by Jayne Castel
Nearby, the king lounged at the head of one of the long tables. He sipped a cup of mead, flanked either side by his constant companions: Felix and Ecgric. At the other end of the table, a group of warriors, Aidan among them, had been playing a game of knuckle bones.
“Milord.” Ecgric sat up in surprise at this news. “Is that wise? You are needed in Rendlaesham.”
Sigeberht waved him away. “I decide where I am needed. Over the summer I have watched my new hall being built. Each departure from Beodricesworth has been more difficult. It has been a wrench for me to leave such a place of tranquility. I will go there for a time, and you, Ecgric, shall rule in my stead.”
Silence fell in the Great Hall.
The men who had been playing knuckle bones all froze, their gazes swiveling first to the king, and then to the man he had just named his co-ruler: Ecgric of Exning. None of them, save Oeric, looked pleased by this news.
Freya stared at the king, as shocked as his warriors by this announcement. At Sigeberht’s left, Felix appeared unruffled. In fact, he was having trouble hiding a smile.
To his credit, Ecgric looked slightly panicked by this news. Ever since he had tried to rape her, Freya had kept as far as possible from the king’s right hand; a task made easier by the fact that he now ignored her. For the first time since his arrival at Rendlaesham, she was free of his leering and crude comments. It had been a blessed relief, but she was still weary of Ecgric and made sure she kept her distance from him.
“But milord,” he stammered, “with the growing Mercian threat, are you not needed here? Your men serve you, not me.”
His words brought rumbles of agreement from the other warriors seated around the table. Ecgric was either a consummate liar or genuinely discomforted by the responsibility the king had just thrust upon him. Either way, the other warriors approved of his reluctance.
“They will serve whomever they are told.” Sigeberht’s face hardened. “You will rule in my place and I will do god’s work at my new hall. It is decided.”
“The king will bring a small group of warriors and slaves with him,” Felix spoke up, allowing himself a thin smile. Watching him, Freya decided she almost disliked Felix more than Ecgric. She would not have been surprised if Felix was behind Sigeberht’s decision.
The king nodded. “We will bring only enough servants to run the hall. The rest will stay behind in Rendlaesham.”
Sigeberht’s gaze settled upon Aidan then. The thegn, who had once been his most trusted retainer, stared back at the king coldly. Over the summer, Freya had hardly seen Sigeberht and Aidan exchange more than a handful of words. Aidan looked upon his king with barely concealed resentment now. Sigeberht ignored his hostility.
“Aidan. You shall be joining me in Beodricesworth. Gather twenty spears to join us.”
“Twenty?” Aidan frowned. “Surely that is not enough…milord.”
“Twenty will suffice. We leave the day after tomorrow so you have a little time to organize yourself.”
Sigeberht then swiveled around in his seat and cast his gaze over at where his slaves were working near the fire pit.
“Freya and Hereric; you will also join me in Beodricesworth. At dawn tomorrow, we will begin preparations for our departure.”
At this news, Freya glanced over at Hilda. Her friend gave her a small smile in response but Freya saw the panic in her eyes. Their friendship had blossomed over the summer; Hilda had made life here bearable and Freya had given Hilda the companionship she craved. It would be a lonely existence in the Great Hall for Hilda once Freya had gone.
***
A grey veil of rain cloaked the world on the morning of their departure. It was not cold but the damp was clammy against Freya’s skin. It made the strands of hair that had escaped from her braid, curl against her cheeks. She pulled the rough woolen cloak about her shoulders and picked her way across the slippery stable yard with the last basket of provisions to be loaded onto the cart.
The rain fell silent and still, beading on the eyelashes of the horses like tiny sparkling gems. The air smelt rich with the smell of wet earth. Freya wedged in the last basket and tied down the sacking that would protect the provisions from the rain. Then, she perched on the edge of the cart, finding herself a small though uncomfortable seat for the journey. Hereric, who would drive the cart, climbed up front. Harnessed to the cart, a shaggy bay pony waited patiently for the party to move off.
