pressure and softness of his lips, caught her in an invisible vice. She sighed and a moment later, his arms wrapped around her. He drew her against him.
Desire exploded inside Freya – wild and overwhelming. Her lips parted under his, and she was lost. She heard Aidan groan, deep in his throat, and his mouth moved hungrily over hers. His hands slid up the length of her back and tangled in her hair. Unthinking, Freya pressed herself up against him, her own hands moving up over the hard planes of his chest to the breadth of his shoulders. Her heart pounded in her ears as he pushed her back against the well and pressed his hips against hers.
She gasped, feeling the hardness of his arousal against her. Aidan kissed her deeply in response, cupping one of her breasts with one hand and sliding his other hand up her thigh. She felt his hand stroke her naked skin and shuddered with the pleasure that even this simple touch provoked in her.
“Freya,” he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers and kissing the column of her neck.
The sound of his voice made Freya ache to be even closer to him. She felt boneless and without a will of her own in his arms. His mouth sought hers once more and she kissed him back, reckless to the consequences.
The sound of male voices, raised in drunken song, intruded upon their intimacy.
With a muffled curse, Aidan stepped away from the well and moved back into the shadows, pulling Freya with him. Hidden under the low eave of one of the stables, they watched the silhouettes of men stumble and sway across the stable yard.
Freya recognized Ecgric’s voice, raised above the others. Thank the gods she had not been out here on her own when he returned from the celebrations. Sober, Ecgric the Eager was a lecherous pest, drunk she wagered he would try to rape her without compunction. She and Aidan remained silent and still in the shadows while the party climbed the steps and disappeared inside the Great Hall.
Aidan stood behind Freya; his body pressed the length of hers. He ran his hands up, over her belly, to her breasts, where he cupped them. He trailed gentle kisses up her neck and Freya’s body trembled in response.
“I cannot stop touching you Freya,” he whispered, his voice strained. “If you do not leave now, I will take you here – whatever the consequences.”
His words reached Freya through the haze of passion that had addled her senses like strong mead. His meaning was sobering. Part of her did not care; there was a wild side to her that longed for him to kiss her till she no longer cared. Yet, another part of her, the cold voice of reason that had taken care of her till now, warned Freya that she should heed his words. Abandoning herself to a tryst against the stable wall would seem folly in the cold light of day. If Sigeberht discovered she was a maid no longer, he would not treat her as mercifully as he had when she had escaped.
Worse still, if it resulted in her carrying Aidan’s child she would be ruined.
Freya gathered what little will remained and wrenched herself from Aidan’s arms. Then, she turned towards him and backed towards the well. She could not see his face, for he stood in the shadows, and was grateful for it.
“Then I shall leave.” Her voice was tremulous and she hated herself for it. It took all her strength not to fling herself back into his arms. He had woven an enchantment about her and she had not yet broken free of it.
He said nothing but she could feel his gaze upon her. Gathering her wits, Freya picked up the one pail of water she had managed to fill and fled across the stable yard. The water sloshed over the edge of the pail and soaked her shift but she paid it no heed. Reaching the steps she began to climb, her legs weak and shaking.
Behind her, the drums of Beltaine continued their rhythmic tattoo.
Chapter Twelve
Freya leaned her broom against the wall and straightened her aching back. She had almost finished one of her most hated chores: sweeping out the Great Hall. Once a month, Sigeberht insisted that the old rush-matting was taken out, the floors swept and fresh matting brought in. It was a task that took her and three other slaves an entire afternoon.
The day was hot and sweat slid down Freya’s back. Her homespun shift clung uncomfortably to her skin and was beginning to chafe her under the arms.
“Here Freya, let me sweep for a while.” Hilda approached her and took hold of the broom before Freya could argue. “There’s still soiled rush-matting to go outside. The cart’s in the stable yard.”
“Very well.” Freya was grateful to take a break from sweeping. Being tall, the task made her back ache terribly after a while. She made her way over to the water butt in the corner of the hall and helped herself to a ladle of cool water.