Sigeberht emerged from the Great Hall and made his way down the steps, his dark cloak billowing behind him. He reached the party waiting for him in the stable yard. Taking his stallion from one of the slaves, the king swung up into the saddle. Nearby, Aidan and the twenty warriors he had been ordered to gather, had already mounted and were awaiting orders from their king.
Ecgric stepped forward to address the king. The rain ran in rivulets down his face and through his neatly trimmed beard.
“Milord.” He blinked the rain out of his eyes. “I promise you I will rule with a just hand in your stead. I will send word regularly and will consult you on all matters.”
“No need to go overboard Ecgric,” Sigeberht replied as he adjusted his stirrups. “Only bother me on matters of great importance. The rest I trust you to deal with as you see fit.”
“Keep up your morning prayers,” Felix addressed Ecgric from where he sat on a dun pony, “and remember the Lord’s toil is the most important work. See to it that your warriors follow your example.”
Felix had pulled up his cowl, hiding his face, but his silky voice made Freya’s hackles rise.
That man is as slippery as an eel, she thought, and it amazes me that the king cannot see it.
The small party eventually moved out of the stable yard, and into the thoroughfare beyond. The cart bearing the provisions, Hereric and Freya was the last to leave. Gripping on to the sides of the cart, Freya glanced back at the group of warriors and servants watching them go. Hilda was at the back; her pale face was drawn and sad. The others wore a variety of expressions, from mutiny to worry.
Yet it was Ecgric who drew Freya’s attention. Pride, ambition and fear warred across his features as he fingered the hilt of his sword. Next to him, stood Oeric, his pock-marked face flushed with excitement; it was not every day one became hand to the king.
Sensing someone’s gaze upon him, Ecgric looked straight at Freya. Too late she snatched her gaze away.
Ecgric’s expression darkened, his gaze simmering with hate. Then, he drew his lips back in a snarl and spat on the ground.
They left Rendlaesham by the top gates and made their way down through the orchards. The trees were heavy with apples. Most of the fruit wore a red blush on their skin, signaling that they were ready to be picked. Freya’s stomach growled at the sight of the fruit, reminding her that she had barely managed a few gulps of gruel this morning before the king had started barking orders at her.
The way was bumpy and by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Freya’s back was aching. It would be a long, uncomfortable ride to Beodricesworth at this rate.
The party rode onwards, skirting the edge of the town and reaching the road that cut south through a patchwork of fields. Unlike the day that Freya had arrived in Rendlaesham with her mother, the fields were now well tended and brimming with produce. It had been a good summer and one look at the bounty growing in the fields – cabbage, turnips, leeks and carrots – told Freya that it would be an excellent harvest. It felt odd to be leaving Rendlaesham again. She had lived two lives here: the first when her father had been alive – the carefree existence of a girl – and the second as a slave. Despite the circumstances of her second stay here, Freya felt a little discomforted about leaving Rendlaesham. She may not be happy under the king’s roof but it was a known quantity. Beodricesworth, and the life awaiting her there, was not.
Freya’s last glimpse of Rendlaesham was of the golden roof of the Great Hall, disappearing into the grey mist.
They left the town behind. Then, a short while
later, the party turned north-west and left the road. From here, they cut across country. Freya had heard that the journey would take them two entire days and another morning. It was slow going, what with the cumbersome cart bringing up the rear, but they gradually made their way across a flat landscape made up of wide meadows, open heath and clumps of woodland.
Their journey meant that they had to cross a number of waterways; some were little more than muddy channels, while others were shallow rivers with muddy bottoms. At one point the cart got stuck and it took the entire party, including Freya, to free it from the clinging mud.
Reaching the bank, Freya had clambered back onto the cart, dripping river mud. She watched as Aidan strode past her towards his horse. He was also covered up to the knees in mud. His face flushed from the effort it had taken them to free the cart.
He did not glance in her direction.
The party resumed their journey and Freya sat on the edge of the cart, shifting from time to time to relieve her cramped legs and buttocks. After a while, her muscles too stiff and sore to bear sitting any longer, Freya jumped down from the cart and followed for a spell on foot.