Meanwhile, Hilda started vigorously sweeping where Freya had left off. Freya watched the girl with awe. They had become close friends over the two moon cycles she had been here. Despite everything that had happened to her, Hilda was a cheerful, straightforward companion, who dealt with her servitude by keeping herself focused on the endless stream of tasks she was saddled with. The only time that Freya caught a glimpse of Hilda’s sadness was when they sat together at the day’s end, in a rare moment of quiet before going to sleep. Some mornings Hilda would greet her with red and puffy eyes, and Freya knew the girl had cried for most of the night. Yet, for most of their time together, it was Hilda’s strength that kept Freya going.
Freya made her way over to the soiled rush-matting and picked it up, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Although she despised this chore, she could see why Sigeberht had this matting removed once a moon cycle. The hall’s inhabitants tracked mud inside and threw remains of food and drink at their feet after every meal. Dogs slunk around the tables during the main meal at midday and sometimes relieved themselves inside the hall – although they were beaten if caught.
Freya carried the armful of matting out of the hall and carefully made her way down the steps. Bright afternoon light greeted her, making Freya squint after the dimness inside.
In the stable yard, Ecgric was leading a group of men through sword practice. He strutted about, shouting orders and waving his sword as if he were king himself. The weapon was magnificent; its long blade beaten iron overlaid with steel, with a fine leather pommel. Ecgric had often boasted about the sword over a few meads in the evenings. The sword was called Æthelfrith’s Bane, so named after the Northumbrian ruler that King Raedwald had slain in battle many years earlier. The sword had belonged to Ecgric’s father. Ecgric’s favorite boast was that the sword had cut down so many of Æthelfrith’s warriors that by the time the Northumbrian king met Raedwald face-to-face, he was floundering in a lake of blood.
What have you done to earn that sword? Freya thought, ignoring the lustful glance that Ecgric cast her way before he turned his back to bellow instructions at his warriors. Ecgric’s attentions had been steadily growing more annoying over the past few days. He never missed the chance to leer at her or grab her bottom when the king’s back was turned.
You’ve fooled the king with your honeyed words about your god and piety, she thought sourly, but I know what you really are.
Freya dumped the soiled rush-matting into the cart and was about to turn and make her way back up the steps when the sound of approaching horses made her pause. A moment later, horsemen thundered into the stable yard.
The king had returned.
A band of warriors carrying shields encircled King Sigeberht and Felix of Burgundy. They drew their horses to a halt, kicking up dust as they did so. Sigeberht swung down from his horse before tossing the reins to Aidan. As always, the king was dressed in black, and a heavy fur cloak swung from his shoulders.
“Milord.” Ecgric approached the king. “Was your trip successful?”
“Very. We have found the site for our school
,” the king announced with a rare smile.
“The upper reaches of the Lark Valley,” Felix spoke up, his narrow face flushed with excitement, “at Beodricesworth. ‘Tis an excellent location.”
“I have left some men there to begin work. I expect it to be ready by midsummer,” Sigeberht added. His gaze then swept over the men who Ecgric had been training. “Are these the new warriors you spoke of?”
Ecgric nodded. “And more will come.”
“You have done well,” Sigeberht replied, falling into step with Ecgric as they crossed the stable yard together. They passed Freya but neither man acknowledged her.
“While we camped at Beodricesworth, word reached me that Penda of Mercia plans to extend his border east within a year,” Sigeberht continued. “Will the fyrd be ready for him?”
“A year is plenty milord,” Ecgric replied smoothly. “We will be ready for the Mercians when they come.”
Freya watched Felix join the king and Ecgric, and together the three men talked in low voices for a few moments. Then, the king took his leave and, with Felix trailing behind him, mounted the steps to the Great Hall. Ecgric sauntered back to his warriors, whispering an obscenity in Freya’s ear as he passed her. She shrank back from him, resisting the urge to spit at his feet.
“Come lads.” Ecgric sheathed his sword. “That’s enough for today – the mead hall awaits!”
The rabble of warriors, many of them new to Rendlaesham, gave shouts of agreement at this suggestion. They piled out of the stable yard, their voices echoing in the road beyond as they made their way down to Rendlaesham’s mead hall.
Freya watched them go, relieved that Ecgric had removed himself from her presence, before her gaze swiveled to Aidan. Many days had passed since Beltaine, and Aidan had barely glanced her way ever since. He ignored her now, as he instructed his men to look after the horses. Having ignored Ecgric and his warriors, he then led his and the king’s horse away to the stables without a backward glance.