She walked barefoot, over the soft, wet grass, enjoying the feel of it through her toes. Once the weather grew colder she would wear fur boots laced to her ankles, but this time of year she was used to going barefoot, and the soles of her feet had grown tough to withstand it.
The weather did not improve during their journey. It was too overcast to track the sun’s journey across the sky, and as such Freya soon lost track of time. After a while, the king eventually called them all to a halt. They ate their midday meal under a stand of old oaks, with water dripping on their heads.
Freya and Hereric doled out rounds of griddle bread, hard cheese and apples, which the hungry warriors washed down with cups of milk. Freya approached Aidan and handed him his provisions, receiving a curt nod in response.
It’s a far cry from the Aidan I met on the shore of the North Sea, Freya thought wryly. To think I used to hate his flirting and teasing, and now I am sad because he ignores me. If only women were not so fickle and men were not so cruel.
Taking some food for herself, Freya retreated to the wagon and fell hungrily upon it. As she ate, she listened to the rumble of the men’s voices. The air smelt of wet man, horse and earth. The gentle patter of the rain on the leaves of the great oak she sat under had a soothing effect on her. Freya finished her meal and, reaching up, fingered the slave collar about her neck. Even if she was never in any doubt that she was Sigeberht’s theow, she often forgot that she wore the collar these days.
It was an odd thing, but the fog of misery that had consumed Freya since Ricberht enslaved her, had lifted. Despite the rain, her wet and muddy clothes, and her tired, aching limbs, Freya felt alive. She was not a free woman, and she had neither husband nor children. Her life consisted of hard labor from daybreak till nightfall – and yet Freya was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of relief, of gratitude. Sigeberht was a humorless, dry man but he was a kind one. While she served him, he would treat her well. She was now away from Ecgric’s cruel, sneering face and rough hands. The king was taking them to a place of tranquility and beauty.
There were worse lives than this one. She would have preferred to have been in Woodbridge Haven with her mother, but that was not to be her fate. Thinking about her mother made Freya’s chest ache. Even though she knew Cwen was strong, she often worried how her mother was faring in the woods on her own. Yet, the thought of remaining in the king’s service did not make Freya miserable as it once had. Instead, she almost found herself looking forward to the future.
This realization shocked Freya, and she was still reeling from it when they packed up and continued on their journey. She followed the cart, her gaze sweeping over the rain shrouded landscape, with a sudden lightness in her heart.
It’s true that my body is shackled to the king, she thought with a smile, but my mind and my soul are my own. In many ways I am freer than these warriors who follow Sigeberht with such blind loyalty.
Freya’s gaze rested on Aidan then. He was riding a short distance ahead of her. Whenever she looked upon Aidan these days she could see the unhappiness that bubbled within him. Sigeberht had given Aidan his freedom and in return, the young warrior had given him his loyalty. Yet, Aidan had expected much from his service to the king. He had come to the Kingdom of the East Angles with dreams, that was clear enough to see, but his relationship with Sigeberht had turned sour, and with it his hopes of becoming an ealdorman. Now, as an added insult, Sigeberht had named Ecgric – a man he barely knew – as co-ruler. That must have stuck in Aidan’s craw like a piece of dry bread, Freya thought sympathetically. Most would have felt the same in his place.
Aidan was indeed driven, but it appeared to Freya that beyond his ambitions, he had nothing else. Beneath his easy smiles and cocky manner, Aidan of Connacht was lost. Inside the warrior still lived the boy who had been sold into slavery in Gaul.
A boy with no home.
***
They made camp for the night on the edge of a thicket, shrouded in a wet mist that showed no signs of receding. The men lit a fire and soon the bitter perfume of wood-smoke laced the air. The evening meal was similar to the one they had eaten earlier: more griddle bread, this time accompanied by salted pork and small, sweet onions. One of the warriors unstoppered a barrel of wine and poured cups for all present, except the two slaves who drank water.
Aidan ate his meal in silence, staring into the crackling, hissing fire. Despite that it was not raining heavily, the damp had sunk through all his layers of clothing. His skin felt clammy and itchy, and he longed to take a swim in one of the waterways they had passed on the journey here. They still had another day and a half’s journey before they would make the upper reaches of the Lark Valley. Beodricesworth lay close to the banks of the Lark River, where Aidan would be able to bathe.
Upon their arrival it would be a relief to get away from Sigeberht for a short while. Unlike the old Aidan, the thegn who rarely left his lord’s side, he craved solitude these days.
Don’t tell me I’m turning into a monk, Aidan thought wryly. After everything that would be an irony.
Truthfully, Aidan was still reeling after the king’s decision. To hand your kingdom over to a man who had neither proved his worth nor earned your loyalty, so that you could hide away from the world and contemplate your god was pure self-indulgence. Even thinking on it made Aidan’s stomach cramp with anger. There was a kingdom to rule. Sigeberht’s people needed him. Their borders were not safe. Whispers of a growing Mercian threat grew daily and yet Sigeberht paid them no heed. He lived increasingly in his own world; one where only the praise of Felix of Burgundy mattered.
Frankly, Aidan was not sure how much more of this he could take. He knew that he had sworn his loyalty to Sigeberht, but that was in different circumstances. It did not mean he would follow him blindly forever – especially if it meant his own ruin.
Aidan’s thoughts were giving him an acid stomach. He took a sip of wine, which only worsened it, and glanced over at where Freya sat well back from the fire, under the eaves of an ash. She had wrapped a coarse blanket around her shoulders to stave off the night’s damp and chill. Her fingers wrapped around a cup of milk; her green eyes were riveted on the dancing flames.
Watching her, Aidan felt a constriction in his chest that made his breathing quicken. She was a beautiful girl; her fine features relaxed in repose, her damp red curls framing her face. Had his life not been unraveling before his eyes, he would have enjoyed teasing her, flirting with her. Yet after Beltaine, he had realized that Freya had a way of stripping him of self-control. He did not trust himself alone with her. She made him feel desperate, and in his present circumstances he did not enjoy such a sensation. He preferred being able to take or leave women.
You’re wrong Lothar, you Frankish oaf, he thought as he tore his gaze away from Freya and took a deep draught of mead. I’m not in love with he
r. I’d love to bed her – but that isn’t the same thing.
Chapter Fourteen
Beodricesworth lay in a shallow valley, surrounded by copses of trees. When she set eyes upon it for the first time, Freya could see why Sigeberht had chosen this location for his new hall. It was a lovely spot.
They rode into the valley, the sound of birdsong and the babbling waters of the River Lark, which flowed between two gently sloping hills, echoing in their ears. Yesterday’s rain had disappeared with the sunrise, and the sun shone once more.
Ahead, the thatched roof of Freya’s new home peeked out of the trees. According to Hereric, who had eavesdropped on the warriors’ conversations long after Freya had gone to sleep the night before, there were two villages nearby: Saxham and Barrow. The first was a short enough walk on foot, whereas the second was around thrice the distance; they would not be greatly isolated here.
The riders approached the hall, and Freya could see it was very different to the king’s magnificent residence in Rendlaesham. In comparison, Beodricesworth appeared a thatched barn: a long, low-slung structure with a collection of huts scattered around it. Ahead, Freya could hear Felix proudly explaining the state of affairs here to the king.
“I have arranged for a number of peasants to move here from Saxham and Barrow,” he announced. “They wish to aid you to grow a settlement. The peasants have brought goats, sheep, pigs and chickens with them and, already, they have started growing vegetables on the land behind the hall. There should be enough food by harvest to see us through the winter.”
“Very good,” Sigeberht replied. “You’ve done well Felix.”
The party drew to a halt in the open space in front of the hall. Freya climbed down from the cart and stretched her limbs. It was a relief to have finally arrived at their destination. Hereric climbed down from the front of the cart and, together, they began unloading baskets of provisions. The king and his men entered the hall, while the two slaves brought up the rear, carrying a wicker basket each.
